At War

||14. The Fourteenth||

Saturday, XXXX

Never, I swear, dear one, will I ever, ever complain about walking. By the name of all ancestors and spirits, this place is going to be the death of me. But I think I have been saying that about every frontier. I wonder if it is ever possible to get used to the war and all the ruthless cruelty of it. The Powers That Be wanted us to recapture a city, long story short, we had another pretty night at the trenches, and afterward exchanged fire for hours. It sounds incredibly crass when I put it like that, but it hurts so, so much sometimes. To know that there are people who slept beside you, who talked to you, who clapped you on the back, shared meals with you, and forged a bond in blood and sacrifice, and then they all are taken away like they are worth nothing, like those moments between you are worth nothing - it hurts so much. So many comrades from our unit died! I knew many of them, and now it feels like I have cheated them of their lives. So many of them had told me tales of their wives and children back home. So many of them wanted to go back to their parents' arms. It feels like all those of us who survived have deprived children of a parent, a wife of a husband, and a mother of a child. And it is not just us. I just saw a soldier. He was old enough to be my grandfather and it is such a pity that such men have to leave their simple retired lives to come up to the forefront. He had a bullet through his gut, and he was coughing up blood. There was no chance of survival, and it was a slow, painful death. And we were passing by. Do you know what would have been merciful? To have killed him then and there. But none of us had the nerves to do it. It is one thing to shoot at some unknown enemy in a uniform or a blazer. It is entirely another thing to shoot at a person you can see, knowing that this person may have had a family. This should not, however, have applied to me. I have shot people after seeing their wedding rings or their packet of cigarettes. Yet, I swear, all I saw in that dying soldier was an old, old man aweary of this great world, and one to whom I cannot ever hope of giving salvation. And he lay there in the setting sun, groaning and moaning and none of us cowards could strike a knife in his heart or put a bullet through his head and put him out of his misery. I should have been able to do it. For fuck's sake, I am a sniper. This is what I do. I look people in their faces and shoot and kill them. And yet I could not. What's wrong with me? More than the fact that I could not grant him an easy death, I fear the fact that I am so selfish now that I cannot think of another's grief over my own. Sometimes I wonder, if it is one of my people who want me to put a bullet through their head to escape their agony, then, would I be able to do it? At the end of this, will any of us be human?

If you must know, Unni killed him. But more than you, this is for me to remember, that I did not do my job, and relegated someone else to perform this unenvious ceremony. He is so, so kind. Sometimes I wonder if people like him and you are of this earth at all. I suppose it is only for those like him and you that the sun shines and the clouds rain.

Beings like us don't deserve it. Like all parasites, we take what is not ours, and still, selfish as ever, I must partake in it.

Sincerely yours,

The Soldier.