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What is war, after all?

This was the first question Renly posed to Tim within the confines of the boot camp, and it happened to be his last as well.

In their initial substantial conversation, Renly brought forth this inquiry. Tim responded with a smile, though he evaded a direct answer, swiftly transitioning to other subjects. Renly could sense that Tim had a reluctance to elaborate. Before departing from San Diego, Renly once again broached the very same question. Tim's countenance turned intricate; he didn't answer promptly. Instead, he hesitated for a prolonged pause, akin to the duration of half a cigarette. Then, he answered, "I don't know."

"I don't know."

Those were Tim's words, the reply from a seasoned veteran who had traversed the battlefield twice. During the filming of "The Pacific", Renly incessantly pondered over this inquiry. It was not merely because it was Eugene's quest for an answer, but also because it mirrored the perplexity Renly himself was exploring.

For some, war embodies glory. Like Renly and Rami, scars became their medals, representing a baptism in blood and fire. These marks epitomized their journey through arduous confrontations, where they triumphantly laughed at the end, signifying their growth and transformation, scrubbed clean of naiveté.

For some, war embodies heroism. Similar to the phrase in "Band of Brothers," "I'm not a hero, but I stood alongside heroes." The camaraderie among brothers, supporting and shielding one another, emerging from the brink of death with victory, ignited the spirit, a relentless surge forward.

For some, war is death. As on the desolate grounds, strewn with bodies of enemies, allies, and innocent civilians, vibrant lives fade into oblivion. Gradually, they morph into mere digits, the true meaning behind those numbers forgotten. Life seems to lose significance in this realm; even survival loses its essence.

For some, war is profit. Like the historical war hero John Basilone, his comrades remain on the battlefield, locked in ceaseless combat. Day by day, hour by hour, lives are extinguished, yet he thrives in the comfort of American soil, revelling in war bond sales and the embrace of beauty. All of this, a string of numerical figures in the hands of Wall Street.

However, why did Tim reply, "I don't know"? Why?

He witnessed soldiers losing their sanity due to killing too many Japanese, numbingly counting their fellow soldiers, as though everyone before them was the enemy. He witnessed soldiers from the same company screaming in the dead of night, consumed by nightmares, spiraling into an uncontrollable abyss. To preserve their position, they were forced to execute their comrade, forever entwining him with those nightmares.

He narrowly escaped death from a Japanese bomb. Yet, survival meant grappling barehanded with the enemy. As his blade pierced the adversary's abdomen, scorching blood drenched his hands. He braved gunfire and grenades, rescuing wounded comrades on a stretcher. But halfway there, a rain of shrapnel, ignited by an air raid, prematurely terminated a life hanging by a thread.

He personally captured a Japanese soldier, a boy hardly in his teens, who raised trembling hands in surrender. This prompted him to lower his weapon, yet his comrades turned the child into a target, wagering over who had the better marksmanship. He watched local innocent civilians, pleading "save me" as they blended into the troop, only for the Japanese to detonate a bomb, setting off a chain reaction of harm.

"Therefore, what is war?" Renly had once believed he understood, at least after experiencing everything Eugene faced. He thought he would understand, but as months passed, his comprehension waned.

After Renly's final inquiry, Tim shared a small story.

A war photographer ventured into the streets of Baghdad, seeking material. He strolled within the residential zone, where everyday life continued as if the flames of war hadn't cast their shadows, fostering a brief tranquility. At that moment, a three or four-year-old girl swiftly darted across the street, racing towards the ruins behind her. The photographer instinctively raised his camera, aiming it at the little girl.

Just that simple gesture caused the girl to halt, her feet freezing in fear. She lifted her hands high, timidly peering at the photographer. Dust-covered, her face was etched with dread; tears rapidly obscured her dark eyes. She quivered as she implored with a terrified countenance.

The photographer was stunned. He was unsure what he had done wrong. Hastily approaching, he tried to reassure the girl. Yet, he heard her trembling voice murmur, "Don't kill me." She thought the camera was a weapon.

