John stood up as the all clear sounded. He had not been hurt. The mortar missing him by a football field or more, had not detonated. He was deep enough in his base to never experience direct fire. The occasional IDF had been an inconvenience at most. Even so, something inside him had died this time. He walked back to his work station quietly. Around him the chatter was picking up. All cares of any threat forgotten in the drunk haze of laughter and bravado. He smiled when someone joked to him, but his mind was not there. It was still on the ground, listening. Fate, karma, pure chance had tested him. He felt as though he had failed. What did it mean? He seemed to stand on a hill of sand, that had once been a mountain stretching into the sky. A tower of certainty reduced to rubble in seconds. All it took was a whistle. The ground, dusty, had mixed with his sweat and left an wet outline. It died there. A piece of who he had been. A piece of who he thought he had been. It was there, when he laid down and heard the whistle from above. A Schrodinger's cat of death. Unseen, so unknown. His thoughts raced to acceptance. Accept it they said. Death is coming. But he couldn't. Inside something pulled against it. A superstition. If he accepted it, would he seal his fate? Control over something already per-destined? His mind shuttered and the walls collapsed. He would die in fear. A heritage passed down since the first creature to feel. The unremarkable, forgettable death, that would go out without barely notice. Another number in the history books.
John stood up when the all clear sounded. A piece of him remained on the ground listening to the whistle as the mortar flew overhead.