The Pilot

The uniform hung loosely over his fragile and malnourished frame. Many said he had the appearance of a ghost. And perhaps a touch of death had seeped into his bones. But the military didn’t keep him around for his looks. He was a skilled pilot and could fly the rickety planes like no one else.
He had made quite a name for himself. People around camp told stories of his campaigns, and some even believed he was an actual angle of death. Some swore they had seen him circle back after dropping his bombs, just to see the horror and devastations that erupted in the fields below. Those telling the story always got quiet and added in a whisper that the pilot would laugh as he flew through the smoke of the burning victims below.
The other pilots would leave him small token gifts outside his tent, thankful he was on their side and knowing the longer he lived, the sooner this war would be over.
But he didn’t want the war to end. Not yet. His parents and sister had all been taken from him when he was away, flying his first mission. Now when he flew, he would imagine the perpetrators marching along as his bombs cleaned the earth of the filth below.
Tonight’s flight was just like every other until he circled back around and saw one more division moving up the riverbank. Their banner turned his blood cold, and he knew these were the soldiers who had killed his family. With no bombs remaining, he was the only weapon left in the plane. And so it was on this night, that the angle of death flew his aircraft lower and lower until he could finally see their burning faces up close.