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Description
I met him on the first day I arrived at training camp, me a young man of nineteen years and still naive to the ways of the world. Back then, you signed up for the service because it was your civic duty. The War was on in Europe and Uncle Sam called for brave men to fight the noble cause against the Nazis. I felt that swell of national pride sincere enough to sign my name on the papers. I never thought, though, that my greatest challenge wouldn't be holding a gun these hands.

Well, most times, anyway. We shot our rifles as many hours as it took to become proficient and listened to our instructors as, day by day, we marched for miles and participated in skirmishes. I memorized every word they told me to, singing Yankee Doodle Dandy under my breath while picturing the bull's-eye I shot wore a German uniform. It wasn't until the first time he touched my shoulder that I began to think of something else.

His hands were strong, yet gentle. They squeezed the wiry frame beneath my Army greens while his voice distracted me from target practice with the question, "How are you coming along, Matty?"

I looked up at him and said, "Just fine, sir." Our eyes met. I saw something in the young sergeant's gaze that suggested a softness within the polished exterior and when he smiled, butterflies took flight inside my stomach. My eyes left him as quickly as possible; I didn't like the fact that another man inspired such a reaction. I didn't run away from it, however. Especially as the touches escalated.

He would brush his hand across my back when no one was looking and once, he patted my head. I almost swear I felt his fingers tangle in my hair for a second before his arm settled by his side. I think he sensed the way I tensed and then relaxed into his advances. After a while, I started to touch him back and from there, it was only a matter of time.

We shared our first kiss behind the bunkhouses. We made love for the first time in the woods a few nights later. While other men hung pin-ups of Bettie Page, he and I found secret moments to come together in the dark. Afterward, we smoked cigarettes and held each other. He told me that he loved me before we shipped off. I told him that I loved him, too.

We made it through a few weeks in Britain without getting caught. I began to think of what we'd do after the war and asked him more than once if there was a place people like us could go for refuge, knowing we'd never find acceptance stateside. His responses became cryptic. "Won't have to worry about that, Matty. Not going to make it home anyway."

"That's nonsense," I told him. "Stop talking like that." The look on his face seemed to be getting more haunted with each day which passed.

One night, at a company social, he looked at me and said, "Dance with me, Matty. Let's give the other guys a heart attack before we deploy to Europe." A mischief-laden chuckle spilled from his lips. "Who cares what they might do to us? Hell, maybe we'll get lucky and they'll kick us out."

"We can't do that." I glanced around the room and swallowed hard. "My God, they'll drag us out and shoot us." When I looked back at him, I raised an eyebrow at the way he continued to regard me. Still playful, but with a sadness inside his crystal blue eyes. I shook my head. "No, we can't. I'm not ready for that yet."

He never forced me, although I knew I let him down. A few nights later, while we slept in the woods by the edge of France, I heard him whisper, "I would have liked that dance, Matty. A dying man's wish, you know."

"I really wish you'd stop talking like that." I didn't want to admit it, but after being thrown into battle, the thought of us dancing at the social had been running through my brain. I shook it off and continued. "You and I are going to survive this war and then find some place people like us can be safe. Hell, we'll run off to an island somewhere if we have to."

"Not going to make it that long," he said. Then he looked at me and touched my face. "I love you, Matty. Remember me, please."

I've never ascribed to things like clairvoyance, but I felt his certainty that time and wondered if the end was really coming. Memories of the social lingered so much, they were still on my mind the day the Germans attacked us and took out half our company. I remember staring at him, shocked from the sudden onslaught, not hearing the gunfire any longer. I looked at him and heard the music. Just as he took a bullet to his chest.

He collapsed. I ran for him and cradled him in my arms, suddenly not caring what anybody thought as his clear blue eyes closed in death. I cried like a baby in the middle of that battlefield and clutched his body against me, silently hoping another sniper would take me out as well. I lived, though, and quit the Army after my time in there was through.

To this day, I still think about him.

I see us dancing, arms wrapped tight around each other and the rest of the world falling away while we lose ourselves in the moment. Our cheeks touching, our bodies close enough for me to smell his scent and feel his chest pressed against mine. In my mind, he whispers, "Remember me, Matty," and I nod with tears running down my face.

"Of course, I'll remember you," I whisper. "I've never forgotten you, Will."

