Originally published March 20, 2011

Because the sun hung so cheerful and bright, he pretended there was no war, and that his trench did not smell like bloating death.

Shaving by a shard of glass, he imagined he still looked a child of seventeen, instead of an old man of twenty.

Wincing as shells roared overhead, he pictured fireworks.  The first time he’d been taken to a show, he’d cried until his mother brought him home.  He had not gone to the fireworks after that.

Relacing his boots and checking his rifle, he remembered how often he’d played soldier, and how often he’d lost.  He preferred reading under his tree to fighting with sticks.  His teachers told him he would make a good writer someday.

Listening for the shrill of the whistle, he wondered why it had been three months since his girl had sent a letter.

Leaping out of the dugout and over the wire, he knew he was going to get shot.

And, sprinting toward the scything gunfire, he wished things had been different