The dust hadn’t settled in Sant’Agnese since the last artillery barrage. I watched it dance in the shafts of morning light that pierced our ruined sanctuary, finding myself oddly comforted by how the golden beams still managed to consecrate even our broken house of God.

Lieutenant Heller’s arrival shattered my meditation. His boots crunched across debris as he picked his way down the center aisle, navigating around a fallen roof beam that had cleaved an oak pew in two. The sound of distant artillery punctuated his progress – a dull thunder that had become as common as church bells used to be.

“You might find it easier if you came around this way,” I called out, rising from where I’d been kneeling. The violet stole around my neck caught on a splinter, and I freed it carefully. Heller turned, his young face already wearing the hard edges I’d seen on too many soldiers these past months.

He responded by shoving aside the pile of debris in his path, a gesture of casual defiance that spoke volumes. I brushed the dust from my fatigues and picked up my helmet, the white chaplain’s cross catching the light. Even after three years of war, the weight of it still reminded me of my dual calling—to God and country.

“Padre, what are you doing in here?” Heller asked as he reached the chancel, boots scraping across the broken pieces of the communion rail. The question carried an edge of suspicion I’d grown used to hearing in his voice.

Looking up through the shattered roof to where anti-aircraft fire traced white lines across the morning sky, I smiled. “Just paying my respects. Professional courtesy, you see.” The try at levity fell flat against his guarded expression. “And you?”

Heller wouldn’t meet my eyes, his gaze sliding away like so many soldiers who carried more than ammunition in their burden. “Orders. I’m to set up an outpost, and the church’s bell tower fits the bill nicely.” He scanned the walls behind the altar, where faded frescos of saints looked down upon us with expressions that now seemed more sorrowful than serene.

“The door to the bell tower is to the left, just behind the pulpit,” I offered, watching as he moved to it with military precision. The door resisted his first try at the handle, then his shoulder. The impact sent a shower of plaster dust down from above, adding another layer of white to his combat uniform.

He rubbed his shoulder, examining the door frame with growing frustration. “Your God does not want me in there. Perhaps you can say something to him.”

His emphasis on “your” spoke of old wounds, the kind that went deeper than shrapnel. “I’ll do what I can.” I moved to the altar, resting my hand on its scarred surface. “Perhaps you should try praying?”

A bitter laugh escaped him. “I’ll leave that to the professionals — people like me don’t have much pull with him.”

The words carried such weight that I couldn’t let them pass. “That is an interesting statement. Why do you say that?”

“Because I am what I am,” he replied, adjusting his shoulder holster with a deliberate motion that drew attention to the weapon it carried.

I chose my next words carefully, sensing the delicate ground we tread. “I think you are confused on the matter, Lieutenant. God listens to all who repent and come to him willingly.”

Heller’s shoulders tensed. “All things being equal, I’d agree with you.”

“But things are not equal, are they?”

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken confessions. I studied his profile, marked by shadows that had nothing to do with the play of light through broken windows. In him, I saw the reflection of so many young men I’d counseled—each carrying private wars alongside the public one.

“It is never too late, my son,” I offered softly, “for the sheep to return to the flock.”

The laugh that burst from him had an edge like broken glass. He turned to face me fully, something dangerous flickering in his eyes. “Oh, but I am no sheep.”

The movement was fluid, practiced – his hand sweeping the Smith & Wesson Victory revolver from his shoulder holster. Two shots cracked through the church, sending pigeons scattering from the rafters. The sound echoed off stone walls like God’s own judgment before fading into the ever-present rumble of distant artillery. Heller’s boot took care of what his bullets had begun, splintering the door’s ruined lock.

A smile crossed his face as he glanced back at me, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Time to put my God-given talents to use.”

I watched him disappear into the darkness of the stairwell, the acrid scent of cordite mixing with centuries of incense and yesterday’s smoke from bombardment. Turning back to the altar, I offered a silent prayer—not for his soul, but for the wounds that had turned a shepherd’s son into something that believed it could no longer come home.