Amongst the booming and whistling of bullets and grenades, a sharp scream ripped through air landing amongst the ears of the soldiers in the trenches.
This scream, unlike any preceding it, belonged to one of *our* men and not of our enemy. This was war and he, another casualty.
I was there to witness one of the shells that hit his body, tearing through it with all the grace of a great white shark. His arm, severed.
His body armor, no longer existent, had failed to protect his vital organs. He was losing blood fast and he was clutching his chest with his only arm, crying out in pain. Sobbing. Weeping.
I remember training side by side with him, he was the best in our ranks. Here he was now reduced to tears and gasping for air. Even if I had wanted to help him, I couldn't.
I had enemy fire of my own to worry about. This was war after all, it wasn't about making friends. I had a job to do and it wasn't saving his life.