"This, soldier, is treason at its finest."

Major General Wackysacky looks at me, clearly angered.

My index finger rests against the trigger of my rifle, even though the barrel is pointed at the ground.

"Then I'm a traitor," I say back, a bite to my words. I realize immediately how stupid that is, considering he is my major general.

Some of the anger dissipates from the general's face. "No, you're a fool. It's common among young men such as yourself."

Irritation digs its way under my skin. "Traitor, fool, whatever you want to call me. But I won't leave my fellow man to bleed out.

I pause a moment. "Especially not in a war neither of us asked for."

I'm about to leave the tent when the general speaks up.

"If you don't find a way to justify what you've done, I will shoot that soldier." He looks me dead in the eye. "And you."

I fight the urge to sneer. "He's my prisoner, then. That's what you can tell your men."

I leave the tent without so much as a salute and trudge back to mine, trying to ignore the hateful looks being thrown my way.

In my tent, the German soldier lies shivering.

I sigh, set my gun down, and sit next to him. He pulls away, cowering against the tent wall.

No, not cowering. I've seen this before. It's the coil of a snake before it lunges.

"I don't want to hurt you," I say.

He continues to stare at me, as if studying me. He glances at my rifle, which lies at his feet, and utters something in German.

I raise a brow. "Sorry, but I don't understand German."

He sighs, irritated, and sits up, wincing as the pain presumably hits him. Then, in the most ear-flattering German accent I've ever heard, says, "And yet your rifle lies at my feet."

Oh, so he does speak English.

I don't move, except to wave my arm vaguely at his mid-riff. "You shouldn't be moving. You'll pull your stitches."

He glances down to the bandages wrapped around his chest and stomach. "Eh, it doesn't---"

"Lay yourself back down before I make you," I say sternly. "Don't forget, you're formally classified as my prisoner."

He gives me a distrustful look but lays back down.

Well, that wasn't the right thing to say.

I sigh again. "If I wanted to kill you, I'd have done it already."

There's a moment of silence.

"Why didn't you?"

I think on that.

"Because you were injured and unarmed. Because you looked so incredibly small. Because you're another human being, and I have no right to kill you. But most importantly? I won't be a discardable pawn in their game of war."

The German is quiet. Then, he says, "Say you were high up. Say they couldn't discard you so easily. Would you have killed me then?"

I meet his eyes with what I hope looks like determination. "If I was still me, absolutely not."

He finally cracks a small smile. "I should hope not."

I tap my knees and inhale. "Well, I'll get you something to eat."

The act of stealing a ration pack isn't hard.

Especially if you know the right people.

Ten minutes later, the German is scarfing down hard tack and a biscuit.

I watch him curiously, a strange need to know this man settling in my body like a second skin.

He glances up at me. "Something wrong?"

I blink and rest my chin in my palm. "Nothing."

When he finishes eating, he lays down. I lay down away from him. We are, fortunately, both side-sleepers.

The next morning, I am hoping to be woken by joyous ruckus.

My hopes are quickly crushed.

When my eyes blink open, I hear a whistling.

The German and I both sit up at the same time.

Half a second later, the ground implodes.