"There is this story," the soldier says. "I wonder if you've heard it?"
His English is heavily accented, but not so much that I can't understand it. We sit facing each other, our knees touching. There is nowhere for us to go, not with the steady bursts of gunfire going off all around us.
My ragged breaths fill the enclosed space, hitching with each renewed spike of agony from my side. I press my hand against the area, but blood still occasionally seeps from between my fingers.
"I'll assume you haven't," he continues. His teeth flash in something that isn't exactly a smile. "Once, there was this soldier. British, like you."
Sweat trickles down the back of my neck. It's only partly from the pain.
He looks like any other soldier with a week's growth of stubble and grime. His rifle is laid across his lap, its butt pushing into the damp clay-heavy soil surrounding us.
It reminds me of my own rifle, lost in the mad dash towards this hole.
"He fought in the First World War, and he came across a wounded enemy. A German, fleeing from a war that his country was losing. For the British soldier, it was an easy shot."
I glance up at the patch of smoke-laden sky, framed by the uneven edges of our shelter. If I stand, I'll expose my head and shoulders to the ongoing firefight. I swallow a knot of fear.
Is this hole to be my grave?
"Except, he didn't take it. He didn't want to shoot a wounded man, and so he let the German go. The war ended, the British soldier was awarded for his efforts in the war, and the German - well, that enemy soldier went on and became a very famous man."
The soldier pauses. I wonder what the purpose of this story is.
"If you saw a wounded enemy soldier," the soldier says, "what would you do?"
A tremor runs through me. I stare at him, an awful sinking sensation in my stomach. Was this his plan, then? To mock me before he kills me?
"Well?"
He's waiting for an answer. I close my eyes. I want to tell him that of course, I'd let the man go, so please, kindly, let me go, too. Pretend that you never saw me.
But what comes out is far more honest.
"I don't know," I say.
To that, the soldier flashes his teeth. "That wounded German was Adolf Hitler."
A thunderous boom rips apart the sky. The earth shudders against my back, and dirt blasts loose, pelting both of us. I cough on a mouthful of smoke and soil. Fire shoots through my side, and for a moment, the world goes dim.
When I come to, the other soldier is close, leaning into me. I struggle briefly before realizing he's applying a field dressing to my wound.
