The Death of Martin Tourne

In claustrophobic room with yellow-stained walls, three men anticipated the end. Peeling paint littered the walls' edges, a wooden chair lay overturned and a matching desk destroyed. Intelligence papers were scattered over ever inch of the floor. Drifting through the tiny, sooty window, a feeble light tried unsuccessfully to illuminate the room.

"Well done," Commander Wilson announced with a smirk.

In front of Martin lay the enemy, a trembling heap of sweat and fear. The figure's eyes fixated on the pistol hovering a few inches from his forehead. His lips quivered and his eyes seemed ready to bulge out of their sockets. He was not ready to die.

"Smile!" Wilson added with a sadistic laugh.

Martin remembered the journey. Three years of conquest. He remembered the countless battles. Countless victories. His ears still echoed with artillery fire, shouts of courage, screams of death. Often, when their surprise attack launched before sunrise, you couldn't tell which side the men had died for. Rising over the silent aftermath, the sun flickered in their wide eyes, all full of the fear of death. Not unlike the man cowering just in front of Martin.

"Now," Wilson maintained his smile, "finish the one responsible for all these deaths." Then he added with a fiendish chuckle, "That's an order."

An order he says.

Martin thought a moment. He thought of his dead comrades. He thought of his dead foes. He thought of the countless lives lost in this military crusade.

His gun was still trained on the creature that lay before him. Then, slowly, he turned the gun towards Wilson. He paused. In an instant the color drained from the commander's proud face. Martin, however, did not shoot.

Instead he turned the gun so that the barrel rested on his temple. Suddenly the light of sunrise streamed full through the repressing, soot covered window, illuminating the entire room. His last thought was "An order's an order."