Campfire Confession

The fire popped like a rifle shot, but no one flinched. I leaned back against the log, feeling the warmth creep up my boots. The others sat close, their faces half-lit, half-hidden in the orange wash of the flames.

“Listen, boys,” I said. “I ain’t much good at hunting deer.”

Joe glanced up from his flask, one eyebrow raised. “What’re you getting at?”

“I’ll dress ‘em,” I said. “I can skin ‘em, quarter ‘em, all that. But I can’t bring myself to shoot ‘em anymore.”

The fire hissed as if it didn’t care. The others shifted a little, boots scraping against dirt. Will finally broke the silence.

“Why not?” he asked.

I studied the ground, the way the firelight flickered against the pressed shape of my boots in the dirt. The words didn’t come easy, but they had to come.

“Once you’ve killed men,” I said, “hunting don’t feel like much fun anymore.”

Joe stopped mid-swig, his flask hovering in the air. The others went still. They weren’t looking at me, but I could feel them waiting.

“You mean in combat?” Will asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. The Corps.”

“The Marines,” Joe said. He said it like a statement, not a question.

“That’s right,” I said. “You do that kind of killing, and it gets into your bones. Stays there.”

They passed the flask around again, letting the silence do most of the talking. It didn’t bother me. I wasn’t in a hurry to hear what they thought of it.

Finally, Will spoke up. “You telling me you’d starve before you’d kill something to eat?”

I shook my head, slow and firm. “No,” I said. “If it came to starving, I’d do it. I’ve done worse things to stay alive. But I don’t have to now. And I don’t feel the need. That’s all.”

Joe took another drink, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Well,” he said, “if that’s how it is, that’s how it is.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s how it is.”

No one argued. The fire kept talking, the sparks jumping into the black sky like they wanted to escape. The night wrapped around us, heavy and cold, and none of us said much after that.