Everyone knows that soldiers never cry.

I think and think and rethink that as I see everyone around me bleeding, sputtering blood from their mouths as they fall in scores.

Battle shock. I can't help but think what would happen should I be found dead, little but a few numbers on a pair of dogtags and a wasted uniform. And my family? What would they think after? And even more, my brother who is much, much younger. The man he'd always worked to emulate. What would he say at my funeral that wasn't said by his silence? I stare ahead, and wonder about how life should be. Live it to the fullest, I said, to the younger soldiers - the almost-children that, in war, would be better off dead, their heavily-bagged eyes struggling to stay open and their bodies practically dropping like flies.

I had to snap out of it. I began scanning the horizon, searching for the enemy, any little glance of them would almost be comfort here. I look about, keeping my mind focused, glancing over the rows of troops who accompanied me to the battlefield. My eyes lock to the youngest 'cruit, a short kid with enormous glasses on his face, his helmet a bit large for his head. He was trembling in his boots, his face forced into a brave frown, eyes watering but tears never quite spilling over.

He was about to die, still he would never cry.

I cough, still I tried to be as silent as a moth, flapping its wings ever so quietly, even though it was violent. I move from the cover and charge with the rest, my rifle aimed in front of me, held under one arm, scores of men meet in the middle with the crack of gunfire and blood-curdling screams of the hopeless and dying.
    So as all of my comrades die, remember that a soldier never cries.