Gunfire.

Blood.

Pain.

Fire.

Mud.

Rain.

Tears.

Devastation.

All of these horrible thoughts and more connected to a single three letter word.

War.

Why do we do this to each other? I've spent hours thinking about it, trying to figure it out. But I always come up with nothing.

How can we hate this impassionatly? I can't stand it! It's a miracle that anyone can. No, it's not a miracle. It's merely the reality of this twisted world.

I don't know of many people who can do this kind of thing without turning bitter and hateful.

Dallas would've liked this, I find myself thinking. Standing here in the rain, trying to stay alive, pressed down into the mud to avoid getting shot while shooting people myself, I can only think of one person who would be able to make it through this and still be able to smile.

Sodapop Curtis.

My best friend, hero, and fellow soldier, drafted into this horrible war alongside me. I see him, about a hundred yards away, crouched down behind a crumbling piece of wall while bullets sail over his head. He sees me, and tries to grin his all famous Sodapop grin, but after all he's seen, it fails to reach his eyes. Still, it's there.

Soda doesn't deserve to be here, I think, firing a shot. I hear a scream, and know that I've hit someone. He's the last person who should be here. He doesn't belong. Darry and Ponyboy couldn't get along if he died too. But I knew that the war hadn't gotten to him yet.

Just the other night, back at camp, he had pulled me aside to tell me something.

"Don't tell nobody," he had said. "But I ain't killed a single person." And then he smiled. I did too. Those people didn't deserve to die. They were just like us. Still, I had to say something.

"Soda," I said. "I know you don't want to kill anyone. But you gotta be careful, kid. You gotta protect yourself somehow. Because even though you won't hurt them, they'll hurt you."

"Aw, Stevie," he said, still smiling. "I'm careful." Then the smile dropped off his face and his voice got real quiet. "I just can't do it. I ain't like you. If I did that to someone. Someone with a family..." His voice trailed off and I knew he was thinking of Darry and Ponyboy. "I... I couldn't live with myself."

It had looked like he was going to cry, so I had playfully cuffed him on the shoulder and said, "It's okay Soda. I'll look out for you." He grinned again, a reckless, insane grin, the kind that used to seem permanently stamped on his face back at home. Home... So far away.

"You're the best buddy a guy ever had, Steve," he had told me.

I don't feel like a very good guy right now. I feel like a killer. I feel like my hands are stained with the blood of other people. Maybe even other people like Soda, who would never kill anyone, even if it ment dying themselves. Or maybe people who wanted to die. Bitter, hard, uncaring people with nothing left to live for. People like Dally.

I fire another shot. Hear another scream.

I hear gunfire. Close, but not from my gun. And another scream. One that I recognize instantly. One that will haunt me until my dying day. I look frantically over to Sodapop, and my worst nightmare is jarred into reality as I see him slowly crumple to the bloodstained earth.

Before I even have time to think, my mind flases back to another night, another time, another place... Another life.

In my mind's eye, I see Dallas Winston crumple under a streetlight, fourteen bullets in him. The same thing is happening now, only this time, it's my best friend. Then I am slammed back into reality.

Hate overcomes me.

I run out from behind my barricade, out into the line of fire, running full tilt to the place where my best friend now lies. I shoot once, twice, three times. Three enemy bodies fall to the ground.

Rage pounds in my blood. It feels good.

It is quickly replaced with an overwhelming type of panic as I approach Sodapop, ducking down behind the crumbling piece of wall to avoid being killed. I gently lift him into my arms, cradling him. As soon as I get a good look at him, I know it's too late. One bullet looks as though it has shattered his ribcage and punctured his lung. The other is in his neck, leaving him gasping for his final breaths.

God, there is so much blood, I think, trying to staunch the flow. "Sodapop?"

His eyelids flutter. "Steve?" His voice is a choked breath of air. He coughs, and blood sprays from his mouth. He winces. I can only imagine the pain.

"Yeah, it's me," I say, my voice breaking and the tears spilling over. "Don't talk. It's gonna be okay," I reassure him, though I know that there's no hope. A sob escapes my throat. Sodapop is the very last person who deserves to die like this.

"Steve, It's okay." His pained voice is soft and comforting. That rips me apart even more. My best friend since grade school, is lying here in the mud, dying in a pool of his own blood, and he's comforting me! His eyes slowly close.

"No! Soda! Stay with me, buddy!" My voice squeaks.

"Don't be sad, Stevie," he tells me, his eyes still closed. "I hate it when people are sad over me." He takes and unsteady breath. "Tell that to Pony and Darry for me, will ya?"

"I will," I hear myself promise, even though my mind is still screaming; NO! NO! He's not going to die!

He tries to grin at me, but he only looks tired and defeated. It's the worst expression that could possibly have been on his face.

Then, my best friend died in my arms.

To the military, he was just another soldier. To the bastard who did this to him, he was just another soldier. To the battlefield, he was just another soldier.

But to me. To Ponyboy and Darry and Two-Bit, he was like glue. He held us together. He was my best friend.

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Somewhere in Vietnam, far from home, far from family, far from hope of any kind, Steve Randle bowed his head and cried.

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A/N: Sooooo... What'dya think? Is it sad? It's supposed to be sad. I was reading sad Soda vietnam fics and I just had to write one too, cause I love tragedys and Sodapop. Kay, enough of me! R&R please!

P.S. Flames help me roast my marshmallows... Yummy!!!