A bullet zipped passed the soldier as he threw himself against the broken wall – just another holding up an already ruined town – seeking refuge that he knew would be short, temporary.
It was then he saw the writing, faded by the suffering and agony the wall had seen-“Make Music, not War”.
As he read the words, the cackles of gunshots, his comrades dying around him, the echoes of devastation – all became dim, just a humming in his ears. His eyes shone as he pulled out something from an ammo pouch in his vest.
‘Music I can make…The war, no, that is not my making’, he whispered to no one.
He was still holding the mouth organ when the final bullet ripped