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They said that he was hit by a stray bullet right above his heart. They said that he died a hero's death, as he was protecting his comrades. They said that he sacrificed his life for those four men stranded in the convoy. But I know what really killed him. Yes, it was true- he was hit in the heart, but it wasn't a bullet that killed him. It wasn't a bullet that you can hold in your hand and load into your M-1 rifle. . .it was an imaginary bullet filled with loneliness, fear, and sorrow. He was hit right in his heart. I was the one who fired that imaginary rifle. I was the one who constantly reminded him of home, our future family, our lives - together, after the war. I was the one who feverishly worried about him during hardening days, and many sleepless nights. I continually told myself that I was the reason for his loneliness. If only I had written him more when I had the chance! If only I had called him often. If only I hadn't just sent him away, without him knowing that I loved him.

He was the perfect soldier. Everyone said, "there's no such thing as a perfect soldier." There wasn't one. . .until the day he enlisted. He excelled at basic training and had a brilliant mind. He faithfully studies his MOS, and aced all of his classes. When infantry training began, he was ready to begin the grueling year and a half that he would have to master the skill. When asked a question, he answered. He was taught to always protect his boys during combat, and to always be prepared for the worst. He voluntarily worked with the inexperienced soldiers. . .to guide them, to lead them.
But I suppose - if he was one of the four boys who were caught in the crossfire, would someone be willing to forfeit their life for him and the unknown three? Would somebody sacrifice their future in hopes of saving four others? Every night before I fall asleep, and every morning when I wake up, I see his body lying face down in the sand dunes; unspeakable hole baring through his chest. His helmet is cast aside most likely from the impact of the bullet. His arms are spread on either side of him. I follow my gaze from his dark cropped hair down to his black combat boots. There is hardly any blood. . .the sand had absorbed most of it. As he is laying there, dying, one of his buddies scrambles up to his wounded body. I jump when he shouts for a medic; a man with a red cross atop a white band across his bicep rushes to the body. A faint moan arise from the fallen man's parched throat, and he begins

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