And I bet you think I’m going to be decent and honorable and kind about it, Kennet thought. Because I was raised to be a gentleman. And look what that got me. Jack shit. Look at what always happens to gentlemen raised to do the right thing when assholes like you couldn’t care less.

A corner of his upper lip went into a frenetic twitch as his finger curled on the trigger. Well, fuck you. Fuck you and your country for starting this goddamn shit. Starting it twice. Dragging first my father and uncle, now me and my brothers into it. Making me have to follow orders to grenade three kids to death and change who I am.

Fuck you and everyone who looks, acts and thinks like you.

The order came.

Kennet fired.

That’s for Marco. Marco Malinda. Say his name now, you miserable piece of shit.

He kept firing.

For Corporal Jefferson blown apart on the railroad track. For Silver’s last words spilling from his guts, No prisoners. For Baby crawling wounded through the snow. For Nichols, still missing. For tall Ellis, who didn’t dig deep enough, fast enough. For Squirt Ellis, who took it in both legs.

Kennet fired for his hero, Lieutenant Jorgensson.

For von Asselt, looking like a Hollywood star on the field’s banner.

He fired for O’Hara, Ingle, Nichols, Jock and Hook.

He fired for Anderson, still principled enough not to participate, and astute enough to keep Marty out of it, too.

Kennet fired for all of his mates, dead and alive.

He fired for Minor and Nalle. He fired to keep Little out of the war. He fired for Uncle Nyck, who was still in a war. And he fired for Emil, clinging to his gold charms.

On New Year’s Day of 1945, in a little place called Chenogne, Kennet Fiskare took his place in line and fired on eighty German prisoners.

Then, very deliberately, he put his old self in that snowy field. His old self with all its decency, honor and kindness. He put that man, that Kennet Fiskare in the field and shot him, too.

I am sorry it came to this, he wrote. I feel no pride in it.

It’s war. It’s retribution for Malmedy. It’s what happens.

So I’ve written it here. If I’m to go on fighting this war, then I have to leave it here.

Today I killed both the innocent and the guilty.

It’s done, I admit I took part. And I will never be the same, I accept it.

If this is the act that strips the gold from my veins, so be it.

If I no longer have the power to grant wishes, that’s fair.

It’s done.

We mounted up and drove out of town, passing the fields where the bodies of the Germans lay, my old self among them.