shoulder, but it completely vanishes with a sharp rap against my temple.

The man who has woken me yells �Get the hell up!� He is smiling weakly as I

roll over. �We�ve got troops to slaughter. They�re encroaching into our

country, hurry up!�I can feel my dream lapsing away with the gentle nudge

against my shoulder, but it completely vanishes with a sharp rap against my

temple. The man who has woken me yells �Get the hell up!� He is smiling

weakly as I roll over. �We�ve got troops to slaughter. They�re encroaching

into our country, hurry up!�

           I begin to reply with grogginess evident in my face, �I suppose I

should wake up excitedly for the new day which offers me the chance to

kill�� Trailing off I think in my head, that just kills me; my motivation

for waking is to shoot another man. Still, I grab my gun, gear my belt with

explosives, and join the crow.

           The sergeant speaks with a megaphone. �America has joined the war.

Their mongering, festering forces, which contain the hearts of everything

evil, deserve to be murdered. The Russians raped our wives and daughters

after the defeat at Stalingrad. I implore all of you men to show no mercy,

kill every enemy you come into contact with.�

           I stay staring at the ground wondering if the people I was to kill were

evil. I can�t believe they are. I can�t get these pictures from my mind,

these persistent images of playing games with friends, laughter, and

most of all, joy.

           The march ensues. I am used to the cold world I live in, accustomed to

the hatred and fear rampant in all the eyes of those who surround me. I

can�t stand it, but to rebel against it would unleash the fury of their

hatred unto me, a dissident from the inside, one who could love. I bow my

head with the drum of clapping boots on trampled grass; nature is broken,

only the vehemence of men drags on.

           Shots ring out. I brush a thick adrenaline filling the air from my

eyes to see clearly, enemies to the right. Two hundred troops at least,

under cover of 12 tanks. Aircraft circles overhead. The best vantage point

of safety and cover is twenty meters to my right; I dodge whizzing

bullets by bending to a low crawl, diving into position to fire. The whole

world speeds with the seemingly destructive havoc wiping out those who

linger behind, destroying everybody who does not have the wish to kill.

Minds travel in accordance to the velocity of bullets. I am alone.

           Turning quickly to gain cover with more allies I collide into an enemy,

yet he has kindly features. I knock his rifle away as he trips my

body onto the earth with a martial artistic blow. I leap to my feet as if

the ground has singed my senses into automatic withdrawal. I whip forth my

pistol coming face to face with his understanding eyes and reaching

pistol barrel.

           He is quiet.

           A dying soldier beneath us lets out a murmur as the wound to his heart

pumps one last spew of blood. This soldier�s hand flaccidly withdraws,

rolling, at last releasing a single white cloth that spills into the ethereal

sludge beneath him, swallowed up, disappearing. We circle around

this deceased body, trampling his hands and legs with our uncaring carnage.

The perspiration in my hair merges with the thickly desiccated mud

and begins to drip. One small droplet lands on my shoulder, causing my

outstretched hand to quiver. His eyes gleam; nearly jovial, he appears to

suppress a laugh, but instead instantly hardens his glare. I can�t will

myself to look at his eyes.

           I snatch a glance at the dead man below us; this face reminds me of the

friends I had at home, the times we had danced, were ebullient,

drunken. I can�t kill another man in this war, it is incredibly wrong. I

have made up my mind. I blink into the eyes of the man before me, trying to

catch a mutual understanding. We were to be friends, have our children run

freely in the neighborhood, laugh at jokes, and marry the women we could

love. We were to lay down our weapons and forget what was around us. I try

to beg for this with a pleading, grimacing face. I slowly lower my weapon,

stooping to position it upon the ground. He smiles brilliantly,

speaking at last.

           �Fucking Nazi!� Reacting immediately, his hand arcs down to make up

for the distance I had stooped. Immediately following his gun�s spitting

flame the world goes black, I fall sideways. The leather of his boots

twists with the turning of his ankle and his feet glide away. My eyes are

left to be pressed into the ethereal sludge, looking for the white cloth.

My struggling gradually subsides, I am limp.