He scanned the empty field. He was leaning against a newly built fence, strong and longlasting like the man who built it. He wondered momentarily if that statement could be more trite but pressed on none the less. The feild was mostly beaten flat by foot and skid steer traffic moving landscaping supplies to and from the job site. His gaze drifted to the barn that looked every inch a perfect location for a shoot out in an action movie. Something post apocolyptic staring Christian Bale or Clive Owen with Mel Gibbson showing up to make a meta-referance to The Road Warrior. The barn had a tin roof to keep the rain off and patched together walls. Across the field is a thatch of trees that are thinner and brighter then he remembered as a boy. Nothing had been done to them to make them this way except for a slight encroach by a neighbors trailer. It was the eyes of boyhood that made the forest an impenitrable thicket. The whole scene was set, the trees perfect cover for advancing squads, the barns a firebase to hide heavy weapons and snipers in, the road perfect for bring supplies to the area, the newly built house would house sergents and higher up CO's on visit. Now if only the war would stary. He was twenty years old but he still picked up a stick and stared down the barrell of the faux-gun and close his eyes. If he thought about it hard enough he could place his thumb against one of the plentiful knots and imagine cocking his Garrand, holding his breath and watching as the blood exploded from the head of an unsuspecting enemy. He heard a movement in the bushes, enemy comandos who'd snuck past his buddies on sentry. Pop, goes the first one then the gentle, shick-click as he slid the bolt back and forward and slid the next bullet into place. He dropped the stick and breathed out, quickly laughing at the idocy and casually looking over his shoulders to see if his boss had seen the ridiculous charade he had just played out. No one was around but he didn't dare pick up the stick again. He needed to stop getting lost in the fantasy. War wasn't a game of Call of Duty, war wasn't romantic, war wasn't badass or exciting, war was aweful and should never be something played at. He knew his grandfather would scrunch his eyes just a little in disapointment if he would have seen him lampooning the Great Crusade like that. The problem was, all of the logical arguments, all of these realizations even the guilt of disapointing a long dead relative couldn't disuade him from surveying the area for the best place to hide a mortar team .