• I sat and stared and the dead man next to me.

    His eyes were wide open, his face forever holding the painful final throws of death. His face was as pale as anything and cold beads of sweat trickled down his face only to be washed away by the freezing rain. As horrifying and that may sound, this was nothing new. This was war in Europe, in the land of the Kaiser. I couldn't count on my fingers and toes how often I have seen faces like this right next to me.

    The sound of gunfire and crumbling buildings surrounded me, even though it came from a good distance in either direction. Although the city was devastated there was the occasional flickering of cast iron lamps up and down the once beautiful streets of Budapest. The cold December rain extinguished the fires, making the cold, dark streets slick and the conditions miserable.

    While my recently deceased companion was pale from loss of blood, I was pale from the winter cold that gripped this place at the worst of times. I sat in an alleyway, away from the dim lighting of the street, as I tried futilely to warm my hands by blowing into them and rubbing them together. The cold steel of my rifle rested in between my knees, the butt of the rifle resting on the ground and it's nose in the air.

    My eyes, which had been trying to distract themselves, constantly wandered to the one thing I didn't wish to see. It was not down to street to see if I was surrounded, or even the dead body in front of me. It was the flask of whiskey on the dead body that I tried to avoid.

    I could imagine the comforting feeling, that I had not felt for ages, flooding my throat and slowly spreading to the rest of my body. I could imagine it's sweet release from nervousness and worry. However, laced in between those memories were the bitter fights between the woman I loved most and the furious acts of rage that befell her because of my weakness. I could remember the patience she held as I promised I would get better. I remembered the almost torturous nights where my body screamed for the drink and begged to be satisfied. I remember the happiness that returned to my home as my diligence persisted and the feeling of renewing love between my wife and I.

    Then, like the sudden wind that blasted me and froze me to the bone, it all came back to me: the sights of the war, the look of shock on my friend's face as he was hit by fire, the agonizing screams of the Nazi troops when they couldn't get out of the wake of my grenade in time, the bitter cold of the December night, and the tempting flask that sat before me.

    My lips trembled as my resolve began to go. My fingers shook as they wrapped around the smooth metallic container. I fought with myself as hard as I had ever done, trying to fill my mind with images of my wife and how she would feel when I came home, recently addicted to the thing that caused of so much pain. I thought of my baby girl at home and what it would mean to grow up with a drunkard. I thought of my friends who had quit and then returned to the awful habit all because of one single drink. Then again, I thought to myself that one drink would not hurt and that the chances of me having a relapse must be very slim.

    My body yelled at me and I almost convulsed with want.

    In one smooth motion I popped off the cap and clenched my eyes shut. I threw back my head, the mouth of the flask finding my own. My tongue waited for the sweet burning of whiskey. However, it never came. My eyes furrowed as I tilted it back again. I leaned back against the wall of the bombed out general store and tried to peer inside the flask. I held it upside down and shook it, releasing only a drop or two.

    Empty. It was empty.

    The feeling was awful. Those memories in my mind played out and those stirrings of guilt came back, reinforced. There was no releasing sensation to feel bad for, nor was there a gateway for a renewing addiction. However, I realized at that moment that I had chosen an empty flask over my family. I had given in. And for that I got nothing. I wiped my forehead and sighed deep. As quickly as it came, the feeling of depression had left. I no longer felt that temptation nag at the back of my mind and I somehow felt warm as if that hard liquor had found my tongue. Although I had given in, I was not to suffer for acting in desperation. I felt almost as if I was granted a reprieve.

    I looked down at my fallen comrade, my heart suddenly full to bursting with love and appreciation for the man whose love of the drink kept me from reliving my own. I ceremoniously put the flask on his chest and folded his arms over it. I unstrapped his helmet and placed it over his face, saying a quick prayer as I did so. I went back to leaning against the wall and thought of home and the things I would do when I would return to my wife and infant daughter.

    A company eventually came and found me. We carefully carried the body of my fellow American back to the HQ and sent a notification to his poor family. I sat in my bunk, listening to the other soldiers speak about the events of the day. They said that we were approaching the end of the war and they all spoke about what that would mean for them. As I laid down to sleep amid the clamoring of my bunkmates and the distant gunshots of rifles, I thought about what I went through. In my later years I would sometimes try to remember the horrors of that night at times, but all I remember of that night was the warm feeling that came over me as I took a sip of nothing in the cold streets of Budapest.