even through the scope of your rifle, you can tell that he's beautiful.
it's not a common sight in the trenches. the men in your platoon are rough and jagged, gaunt flesh carved by six straight weeks of artillery shells and machine gun fire.
he stops you, relaxes your hold on your gun for a moment or two, just enough time to realize he looks like your brother before your instincts kick in again and your index finger flexes around the trigger.
as he falls, a grenade goes off twenty feet to his left, engulfing his body in a flash of light, and all you can feel is the earth is falling away beneath your feet.
