It was about 5:30, and the sun was just peaking over the mountaintops. The card and stack of family pictures my mother had sent me for my birthday sat heavy in my buttoned chest pocket. I had received that card 4 days ago--my nineteenth birthday was 2 weeks ago. Well, that's the Army for you. The Army is also what took a eighteen year old boy fresh out of high school and sent him into a combat zone. The war had been going on for about two months. They dressed me in olive drab, gave me a set of personalized metal tags, tied a revolver on my belt, and I was on my way. I spent my first year as an adult in a foreign country, fighting for my life. Of course, at this moment, I was nestled into a foxhole, eating a sandwich: one slice of Bologna in between two slices of Wonder bread. I was doing a lot of thinking. Mostly about what I wanted when I got home. A homemade dinner would be nice. So would a hot shower. It was almost 1953, and after all, how much longer could the war go on? As I was thinking of these things, I didn't notice the enemy soldier sneak up. I got that strange feeling--the one you get when someone is watching you. I lifted my hand holding the revolver as I lifted my eyes to look above me. I was met with a revolver aimed back at me, and a pair of innocent eyes staring into mine. The face belonged to a boy no older than I was. We stared at each other for a long time, seeing ourselves reflected in the eyes of the enemy. Neither of us wanted to shoot. For a long while, we didn't. It seemed like an eternity later, when I saw the boy take a deep breath. I knew what he was going to do. He tightly closed his eyes as his grip on the revolver tensed, and his finger curled around to set off the trigger. I closed my eyes, and began to do the same. And then two shots echoed throughout the countryside.