Sometimes, Alfred thinks as he lie in a trench on the battlefield, his gun heavy in his dirtied hands, he wonders about the meaning of war.
Certainly, everyone knows that war just leads to more war, and yet they still fight, because it seems to be the only way out when the opposition isn't willing to negotiate.
Something explodes to the American's left and he jumps. They've gotten close enough now to throw grenades. He grumbles and adjusts the rifle in his hands, raising it to fire.
Then, sometimes, Alfred thinks as his bullet pierces the left shoulder of an opposing soldier, who dropped his gun and had attempted to scramble away, he wonders about the thoughts of those in war.
Many a time, Alfred has had that one thought cross his mind. He knew how his comrades thought of it as well, often having heard fellow soldiers mention it occasionally in conversation. And, he knew, as he watched the strained faces strewn across the opposite side of the landscape, that the other soldiers thought of it too. It was something that surely everyone around the world, soldier or not, thought about.
So why did they still fight?
Why did they continue to shed the blood of the innocent?
Alfred had no time to think. He scrambled for the machine gun of a fallen soldier and began to shoot, the smell of copper filling the air.
'Wouldn't it be better to solve this without war?'