There were bombs landing all around him, dirt torn torn from the ground and flung in all directions, until it felt like it was hailing frozen mud. It was cold, and he was frozen through to the core, shaking slightly, with a soul-deadening sense that he would never be warm again.
In spite of the cold, there still managed to be water, collected in the bottom of the trench he was huddled in, back braced against a damp wall of dirt. It had long since started soaking through his boots, and his socks, and he could feel the skin of his toes wrinkling, although that was about the only thing he could feel below the knee as the temperatures continued to dip.
It wasn't as though he hadn't endured cold before. He had. He'd grown up in the city, running around on the streets selling newspapers when he could skip school, and on weekends. Even in the winter, amid the piles of snow, he'd stuck with it long after his brother had put his focus on his schoolwork. He had liked selling papes, liked the freedom it had given him, the sense of purpose, and the knowledge that he was helping his parents, and his siblings, out.
He'd kept up with it, well into his teens, when he should have been spending his time doing school work and thinking about his future. He had never thought too hard about his future, a trait he'd picked up from most of the others. Although the further along he got in school, in life, the more bitter some of the others got about his accomplishments. And when he graduated, and got an offer of work at one of the local banks, it was the end of an era, for him.
He stayed in touch with some of the others. Snipeshooter, whose real name was Stephen, was a good friend, and one he went drinking with on occasion after he got out of work at the bank and Snipe got out of work at the factory. And Boots was often around as well, although the older they got, the harder it was for them to all be public together without at least a bit of trouble.
But he made friends at the bank, as well, and then he met Martha. She was...beautiful. Sweet, gentle, brilliant. She lit up his world, her smile could make his head spin, and for the first time in his life, he thought about the future. He wanted a future. With Martha.
Sarah did most of the planning, he and Martha were both still busy with work and life. But the wedding was perfect, if somewhat small. Much like their first apartment, a cramped, almost miserable affair, with too many things crammed into too small a space.
And by the time they'd reached their first year anniversary, they'd been forced to move into a larger apartment, with the arrival of their daughter, Annie. Perfect, just like her mother, with a scrunchy red face, and a set of lungs that could deafen god himself.
He thought life was perfect, then. And it was perfect. For him, it was perfect, although he was aware that his sister was becoming an old maid, and that David was taking forever to find a woman of his own. His mother was sick, besides, and his father no longer able to work the hours he had been before. And he helped them, as best he could, but his life was his own. And it seemed as though it was going to be golden.
But then, the US entered the war. The War, the Great War. He was almost too old to enlist, and Martha begged him not to, but he couldn't turn his back, when he had it in his power to do something, to fight for something. After all, that was a lesson he'd learned young- that if the cause is just, you should never give up the fight. And this was a just cause.
He could still see the pain on Martha's face, as he kissed her good bye that day, kissed his daughter on the head, and set her off crying again. He laughed a little, because there was nothing else he could do. If he hadn't laughed, he would have cried. They were his world, his wife, his love, and his daughter, and they were worth fighting for. He would go over, and fight, and then come home, and grow old with Martha, see Annie grown up, and married herself. He would see his grandchildren grow up in a safer world.
It was just that it was taking a very long time, and the fight didn't seem to want to end. Another explosion, this one far closer to his trench, shook the ground so hard he felt the dirt behind him shift, and he quickly moved to get out of it's way, in case it collapsed. There was so much noise, voices yelling, bombs exploding, men screaming, that it was impossible to make out what anyone was saying, to understand what the hell was going on. And the bombs kept landing closer, like a gunman slowly moving in on the center of a target, bit by bit, before he finally hit the bulls eye.
He saw the bomb itself, for a split second before it exploded. And then the light was so bright it blinded him, the roar so loud that he couldn't hear anything else, would never hear anything else. He was flying, through the air, as though he weighed nothing, like a rag doll, peaceful for an instant before his flight was cut short by an impact with the ground, yards from where he'd been standing. And, for one horrible moment, his entire world was agony, there was nothing but endless pain that dragged that second into years, into eternity.
Then it was over. Then there was nothing. Nothing but the memory of a beautiful girl with a baby in her arms, struggling not to cry as her love sailed away. Nothing but the love of his family, his parents, his stiff necked brother, his passionately foolish sister. Nothing but friends made in what had felt like long years, but really, years not long enough.
The telegram nearly killed Martha. She knew, of course she knew, that she wasn't the only woman to have to open one. She knew she wasn't alone. But she was. She and her daughter were alone. Without him, forever. He was never going to come home, or see Annie married, or see his grandchildren. For her, for Annie, nothing was ever going to be right, ever again.