On the Wrong Side

My father pressed the steely cold butt of the gun into my hand and whispered his request with a blank expression.
"Kill him."
I stood in front of the injured American soldier. His sandy blonde hair hung in his face dripping sweat onto his rosy cheeks. His swollen eyes were a dark glossy black that held years of war-torn sorrow. He looked at me with suck deep rooted resentment that made me feel disgusting.
I could see that this man had had everything ripped away from him already as he held no fear in his cold eyes. I looked from the dirty man crawling in the dirt at my feet, to my tall, blonde hair, blue eyed father standing beside me.
"You need to learn to kill if you want to be in the army with me."
I aimed the barrel right in-between the man's eyes and right as my heart skipped a beat, I pulled the warm metal trigger.
The bullet landed inches from the American's head. I unloaded the gun, handed it back to my father and helped the man up.
"I don't want to be in this army if I have to kill innocent people like this." I ripped the felt swastika off of my uniform and dropped it into the mud. I took one last look at my father and helped the man hobble over to the American medic's tent.