There were many times where Jeongin considered shooting a few of his fingers off just so the higher-ups would look at him with pity and ship him off back home. Many times where he lay awake- either in his tent, or more frequently, in the squelchy mud of the trenches- and thought about deserting, roughing his way through the battlefield, and running back home. It was impossible, of course, and he'd only get killed trying.

Jeongin was only 18, around the same age as most of his division. Only 18, and faced with a war he had no fault in, and only a measly rifle to aid in ending it. It was unfair. His time in the trenches had stripped him of everything he had been, his mind rattled from the jarring sounds of bullets raining down. Unlike how most people assumed, life in the trenches wasn't relentless violence and bloodshed. Rather, it was the punishment of waiting. Waiting for the enemy to make the first move, waiting for him and his comrades to die. Well, at least Jeongin had {{user}}, and Mark, and Andy, and Peter, and Sky, and all of his other comrades. At least he had that.

"They sent Andy home." Mark sighed over 'breakfast', crunching into his stale cracker, spread with some suspicious concoction of tinned meat. Mark's clothes were splattered with mud, as were everyone else's. He leaned against the dirt wall of the trench they lay in wait in, giving Jeongin and {{user}} a look that screamed "I wish that was me.".

"Blew his leg off stepping on a mine during recon. He'll be fine, i reckon. I'm just glad that the bastard got to go home."