I was losing the battle. My hair follicles were retreating from the front of my head. All of my dedicated leadership, my fearless and sympathetic role as commander, and my denouncements of the enemy had no effect on my army. They marched backwards. I was at once furious and mystified.
I could call them cowards, but perhaps their view, their sacrifice could only be understood if one was on in the trenches with them, or in this case, on my scalp. Perhaps conditions had been too formidable, losses too heavy, morale too weak, to carry on with bayonets at the ready.
They left behind a no-man’s land: A barren wasteland dotted with skeletal, ashen, and fallen trees, the remnants of their comrades, wisps of gun smoke, and memories of courage, recklessness, and loss of hope.
I, as commander, had to face reality. I had decisions to make. Did I continue to allow the slow sacrifice of my loyal regiment, or did I concede defeat? Did I wave the white flag, or urge my soldiers to stand up, shoulder to shoulder, and fight another day?
A comb-over, or a total head shave?
What would Jesus do?