So much blood, so much noise, so much suffering, so much death.

    So much death.

   Where am I? I cannot feel a thing; my body is completely numb and I cannot move. I cannot see very clearly… is my face in the dirt? This mud is so red. Mud should not be this red, nor should it look this wet…

    So much death.

   Overhead, rifle rounds roar almost continuously, and in the brief lulls of the frenzied gunfire, tortured cries of pain and agony shatter the relative silence. Cannon shells explode all around, destroying all within their murderous vicinity. An officer barks orders, but nothing can be clearly discerned amidst the deafening bellows of war sustained by the discharges of cannons, rifles, and souls combined. The battle rages wildly on and I have no way to defend my lithe and prostrate self. Dear God, what has happened to me?

    So much death.

   A cannon shell goes off no more than ten feet away from me, hurling me through the air as if I were no more than a rag doll. I do not even know if I am in one piece, for I still cannot feel a thing. With a heavy thud and a sickening crunch, I come to rest on my side in a cannon crater, face to face with a grizzled, old man. He could not have been any younger than seventy; what was he doing here? His scraggly, silvered beard is tainted with congealed blood that could very well not be his own, since our crater is over-generously drenched in it. His upper lip is nowhere to be found on or near his body, and the lower one hangs tenaciously to his face on a single thin thread of flesh. His glazed, bloodshot left eye bulges precariously from its socket, and already fly larvae actively, busily writhe beneath the half-closed lids. The old man’s right eye is missing entirely, along with most of the upper-right quarter of his face, exposing what is left of his scrambled gray matter. At least the cannon shot killed him instantaneously; such pain would have been utterly unbearable, if even for the slightest moment. I cannot even begin to comprehend or imagine such suffering.

   So much death.

   Another shell explodes, completely obliterating what was left of the old-man-turned-maggot-food, and flings me into another nearby crater, sans my lower half, and still I can feel no pain. The sight of my own innards trailing in a dramatic arc behind me should have nauseated me, but I already know that I would not be able to vomit if I tried. Why, why did I have to sneak away to answer the draft in my crippled brother’s stead? Why am I not home with Momma, cooking dinner for Papa and the boys after they return from a long day in the fields? Why am I not by the fireplace listening to Granpa tell his story of how he single-handedly held off an onslaught of angry Indian natives for the umpteenth time? Why did I always resent being Papa’s “Little Angle”? Why did I let my false sense of courage and bravery lead me to this end? Why did I have to prove myself, prove that I am just as good as any boy out there?

   So much death.

   Again, the chaotic clamor of war dims back to a dull hum, and again, my vision fades to a perfect and complete blackness, with the exception of one brightly shining speck of light in the distance. I’m sorry Papa, but your “Little Angel” must head towards that light she has been avoiding for so long now…

   So much death.