He was born in the trenches of war under the ragged eyes of soldiers who pulled him from the corpse of his mother and held him to her slowly stiffening breast. The rattle of gunfire and the dull bass of grenade explosions were the lullaby that sang him to sleep in his canvas hammock. At age four, already he was carrying supplies and bullets from trench to trench, over and under barbed wire fortifications, through intestines and twitching limbs and glazed eyes that stared into the shock blue sky, gunfire stitching the ground at his feet. He was younger when he killed his first man with a well placed toss of a grenade. Now his old blue eyes that had seen only war stared across the empty battlefield, wondering if the world had a place for a soldier like him anymore.