Irony seemed to be the flavor of the day. Like cotton candy ice cream, it's sweet, sickeningly so at times. As I stared at the dimming sun it amazed me just how sick irony can be.

Stretched out on a sandy embankment, I watched as soldiers paraded past. Their green uniforms eating holes in my mind like acid. The sad thing was, although we were supposedly enemies, I could see myself wearing their uniform, slogging through the mud beside them, a worn smile on my face as I came through my first offensive with my brothers.

But this wasn't to be. I dressed in grey, weaponless and brother less. I watched my countrymen go past. I could feel their eyes drilling into my skin, angry, confident… disgusted. Their snide comments bit my bones and my bewildered eyes met theirs. Would they really be saying those things if they knew I understood them? Would they really be saying those things if we were at a high school football game, standing on opposite sides of the line, in opposing colors? Would they really be laughing about my death?

"So boys, where you from?" One cackled.

My eyed lowered slightly and I decided to throw a curveball in his way. "Eugene, Oregon."

That caused a double take just like I knew it would. I could see the irony taking a stroll across this guys face. He was from Oregon too; it seemed our positions confused him. We were players caught in the fight between two opposing forces. Yet we were so very much alike.

I watched the Oregon man walk away, under the impression we would see each other again, on Orange Street maybe, when this war was over. I knew better, it wasn't to be.

We weren't going to be seeing each other again. One of us was going to die. Either I would die in prison or he would die from the bullets of my comrades.

But it seems as if I will be wrong once more. Irony is trickster, and it hates when things go as planned, it likes throwing nails beneath peoples tires.

As it turns out, I would die fifteen minutes later, a smoldering cigarette between my lips. Would you like me to tell you how?

I died from a blazing fire that burst from a Lieutenants weapon. Bullets striking my German counterparts as they blew out smoky air, shocked at their fate and his deception. I was one of the first to be hit, hot steel diving under my flesh, but I didn't die right away. I watched in silence as the others fell.

This slaughter looked choreographed. Each actor in exactly the right place, at the right time, doing exactly what they were supposes to do. It would be a hit on Broadway. They would sell it as a story produced by a raging gun.

You can find a link to the club mentioned in the preveiw in my profile.