Lawrence kneeled down on the dewy grass. The moisture that once hid in the crisp blades of grass now combined to form a wet spot on his trousers. The fog hung heavy in the air on the warm summer evening. He looked behind him, squinting through the fog and darkness in search of anyone who might disturb him. He faced forward now, wiping away the summer humidity off his forehead.

US Army Private First Class Lawrence Kennedy is lying against the tires of a jeep, arms sprawled across his lap and his helmet pulled low over his face. His eyes are slowly being dragged down by the weight of his fatigue. A radio plays a static filled broadcast back from the states: "It's December second, nineteen hundred hours local time... With Christmas right around the corner, the boys here at AFN-Korea want to...". Lawrence switches off the radio and pulls his helmet down closer as soon as the first shell whistles above, following it’s jaded arc towards the ground.

Lawrence sat down closer to the earth. He took off his glasses, folded them, and tucked them into the thin pocket on his pants. In front of him was a rectangular patch of grass, roughly two feet in width and three feet in length, and distinguished by having vivid, dark green grass marking out the rectangle. The dark grass hogged the little bit of sunlight left in the day and dominated the dryer, weaker grass surrounding it.

His head jerks back as the artillery shell slams into the ground about seven yards away, leaving a deadly cloud of dust in it's wake. Shrapnel whizzes past his head and enters the car’s metal frame with a loud “ping”. A single piece strikes his cheek as he cries out like wounded prey. His entire mouth feels raw and shredded. He spits out the sour, metal taste in his mouth, which hits the ground as crimson red blood. He scrambles to his feet, one hand clenching his cheek, the other waving around in search of his rifle. More shells come whining in and rip apart the base, like a swarm of locusts tearing apart a field of crops.

At the front of the grave stood a tombstone, about two feet high and half that in width. The dark, damp stone cast a gentle shadow over the ground, using what little light the descending sun had left to offer. The tombstone itself was particularly unremarkable, especially among the sea of other tombstones stretching off into the distance, creating a void of dreams cut short and hopes long lost.

"MEDIC"
Lawrence whips around at the sound of an anguished, sob filled plea for help. Under a massive concrete slab lies a skinny young man. His face is caked with dirt, while his bald head glistens with sweat and blood. His chest is pierced by a section of a steel bar meant to hold a bunker which could have held both of their salvation. Lawrence runs toward him.
"I NEED HEL-"
The soldier’s last words are expelled in a cloud of bright red mist, creating a red stained rainbow over the newly formed crater. Lawrence doesn't move. More shells rain down from the skies and pound the base into submission. Still no movement. Air raid sirens whine their cry in the distance. Lawrence methodically turns back towards the jeep and crawls under it. He makes no noise as men around him are slaughtered like pigs.

He reached his hand into the pocket of his leather jacket. He pulled out a worn red collar, holding it lightly at the tip of his fingers. A single pewter dog tag reading "Charlie" gently dangled off of the collar as he moved it down towards the tombstone. Tears slid down his cheeks as he carefully laid the collar atop of the grass, along with two folded up photos. The first showed a small beagle, with round and innocent black eyes, in front of a hospital. The caption read "Therapy dog. - 1999" and was written in faded black marker. The second photo showed the same dog sprinting towards a laughing Lawrence, eyes locked on to a baseball off to the side of the photo, this one captioned with "Charlie plays ball! - 2003".

"I... I don't- know what to... say" squeaked out Lawrence. "I guess... Thanks... No one else helped me forget like you...". Lawrence stopped talking before he started crying. He stood up from the grave and walked off, leaving the photos and collar behind.