HOME | DD

Description
A/N: Okay, before anyone says anything, this is an AU. I've stuck the characters I included in the same army for reasons. Only certain ones will appear, because it'd be way too long if I included everyone.
Consider this fic a message.

Brothers In Arms

These mist covered mountains
Are a home now for me.
But my home is the lowlands
And always will be.

The sound of marching feet ceased to be as soldiers paused in their weary trudge through the terrain. The uphill battle of walking was strenuous and exhausting, physically as well as mentally, as the men tried not to think of the horrors that awaited them. Each man clad in camouflaged bullet proof gear and hiking boots found a place to sit in the camp they were to spend the night in and took the pressure off their aching feet. Each man set down his gun gently as they were handing their trays of slop for supper.

The soldiers ate with an air of monotony. There was no savoring the little food they were given as they put each spoonful to their mouths and swallowed each morsel without tasting a thing. The evening sun shone down on their exposed necks beneath their hard helmets, making the sweat glisten on their skin. It was beginning to darken, the warmth of the day leaving them in the hands of the cold and merciless night. Tents were set up and sleeping bags rolled out while others started multiple fires to ward off the shadows that lurked around them. One by one they fell asleep while a handle stood watch, swaying on their feet.

A thick, white sheet of moisture started to roll over them when they woke, the fog heavy in the air. The wet green leaves swayed as a freezing gust of air swept through the concealed clearing. The mountains retained an air of threatening calmness that was overwhelming; it was almost as suffocating as the impenetrable layer of mist.

The camp was soon alive, if only a little more so. Activity buzzed as things were put away and the soldiers prepared to move out once more.

A reddish-brunette haired soldier with hazelnut eyes smiled sadly up at his blond haired companion as they slung their packs over their shoulders and picked up their guns. The taller of the two gazed around with icy blue and an air of authority—a general, he was, with a heavy German accent. He muttered something to his friend, an Italian, who smiled brightly and nodded enthusiastically.

Some day you'll return to
Your valleys and your farms.
And you'll no longer burn
To be brothers in arms.

All the men were wishing for home, where their families were waiting and praying for them to return safely. Each knew that he may not be one of the few that make it back. When the soldiers stopped again, two of the men had cracked—they were twins, one with wavy blond hair reaching the shoulders, the other with short, messy blond hair. Both of their accents left the rest to wonder whether the two were American or Canadian. The younger, a young adult with violet eyes held his baby blue eyed brother tightly and patting his back, tears running down his own face. Both men looked like they were just out of high school. Sympathetic people from all around the group muttered among themselves that they shouldn't be there, among the killing.

Around the two twins were a group of Asian men—four of them, perhaps—all trying to comfort the crying boys. One with short black hair that was neatly cut and dark brown eyes separated from the crowd after a failed attempt at comfort and left the other three to their own devices. One feminine looking man with dark hair tied into a ponytail rubbed the shoulders of the twins, speaking softly to them. The other two standing behind him, a young man with messy black hair and another man with spikey brown hair wearing glasses looked at the twins sadly. They glanced at each other before the two walked away, leaving the long haired man to comfort the boys himself.

From the back of the group trying to comfort the twins, a scruffy blond with green eyes, an English accent, and pale skin and his wavy blond companion with blue eyes, a thick French accent, and stubble on his chin gazed at them empathetically. The green eyed one scowled, growled something to his partner, who barely replied before he had stormed off to talk to someone else. The Frenchman made to follow him, but decided against it, going to find his other close friends.

A brown haired man with tan skin and olive green eyes greeted the wavy blond when he approached, inviting him to sit down next to him. He said something in a light Spanish accent, his own companion, a feisty brunette with hazelnut eyes wore an expression that made it seem as though he was furious at the entire world—also Italian. Conversation began between the Spaniard and Frenchmen, but it did not last long before the commotion had stopped and they were to move again. All sighed heavily, gathering their weapons and standing up for another long trek through the mountainous terrain. The three of them found themselves wishing to be back in their home countries where they did not have to continuously be alert. And they weren't the only ones.

Through these fields of destruction,
Baptisms of fire.
I've witnessed your suffering
As the battle raged higher.

They hadn't seen it coming, yet they had been waiting anxiously for something like this to happen. The sun had been beating down on them, unbearably bright. The moment the first shot had rang out and the first man fell to the forest floor, dead before he even hit the ground, the fighting broke out. Shells rained down on the soldiers relentlessly as gunshots were fired one after another. The men were dropping like flies, hitting the ground to not move ever again, their last breaths dying along with the gleaming fear in their eyes.

