Mirror: The first in a series of short war stories:

The wind whipped around me, as I sat there, gazing across the barren land towards the enemy trench. I clutched my rifle close, and put my chin to my chest in a desperate attempt to conserve some warmth. I heard the splats of rain on the tin roof of the tower, and prayed they would stay splats, rather than become one of the torrential waves of rain that had plagued the previous few nights.
I pushed my helmet down onto my head and slouched in my chair, feeling pins and needles surge through my left leg from sitting in the same position for too long. I pressed my binoculars to my eyes and looked out.
Several hundred yards away, standing in a tower similar to mine, was my mirror. He was leaning against one of the poles at his tower, holding what appeared to be some sort of journal. He was writing something in it, and his rifle leaned idly against his chair.
I had been instructed that if my mirror were to open fire on any of our men, or in the direction of our trench, I was to take him out. He had probably been told much the same. I knew nothing about the man, not his name, where he came from, not even the colour of his hair. And yet, for the past few days, he had been the most important person in my life.
My mirror snapped his journal shut, slid both it and his pencil into a pouch he had around his waist, and sat back down on his chair.
I put my binoculars down, and stood up, walking over to the side of my tower. Peering over the edge, I saw several of our men sitting in a small shack in our trench, playing cards, laughing, joking, and smoking. I longed to be down there with them, longed to be part of the group, but instead I was stuck up here, watching the same man for days on end, watching the same man do nothing day in, day out.
Sometimes, I wished he would open fire. Just to give me a purpose, a target. A goal I could achieve, rather than this perpetual sense of meaninglessness. I would pick up my rifle, aim down the sights, take a deep breath, and take another mans life. It would be over, my goal achieved, my nemesis vanquished.
Although, sometimes, I doubted if I could do it. This was a man, with a family and frie-
No. I had been trained to fight this. This was not a man. This was a sack of lungs, a heart, a spine, and other vital components. He was a walking, talking target. I had been trained to detach myself, and so had he, he was blank, emotionless. He was a machine.
I sat down again, put my rifle on the floor, and picked up my binoculars. I saw my mirror sitting there, binoculars in hand, gazing right back at me.
There was silence for a few seconds. We both simply stared at each other, analysing one another, before he did something extraordinary.
He lowered his binoculars, smiled, raised his hand and waved.