IT WAS World War II in Moms backyard. I was with a couple of buddies. We were on the ground, on foot, grunt-style. I had a sidearm. A handgun. Whatever you call it. I was holding my own with it, but I needed more firepower. Some of the guys had these automatic rifles that shot short bursts. I was looking to get ahold of one of those, but meantime, I had to avoid getting shot. The Germans were everywhere -- in helicopters, around corners, in low-flying planes. I could see the pilots face through his windshield. Dark-moustached, open-eyed, just looking at me, alertly, with an almost lack of expression before the expression has a chance to form. It was in that moment that I shot him. He went down. But there were plenty of others.