I am shocked at the attitude of our American troops. They have no

Host: The night hung over the base like a torn flag, the air thick with the smell of oil, iron, and dust. In the far distance, the desert wind carried a low rumble from the artillery range — a sound too familiar to disturb anyone anymore. A floodlight hummed over the courtyard, its pale cone revealing two silhouettes sitting on an old wooden crate beside a rusting Humvee.

Jack sat hunched, his elbows resting on his knees, cigarette glowing faintly between fingers scarred and tired. His uniform was creased, boots dusted with the grit of long marches. His grey eyes reflected the steel coldness of a man who’d seen too much.
Jeeny, smaller, softer in frame but not in spirit, sat across from him, her hair tucked beneath a loose bandana, her hands clasped around a canteen like it might hold the last drop of warmth left in the world.

The sky was moonless. The ground breathed with the heat of the day that had burned it. Somewhere far off, a soldier laughed — the kind of laugh that hides a bruise.

Jeeny: “You know what Lindbergh said once? He was shocked at how our soldiers could fight without respect — for death, for enemies, even for life itself.”

Jack: “Yeah, I’ve read that. And I’d say he was being naïve. You can’t fight a war by admiring the enemy, Jeeny. Respect doesn’t keep you alive out there.”

Host: A gust of wind lifted the dust, carrying it like ghosts through the light. The cigarette’s ember flared, then dimmed.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that exactly the problem? If we can’t even see the human in our enemy, haven’t we already lost something greater than the war itself?”

Jack: “You talk like we have a choice. You’ve never had to aim at a man who’s aiming back. You think about his mother, or his soul, you’re dead. The first thing they teach you — stop thinking. Start surviving.”

Jeeny: “And when you’re done surviving, what’s left of you, Jack?”

Jack: “Enough to wake up the next day. That’s all that matters.”

Host: Her eyes softened — not with pity, but with pain. The floodlight caught the side of Jack’s face, tracing the deep lines carved by years of orders, loss, and doubt. The silence between them pulsed like a slow heartbeat.

Jeeny: “Do you ever remember their faces? The ones you —”

Jack: “Don’t finish that.”

Jeeny: “You do remember them, don’t you?”

Jack: “Sometimes. But I try not to. It doesn’t help.”

Jeeny: “It helps to feel, Jack. Even when it hurts.”

Jack: “No. Feeling gets you killed. I’ve seen it. Men who tried to save a wounded enemy, or hesitated when they shouldn’t have — they didn’t come back. You call it empathy; I call it suicide.”

Host: The wind howled louder, rattling a flagpole until the rope slapped metal like a whip. The floodlight flickered, as if uncertain whether to hold the darkness at bay.

Jeeny: “And yet, Lindbergh was right. When you stop respecting death, you stop understanding life. Wars used to have rituals, even between enemies — a kind of grim chivalry. Remember how the Germans and Allies stopped to bury their dead together during World War I? That’s not naïveté, Jack — that’s humanity.”

Jack: “You’re talking about a Christmas truce that lasted twenty-four hours. And what happened the next day? They went right back to killing each other. Humanity is a luxury we can’t afford when someone’s trying to end you.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack — that’s the lie war tells you. That to win, you must become like what you hate. But if you lose your decency, you’re not winning anything at all.”

Jack: “Tell that to the guys who came back in body bags. Tell their families that they should’ve died with more decency.”

Host: The cigarette fell from Jack’s fingers and hissed as it hit a small puddle by his boot. The smoke twisted upward, like a soul trying to leave.

Jeeny: “I saw a veteran today at the medical tent. He was crying — not because he lost his leg, but because he couldn’t remember the names of the men he’d killed. He said, ‘They never told us we’d have to live with their ghosts.’ That’s what disrespect for death does. It turns men into shadows.”

Jack: “You think I don’t know that? Every time I close my eyes, I see them too. But I can’t afford to honor them, Jeeny. If I do, they’ll never leave me.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re not supposed to leave you.”

Jack: “And what — I’m supposed to thank them for making me miserable?”

Jeeny: “No. You’re supposed to remember them. Because that’s what keeps you human.”

Host: A long pause — heavy, thick, almost unbearable. The floodlight went out, plunging them into darkness. Only the faint starlight remained, enough to trace the outline of their faces.

Jack: “You know, I used to think like you. That every enemy was someone’s brother, someone’s child. Then I saw what they did to ours. The atrocities. The mass graves. The bodies lined up like trash. Tell me, Jeeny, do you still want me to respect that?”

Jeeny: “I want you to respect that it exists — that we’re all capable of it. That’s the only way to stop it from happening again. Hate feeds on ignorance. You don’t have to admire your enemy, but you should at least understand them.”

Jack: “Understanding won’t bring back the dead.”

Jeeny: “No. But it might save the living.”

Host: The night deepened, its silence more complete now. The sounds of distant laughter faded. Somewhere, a dog barked. The war felt both infinitely near and impossibly far — like a dream made of dust and memory.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder what happens when this is all over? When the guns go quiet?”

Jack: “Yeah. Then we pretend we’re normal again. We go home, drink, smile for our kids, try to forget the smell of blood. That’s the real war — the one that never ends.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why Lindbergh was shocked. Not because the soldiers were cruel, but because they’d been taught to be. You can’t train men to kill and still expect them to feel.”

Jack: “Then what’s the alternative? A war fought by philosophers?”

Jeeny: “Maybe a world that remembers what death means.”

Host: The sky began to lighten in the east, a faint gray-blue wash creeping over the horizon. The first birds started to stir, uncertain whether it was time to sing yet.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I wish I could just respect it — the enemy, the death, the whole damn thing — but if I did, I’d break. It’s easier to stay angry than to stay human.”

Jeeny: “Maybe being human was never supposed to be easy, Jack.”

Jack: “You really believe there’s still honor left in all this?”

Jeeny: “Not in the war. But maybe in the way we remember it. In how we choose to speak of those who died — ours and theirs.”

Jack: “So you think respect can exist even after so much violence?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because respect isn’t forgiveness. It’s acknowledgment — of the cost, of the pain, of the shared fragility that makes us all the same.”

Host: The sun finally broke over the mountains, its light cutting through the smoke and sand. It painted their faces with a kind of soft mercy, neither redemption nor blame, only truth.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe respect isn’t a weakness after all. Maybe it’s what separates us from becoming the thing we’re fighting.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever will.”

Host: The flag on the pole stirred faintly in the breeze, no longer slapping, just whispering — a tired nation’s sigh. Jack stood, saluted out of habit, but this time his eyes were softer, his gesture slower. Jeeny rose beside him, and for a brief, quiet moment, they both looked toward the lightening sky, saying nothing.

The war was still raging somewhere beyond the horizon, but here — just for this minute — there was a fragile, fleeting peace.

A peace born not of victory, but of respect.