The 23 Year Old Soldier

As I breath, I feel the dirt rattle in my lungs, and scratch my throat. I stand there, in the midst of such destruction. A lonely tear falls from my eyes, trailing down my cheek and reaching my dry lips. The salt, reminding me of the sea. Infront of me is the last straw. How can someone endure this? How could someone move past this? I fall to my knees, as my heart falters. I don't cry, only a single tear will represent my sadness, the heartbreak. I exhale, but no air comes out. No air is left in my lungs. As my knees dig into the earth and my head tips up to the sky in agony, I think of that memory. That memory that contained my warmth, my happiness. A little scene that carried with me as I experienced what no man and no woman should ever go through. War is ugly, so ugly that it sucks you into it’s reality even when you fight back. It twists your soul and spits you out broken. But it's those rare memories of pure happiness, that keeps you humane. It's that human connection, the smile of your loved one, the way your child felt in your arms as they hugged you. I bow my head under the weight of this harsh reality, sending a silent prayer to my beloved comrade that lays dead before me.

I can see his eyes, staring blankly up at the sky. Those pale green eyes. To think not long ago, they moved, vibrant with life, with love as he talked about his son, his wife, about the letter he received from his mother. Now in those eyes, I see fear, I see my reflection. My face, half burnt from the explosion two weeks ago that knocked me unconscious and left me unrecognisable. It’s then, pure terror fills me. Breaks through the numbness that has coated my body like a second skin. I can feel the caress of my biggest fear. Bullet’s whizz through the air, bursting through muscle and bone. I need to move. I need to go. But I can’t. The fear of never seeing my child, never kissing my wife has frozen my body. How will they recognise me when I don’t even see myself in those pale green eyes. I simply see a tortured soul, half burnt from the fires of hell. 

I don’t know who I am anymore. Dirt sprays left and right as bombs fall from the sky and greet the earth with it’s explosive heart. And yet I don’t move. 

Soldiers fall, die, or hold onto life with shaking fingers. Yet I stay still. My lungs struggle to squeeze, to relax, to do the thing it’s meant to do. I want to hold my child. I want to feel my wife’s arms around me. Because I am scared. I’m so scared. I can see death so clearly. 

"I love you" My wife had said as I boarded the bus. I was 21 years old then. I was excited.

The posters said we would return as heroes. The mayor said we would be fulfilling a greater purpose.

"I love you more" I had said. I remember sitting next to the window so I could see her face. She wore a pale blue dress, her blond hair in a braid. I remember thinking 'God she's beautiful'. We were high school sweet hearts. Married fresh out of school. The love of my life. I was so nervous when I first met her. She was on the swing set, laughing with her friends. And I was a young boy, gathering the courage to go up to her. To say something. She was the most stunning girl I had ever seen.

"I'm going to marry her" I had thought to myself.

My mind never dared to think about the possibility of losing her.

Even on that bus that fateful day, I was convinced I would come back.

How can those beautiful memories belong in the same world as this? This massacre. Never have I felt so far away.

I remember the dimple on her right cheek showing as she looked up at me whilst our baby was sleeping soundly in her arms.

I wanted to wake our daughter up, just so I could see her eyes. See her smile. But I didn't. I truely believed I would return. That this would be a quick battle. That I would see both of them soon.

Screams filled with agony and despair rings through the air. A constant song on the battlefield. 

"Make sure you show her my photo, I don't want her to forget what I look like" I had said.

I was afraid that when I returned my daughter wouldn't remember me. Wouldn't recognise me as her father.

"I sure will. I don't think it's possible to forget your handsome face though" My wife had replied.

I'm on my hands and knees now, my hands in the blood soaked dirt. The weight of not seeing them again too much. I can't fathom the possibility of never hearing my wife's voice.

"I love you"

"I love you more"

I wish I had woken my daughter up. I wish I had said goodbye to her. I wish I had hugged her that day.

My arms shake, not even able to hold my weight. I fall onto my side. Facing my comrade who is still looking up at the sky.

It was such a sunny afternoon that day, two years ago. The bus was filled with young folks like me. Our hearts light with promises of becoming a better man. Of serving our country. Of going on an adventure.

How naive were we.

We were already dead on that bus. We just didn't know.

 “Tell them I love them” I whisper.

Will my family see me again? Deep down, I know that perhaps they will. But when they do, I won’t be able to see them back. 

-   23-year-old soldier