Anon- Trenches

Another shell slammed into the ground, sending chunks of rock and dirt into the air. Gritting his teeth, Jon kept his face pressed against the rocky ground and stayed still, hoping nothing big or sharp decided to fall on him. He didn't even know whether that was the enemy or his own side that was shelling them. Not his business. All he was supposed to do was keep crawling at the enemy until either they died or he died.

That was what war was all about, huh? Some fat, posh cunts decided they wanted something from some other fat, posh cunts and it was Jon that got sent to do it along with a couple million other poor bastards.

He'd started this war alongside a crack-team of twenty bright-eyed, innocent teenagers and gaunt criminals convicted of theft and other petty crimes. How many were there now? Besides him and Justin and—

A shell struck the ground to his right with a deafening explosion and blast of fire, leaving a momentary silence as his ears adjusted. Then the screams broke the air. He huddled tighter and covered his ears, forgetting about pretending to be dead. The last rattling gasps and moans that surrounded him had no end. Bullets continued to whizz by and with every one came more screams and petering silences.

Fuck the government. Fuck them and fuck their war. It wasn't Jon's war, he shouldn't have to die for their bullshit politics. His legs were numb from the cold but he forced himself up and began staggering away, desperately hoping he didn't catch the eyes of anyone that would seek to end his life. He limped as fast as his injured knee allowed, not caring where it took him as long as it wasn't forward.
Slowly he lowered his gun and for the first time, felt relief. Laughter began to bubble out of him. Shaking his head, Jon reached into his vest and retrieved his most prized possession on the frontline that wasn't fabric softener. He pulled out his very last cigarette, the one he had been saving. Well, it'd have to do now. He took a deep drag and held it inside, enjoying the itchy feeling it brought. Familiarity and comfort washed over him amidst the death and destruction, giving a short-lived respite from the suffering the world had to offer.

Jon breathed out and held it up for the man to take his turn. The man stared at the proffered cigarette, eyes flickering between it and Jon before slowly reaching out and gripping it.

Suddenly there were heavy footsteps behind them and Justin stumbled into their sanctuary.

"Jon! Jon, we gotta get out of here now." Justin grabbed Jon's shoulders and panted for breath. "They're pulling out and commencing air strikes, we gotta get out now. Get up, man, we need to—ah fuck, is your leg not OK?" Justin turned and pointed at the other man who still sitting down and watching them. "Oi, you, help me with—oh fuck!"

Before Jon could say anything, Justin pulled a pistol from his belt and fired three loud shots in quick succession. The man's body jerked as each bullet thudded into him. The lit cigarette hit the ground, still held in sagging fingers.

Jon shakily stared as the embers faded to black.

His temporary companion was gone. All that was left was a body and a burnt-out cigarette.

A tear escaped his eye and trickled down his face.

"Holy fuck ... You alright, man?"

Jon stared down at his brief friend one last time and looked up at his rescuer.

"Yeah."

He was alive.

And that was all that mattered.