I received a letter a week after Christmas, saying that the war seemed like it had ended. Both sides had an unofficial ceasefire, and he said that even the officers met one another and exchanged gifts on Christmas Day. He also wrote that a lot of the German soldiers who could speak a little bit of English stated that the war was stupid, and that they did not want to kill anybody. He said that they exchanged rifles for cigarettes and other gifts, like alcohol, and then they returned back to their trenches. Before that though, he wrote down that they played a short game of football. The Germans won by just one goal. The score did not really matter to them, as they were just happy to have understood each other and that both sides really did not want to fight at all; they were all forced to do it. After reading the letter, I felt extremely relieved. Not only was I reassured that he was safe, but I also received the news that the war had signs of stopping soon.

It was in early March. He was helpless. He had been in the front line, and they told him to go over the top of the trench. He had been shot in the leg first. After that, a fellow British soldier tried to help him up. The British soldier was shot dead by a fatal wound to his chest. Even a German soldier tried to help my brother up. The German suffered the same fate as the British man. My brother was helpless. He was in extreme pain. He was on the ground in the middle of no man’s land, and was unable to do anything. A German soldier came up to him. The soldier mumbled some words in German, and fixed my brother’s bayonet onto his rifle. At first, the German seemed to not have noticed my brother. The German walked away. A few seconds later, my brother was dead. He had been stabbed to death by the German.

By the time I had received the news, it was already the middle of April. It both angered and pained me to hear the news. The officers at the office, twenty years ago, had said proudly that the British would be rid of the war before the end of December. Not only were they wrong, but because they had failed to finish the war by the end of winter, my brother had been killed.

It pains me to see this photograph. One of the only reasons I still keep it and see it is because I see one thing in the photograph that I can never see again. Every time I look at it, I can remember it clearly. His leaving present to me, and only me. My brother’s smile.