"How old are you?"

"Eighteen Sir," he replied.

I looked up from the papers in my hand. There he was standing before me. He looked younger.

Tousled hair, a confused grin, and a submissive attitude. I scanned him from head to foot. He had a muscular build and there was an unusual enthusiasm bubbling in him.

"Why do you want to join the war, boy? You should pick up some other job. There are a lot of opportunities out there," I remarked.

He gave me a nervous smile and fidgeted with his hands.

"I need money. We are very poor, Sir," he confessed.

My heart skipped a beat.

Poverty, the curse of the world wars, is what drove these young men to jump into something as cruel as war. War was something I had experienced a lot. Death and disease now failed to overwhelm me anymore.

Had I turned cold-blooded?

When you see your comrades die before your eyes. When you move to make your kill. When that bullet escapes your gun, or the grenade, your hand. When you see a dead opponent and realise that you were the murderer. Well then, there is no place for any emotions in you anymore.

I had promised to myself after the Second World War that, for me, no more war.

People say, "Every huge accomplishment needs a bloody sacrifice." Well, war was just a gruesome sacrifice of millions of innocent tongues in the name of patriotism.

If war is a sacrifice then we are the executioners. We are the culprits behind a million lives being silenced before they could speak. Hell! Without officers like us, the people who recruit others and plan strategies, there would have been no war. But we were bound. There were orders from higher authorities.

In the world wars they fought for power, today they fight against communism and I could bet that tomorrow they will again pick up a cause for fight. The war-monger nations like us could never spend a day without baying for someone's blood.

In spite of all my promises to myself, I was again the Lieutenant for a military division, fighting in Vietnam. And there was a young man before me who wanted to die, just to earn a daily living.

I sighed.

"Listen here young man," I told him plainly, "We want new troopers but war is nothing but death. Nobody deserves to die for money."

"Well," he replied, "A thousand men like me are fighting and my mother reprimands me for sitting idle. She advised me to serve the country by joining the war."

A rush of emotions played through me. The mother of the young man had probably been influenced by the media hype, political speeches and writings of influential people who promote war as a commodity. For them war was a kind of service to the nation.

Fools!

"Well, your mother was definitely wrong. There is no glory in war. Only destruction. Not every person you kill is an enemy. War kills you, eats your soul, leaving behind a hollow shell. War is the worst scenario ever," I almost screamed.

I felt so helpless at the moment. It was as if I could see the reflection of myself in him. I was once young and naïve, without any care for the world. My youth was lost in the vain pursuit of glory and the coldness of death.

"But, I have all the documents. If I want to join..." his words trailed off.

"Think for a minute boy," I clutched my head in despair, "The people you will kill, are they 'your' enemies? Do you know why they are fighting? They are all like you. All forced by circumstances to join..."

"Lieutenant Burke, what are you doing," the voice of General Cornwall boomed from the door, "You dare discourage a patriot?"

He deftly move in front of the boy and placed his hands on his shoulders.

"Look, young man, don't listen to all that crap. You will join the army and fight. You will show the nation who you are. Come on my brave boy," I could hear the false note of cheer in his voice.

I longed to reach out and slap his false face. These people, the ones in ranks have never been in the front. They never even fired a shot and just sit around commanding the youth, pushing them to the jaws of death.

"Burke," he barked, "Please prepare his papers fast."

"But, sir was telling me something...," the boy tried to say.

He was cut off by General Cornwall taking his hand, shaking it as a sign of congratulations. He actually wasn't going to give any opportunity for the young man to deny.

I felt anger searing through every nerve of my body. It was if someone was choking me, binding me in the shackles of duty.

I slammed the documents down on the table and slouched on my chair.

Completing all formalities in the blink of an eye, I moved to the signature area. It was as if my hand was moving mechanically. There was no life in me.

I felt as if I was writing his death warrant. Because he would have to fight till his last breath.

My hands shook and I was unable to hold back the tears which threatened to spill. I realized what an executioner must feel when he hangs someone to death. I was sacrificing another life at the altar of patriotism and the thirst for power.

The young man collected the documents and Cornwall beckoned to him to join him for a drink that night.

I stood at the door of my cabin, staring at the retreating figure of a boy who was being brutally forced to the brink of death in the name of victory, I couldn't help thinking of a lamb being taken to slaughter.

I returned to my office and addressed a letter to the General and signed it.

My resignation letter.

1000 words completed

A/N Thanks PsychologicalNovel
for this awesome contest and for choosing me as the winner.

This book won the #psychcontest, Wattpad's most thrilling Psychological award.

I have never written such a story. Hope this has worked out. Your constructive criticism is welcome. Thanks for reading THE LAST BREATH...