It is not the business of generals to shoot one another.

Host: The dawn broke like a wound across the sky, bleeding red light through the cracked blinds of a military office. Maps covered the walls, their edges curling, their lines drawn by hands that had long since forgotten sleep. The air smelled of coffee, gun oil, and rain. Jack stood by the window, his grey eyes tracing the movement of soldiers in the yard below — a world of order, obedience, and quiet violence.

Jeeny entered, her boots soft against the concrete floor, her hair damp from the storm outside, her coat heavy with cold air. She carried a file, but her expression carried something heavier — a question she had been waiting to ask.

Jeeny: “The Duke of Wellington once said, ‘It is not the business of generals to shoot one another.’”

Jack: “Sounds like the Duke had common sense. Generals give orders. Soldiers bleed. That’s the system.”

Host: Jack’s voice was calm, but beneath it, there was a tremor — the kind that comes from knowing the cost of command. He didn’t turn from the window. Outside, the rain began to fall again, thin and relentless, like the memory of gunfire.

Jeeny: “But doesn’t that sound... wrong to you? The men who send others to die — refusing to face death themselves?”

Jack: “No. It’s efficiency. You don’t want your strategists dying in duels. War isn’t about fairness, Jeeny. It’s about winning.”

Host: Jeeny placed the file on the desk, the sound sharp, like a small explosion in the quiet. Her eyes burned, not with anger, but with the ache of morality pressed against reality.

Jeeny: “But if the people who start wars had to fight in them, maybe we’d have fewer wars.”

Jack: “You think the world would change if generals shot each other? History says otherwise. Look at Alexander, Napoleon, Patton — they all fought, led from the front. Still, the killing never stopped.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t who fights — but who feels.”

Host: Jack turned, slowly. The light from the window cut half his face in shadow, the other half catching the bleeding sunrise. His expression hardened, the way steel does when cooled too fast.

Jack: “Feelings don’t win wars. Discipline does. You start mixing empathy with command, you lose focus — and men die.”

Jeeny: “Men die anyway.”

Host: The words hit like gunfire — quick, close, undeniable. Jack flinched, just slightly, and the silence after was thicker than smoke.

Jeeny: “Wellington wasn’t just talking about bullets, Jack. He was talking about responsibility. About knowing when power should stop.”

Jack: “Power never stops. It just changes hands.”

Jeeny: “But it should. Otherwise, it becomes tyranny in uniform.”

Host: The wind pushed against the windowpane, making it groan like an old ship. The papers on the desk fluttered — maps, orders, casualty lists. Jack’s fingers brushed over them like someone reading the names of ghosts.

Jack: “You talk like peace is natural. It isn’t. Peace is an intermission — a pause before the next mistake. Men are built to fight. Always have been.”

Jeeny: “Then why do we cry when we kill? Why do soldiers come home broken if it’s in their nature?”

Jack: “Because guilt’s a side effect of survival.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s the proof that our souls still work.”

Host: Her voice rose, not loud, but sharp — like lightning cutting through fog. The room seemed to tilt under the weight of conviction.

Jack: “You think idealism can stop a war? You think morality matters when you’re staring down artillery?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because even in war, someone has to remember what’s human. Someone has to remind the generals that their job isn’t to pull the trigger — it’s to make sure it’s the last one pulled.”

Host: Jack moved closer, the distance shrinking. The rain behind him turned the window into a mirror, their reflections merging, like two sides of a coin — one steel, one heart.

Jack: “So you want generals to duel? Presidents to pick up rifles? Poets to run the front lines?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not duel — but yes, to be accountable. To look at the bodies they create. To feel the dirt on their hands, not just the ink on their signatures.”

Jack: “Accountability doesn’t win wars.”

Jeeny: “No — but maybe it prevents the next one.”

Host: The clock ticked — slow, deliberate, like the rhythm of a heart refusing to die. Outside, the storm broke, a flash of lightning revealing the flag in the yard, soaked but unfallen.

Jack: “You know, in 1809, Wellington said those words after his duel with Lord Winchilsea. They met with pistols — two generals of the Empire. And after that, they agreed: it was madness. Wasteful pride. But pride’s what builds empires.”

Jeeny: “And ruins them.”

Jack: “Maybe both.”

Host: The rain slowed, droplets tracing paths down the glass, like tears falling upward. Jack took a breath, deep, unsteady.

Jack: “Do you really think the world could survive if everyone who gave orders had to face their consequences?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the only way it deserves to.”

Host: Jeeny’s tone softened, the anger giving way to something sadder — not accusation, but mourning.

Jeeny: “When a general never bleeds, his soldiers bleed twice — once in body, once in meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t matter on the battlefield.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s left?”

Jack: “The living.”

Jeeny: “But not the living you can look in the eye.”

Host: The wind quieted, leaving a stillness heavy enough to feel. The rain’s rhythm became a metronome, measuring their breathing, their distance, their guilt.

Jack: “You’re right about one thing. If every leader had to face their own wars, maybe history would bleed less. But it wouldn’t stop bleeding.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the goal isn’t to stop the bleeding — just to notice it.”

Host: A long silence followed. Jack sat, the chair creaking beneath him, his hands clasped like someone in prayer who’d forgotten the words. Jeeny watched him, her eyes reflecting both sorrow and defiance.

Jack: “So what now? What would you have me do?”

Jeeny: “Start small. Stop treating soldiers like numbers. Let them be people again. Even generals need to remember the names they sign away.”

Jack: “And when they fail?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe — just maybe — it should be their business to shoot one another.”

Host: The words hung in the air, sharp, echoing through the room like gunfire, and then — slowly — dissolved into the sound of rain fading.

Jack looked up, the lines on his face deeper than before. Something broke behind his eyes — not defeat, but recognition.

Jack: “Maybe Wellington wasn’t excusing generals from killing each other. Maybe he was reminding them that they already do — every time they send someone else to die.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The sun began to rise fully now, its light gold and quiet, washing over the room. The maps glowed faintly, their borders meaningless for one fleeting moment.

Jack stood, turning toward the window, the rain now stopped, the yard empty, the flag limp and tired.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? The men who plan wars spend their lives avoiding battle, and the ones who just wanted peace end up fighting for it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why humanity keeps trying again — because somewhere between command and compassion, we still haven’t learned who the real enemy is.”

Host: The camera pulls back — through the window, past the flag, over the yard. The rain clouds part slowly, revealing a pale sky, the kind that promises nothing, yet feels like forgiveness.

In that quiet moment, there were no generals, no soldiers —
only two people remembering that war was never the business of the brave,
but the failure of the wise.