Terry Conkin life. "Oh my God," the soldier thinks, "these are the windows to Hades and the bones of Ezekiel lay at rest in this place." The vomit rising from his throat releases itself through his nose and mouth. He takes a deep breath, but the smell, the foul smell of burnt human flesh smolder ing, chokes him more than his own vile disgorge. As he slowly crosses the door, a silent slam is heard in his heart. He is filled with hate, and now he must kill his enemy. "In which door are you, brave man camouflaged among the hundreds you could not spare even another day?
If only we had come one day sooner they would be alive and you dead." The rifle finally finds the right door. A shot rings out, then another, and another, and another, and another. The soldier uses one clip, then two, then three on his enemy. Yet he is only one body and one death. The mortal soldier does not have the power to avenge every death. He continues to shoot anyway; it helps. Outside, the other young, soldiers listen and understand the helplessness. Had they only known what happened in this dark place, the fighting would have
been more swiftly done. Their sergeant has found one frail child alive. The child does not speak; starvation has made a tender young meal of his toungue. The seargeant gives the boy his last drop of water. They walk, the boy in his arms, along a river bank. The water is still. Like millions before him the child passes over. With him, like all brave warriors who take their most prized possessions on their long journey from this world with them, he carries the last ounce of humanity left alive. The soldier has fulfilled his purpose.
Phoenix 13