Charles was sitting on the cold, dusty cement floor in his light green khaki-patterned war uniform, his dark blue eyes carefully surveying the hilly and mountainous countryside of Germany from his window. Everywhere was covered in a thick, lush layer of green, and miles of evergreen forest lurked in the distance. So foreign and beautiful, but still not home. Charles’ expression was one of intense and serious concentration, mostly to mask the worry he secretly felt inside. Around him, all his bunkmates were lying around on their beds, trying to busy themselves with work they didn’t really have. A few soldiers were organizing their backpacks for the umpteenth time. Others had propped open books, pretending to be reading the words inside when their minds were really worlds away.
The room was as silent as an empty graveyard at night. Everyone was simply listening to the sound of the pouring rain outside, which was pounding the ground furiously. Tension hung in the air as the comrades in war attempted to avoid the fact that they would have to move to a new destination in a couple of minutes and engage in battle. Though no one said it, everyone mutually knew that death was not simply a possibility—it was a certainty.
After a few more moments of quiet, there suddenly came a shrill, harsh sound in the air that instantly jolted the soldiers awake. The whistle had been blown to indicate that the men could begin marching forward. Everyone grabbed their belongings quietly and headed out the door.
The soldiers walked in a single file line, their postures erect and their mouths etched in emotionless lines, a skill that was drilled into them on the first day of training. It was a cold and windy September day, but the soldiers didn’t dare shiver in their thin uniforms.
Tommy Burns, a short and stocky man with mousy brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed in years, mumbled quietly to himself, “We’re all gonna be fine,” as if in a trance, while he was marching. It sounded to Charles like his best friend was actually trying to convince himself of this rather than the people around him.
Charles was one of the youngest men in his troop. At first glance, he was no different than any of the other soldiers, wearing the same uniform and moving forward in the same way. However, a keen observer could tell that there was something unique about the way he carried himself. His walk, though outwardly stiff and rigid, still managed to carry the youthful and carefree (perhaps naïve) swagger of a teenager. His facial expression was identical to the others, but with a hint of smugness underneath. Charles’ head was held high, and he trekked forward with the certain unexplainable pride and optimism of a man marching toward his death.
Although he had traveled thousands of miles away from his home of nineteen years to serve as a soldier a year earlier, leaving his parents, siblings, and girlfriend behind, Charles had not felt the least bit of remorse. His eyes shone brightly with the possibilities of the future, like how a caterpillar’s would when it has just emerged as a newly developed butterfly from its cocoon. Perhaps it is this sanguine quality that makes youth such a precious thing.
Charles had not wanted to be a soldier, instead possessing a dream of going to college and becoming a scientist. He worked hard in high school, achieving high grades and even earning multiple academic awards. However, he convinced himself that after serving in the war for a few years, he would be able to return to the U.S. and continue pursuing his ambition. Another cheering thought was the prospect of Jacqueline, the love of his life, waiting for him patiently back at home. She, unlike most other women he had met, was interested in his seemingly unattainable goals and did all she could to support him. Just the thought of Jacqueline’s doe-like hazel eyes and soft, flowing hair the color of honey made Charles sigh contentedly and feel soothed, albeit for one fleeting moment.
Suddenly, in the middle of the soldiers’ journey, gunshots rang out and pandemonium ensued. There were cries of “The enemy! The enemy!” and “Duck!”. Bodies began falling everywhere, turning the field into a burial ground. Charles was too dazed to remember to crouch down. He looked around to catch a glimpse of the enemy, a decision he would come to regret later after he heard a distant gunshot and then felt a sharp, indescribable pain in his thigh. He collapsed on the ground, gripping his leg and trying not to look at the crimson-colored liquid that had just began leaking out of the wound.
After his eyes began to gain focus again, he spotted a dark figure running in his direction. Charles could only make out the faint silhouette of a gun pointed directly at him, and his mind began to race. He didn’t want to die so soon…Jacqueline was counting on him to come home. His parents couldn’t afford to lose their only son. He had too much life in him to have his life cut short by so much. All of these thoughts swam through his head in a matter of seconds. Charles mustered enough energy to take out his own gun and pull the trigger, with no idea of the accuracy of his aim, silently uttering a prayer while doing so. The shot rang out, the sound suspended precariously in the air. The dark figure suddenly jerked back and fell onto the ground in slow motion. Charles gave a breath of relief and stayed on the ground, pretending to be dead. He could only hope that his luck would last.
Charles lay there for a few minutes that seemed like an eternity. The screams and sounds coming from everywhere around him began to die down gradually. He slowly opened his eyes once he determined that it was safe, surveying the battle ground. The enemy was retreating into the distance. What was left of Charles’ troop had gathered around and began talking amongst themselves.
Charles, instead of saying anything to them to indicate that he was alive, crawled a few feet over to the body of his first kill in war. His curiosity got the better of him. He stared at the man, still lying limp and lifeless on the ground. A man who, just a few minutes ago, had been living and breathing now needed to be buried.
Charles gazed at the man’s sooty face and mangled dark brown hair and could discern that he was about Charles’ own age. He began wondering about a member of his enemy against his better judgment. Did this dead man have a family that he cared about? Did he have any siblings to guide him through life and play with? Did he have a girlfriend that he thought he was going to marry someday? What were his dreams, his hopes for his future? There were so many questions Charles had that he realized would never be able to be answered. A strange feeling of melancholy that he never felt before came over him. He had just killed a stranger, a stranger whose life he knew nothing about, a stranger who could have had great things in store for him in life. What was more, the stranger could have been a man just like him.
And just like that, something in Charles changed. He felt it, but he would never be able to pinpoint what the difference really was. It was more than just the hardening of his normally warm eyes, more than just the glow that had seemed to vanish permanently from his face. The memory of that one man, even among all the countless other strangers he would eventually kill in war, would be stuck permanently in Charles’ mind for the rest of his life.
He glanced at the body one more time and called out to his troop for help with his wounded leg.