I thought my first artillery shell impact was bad. Then I saw the damage a chain of land mines can do to a group of unarmed civilians. Now, it was the single shot from Dan's rifle that cracked through the air, and a child that had fallen to the ground like some kind of limp, dust-covered marionette.

Looking through the yellow dust of the ruined town, I caught the scene perfectly: A small child, dashing with a desperate air amidst rubble and blood. In this mad aftermath of a battle, a gunshot rang out and punctured a hole through his small head.

"Dan!" I yelled out, the gravel crunching rhythmically as I sprinted towards him. “Bloody HELL! What in the, was you – were you thinking, that was a bloody civilian you just shot!”

One glance at the corpse was enough – the poor kid was no more than 7 and will never know how it is he suddenly died.

Being partners with Dan for 3 months now, I knew he was a cold bastard. However, that child reminded me too much of my little Richard for comfort. Before I knew it, I had used “bloody” twice and messed up a sentence, even though I’d promised Irene I’d stop cursing so much. Still, the kid was a civilian and there was no reason for him to die.

“I was aware.” Dan deadpanned “That child would have run to the army. Then our location would be compromised, and the enemy storming here. Do you want that?”

Compromised my ass! Here I thought I knew him, and suddenly he pulls out this kind of sick reasoning after murdering a kid in cold blood. We’re fighting this war so that people won’t have to die anymore. Who in the bloody burning hells was he to decide whether or not some innocent kid should die? Because there was a chance? Is he telling me that we should now execute people because they had a chance of doing something?!

Resisting the urge to bash his stony face in, I replied. “Blo- Dan, it’s not right. You can’t just kill people because they have a chance to compromise our location. The kid was traumatized, he was just trying to survive!”

“I see you still make a point about not swearing.” Was what he said. “but I’d rather not take chances. Also, your tag’s sticking out”.

My grip on my rifle tightened subconsciously. Refusing to break eye contact with Dan, I shoved my tag back within my shirt violently and imagined I was stuffing his face in. That did help me relieve some of my anger, but on second thought it could have been because I caught a faint whiff of the fabric softener Irene always used from my uniform. I probably imagined that – dust and smoke practically smothered the landscape and gave everything a choking, grimy smell.

“Killing a child” I retorted, refusing to appear shaken “who had so much to live for, is most definitely wrong. My wife always used to say that all things in the world should at least be given a chance.”

I proceeded to point out what was wrong with his reasoning. I tried hard to get it through to him, explained with my best attempt at calm words and logic. In the end, I couldn’t help but compare the still bleeding corpse on the ground to my own son, my own Richard. I see those blank, uncaring features on Dan’s face, and I felt my fists clench. The small body falling burned before my eyes and when Dan opened his mouth, those emotions exploded. Spittle and curses flew through and that bloody, bloody image of that child collapsing just would not go away! What about his parents? Where they dead, looking upon that scene and crying from the heavens as they saw their precious boy fall like a sack of potatoes? Perhaps they were still living somewhere and would carry the false hope that their missing son could still be out in the world somewhere, for the rest of their years? I don’t know! I DON’T WANT TO KNOW!

Dan, who had opened his mouth and had half a retort ready, closed it again and sagged his shoulders. A minute passed, and there was only the slightest of a sigh. I paused to gather my thoughts. After a while, I said, in a softer voice

“It’s not right, Dan. What you did isn’t right.”

Dan looked away and stayed silent. I pointed my gaze downwards resolutely and stared at the splotch of blood on his dusty boots. Sometime later, he awkwardly shifted his footing so that the gravel crunched under his soles. We didn’t really do anything else for a while. Then,

“I’d rather not take chances.” Was what Dan said.

I’d rather not take fucking chances.