Prologue

Grime and dirt covered his once youthful face. Each layer accounting for some gruesome scene he witnessed or took part in. He was a young man of no more than nineteen, but his eyes were those of an old-troubled man. His eyes were turbulent blue oceans, forever hardened into a sea of ice by the images that were passed through them. His combat fatigues had not been changed in months. Even though he was promised a hot meal once a week, his fingers had become accustomed too scraping off cold food from the bottom of his C-Rats. His hands had taken on red aura, and he was infamous for this. He was one tough and desensitized son-of-a-bitch, and for this he was proud. His name was Chris Davis, and he was just another tragedy of war.

He never knew the why, what, or reason. He only knew the how. How to break down his rifle in under a minute, how to pull the trigger to hit a target at 500 yards, how to take his KA-BAR and plunge it into an enemy’s chest, but most importantly he knew how to kill with no inhibition. Chris thought he was independent, but in fact he was not. He was just another soldier brainwashed to do whatever he was told. He would call him-self a patriot, while most others may call him a monster. It is men like Chris Davis that we owe our lives to, but these men get forgotten and turn into mere numbers.