"I just wanted to be an artist."
The young 18-year-old Pierre Bernard muttered to himself as he sat idly by his study desk, located within the south-east corner. A small sketchbook lies open in front of him, the page on the right side contains a rough sketch, depicting a hummingbird hovering a few inches above of a flower, drinking the nectar using a long break.

Pierre has been staring at this drawing of his for nearly an hour now, just trying to process every single thing that has happened this month. Starting with the declaration of war, His grandfather death, and his very own father forcing Pierre to enlist the day after in hopes of making a man out of him.

The young Frenchman leaned back into his chair, staring up at the ceiling in despair, imagining the horrors he will witness. Sure, most young men would consider this as an opportunity for adventure an excitement. For their names to be engraved in the history books as they single-handily protect their country from hostile forces. Such ignorant fools, fools that never bothered to listen to the tales that the past generation experienced during the first World War, and any other war for that matter.

He let out a shaky sigh as he straightened his posture to look down upon his drawing once again. Now just realizing how awful the shading is, and how the wings are slightly out of proportion. He groans in frustration before ripping out the page and crumpling it up.

Of course, this frustration that he feels did not originate from this mistake. No, it first started to build up as he waited in line to write down his signature on the correct forms, thus enlisting him to the army. He killed every moment waiting, cursing out his father, coming up with plots to get him back that he will never enact in the future. Time became lost to him as his only interaction with reality was when he took a few steps forward to keep the line moving. Pierre finally snapped back to reality as the recruiter cleared his throat. The man was tall and lean who is currently sporting an elegant handlebar mustache but had little to no hair on his head at all, causing a rather annoying shimmer reflecting off of his head due to the light overhead. "I am assuming you came here to enlist?" he asked with a tired look in his eyes.

"Ah.... yeah, I'm." Pierre felt the roof of his mouth becoming dry as every single word in his vocabulary sudden became so alien to him, he doesn't know what means what or even how to pronounce them. The can feel his body heat increases by tenfolds as the recruiter stared at him patiently with a single brow raised.

"Well? are you enlisting or not?"

Pierre felt his heart sunk right into the gut of his stomach as a sense of panic began to overwhelm him. Finally, after a brief moment of gabbling nonsense, words with actual meaning finally escaped his lips "Yes uh, sir." the boy cleared his throat before taking a deep breath to calm himself down "I don't really have any useful skills, I don't even know how to shoot a gun so maybe I can just uh-".

Pierre was interrupted quickly by the loud snort of the recruiter "Of course you don't! Half of the people who came to enlist don't even know how! That's why you'll be receiving training before getting drafted. Also, stop acting as if this is some job interview. The only way you won't get accepted is if you were sickly, too young and too old." the man chuckled as he fills out a few lines on the form. "What's your name again, kid?"

"I, uh... it's Pierre, Pierre Bernard."

"Well, Pierre. We could always use some more infantry units, don't worry about the not know how to shoot thing cause, of course, we will teach you". The recruiter spin around the page he was writing on before handing the pen to Pierre. "All you have to do is sign here." he pointed at an empty line located at the bottom of the page. "It is as simple as that, sign this paper and you'll be in the army. "

The man was right. It was as easy as that, all that was needed was a simple signature. It's scary on how too simple it is.

Tomorrow, Pierre would be sent off to a training camp to receive his training. Where without a single doubt, his life will be changed forever. He only hopes that after all of this is over, people will remember him for his skills at creation, not destruction.

Joining the war effort was on nineteen-year-old Benjamin's mind since the attack on Pearl Harbor had been announced. Selective Services had begun only two years before so he was already signed up to be drafted. Already, people he knew had been pulled into service so it only felt like a matter of time before his number was pulled as well. Since then, he had listened to others talk about what it meant to be drafted. He had considered it his duty to step up for his country... although he didn't enjoy the idea of getting shot to death on some godless field across the sea. Since the attack, everybody knew the fighting was going to be in Europe and in the Pacific. Some of the things he had heard were enlightening.

Essentially, getting drafted wasn't great. Not everybody seemed to take the same level of pride in their country. More and more, he was beginning to dislike the idea of being stuffed into some random unit with people who might never have fired a gun in their lives.

Benjamin's family were Christian and had worked hard for everything they owned. When he wasn't doing his school work, he was bailing hay or tending to equipment on the farm or cutting firewood from the wood patch father seemed intent on clearing. He loved his family and his home state of Kentucky, although, truth be told he had never visited any of the other states and barely set foot in any of the neighboring counties. Bullitt County seemed plenty big enough for him.

Today, he was on his way to town for his father. He took his bike with a little wire basket fixed to the front of it. He was going to ride out to Paroquet Springs for some mineral water so mah would leave his dad alone about it. Since he was out this way, he decided to stop by the post office and see what news there was.

No sooner had he arrived at the post office than he heard, "Hey, you're the Locklear boy, an't you?" The mailman had just walked out the front door as if he had been waiting for him. "Benjamin, right?"

"That's right," he said, puffing himself up with pride and no small amount of curiosity. "Anything new going on?"

"As a matter of fact, I have a letter addressed to you!"

This caught the young man's attention.

"Oh yeah? Whose it from?"

"The President himself, my boy. I've seen enough of these lately to know what it means."

"The President," Benjamin asked.

"Yep. It's a draft notice. It would take me 'til tomorrow to deliver it; but since you're here, I can hand it to you now."

The young man blinked and looked down, his mind racing. He was being drafted? The words from his elders raced through his mind and, after a moment, he lifted his head to meet the letter carrier's eyes.

"No," he said. "You deliver that letter normally."

He chuckled and began to say something but Benjamin had already ridden off. The young man rode with a purpose through the small town until he found the local recruiter's office. He hopped off the bike and leaned it unceremoniously against the side of the building then hurried inside.

"Can I help you, boy," said a uniformed man sitting behind his desk.

"I think you can."

The Sergeant gave him a curious look and sat up just a bit straighter.

"What is the most elite unit I can sign up for? If I'm going to war, I'll be damned if I'm doing it alongside some conscripts!"