Fiction

So there we were. It seemed strange. It seemed like only a few days ago they were putting us through our basic training; telling us how to use a rifle. Not a gun. A rifle. They emphasised that so much. " It's not a gun. It's a rifle!"
That doesn't seem to matter so much right now, although they seemed to think it was really important at the time.
I'm lying behind a bush, and Tommy, my best mate from basic training is lying about ten feet to my left.
I know he's been hit. I know he's probably dead or badly injured. I want to go to him, but I'm scared. I can't see the enemy at the top of the hill, but they can obviously see us.
"Tommy."
"Tommy?"
"Tommy. Can you hear me? Are you all right?"
I move a little towards him. A shot rings out, and I swear it nearly gets me. I crawl back behind the bush.
Then a lot of shots rain down around the bush. They know where I am hiding.
To my shame, I crawl away down the hill, leaving Tommy to die alone with his rifle, not a gun.