His head is down, his eyes on his worn and heavy boots as the world is shattering around him. The blows of the bullets are battering his brain and he's leaving, but then. The world illuminates. The light is so bright it shines through his brain and it's warm. Suddenly, can see.
He lifts his head, tentatively, as if he can't help it. He needs to see. His eyes are dragged to the sky as if magnetized. All around him is soot and metal and dying but he looks to the sky and sees blue as if for the first time. He looks around and it is going to be okay. Behind him, Matthew howls something and in the way he's learned in these trenches, he understands without hearing and collapses, mud in his hear, slick against his cheek. Matthew yells at him, shakes him, yelling something about his head, or wanting to be dead. He understands, nodding seriously, his mind still in the clouds. But he meets Matthews eyes, and suddenly he remembers that he loves this man. He remembers riding with Matthew, and he remembers laughing with the other men as Matthew ignores the warning not to open his mouth, or he'll bite his tongue off. He laughs again, now. Matthew's face still holds traces of the boy who yelled over the roar of that Jeep what feels like so long ago. He looks at Matthew again, wondering at how much older Matthew looks, wondering how he didn't notice the change. Matthew isn't looking at him anymore, staring anywhere but towards him. Looking around him, he sees the other men he's been in hell with for so long. Their faces suddenly shine in the mud surrounding them, and he loves them, too. Each off in his own private wasteland, but from here they look suddenly fragile, beautiful. He can't look away.
Later, he stands up. It's quieter now. He climbs from the trench, and stands tall, looking into sun, dirt flaking from his fatigues and falling to the earth. He walks, not looking and the bodies by his boots, until he stumbles. The blue of the dead man's eyes so perfectly match the sky, it stops him in his tracks. Tearing himself away, waking onward, he realizes all the corpses have blue eyes. They look up, and can't help but reflect the sky. As he strides above the carnage and twisted metal, he can suddenly see that god is with them. HE is helping them; they are not alone. His heart soars.
He jumps in a vehicle, and with a sound like thunder they roar away from the wastes behind them.
Much later, he steps from the truck, kicking thick slabs of mud from the tires. He says goodbye to the driver, and now he's on the plane.
First a roaring military aircraft, and the men he rides with are silent, to far away to be bothered to shout above the roar of the engines.
Then, an airport. The woman doesn't even glance at him as he flashes her his ticket. He moves on with the other men. There are only three of them, now, drawing looks from everyone. An old man tips his hat at them. Thank you for your service, the man murmurs, walking away. He is proud. He would die for his country, and soon he will see it again. They board the plane in silence.
Hours later, after they've landed, after an endless drive, he stands in front of his home.
His wife, his children are waiting inside.
His euphoria is suddenly tinged with blue, and he begins to cry. Standing on the sidewalk, facing he house, he cries for the horrors that he's seen, and the beauty of everything now, and the love he has for the people who have been so far away. He is so close. Gathering himself, he strides toward the house, throwing open the door. Only now does he wonder why the windows were so dark, wonder why quiet has draped itself around the house like an old blanket. Just inside the door, his wife lies on the floor, crying silently, her cheek pressed to the dark wood as if it is the only thing left. In her hand is the telegram. It says that her husband was a brave brave man. It says that they thank her for his service, and for hers. It says he was a good man. It says he died in the blast of a bomb dropped from a foreign plane.
His wife cries and cries, as the evening lengthens into night.
