Believe what you want.
In one of his books, I can’t recall which one – maybe “A Bridge Too Far” – Cornelius Ryan describes a parachute jump into German-held territory in which an American officer, while gliding to the ground, was hit in the stomach by a phosphorous, anti-aircraft tracer bullet. The officer landed in a ditch in a field under fire.
(To his credit – and in a prime example of journalistic ethics – Ryan refuses to name the officer because he was well liked and respected, and Ryan doesn’t want the story to be misinterpreted as a besmirching of the officers name.)
There was no saving this man: his stomach and intestines were on fire. And several men who took temporary cover in the trench recalled the officer – who couldn’t reach his gun - begging them to shoot him. None did.
But at some point, someone took the officer’s gun and put it in his hand. And several men who later took refuge in the trench remembered seeing the officer, with smoke coming out if his stomach and a self-inflicted gunshot to the head.
Where is the soul of that hero? Where is the soul of the man who put the gun in his hand – burning in hell for enabling the suicide? Was he a murderer?
Is the officer’s soul burning also for not living out the last 15 or 20 minutes of his life?