"F29, do you see target? Over."

"Target seen. Over."

"Report when you have locked target. Over."

"Target locked. Over."

I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I pushed the nail of my index finger into the ball of my thumb. It was a ritual I always did before I gave a command that would cause the death of others. I had decided it meant that it had to be okay, that it was awful yet had to, had to, be okay. It meant that I wouldn't go back on my duties as a Captain but execute those duties to perfection, better than anyone else on the planet could.

It was a small gesture that was easy to perform airborne. Even in my warplane, travelling at the speed of sound, heavily loaded with ammunition, face covered in a mask and a helmet, my hand steering my massive beast, I could press the nail of my index finger into the ball of my thumb.

And it had to be okay.

"F29, you have permission to fire. Over."

It was a different thing when I made decisions for myself. Then, there was only me to blame. I could sink down in my own misery, alone. I did not need to press the nail of my index finger into the ball of my thumb. But when I commanded others, I put a lot of responsibility on them. It felt terrible. 

"Yes, Captain Senju. Over."

I looked below me, saw the plane from which I had commanded the release of missiles that would strike an enemy military base.

But the plane did not have time to drop its missiles.

"Captain. Enemy incoming. Over."

Shit.

I could see them behind me,

"50/50 split, roll over. Over."

I felt that familiar surge in my stomach as I forced my plane sharply to the right, while my comrades did the same, although half of them to the left. The enemy started firing their ammunition at us. And we did what we could and tried to swerve, seeing they were behind us and we could do little to defend ourselves.

I did a rough calculation. We were vastly outnumbered, but our planes were faster, meaning we should retreat.

"Back to base. Increase speed. Over."

"Captain, this is F21, I cannot gain speed", one of my subordinates said. Shit. "I cannot gain speed, engines are faulty. I repeat, engines are faulty. Enemy is gaining. Over."

"Rest of you, back to base. Over."

I looked behind me until I localised F21. As he said, the enemy was approaching fast. Our planes were protected against bullets, but there were sensitive parts that could not handle stronger ammunition. One hit in the wrong place, and the fuel tank would blow...

I made a rapid decision. What I was about to do was highly risky, but it was better than the certain death of my subordinate. At least according to me. I knew that in my situation, anyone else would leave the subordinate behind, because the risk of both of us losing our lives was too great. But there had to be a difference between me and anyone else. There had to be...

I forced my plane's nose up towards the sky and looped. My stomach lurched, but it was not unpleasant. Under different circumstances, I would have liked this. Now, however, I did not. For a fraction in time, I saw the world below me, with its beautiful snowy fields and frozen lakes in the unfamiliarity of enemy land, upside down. Then, as I asked my plane to finish the loop and as its nose pointed down once more, I caught the enemy plane chasing my subordinate in my bullseye, since the loop I had made had caused me to come up behind it...

The time I had to fire was almost impossible to measure, it was so small. Hadn't I been absolutely confident in my exceptional reacting time, I would never had attempted what I was about to do. But I knew I was good, and so I took a shot, and I fired...

The time I had to fire was made even smaller than just hitting the enemy plane considering I was aiming for that delicious spot that would set the engine tank on fire, but I got it. The enemy plane exploded in an inferno of orange, and my plane flattened out from the loop, and placed itself neatly behind my subordinate.

"Thank you, Captain. Over."

"It was nothing. Over", I said as if I just hadn't saved the man's life.

"You go rest", I told them once they all came to me as I stood by my plane. "I will follow."

I waited until they were a distance away, then did something I needed to do sometimes.

I went to the front of my plane and leaned my forehead against it.

We connected like that for a while, my plane and I. I kept my eyes closed, breathing, trying to focus on the sensation of its metal frame against my forehead. It was cold. We had been through a lot, my plane and I. Nobody had seen so much of my bad sides as my plane had.

"I wonder if he had a family", I murmured. If anyone knew I talked to my plane about enemies I'd killed I wouldn't be an Air Force Captain anymore. "The man we killed."

We. As if it wasn't entirely my fault.

That was the strangest part about war to me. How you killed one another off like pawns. Actual people, who had lives, who had hopes and dreams and ambitions, who feared death, who did, in fact, not want to die but wanted to live, to have children, to watch them grow up. I believed many in the military had accepted that their faith would be death, and I was certainly one of them. Yet I knew there were still many who had not yet understood that they could die. They were immortal, just like everyone else on earth believe they are; death happens to other people but never to me and then you stand there with cancer or a heart attack or an accident, all alone in your realisation that actually, you could die, just like everyone else could.

"I'm so torn", I told my plane. It must be so tired of my bullshit at this point. "I don't want to do this yet I cannot stop. Because what happens then?"

I looked over at where I had last seen my subordinates, my group of brave, brave pilots. I was more decorated than any of them. I was more decorated than anyone else in the Air Force. I had reached my position so fast, it had been considered an historic moment when I was made Captain, and I was known as the best pilot of my country. People's dream was to be on my team.

Yet when I felt no pride, and it had nothing to do with humbleness.

I dreamed of running away. Just taking my plane and go somewhere. It wasn't the first time I had had that daydream. In that daydream, that had to remain such, I just jumped into my plane, and I flew away to the other side of the earth where the weather was tropical and the sand smelled of coconut and sugar. There, I would bathe in the infinite green-blue of the ocean, burn my skin in the scorching sun, sleep in every morning and teach myself how to surf. I would have fruit for breakfast and rest for a couple of hours before a barefoot beach jog. Travelling at the speed of sound, I would reach that daydream in no-time.

But of course, I didn't do that. Instead, I patted the cold metal of my plane, took one last look at it, then turned around and followed my subordinates in the snow.