“Hold your fire!” he roared to hold back those who would have. “Don’t fire ‘til you can see the whites of their eyes!”
He’s dug in as far as he can and still see to fire. His mind goes back home to think of the girl who waits for him, who knows that he must help to free this land from King George, that a new flag must fly. As a white bug crawls on hand, he thinks of the day he left to fight. The Brits march near, but not so that he can see their eyes. He shakes, knows he will die, steels self. A hard glint in his eye bright as the dove who calls, its cry stamped ‘neath the pound of his heart. So close now, close he can see their eyes. Their eyes flash white like the harsh sun as it burns his skin.
“Fire!”
He’s pulls, a slight pause, a new sound heard so oft ere this day, pierce the red and white and black coat in front of him. The Brit lies to his heart that he will not fall, but his heart knows the truth. He calls his heart to still it, but his call falls dead on his numb lips. He thinks of the glare of the sun in his brown eyes, still thinks he lives, that his heart still beats. But his heart lies still, will not give ear to his plea, sleeps for all time in the soil’s blood.
“Reload!”
Moves his hand fast to the box at his waist, takes it out, tears it with his teeth. Then, out of naught but peace, the shock in his eyes, a harsh pain in his chest, near his heart. As he dies, his mouth full of blood, he thinks of the girl who waits for him, who knows he won’t come back, won’t be there for him, how he won’t be there for her. He lies there, prays for death to come. His hope heard, saints fly down, see him as he lies there, can’t die, can’t die, wants so much to die. Quick, stop his heart, he shouts to God. A quick death, he prays. Please, a quick death. Please. And so he lies there, cold, in spite of the heat of this blessed day.
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