The ambushed soldiers fought back as best as they could, launching grenades and firing their shotguns rapidly. Some had retreated behind the trees, as to survive maybe a little bit longer. Both sides traded fire for a few hours that seemed like eternity. The dead just kept piling higher and higher with each passing second. The ground was running red with the blood of men—blood of men who had families, friends, loved ones, all waiting hopefully at home for their safe return, only to be devastated upon finding out they would never see their brave soldier ever again.

The call to fall back was hollered out by the other side, which had felt as though they had done enough damage to the group of men they had attacked. The gunfire soon ceased and the shells halted in falling. The area was engulfed in an eerie silence now that the enemy was gone.

There was little movement among the many who had fallen; some were alive, unable to get up, while others lay dead, their eyes open in a gruesome display of their last moments before the reaper claimed them. There were soldiers who had thought smartly and used bodies of the dead for shields. Those men stood, looking for any of their companions who were still alive.

The twins, to the relief of the long haired Asian, were alive, faces streaked with dirt. The petite raven haired man limped out from behind a tree, over to the two he and the other had been standing with at the previous stop. Both of the young men lay on the ground, unmoving and soaked in their own blood and the blood of the other. He dropped to his knees beside his fallen brothers, wiping the moisture out of his eyes.

The two dead brothers had their hands intertwined. Their faces were almost peaceful, as though they were content to have died with each other, even if they had not wanted death. The blond general yanked the petite man to his feet, barking at him to retreat to their previous resting site. The brunette soldier, managing to only have taken a bullet to the arm, helped the Asian man limp out of the clearing, heading with a parade of others back to where it was safer. The long haired Asian stopped over his two dead siblings, looking at them longingly. The eyes of the one with glasses were still open, glazed over and empty. He knelt down and closed them gently, whispering words of thanks and praise before standing up straight and turning away to join the twins and his other sibling in the trek back.

The wavy blond and his tan companion tried to support the body of the scruffy blond, whose face was drenched in blood on one side and whose thigh was quickly turning crimson. The red matted his hair and ran down his neck, into his clothing. He was breathing but needed treatment. The blue eyed man rasped encouraging words into his ear, wincing with pain with every step. Blood welled up around a knife wound in his side. The olive green eyed soldier tried not to grimace with every step he took over dead bodies of comrades.

All around the blond general, soldiers were helping others who were still alive; those who were injured were helping those worse off; the uninjured were running from place to place, searching for those who were still among the living to help out. The process of it all took forever, and once the last soldier left the ambush site, the general cast one last surveying glance over the area and walked away.

And though we were hurt so bad
In the fear and alarm,
You did not desert me
My brothers in arms.

The badly wounded were all laid out on cots, bandages covering the majority of their body. Some sat by the side of close friends if they weren't laying in a cot themselves. The soldier with the stubble chin had the hand of the green eyed blond clasped in his own. His mouth moved rapidly with a silent prayer, eyes squeezed shut as he desperately begged the other to live. The blond on the cot had his chest bandaged entirely, as well as part of his face over one eye.

The blond Englishman's free hand twitched slightly and a green eye opened. His mouth moved, letting raspy words come out. His friend's eyes snapped open and relief filled his expression. He let out a heavy sigh, smiling down at the injured soldier warmly.

Across the clearing, the petite Asians had already had their wounds dressed and where sitting together, the elder one—the one with long hair—rubbing the other's back comfortingly, trying not to let his own tears escape his eyes. He looked absolutely miserable, while his brother seemed shocked and not quite believing the loss of the other two. The raven haired man covered his face with his hands, shoulders quivering slightly.

The Spaniard, who had gotten his foot bandaged and was now helping with others, was approached by the general himself. The stoic blond was not wearing his usual expression, looking sympathetic and a bit sad. Words were exchanged and the tan man stared in disbelief. His feet moved quickly and he was by the side of the feisty brunette he had been with earlier.

The young man was barely breathing, eyes glazed over and unseeing. His body was covered in bandages. Blood still leaked through some of the injuries, dying the white crimson. The tanned soldier grasped the other's hand, shouting at him. Tears gathered in his olive green eyes as the brunette managed to shift his head to try and look at him. He blinked slowly, smiling just barely before his eyes lids fluttered to a close. His chest stopped moving and his hand was limp in the other man's grip.

