A gunner, manning the anti-aircraft cannon took his turn to sleep. He was tired, but he was all there, in his dirty uniform, and his too big helmet, and his boots with ragged laces. His body shook to the rhythm of the gun, his fingernails bit deeply into the wood of his rifle. As he lay in the mud in and crawled into a ball, he had a dream.
He dreamt of a clear evening sky, with stars that glitter in the darkness. Where no plane or missile or smoke obscured the beauty of the supernovas burning a million light years away.
He dreamt of a place where old war heroes walked slowly and safely down their drive ways in their dressing gowns and slippers to fetch the morning paper.
He dreamt of soldiers jumping up into life, of them running home to their mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters. Of them fleeing to a place where they wouldn't die again, not like that, not that death.
He dreamt of a place where no arguments ripped open hearts, and no bullets ripped open ribcages.
He lies there still, curled into a knot of fear, shuddering silently at the air tearing scream of the gun, while his mind goes to happier places.
Always he will lie there, dreaming his dream. Always will his fingernails dig deeply into the wood of his rifle.
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