The wind whipped across my face digging it’s nails into my skin. I wanted to whine, cry, do something to show the anguish I was feeling inside but I stayed quiet. I didn’t have any other choice. Nothing I did was my choice. Ever since I was little someone had made choices for me. My parents when I was younger, and now-
“Two more miles to the fort, keep moving troops.”
The military.
The uniform I wore was not even my choice. I’d wore uniforms my whole life. As a school-boy I always went to small catholic schools that required itchy, starch uniforms. A collared shirt, pressed corduroys, and loafers with navy socks. Even on the weekends my mother would pick out my clothes.
“You have to look presentable.” she would say, eyeing me closely as if I couldn’t possibly have the knowledge to pick out decent clothes.
I enlisted as soon as I turned eighteen. I’m not sure why exactly, other than it was an expectation. My father had been in the military, his grandfather before him, and so forth. It was a game of follow the leader. Another place where I lacked control. 
Our country was in turmoil. Ever since the bombing of pearl harbor, two weeks before my birthday, nothing had been calm. It was then that I knew that I really didn’t have a choice. My mother had cried when I left, blowing into her henkercphief, afraid I wouldn’t return. My dad simply told me to “make my country proud”. My younger brother grinned at me.
“You’re going to be a hero!” he yelled as the train pulled away.
It wasn’t until I got here that I realized I had know idea what I was getting into.
I had never been an athletic kid and was more likely to be drawing a picture than kicking around a ball. If the neighborhood kids asked I’d occasionally play kick the can but I was usually the first one out. School wasn’t my strong suit either. I’d been a bit lost my whole life, never actually finding somewhere I fit in. Even now, I didn’t bond with the other men as much as I could have. Usually they stayed up late into the night, playing cards and letting the smoke from their cigarettes drift through the night air. The smell made me sick.
Sweat rolled down my face and I quickly wiped it away. Show no weakness. As we got into the more populated parts I saw the destruction that had occurred. Whole buildings struck to the ground, cracked glass, dust, and ashes littering the streets. The quietness was eerie. Kicking out my foot I bumped a rock which rolled slowly down the street. The noise echoed around us, then silence again. Suddenly I heard hundreds feet running, the sound was like thunder.
Nazis came pouring out from behind all the buildings. My throat clenched and my hands began to sweat. I wasn’t ready for this. “Shoot!” yelled our captain.
I pulled my gun up onto my shoulder and aimed at a man crouching behind a potted plant. My fingers shook as attempted to put my pointer over the trigger.
I’d never even had a fist fight and here I was, about to shoot a man.
Memories flashed through my brain.
My father’s words echoed through my head. “Make your country proud.”
My brother, waving the american flag as my train began to pull down the tracks, “You’re going to be a hero.”
“Shoot!”
The man turned around and spotted me. Locking eyes we stared at each other for a moment.
“Shoot!”
There was no one but me holding this gun. I was the only one who could pull the trigger. It was my choice. Everyone else, that was just their opinion.
Slowly I lowered my gun.