No one would have cared that a tank had lost power and everyone inside it had died except for a machine gunner named Ryan.
No one would care about such a thing. In the end, it would simply merge with all the other casualties and become the "1" in some string of numbers. That was war.
There were no heroes, and there never would be any! Heroes did not die so easily, but once they stepped onto the battlefield, who could guarantee they would live to the end?
Ryan lay on his bed, staring at the tent. He thought about everything he had experienced during his time as a tank machine gunner.
To be honest, it was more interesting than being a regular infantryman—more interesting in every way.
The benefits were better. The company even provided them with cigarettes and chewing gum. The infantry companies had cigarette rations, too, but only one pack a week, and there were requirements for applying.
In the tank battalion, they could apply for three packs of cigarettes a week, without any requirements.
Infantrymen often had to run across the battlefield on their own two legs, frequently suffering injuries from stray and ricocheting bullets.
Tank crews did not have to. They conserved their strength by comparison, and their thick iron shells made them much safer.
But everything had come to an end today.
He sighed, endured the excruciating pain, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and lit one.
Someone beside him asked him for a cigarette, and he did not begrudge him one.
Everyone in their tank had applied for cigarettes. In fact, some soldiers mailed the cigarettes they applied for back home, or saved them to pay back what they owed others.
The loader in Ryan's tank did not smoke, but he