The Spaniard was silent, tears slowly making their way down his cheeks. He still had the dead man's hand in his own. Other soldiers standing by him tried to comfort him, but he just yelled at them to leave. The Italian soldier with reddish-brunette hair approached slowly, tears welling up in his own eyes. He knelt down by the dead soldier's side, opposite to the man mourning, and let the tears fall. He mouthed a single word—Brother—and looked away with shaking shoulders.

The camp was nearly silent as the men mourned over their dead brethren. The slaughter had been absolutely horrible and their numbers greatly depleted. What had once been over three hundred in their small parade had been reduced to only a hundred or so soldiers. The loss was almost greater than they could bear. The last onslaught that had happened like this had been many years ago, in a different war entirely. Yet the same tactic had been used against them here, and they had fallen for it completely.

So many questioned the war while others cursed it; all of them were carrying the same wish. They wanted the bloodshed to stop.

There's so many different worlds.
So many different suns.
And we have just one world.
But we live in different ones.

The war was over. It had been won. The people were cheering, singing, happy once more. The soldiers were rewarded, given medals at ceremonies for their hard work and dedication. Many were released from service to return to normal life.

Adjusting would be difficult. They never realized that. They always seemed to think the men could get by on an army pension and civilian life. They could never forget the horrors they'd witnessed. As they received their medals, the twins that had been in the army were fidgeting away, plagued by visions of the battlefield. They had to bite their lips to prevent themselves from screaming in terror. The usually bubbly Italian pulled them aside after getting his own medal, attempting to help them feel better by telling them a story. But he himself was no better off, feeling the weight of sadness drowning him. He paused during his story, expecting a familiar voice to yell at him for being stupid or idiotic, but none came.

The younger of the two surviving Asian brothers was seated in a wheelchair. He only had one leg. The bullet he had taken had required him to get the leg amputated to prevent death. The elder of the two did all he could to support them both on their pensions. But it proved to be difficult, as he could only do so much.

The Frenchman stood proud and tall. But he looked depressed. Bags were under his eyes and his uniform wasn't as neat as he would usually make it. The Spaniard next to him was just as bad, surprisingly not worse, despite his loss. He gently touched the other's shoulder with his tanned hand, flashing him a weak smile. The blond returned the smile, but it came out more as a grimace.

He looked at the empty spot next to him, where his English companion would usually stand. To know that someone close was still with the living but on the brink of death was nerve breaking. The Frenchman bit his bottom lip and looked away, towards the crowd.

The German who led them was forced to take the medal he initially refused. With a scowl, he reluctantly accepted it, not believing he deserved it for so blindly leading his soldiers into an ambush. After the ceremony, he later joined the Italian and listened as he told a story to the twins, who looked intrigued and less upset.

A phone call had someone sending the older Asian to tell the blond Frenchman the news that had just been received. All the exhaustion had nearly vanished from his face as a look of relief settled upon it. More words were exchanged, as well as a request to talk to the Englishman that had just now managed to crawl back out onto the shores of the River Styx. The request having been accepted, the phone was handed to him.

Now the sun's gone to hell
And the moon's riding high.
Let me bid you farewell.
Every man has to die.

After a few minutes, the Frenchman handed the phone back to the Asian, excusing himself. Everyone looked on with sympathetic—but relieved—expressions, while the Spaniard followed him, wanting to hear from him what had been said; what had happened and if the Englishman was alright.

Tears welled up in the Italian's eyes as he remembered the death of his own brother, apologizing to the twins and standing to leave. The blond general apologized to the twins as well, shepherding the reddish-brunette man away.

But it's written in the starlight
And every line on your palm.
We're fools to make war
On our brothers in arms.

By the end of the day, the ceremony had dispersed. No one would admit the war had been absolutely pointless and people had died for no reason. They only ones openly expressing it were the soldiers that had fought. Their politicians and government leaders wouldn't accept that the war had been useless and didn't change anything.

Life was beginning to return to normal—as normal as it could be.

But it would never be. Not for them. Not for the men who had fought and seen the bloodshed. The veterans began to promote peace. They fought against war and violence. They tried to persuade the people that war wouldn't fix anything and would just make things worse.

People wouldn't listen though. And soon enough, another war had begun.

They could only watch and shake their heads in disappointment, because their leaders never seemed to learn.

