He remembers.

       It is this single trait which causes him the most pain. Were it not for his memories, he might have lived a normal life. He sits alone, a dusty aged man in a dusty old room, his only company the things around him and the intangible ghosts of things past.
       He remembers, though no-one cares to ask.
       He is surrounded by those no longer living, he can see and hear them, but they remain just beyond his reach. It is only when the drugs lie heavily within his veins that the ghosts draw close enough for him to touch. Most times, it is unpleasant, even nightmarish.
       But he would suffer far worse for companionship.
       Once, he had a family - supportive parents, sympathetic siblings, a loving girlfriend... but they have long gone, either by death's chill hand or their own interests. This house holds no meaning for him, he rents it only because it was cheap and available. He sits in this room only because there is an old rocking chair in it which he finds comfortable. There is no significance to most of the things which sit in the room around him, they were either left by previous owners or are small necessities he picked up along his way. The only object with any real meaning is a gold pocket watch, given to him by his father before he left for the war. Inside of it, opposite the intricate face relaying time he no longer finds use for, is placed a photograph of a beautiful young woman, soft waves of golden hair beside a smiling face. There were many times he realized he ought to get rid of the picture - he nearly had, when he came home to find that she had... But he found he was still reluctant to, even when they had called things off permanently. And perhaps it was for the best that they had, for he had also found that either she had greatly changed or, more likely, the beautiful face itself had gradually become his comfort, and gained a persona of its own, quite distinct from Cathy's.
       And so it continues, at times, to comfort him in his loneliness. Though some days the image is of her, laughing happily beside another man, most days she is an almost fairy-like thing, ethereal and gracious, kind and gentle, a goddess or perhaps an angel. But in either form, she is company, and he will not turn her away.
       The small wooden case with the needle and liquid inside is merely a necessity, not something which holds any meaning for him. First given him by a doctor, when he lay in a field hospital with his left arm shattered by that one explosion he could not dodge, it had stayed with him over the years. Once he returned home from the service, he was given a new supply by his doctor. He had been warned - his doctor seemed a little uneasy about renewing his prescription, but he had insisted, and the doctor relented, admitting there was no real evidence of its harm, particularly in his case.
       On the way out of the office, a younger doctor plucked his elbow. He introduced himself, speaking softly, and said that he worked at the hospital, and could get him more when his supply ran out, at a lower price. Though he was unsure at first, the younger man reminded him that his doctor would not likely give him more. And he knew, even then, that this was the only thing that would allow him to keep living, and ease the pains within him. The pain has largely changed now, from physical to mental, his soul aching in place of his arm, but the drug worked for this as well, he had found.
       He remembers, and his arm aches.
       Reaching over, he lifts the case from its place beside the wall, setting it on his lap, stopping for a moment his constant rocking in the chair. Working the dingy brass clasps, he pushes it open, the familiar sound of aging velvet greeting him. The crimson lining of the case has grown dull and murky with age, darkened by stains in some places. His motions are quick and deft with years of practice - it is hardly more than a minute before the syringe is again filled with the pale liquid. He remembers how clumsy he was the first dozen or so times, his arm grew bruised - though the pain was unnoticeable, compared to what the arm already felt. Though he used his good hand, it shook a little, and there were several times he had to inject himself more than once, knowing he had not properly found a vein. But now he hardly needs look, he slips the needle easily past his skin's surface, barely registering the sharp pain of punctured flesh and tense ache of metal pushing through to a vein. He can almost feel the liquid entering his bloodstream as he pushes the syringe, and instantly the world explodes in a familiar rush of sensation. For a moment his vision is lost in bright darkness, his mind seems to see a thousand stars in rapid succession, his soul flung up high beside them, as his body falls away...
       All too soon, he returns to his deteriorating body, aged before its time, yet he is still somewhat detached, rising and sinking in and out in soothing successions, as waves on a shore. And now the figures draw near, never quite opaque but closer now, he can begin to believe they are real, and he is not alone.
       "Hell, Mason, you look ragged. A simple wound in the arm did you in?"
       He chuckles. "Not quite, Berry, but you know how it is... Home wasn't exactly the place I'd hoped it would be."
       Nodding in sympathetic agreement, the young man in a well-worn but clean uniform leans against the bookcase. "Same for us all, Mason... What we saw, no man still living should see. But it gave us something, that none of them can understand. We are all bound closer than brothers, owing each other out lives so many times over. And do you remember, Mason, how beautiful the skies were at night? All lit up by death, but so beautiful, the lines of fire hung so delicately between the stars..."
       "I remember how pretty even the trenches looked by night, the candlelight in the dug-outs, how almost cozy it felt at times, surrounded by everyone..."
       "More comforting than home sometimes, wasn't it? Everything was so simple, so understood between us all. You just tried not to get killed, and when you could help a man, you did. And between times, we found comfort together, all knowing what we'd seen that day, not needing to ask or talk about it. No need to explain. We all knew each other, what troubled us and woke us in the rare times we were let sleep. No questions, just understanding, and the comfort of knowing you weren't alone. You were never alone. No matter what you'd seen or been through, there was someone else with you, and who knew you needed a cigarette or a night off from watch."
       "Always someone there... and you're still here, Berry, but I can't see anyone else today."
       "Ahh, they've all gone off for a drink, you know how soon they'd jump at the chance." They both laugh softly, nodding.
       "But who of us wouldn't? Even now, the cheapest beer tastes fresh to me, remembering how dry it was there... And God knows we all could've used a drink every day, seeing what we saw."
       "You remember the night old Boone managed to sneak some whisky from the medics, and went off his rocker after a few sips?"
       They both laugh aloud, recalling the tale together.
       "He jumped up and did something like a jig, but his foot caught on a rifle---"
       "He went down face-first, and kept dancing! He was bellowing out some chantey, we had to throw him into a dug-out until he sobered up, though I don't think even the Germans would go near a man so mad as that!"
       "He was on late duty for weeks, wasn't allowed near the medical supplies..."
       "Even when he had his finger blown off a week later, remember what a time he had getting in to see the doctor? Every minute they watched that son of a bitch, he always said after they didn't use as much alcohol on him as they should have, taking revenge most likely. But we all know they took a nip themselves when no-one was looking."
       "I can't blame them for that, for all they saw and had to do..."
       Their laughter turns to sobriety, their faces grim, lost in thought of the friends they lost, to fates more gruesome than any man should endure.
       "Hey, Berry... Thanks for staying awhile. I get so lonely here now, you know I've got no-one left."
       "Hey, don't go thanking me, no need, Mason. You do what you can."
       "Yeah... But you let me know if there's anything I can do for you, alright? I owe you, Berry."
       "Now don't you start that again, I told you I don't like being indebted, didn't I? So I won't let anyone else be owing me anything. You just do what you can for anyone, Mason, that's all."
       But even as the familiar words are spoken, his face begins to fade, his uniformed figure grow less distinct. "Well, I'm off Mason, got to go make sure the boys aren't starting anything, you know how it is once they start drinking." He touches his fingers to his forehead in casual salute. "Be seeing you soon, Mason, you know where to find us."
       As the figure fades, he realizes he is choking back sobs, his hand outstretched in a silent plea. "No... I'm so alone... You bring warmth with you, warmth and comfort, my heart forgets its pain... don't go... fellas, don't leave me... please... I'd go back if I could, death never held any fear for me, once I knew Cathy was gone. I should have died there, rather than this death here, this is worse than any Nazi bullet... I have died, it's just my body holding on... It's so cold here, I'm so alone, I want to be back there again. I haven't forgotten the cold and the hunger and the fear and the madness, but I'd suffer it all to not be alone with only nightmares and people I can't reach, I'd suffer it all to be back where I belonged. I don't belong here, an empty body in an empty room..."
       His body is trembling, his arm aches, but he does not notice. His mind begins to fog, he is uncertain where he is, or if he is dreaming or awake. He turns his face to a remembered sky, he smiles widely as he gazes at the white gold and scarlet tapestry being woven in the illuminated night sky. "It's so beautiful, isn't it, Berry? Almost makes this Hell worthwhile, doesn't it?"
       It is too dark to see his face, apart from the brief eerie light from the phosphorescent sky. "Almost does, Mason..."
       Everything begins to fade, the shining trails overhead stop moving, the darkness shrouds everything, it grows so cold...
       "Berry, you're still there, aren't you?"
       "Don't worry about watch tonight, I'll cover you. That arm of yours needs a rest."
       "Thanks Berry, I am pretty beat. Takes a lot out of a man some days, trying every minute to stay alive... Hey, I owe you one."
       "You don't owe me nothin', go get some sleep, God knows you need it."

