As a commander of an infantry division, on any given day he was a rather respectable man, his boots were always spotless, his uniform always pressed to perfection.
Even his military vehicle was frequently cleaned, helped by his aide-de-camp, the driver, and the guards.
He felt he had to be a role model, standing there with dignity, like a pine or a cypress, inspiring his soldiers to move forward.
But now, he was in a sorry state. His boots could protect his calves, but the rain kept pouring in. His boots felt like fish ponds, and he guessed his feet were probably bleeding.
There had been a damn pebble in his boot when he walked over, which, insulated by a sock, only made the sole of his foot slightly uncomfortable. But now, soaked, his feet were likely wrinkled and pale, the once insignificant pebble having turned into a sharp blade that could pierce the skin.
