[ RF ] Until that moment , it never occurred to me that we are all human . We all make mistakes .


 We are told that they are our enemies. The men with the guns, those that wish to shoot before we can nail a bullet through their craniums. We must believe the fray is part of salvation, and blood splattered is a thing to be proud of depending on what colour they are wearing and the state of mind they are indoctrinated in. It is a war of flesh and blood but neither side is human. In those moments, we are something less but still filled with pride. Our creed becomes more important than the actions we take because in those few seconds we fight for freedom -- the rights taken away by the men who sent us here. 
 
 Gunpowder fills the air in a foggy haze and the screams of men punctuate the breaks between thunderous shots. We dive into mud letting blood and soil splash in the space that our uniform leaves raw while hoping that today we will return to home base and never come back. 
 
 `` Give them what they deserve!'' the commander screams. 
 
 We let bullets rain on the enemy in a storm of smoke and blood. Shots thud into the soil near my boot, sending chunks spraying across my uniform and face. But I keep on, with the hope that it will be them instead of me, and that if it is me, I'll go quickly. 
 
 A soldier grabs my shoe. I stumble forward, slamming into dirt and eating a mouthful. Crumbled bits come out with my spit, it takes three mouthfuls to empty my mouth, an Earthy taste remains. 
 
 `` Help me,'' the soldier says, strongly accented. 
 
 He's not one of ours, the red and white uniform is clear as day. I lift the gun in my hand and point it to his forehead. There are no wounds on his body, just cuts and a dizzy look plastered across his mug. It would take one click to end it all, to make the captain proud, and to be one shot closer to victory. But the trigger is foreign under my finger, like an object that I'll get in trouble for touching, and that I know is wrong to use. It takes a heartbeat of a decision and I know the rifle is useless, becoming a part of the nearby mud. 
 
 My nails pick up bits of ground as I scoop handfuls over the man's uniform and cover his face. Our men run past under the premise that I'm helping a fellow soldier or too distracted to care. 
 
 `` Help me,'' he says again, clinging to my hand. 
 
 I see my fear reflected back in this stranger's eyes, and understand that I am helping him as much as I am helping myself. 
 
 `` There are bad men around these parts,'' I say. 
 
 He remains silent but grasps his one lifeline -- the foreign soldier that signed up under the same premise. We are all human, we all make mistakes. And amongst the pits of hell, it only takes a decision to invite a glimpse of heaven. Thus we remain, amongst the blood, the sunset, and the stench, hoping that tomorrow the war will end.