Description
A/N: Okay, before anyone says anything, this is an AU. I've stuck the characters I included in the same army for reasons. Only certain ones will appear, because it'd be way too long if I included everyone.
Consider this fic a message.

Brothers In Arms

These mist covered mountains
Are a home now for me.
But my home is the lowlands
And always will be.

The sound of marching feet ceased to be as soldiers paused in their weary trudge through the terrain. The uphill battle of walking was strenuous and exhausting, physically as well as mentally, as the men tried not to think of the horrors that awaited them. Each man clad in camouflaged bullet proof gear and hiking boots found a place to sit in the camp they were to spend the night in and took the pressure off their aching feet. Each man set down his gun gently as they were handing their trays of slop for supper.

The soldiers ate with an air of monotony. There was no savoring the little food they were given as they put each spoonful to their mouths and swallowed each morsel without tasting a thing. The evening sun shone down on their exposed necks beneath their hard helmets, making the sweat glisten on their skin. It was beginning to darken, the warmth of the day leaving them in the hands of the cold and merciless night. Tents were set up and sleeping bags rolled out while others started multiple fires to ward off the shadows that lurked around them. One by one they fell asleep while a handle stood watch, swaying on their feet.

A thick, white sheet of moisture started to roll over them when they woke, the fog heavy in the air. The wet green leaves swayed as a freezing gust of air swept through the concealed clearing. The mountains retained an air of threatening calmness that was overwhelming; it was almost as suffocating as the impenetrable layer of mist.

The camp was soon alive, if only a little more so. Activity buzzed as things were put away and the soldiers prepared to move out once more.

A reddish-brunette haired soldier with hazelnut eyes smiled sadly up at his blond haired companion as they slung their packs over their shoulders and picked up their guns. The taller of the two gazed around with icy blue and an air of authority—a general, he was, with a heavy German accent. He muttered something to his friend, an Italian, who smiled brightly and nodded enthusiastically.

Some day you'll return to
Your valleys and your farms.
And you'll no longer burn
To be brothers in arms.

All the men were wishing for home, where their families were waiting and praying for them to return safely. Each knew that he may not be one of the few that make it back. When the soldiers stopped again, two of the men had cracked—they were twins, one with wavy blond hair reaching the shoulders, the other with short, messy blond hair. Both of their accents left the rest to wonder whether the two were American or Canadian. The younger, a young adult with violet eyes held his baby blue eyed brother tightly and patting his back, tears running down his own face. Both men looked like they were just out of high school. Sympathetic people from all around the group muttered among themselves that they shouldn't be there, among the killing.

Around the two twins were a group of Asian men—four of them, perhaps—all trying to comfort the crying boys. One with short black hair that was neatly cut and dark brown eyes separated from the crowd after a failed attempt at comfort and left the other three to their own devices. One feminine looking man with dark hair tied into a ponytail rubbed the shoulders of the twins, speaking softly to them. The other two standing behind him, a young man with messy black hair and another man with spikey brown hair wearing glasses looked at the twins sadly. They glanced at each other before the two walked away, leaving the long haired man to comfort the boys himself.

From the back of the group trying to comfort the twins, a scruffy blond with green eyes, an English accent, and pale skin and his wavy blond companion with blue eyes, a thick French accent, and stubble on his chin gazed at them empathetically. The green eyed one scowled, growled something to his partner, who barely replied before he had stormed off to talk to someone else. The Frenchman made to follow him, but decided against it, going to find his other close friends.

A brown haired man with tan skin and olive green eyes greeted the wavy blond when he approached, inviting him to sit down next to him. He said something in a light Spanish accent, his own companion, a feisty brunette with hazelnut eyes wore an expression that made it seem as though he was furious at the entire world—also Italian. Conversation began between the Spaniard and Frenchmen, but it did not last long before the commotion had stopped and they were to move again. All sighed heavily, gathering their weapons and standing up for another long trek through the mountainous terrain. The three of them found themselves wishing to be back in their home countries where they did not have to continuously be alert. And they weren't the only ones.

Through these fields of destruction,
Baptisms of fire.
I've witnessed your suffering
As the battle raged higher.

They hadn't seen it coming, yet they had been waiting anxiously for something like this to happen. The sun had been beating down on them, unbearably bright. The moment the first shot had rang out and the first man fell to the forest floor, dead before he even hit the ground, the fighting broke out. Shells rained down on the soldiers relentlessly as gunshots were fired one after another. The men were dropping like flies, hitting the ground to not move ever again, their last breaths dying along with the gleaming fear in their eyes.

