There is a fine line between dreams and reality. So fine that at times it can be hard to separate one from another. It is easy to mistake someone's feelings and get it in one's heart that he can really love you. Because chances are that he's already in love. Maybe the line becomes even thinner during wartime or maybe it actually gets thicker. The only way to know is to test it.

In the years of World War II, so much happened and so many brave men died. So why is it that everytime I think of the war, I think of the sharpy blue eyes and light blond hair of one soldier, one officer who could never in a thousand years be mind. It wasn't like I could never talk to him, no, I could talk to him whenever I wanted to and in the beginning I hunted him down. When our eyes met he would smiled and talk to me until one of the other soldiers would come looking for him and pull him away.

I remember when we first met, in the hospital, after he'd done something to his leg. I've often been curiouse about what it was but he never told me the story. But even though he didn't share that with me he was still very polite and grateful for what I'd done even though it was only my job. It was very unusual for an officer to be so kind. Not too long after that, I realized what I wanted. I wanted him.

It's so easy to allow myself to remember what that time was like for me, a strange snese of wanting. Because that's all I wanted to do, I wanted to kill him. So often did I imagine the scene in my dreams to that I could make it feel real.

"Do you love me Alvin?"

His breath is like honey, so close I can taste it. "Yes I do."

I lean forward, wanting it and his hands cup my own as he pulls me towards him. "Then make me yours," I whisper.

"Forever," he replys, planting his lips on my own.

But why do I even bother dreaming about it anymore, it never happened to me. Instead it happened to Lynn, beautiful Lynn who didn't even belong on our side. She was Britain, and Alvin knew that well, they'd met when he was taken prisoner and she was assigned to take care of him. Who would have guessed that she would follow him back to Germany?

He was kind enough not to bring it up when I was talking to him, helping a doctor nurse a bullet would on his side. I'd ask him about the fight, whether he tried to play hero by leading his men into a bloodbath but he would just shake his head. "I'm no here," he would say, "All I'm doing is my job."

His job? If I asked him would he have said that his job was worth dying for? Part of my reasons that he never thought he would die but then the other part tells me that he would never have stopped being a soldier. After all, he knew the risks. How many of his men had he watched fall? For he was good at being a soldier. His commanding officer told me that he could shot his gun blindfoloded and with his toe, although I never saw him do it. At times I wanted to ask him about it but I could never find the courage.

When I was told of his death, I couldn't likely believe it. In fact, I refused to believe it. A warrior like him could nt just be blown down, not whenanyone with eyes could see that the war was almost over as the Russians swept in on Berlin. I actually nearly punched the person who told me the news and demanded to see his body. I couldn't believe they gave in and brought me to him.

So many people were crowded around him, after all, he was popluar with everyone who knew him. But I pushed through and made it to his side. His blue eyes were still wide open but no longer was there any life in them. They were empty and had a glazed look to them that made me want to sob. That wasn't event he worst part. There was a cut on his forehead, clotted with dried blood that also splattured his handsome face. and then there was the wound that killed him, a gruesome gash straight across his chest.

I can remember reaching out one terrifed hand to touch his lifeless skin and then shivering at the cold touch. It was then that the one man who knew how much I cared for him met my eyes and gave me a quick nod. "All of you leave," he commanded, gesturing for the rest of them to step out of the room.

As soon as we were alone, a tear did escape my eyes and I did the unthinkable, I kissed his cold lips for the first and last time. It wasn't like I dreamed it would be but I'd never dreamed he'd die either. And when I looked up, the commander rested a hand on my arm. "I won't tell, Tahira." Then he to left the room.

It's all I can remember about the second great war, the longing, and then the pain. His sharp blue eyes still seem to haunt my dreams and never have I fallin in love with another man. If it isn't him, then nothing would feel right. But some things are just not meant to be.