An Old Friend

The bombs are deafening and the dirt dresses me like a blanket. I hug the ridged pillow of my friend’s corpse waiting to join him. The rumbling symphony beats to the rhythm of war. Another has joined me in my grave, though his uniform differs, our fear is the same. As the bombs stop we stare at each other wondering what happens next. I shakily reach into my coat, his eyes watch me wearily. I pull out my pack of smokes and a lighter, offering one to my enemy. For awhile as the officers called out for their men, we sat quietly, enjoying the clouds.