The ambushed soldiers fought back as best as they could, launching grenades and firing their shotguns rapidly. Some had retreated behind the trees, as to survive maybe a little bit longer. Both sides traded fire for a few hours that seemed like eternity. The dead just kept piling higher and higher with each passing second. The ground was running red with the blood of men—blood of men who had families, friends, loved ones, all waiting hopefully at home for their safe return, only to be devastated upon finding out they would never see their brave soldier ever again.

The call to fall back was hollered out by the other side, which had felt as though they had done enough damage to the group of men they had attacked. The gunfire soon ceased and the shells halted in falling. The area was engulfed in an eerie silence now that the enemy was gone.

There was little movement among the many who had fallen; some were alive, unable to get up, while others lay dead, their eyes open in a gruesome display of their last moments before the reaper claimed them. There were soldiers who had thought smartly and used bodies of the dead for shields. Those men stood, looking for any of their companions who were still alive.

The twins, to the relief of the long haired Asian, were alive, faces streaked with dirt. The petite raven haired man limped out from behind a tree, over to the two he and the other had been standing with at the previous stop. Both of the young men lay on the ground, unmoving and soaked in their own blood and the blood of the other. He dropped to his knees beside his fallen brothers, wiping the moisture out of his eyes.

The two dead brothers had their hands intertwined. Their faces were almost peaceful, as though they were content to have died with each other, even if they had not wanted death. The blond general yanked the petite man to his feet, barking at him to retreat to their previous resting site. The brunette soldier, managing to only have taken a bullet to the arm, helped the Asian man limp out of the clearing, heading with a parade of others back to where it was safer. The long haired Asian stopped over his two dead siblings, looking at them longingly. The eyes of the one with glasses were still open, glazed over and empty. He knelt down and closed them gently, whispering words of thanks and praise before standing up straight and turning away to join the twins and his other sibling in the trek back.

The wavy blond and his tan companion tried to support the body of the scruffy blond, whose face was drenched in blood on one side and whose thigh was quickly turning crimson. The red matted his hair and ran down his neck, into his clothing. He was breathing but needed treatment. The blue eyed man rasped encouraging words into his ear, wincing with pain with every step. Blood welled up around a knife wound in his side. The olive green eyed soldier tried not to grimace with every step he took over dead bodies of comrades.

All around the blond general, soldiers were helping others who were still alive; those who were injured were helping those worse off; the uninjured were running from place to place, searching for those who were still among the living to help out. The process of it all took forever, and once the last soldier left the ambush site, the general cast one last surveying glance over the area and walked away.

And though we were hurt so bad
In the fear and alarm,
You did not desert me
My brothers in arms.

The badly wounded were all laid out on cots, bandages covering the majority of their body. Some sat by the side of close friends if they weren't laying in a cot themselves. The soldier with the stubble chin had the hand of the green eyed blond clasped in his own. His mouth moved rapidly with a silent prayer, eyes squeezed shut as he desperately begged the other to live. The blond on the cot had his chest bandaged entirely, as well as part of his face over one eye.

The blond Englishman's free hand twitched slightly and a green eye opened. His mouth moved, letting raspy words come out. His friend's eyes snapped open and relief filled his expression. He let out a heavy sigh, smiling down at the injured soldier warmly.

Across the clearing, the petite Asians had already had their wounds dressed and where sitting together, the elder one—the one with long hair—rubbing the other's back comfortingly, trying not to let his own tears escape his eyes. He looked absolutely miserable, while his brother seemed shocked and not quite believing the loss of the other two. The raven haired man covered his face with his hands, shoulders quivering slightly.

The Spaniard, who had gotten his foot bandaged and was now helping with others, was approached by the general himself. The stoic blond was not wearing his usual expression, looking sympathetic and a bit sad. Words were exchanged and the tan man stared in disbelief. His feet moved quickly and he was by the side of the feisty brunette he had been with earlier.

The young man was barely breathing, eyes glazed over and unseeing. His body was covered in bandages. Blood still leaked through some of the injuries, dying the white crimson. The tanned soldier grasped the other's hand, shouting at him. Tears gathered in his olive green eyes as the brunette managed to shift his head to try and look at him. He blinked slowly, smiling just barely before his eyes lids fluttered to a close. His chest stopped moving and his hand was limp in the other man's grip.

