He kneels with a pistol where once he walked with a plow. The fields lay fallow and muddied by the tumultuous weather of the times. A lightening quick sense of mental urgency befalls all the men in the front line as the third man in, chest bloodied literally begins to fall. Transcending the speed of his own thought, the kneeling man on the end engages both the whites of the enemy’s eye as well as his mind’s eye. A faint smile heightens his expression. Behind his head, a smoky stream of consciousness lifts and curves across the water to a comfortable place in his past: The fields plowed, the sun is setting and a kitchen window glows. Faintly, he hears the blast of a man’s gun barrel, muffled by the clear ringing of the bell, his wife beckoning him “home for supper.”