"I used to firmly believe that I fought for justice, for glory, for faith – or at least I wanted to believe that. But after seeing that photograph... I don't know, I really don't know." These were Tim's last words exchanged with Renly before he turned away. His shoulders, still rigid, bore an added weight of weariness.

Renly felt perplexed, struggling, and predominantly, numb and lost. He lacked the energy to delve into the matter, only continuing to endure upon this soil had consumed his strength. Sometimes, he didn't even wonder, if dying just like this would bring relief, an end to it all. Living had become torture, with no end, no meaning, no hope in sight. Even his beliefs began to crumble.

Living, they fought just to stay alive. Perhaps it was right, perhaps it was wrong, because maybe "living" itself held no meaning at all.

Rami sensed the subtle shifts in Renly's emotions, yet couldn't articulate the reasons behind them. Ever since his return from recovery, Renly had grown increasingly enigmatic.

Not that he affected their shooting; quite the contrary, his performances were spectacular, winning applause from the entire crew. Not only from David, but the other directors who joined later also praised Renly endlessly. Yet, off-set, when no playful banter occurred, Renly sat quietly, emanating a silent and repressed aura that dimmed even the sunshine. But whenever questioned, he'd revert to his normal self, jesting idly alongside them.

Several times, Rami wanted to talk to Renly, but he skillfully evaded, not affording him the chance to dig deeper, breezing past the topic. This only heightened Rami's concern.

"Rookie, rookie." Rami called twice in succession, receiving no response. He had to tap Renly's shoulder, and then saw him snap back to attention. Renly's brow subtly raised, signifying he heard. Rami gestured toward where the director stood, "They're asking, are you ready?"

Renly nodded, gesturing an "ok" sign in the director's direction. He then flashed a faint smile at Rami. "And you? Are you ready? This scene won't be easy."

Rami quirked his lips, shrugging off his inner concerns. "You're the star of this scene. If you're ready, then I'm good."

Currently, they were filming a pivotal scene, nearing the end of "The Pacific". All the weight of the performances had accumulated on Renly's shoulders.

After a series of battles and events, Eugene's soul had undergone a transformation. He had become not just indifferent, but callous and unfeeling. In a scene filmed five days ago, Eugene had initially gone mad, attempting to kill a Japanese prisoner in a frenzy. Later, he stood above, executing the last resisting enemy in a manner that defied orders to cease fire.

Today's scene was the zenith of emotional eruption.

Following a lengthy, grueling battle on Okinawa, the US military had finally triumphed. However, remnants of stubborn resistance remained, necessitating a thorough search to eliminate the last vestiges of defiance. During this search, Eugene and Merriell heard the cries of an infant emanating from a dilapidated house by the roadside. They entered cautiously and discovered a surviving local family's baby, all its kin perished within the house.

Here, Eugene, who had become aloof and apathetic, was once again stirred. The final elevation of "The Pacific" depended on this moment.

Renly withdrew his gaze, quietly observing the array of bodies before him, resembling a small mountain. He knew these were extras; he knew the blood and entrails were props. Yet, they all lay motionless, already embodying the state of performance, like genuine corpses. This settled Renly's emotions into a quietude; he stood still, as if time had frozen in that very moment.

Death, he had witnessed far too much of it – so commonplace that news of Deacon's death in a letter from home stirred no reaction. He merely sat there vacantly, contemplating what "Deacon's dead" truly meant, without finding any answers. Death seemed to have lost its meaning, becoming a state, no more than that. Irony lay in the fact that he was smeared with blood, on his body and face, unable to quantify just how many lives he had extinguished with his own hands. He was a restless spirit risen from a heap of bodies.

However, as he gazed upon the wailing infant before him, he felt a moment of bewilderment.

The connection between birth and death formed a cycle, the crisp cry carried a hint of impatience, yet devoid of fear. It was a plea for someone to change a diaper, or perhaps to fill the starving belly. So pure, so natural, so simple, enshrouded by death yet fostering hope. The cycle of life unfolded right before his eyes.

"Action!" The director's voice rang from a distant horizon, akin to a divine decree.