       He gets up from the chair, automatically putting the wooden case from his lap back on the floor, then laying down beside it. Laying on his side, his aching arm away from the floor, he reaches for the jacket left on the floor nearby, pulling it over himself as a blanket. Soon asleep, his dreams are of an eerily-lit fairyland, where all is beautiful and deadly.

       He wakes in darkness, his heart pounding and sweating coldly. "Berry? Berry, are you there? Thompson? Hey Boone, you're not pulling one over on a fella, are you? Douglas, Polanski, is anyone there?" Frantically, he crawls across the floor in a straight line, breathing heavily. "Hey, Berry! Where is everyone? Don't leave me here..."
       He stumbles, his hand falling on a battered wooden case. Grabbing it hungrily, he rapidly opens it and prepares another dose, muttering all the while. "I need it I need it Doctor you can't keep a man from what he needs like this, my arm, you see, my arm, this is the only thing that lets me live with the pain, this is my only comfort, Berry where are you? I need someone who will understand, I don't belong here, take me back, men, don't leave me behind..."
       A sudden warmth of sheer rapture surges through his body fast as a heartbeat, his eyes grow moist as he looks around him and sees familiar faces surrounding him, laughing in the dim warm light of lit cigarettes and candle stubs. "Hey now, what are you guys trying to pull on a man while he's sleeping, huh?" And he joins in their laughter until the pain subsides, and a haze of contentment soothes his aching body. "Thompson, let me take the next watch, I'm awake now anyway. I don't feel like sleeping anymore, I'll keep Berry company out there. 'Least I can do, in thanks for these kind fellas for waking me up." More laughter, as he hits the one nearest him with his heavy jacket.
       Sitting just below ground-level near the top of the trench beside Berry, he pulls his jacket close around him. "Thanks for the offer, but I've had enough sleep. Mind if I sit with you awhile?"
       "Suit yourself. Nice quiet night up here, though not down there it seems," he comments with a chuckle, nodding at the group of laughing men in the trench.
       "Ah, let them have some fun. Cheered me some, anyway, to see them."
       "Mmm."

       Rocking slowly in the chair, he holds his jacket close around him, talking to figures only he now remembers, in a place only he was once in. And he is happy, for as long as the pale liquid passes through his heart. The memories hold no pain while he lives them, and he is no longer alone.