The Spaniard was silent, tears slowly making their way down his cheeks. He still had the dead man's hand in his own. Other soldiers standing by him tried to comfort him, but he just yelled at them to leave. The Italian soldier with reddish-brunette hair approached slowly, tears welling up in his own eyes. He knelt down by the dead soldier's side, opposite to the man mourning, and let the tears fall. He mouthed a single word—Brother—and looked away with shaking shoulders.

The camp was nearly silent as the men mourned over their dead brethren. The slaughter had been absolutely horrible and their numbers greatly depleted. What had once been over three hundred in their small parade had been reduced to only a hundred or so soldiers. The loss was almost greater than they could bear. The last onslaught that had happened like this had been many years ago, in a different war entirely. Yet the same tactic had been used against them here, and they had fallen for it completely.

So many questioned the war while others cursed it; all of them were carrying the same wish. They wanted the bloodshed to stop.

There's so many different worlds.
So many different suns.
And we have just one world.
But we live in different ones.

The war was over. It had been won. The people were cheering, singing, happy once more. The soldiers were rewarded, given medals at ceremonies for their hard work and dedication. Many were released from service to return to normal life.

Adjusting would be difficult. They never realized that. They always seemed to think the men could get by on an army pension and civilian life. They could never forget the horrors they'd witnessed. As they received their medals, the twins that had been in the army were fidgeting away, plagued by visions of the battlefield. They had to bite their lips to prevent themselves from screaming in terror. The usually bubbly Italian pulled them aside after getting his own medal, attempting to help them feel better by telling them a story. But he himself was no better off, feeling the weight of sadness drowning him. He paused during his story, expecting a familiar voice to yell at him for being stupid or idiotic, but none came.

The younger of the two surviving Asian brothers was seated in a wheelchair. He only had one leg. The bullet he had taken had required him to get the leg amputated to prevent death. The elder of the two did all he could to support them both on their pensions. But it proved to be difficult, as he could only do so much.

The Frenchman stood proud and tall. But he looked depressed. Bags were under his eyes and his uniform wasn't as neat as he would usually make it. The Spaniard next to him was just as bad, surprisingly not worse, despite his loss. He gently touched the other's shoulder with his tanned hand, flashing him a weak smile. The blond returned the smile, but it came out more as a grimace.

He looked at the empty spot next to him, where his English companion would usually stand. To know that someone close was still with the living but on the brink of death was nerve breaking. The Frenchman bit his bottom lip and looked away, towards the crowd.

The German who led them was forced to take the medal he initially refused. With a scowl, he reluctantly accepted it, not believing he deserved it for so blindly leading his soldiers into an ambush. After the ceremony, he later joined the Italian and listened as he told a story to the twins, who looked intrigued and less upset.

A phone call had someone sending the older Asian to tell the blond Frenchman the news that had just been received. All the exhaustion had nearly vanished from his face as a look of relief settled upon it. More words were exchanged, as well as a request to talk to the Englishman that had just now managed to crawl back out onto the shores of the River Styx. The request having been accepted, the phone was handed to him.

Now the sun's gone to hell
And the moon's riding high.
Let me bid you farewell.
Every man has to die.

After a few minutes, the Frenchman handed the phone back to the Asian, excusing himself. Everyone looked on with sympathetic—but relieved—expressions, while the Spaniard followed him, wanting to hear from him what had been said; what had happened and if the Englishman was alright.

Tears welled up in the Italian's eyes as he remembered the death of his own brother, apologizing to the twins and standing to leave. The blond general apologized to the twins as well, shepherding the reddish-brunette man away.

But it's written in the starlight
And every line on your palm.
We're fools to make war
On our brothers in arms.

By the end of the day, the ceremony had dispersed. No one would admit the war had been absolutely pointless and people had died for no reason. They only ones openly expressing it were the soldiers that had fought. Their politicians and government leaders wouldn't accept that the war had been useless and didn't change anything.

Life was beginning to return to normal—as normal as it could be.

But it would never be. Not for them. Not for the men who had fought and seen the bloodshed. The veterans began to promote peace. They fought against war and violence. They tried to persuade the people that war wouldn't fix anything and would just make things worse.

People wouldn't listen though. And soon enough, another war had begun.

They could only watch and shake their heads in disappointment, because their leaders never seemed to learn.