Description
I met him on the first day I arrived at training camp, me a young man of nineteen years and still naive to the ways of the world. Back then, you signed up for the service because it was your civic duty. The War was on in Europe and Uncle Sam called for brave men to fight the noble cause against the Nazis. I felt that swell of national pride sincere enough to sign my name on the papers. I never thought, though, that my greatest challenge wouldn't be holding a gun these hands.

Well, most times, anyway. We shot our rifles as many hours as it took to become proficient and listened to our instructors as, day by day, we marched for miles and participated in skirmishes. I memorized every word they told me to, singing Yankee Doodle Dandy under my breath while picturing the bull's-eye I shot wore a German uniform. It wasn't until the first time he touched my shoulder that I began to think of something else.

His hands were strong, yet gentle. They squeezed the wiry frame beneath my Army greens while his voice distracted me from target practice with the question, "How are you coming along, Matty?"

I looked up at him and said, "Just fine, sir." Our eyes met. I saw something in the young sergeant's gaze that suggested a softness within the polished exterior and when he smiled, butterflies took flight inside my stomach. My eyes left him as quickly as possible; I didn't like the fact that another man inspired such a reaction. I didn't run away from it, however. Especially as the touches escalated.

He would brush his hand across my back when no one was looking and once, he patted my head. I almost swear I felt his fingers tangle in my hair for a second before his arm settled by his side. I think he sensed the way I tensed and then relaxed into his advances. After a while, I started to touch him back and from there, it was only a matter of time.

We shared our first kiss behind the bunkhouses. We made love for the first time in the woods a few nights later. While other men hung pin-ups of Bettie Page, he and I found secret moments to come together in the dark. Afterward, we smoked cigarettes and held each other. He told me that he loved me before we shipped off. I told him that I loved him, too.

We made it through a few weeks in Britain without getting caught. I began to think of what we'd do after the war and asked him more than once if there was a place people like us could go for refuge, knowing we'd never find acceptance stateside. His responses became cryptic. "Won't have to worry about that, Matty. Not going to make it home anyway."

"That's nonsense," I told him. "Stop talking like that." The look on his face seemed to be getting more haunted with each day which passed.

One night, at a company social, he looked at me and said, "Dance with me, Matty. Let's give the other guys a heart attack before we deploy to Europe." A mischief-laden chuckle spilled from his lips. "Who cares what they might do to us? Hell, maybe we'll get lucky and they'll kick us out."

"We can't do that." I glanced around the room and swallowed hard. "My God, they'll drag us out and shoot us." When I looked back at him, I raised an eyebrow at the way he continued to regard me. Still playful, but with a sadness inside his crystal blue eyes. I shook my head. "No, we can't. I'm not ready for that yet."

He never forced me, although I knew I let him down. A few nights later, while we slept in the woods by the edge of France, I heard him whisper, "I would have liked that dance, Matty. A dying man's wish, you know."

"I really wish you'd stop talking like that." I didn't want to admit it, but after being thrown into battle, the thought of us dancing at the social had been running through my brain. I shook it off and continued. "You and I are going to survive this war and then find some place people like us can be safe. Hell, we'll run off to an island somewhere if we have to."

"Not going to make it that long," he said. Then he looked at me and touched my face. "I love you, Matty. Remember me, please."

I've never ascribed to things like clairvoyance, but I felt his certainty that time and wondered if the end was really coming. Memories of the social lingered so much, they were still on my mind the day the Germans attacked us and took out half our company. I remember staring at him, shocked from the sudden onslaught, not hearing the gunfire any longer. I looked at him and heard the music. Just as he took a bullet to his chest.

He collapsed. I ran for him and cradled him in my arms, suddenly not caring what anybody thought as his clear blue eyes closed in death. I cried like a baby in the middle of that battlefield and clutched his body against me, silently hoping another sniper would take me out as well. I lived, though, and quit the Army after my time in there was through.

To this day, I still think about him.

I see us dancing, arms wrapped tight around each other and the rest of the world falling away while we lose ourselves in the moment. Our cheeks touching, our bodies close enough for me to smell his scent and feel his chest pressed against mine. In my mind, he whispers, "Remember me, Matty," and I nod with tears running down my face.

"Of course, I'll remember you," I whisper. "I've never forgotten you, Will."