War. That's what they called it. It was shocking to see how young they took them, the boys, to go at it. I remember when he first told me about his experience in the war. The Great War, the higher ups called it. It began from a simple letter. The letter that told him that he was leaving to war within the month. How was he going to tell her? How could he face her soft features, and curled locks and tell him he might not make it home? Swallowing, Gatsby walked up the drive to Daisy's home. He saw her on the porch, that suave little smile appearing on her red lips as he strode up. Standing up gleefully, she ran to meet him halfway. He happily returned the snug embrace from her," Darling! What a treat! Getting to see you an hour earlier than planned!," she giggled softly, her husky voice swinging happily from octave to octave. He gave a quiet smile," What? Can't I see my beautiful flower? Can't I surprise her?," he said, with holding a chuckle as she gave a devious little look. "Why Jay, who are you speaking of?," she mocked gasped," Don't tell me you've been sneaking about?!" He gave a full laugh, gently touching their foreheads together as he felt her grin against his lips. "Why would you say that? I only see one flower before me. And she's quite the sight," he took his turn to grin as he felt her cheeks burn with warmth. Gazing into each other's eyes, Gatsby smiled to himself. Without a notion, he crushed their lips passionately together, feeling a small gasp escape her. After a moment, he pulled away while Daisy gave a shy laugh," Why Jay, what was that all about?," she questioned almost in a insecure fashion. He studied her for a moment, watching her gently tug on a loose lock of hair while gently biting her lower lip. She was perfect," I just…," he was at a loss of words. How could he tell her? She seemed to pick up on his internal struggle," Jay?," she asked softly. He mumbled something softly, but she managed to pick up on it. Throwing her arms around him, he held her close as he felt her shake. His words were," I'm going to Europe."
During his time on the boat to Europe, he was sullen. He knew how badly Daisy wanted to send him off but her parents held her back. "Not proper," they called it. Was it so bad to fall in love? Was it a sin? His heart ached painfully at the memory of holding her one last time. It was at that moment he decided. He would return home for her. Her face burning into his mind ignited a fire in his belly. "Yes, I'll do everything, anything for you," he thought silently. He barely paid any attention to the Sergeant's explanation of what to do when they landed on shore. He scoffed softly at the uptightness of the official, but remained silent when his gaze turned to him. Because, deep down, he knew what he had to do. He had to fight for his country, Daisy. "Long live my love," he thought quietly. The Sergeant spoke loudly at the final moment," It's us or them boys! Make it us!"
On the shoreline, Gatsby charged up with his pack on his back and rifle drawn. He gasped at the corpses laying waste on the cratered ground. Not far did a bomb shell go off, and he along with five others, dove into a trench. The rest of the men either scattered or in pieces. He leaned against the dirt wall, attempting to grab air into his lungs. His eyes seemed to pick up every single piece of movement in the zone. He saw his five platoon men stand and begin to fire. Three immediately falling to the ground and soaking the dirt a dark maroon. He sat, stunned as his breaths became more panicked. The two remaining men moved further down the trench, turning the sharp corner and disappearing from sight. He never did see them again. Sitting alone in the crevice, he took a moment to clear his head. Not even there for five minutes and he seen some much death, so much horror.
Then, to his surprise, the fire on his trench ceased. Confused, he scooted into the corner of the cracked wall. He remained silent as an enemy fighter hopped down and looked at the corpses of his fallen comrades. He quietly looked over the man, his uniform dirty and yellowed from the stress of combat. Yet as he looked closer, the perceived dirt stains were in fact dried blood. It seemed eerie to see a man not fazed by death. He heard the man call something out, yet it wasn't heard. There was no one around the area to hear over the distant fire. Gatsby let his pack slide off his back silently. Quietly cocking his rifle. The enemy reacted fast to the sound, spinning and knocking his rifle where Gatsby's head was. Trying to fire off a shot while on the ground, desperately scooting away wasn't the best strategy, but it would have to do. The enemy, with no bullets, lunged at Gatsby. Tackling him and fighting for the ownership of his gun. Grunting, Gatsby used what strength he had over the malnutritioned soldier and managed to roll him over. With a near pained sound, he used his weight to push the rifle down on his throat. He made eye contact with the tried and aged soldier. His bright blue eyes wide as he struggled for air. Gatsby blinked away tears from the atrocity he was committing. Hearing him cough and sputter for air as his windpipe was crushed was too much. Thick tears rolled down his now dirty cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he repeated in a mantra like way. Slowly, the grip grew weaker on his arm and gun. A soft rattle escaping the soldier beneath him as he grew still. He slowly took his weight off, silently straddling him as tears flowed down. His shoulders shook as the first sob escaped past his lips. His fingers knocked off his helmet tiredly, aguishly curling into his dirty blonde hair as he let out an inhuman scream. He killed a man. He killed a man. HE KILLED A MAN . He felt as if he destroyed everything, the world, its people, everything. He felt as if something dark and horrid settled in his soul. He couldn't begin to fathom how he could've done so, until something popped into his head. Something the Sergeant said. "It's us or them boys! Make it us!" Us or them. Us or them. His sobs slowly turned into laughs. Us or them. US OR THEM . Of course! It made sense now! He laughed in his crazed manner as he picked up his rifle. He had to! Or he wouldn't get home for Daisy! He looked at the soldier, his heart long since stopped. "Sorry old sport, this is just something I have to do!," he laughed as he raised his rifle out and fired. He smiled gleefully as blood slowly oozed from the wound. "Just had to make sure you wouldn't stab me in the back!," he laughed, wiping his face from his tears," I'm sure you'll understand old sport. Hell! You probably DO understand!," he knelt down at the corpse and smiled," Thank you old sport, if you haven't come along, I wouldn't have the faintest idea of what to expect here." He carefully brushed away some stray hair from the corpse's dulled eyes. "I can't thank you enough actually, now you've given me motive to take action! My god thank you old sport!" "Not a problem Jay...I'm glad I could've been some assistance!," the corpse replied rather happily. He nodded," Well, I'm off to find the rest of my fleet, so I'll be seeing you old sport!" He stood and grabbed his pack," Don't move too much now!," he laughed, the corpse laughing along with him. "Wouldn't dream of it Jay. Good luck mate." "Be well old sport," he said said he placed his helmet back on his head. But gasped as if he woken up," I can't believe it! I haven't the faintest clue!" He bent over slightly," What's your name old sport?." he inquired. "Tom." He tipped his helmet slightly," Pardon old sport," he chuckled a moment. "Ah! Wait just a moment!," Tom sounded frantically. "Yes old sport?" "Take my gas mask! It'll help with all that mustard in the air!" Tom offered. Gatsby seemed appalled. "Why, thank you old sport!" He leaned down and slid the mask off the corpse's neck and put it around his own. "Now hurry! It isn't safe here and you need to get to your group!" Gatsby started to climb but scoffed and slid back down the wall. "Well it would be rude of me to leave you here old sport!" "Don't worry Jay! I'll be right with you!" Tom's voice echoed from the gas mask. Gatsby grinned happily," Oh good old sport! It's wonderful to have some company!" And with that, Gatsby rose from the ashes of his lost innocence and tore across the mangled battlefield to meet up at the checkpoint. With a new, close friend at his side.