Differences disappear when faced with death.
I never liked telling war stories. Some men love to tell them. Hell, some men need to. They need to convince themselves that the war is over. But I'm not one of them.
Her soul died that night under a radiant silver moon in the spring of 1918 on the side of a blood-spattered trench. Around her lay the mangled dead and the dying. Her body was untouched, her heart bea...
I was appraising . . . not eye fooking.
They say in death our war is over. I don't believe that.
