The rising sun cast upon the trees a flickering orange light. Long shadows concealed our faces and the morning mist hid our bodies. All 2,000 of us crept down the hillside to the edge of the opposing camp. These men sleeping here, guilty of theft and manslaughter, participants in the abuse of other human beings, deserved to die. But in the silence of the early morning, these soldiers already seemed dead, still and defenseless. A snore and a sigh was heard here and there, and we were ordered into the mass of sleeping bodies. As I edged past sprawled legs and heads, my eyes fell upon a man, a child really, who couldn't have been more than 14 years old. He lay with his arm tucked under his head and his blanket snug around his chin.
"Aim." The sergeant spoke, his voice low and cracked with disuse. The boy shifted and awoke at the clicks of our rifles being cocked. His eyes widened once they focused on the barrel of my gun a his head. He started to pant and his eyes began to water. He licked his lips nervously and looked into my eyes; his face was pleading. He found his voice.
"Don't - "
"Fire."
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