Word Count 100
Why did I join? For these muddy torn, odorous tents? For rancid horsemeat with grubs? For body sores and bloody backs? Who cares about me? Not my unknown Californian father, nor my Boston grandfather, so furious at me when I left. Would he change his mind if he knew I was in a prisoner camp … dying. I welcome it, so sleepy and drifting away.
“What? Who’s waking me? Let me die! The war’s over? I’m the ranking officer among the prisoners?”
“Okay. Help me stand, see who’s still alive, and fall in line to greet our liberators.”
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