Alfred F. Jones

Alfred knew he was going to die. He had known it from the moment he walked into the room to enlist in the army, yet he felt no fear. His gaze gradually blurred as he watched his own vision fade. His olive-green uniform, stained with blood, turned a dark brown with unpleasant reddish hues. The smell of death lingered around him as memories flashed through his mind in the final moments of his life. First, he remembered his twin brother, Matthew. Sure, he usually didn't remember Matthew was there—but he still looked after him. All his life, Matthew was the only thing he had ever known. The only constant in his ever-changing life. Suddenly, the white sky and the snow falling on his face were blocked by a large, blurry figure. Alfred didn't move or say anything—he couldn't see who… or what, was standing over him, for God's sake—he didn't know if they wanted to kill him or help him. Alfred didn't expect to wake up again. His eyes slowly opened as an intense feeling of unease washed over him. He felt excruciating pain, as if he were being riddled with machine gun fire. He coughed as if the air had been brutally forced from his lungs and tried to sit up, only to be pushed down by a heavy hand, forcing him to lie flat. He tried to make out the face, but it was too difficult. He lowered his guard anyway—why would they help an American soldier in the middle of a brutal and deadly war? Why would a Japanese soldier bother to save an American soldier?