The marching solider lit a cigarette. The end glowed with a comforting red. He was all alone in the marshes of Vietnam. His troupe had died. His backpack was gone. In the last battle, as he watched his friends fall around him, a ruddy Vietnamese boy had ripped off his backpack. Now the solider had nothing. He was walking through the Vietnamese jungle, alone. His cigarette glowed a comforting red.

It was a movie.

In war, there’s no such thing as comforting red.