Death by Man in War

The world is quieter now, but the ghosts never left.

I sat alone at the station, watching the dust swirl in the light of the lamppost, the black of night engulfing the faraway flickers and flashes of street lights. The wind had a way of carrying memories, like the distant hum of engines or the soft murmur of voices that no longer existed. I tried and tried to tune it out, tried to forget, but the past always had a way of slipping through the cracks.

I heard the uneven rhythm of footsteps—a familiar limp, one memorable yet not recognisable. Turning my head slightly, I caught sight of him out of the corner of my good eye, the one that still managed to capture the remaining beauties and horrors of our world. Grey, fraying hair peeking out from under his fedora, propped upon his head and concealing his face. He wore lengthy black pants and a wool peacoat fraying at the cuffs, which clung to him like a long forgotten memory out of place in present day. His hands were bandaged, and he gripped an old, scratched cane in his left.

The man sat down beside me, his cane clattering against the wooden bench. We were the only two souls waiting for the train, yet his presence weighed heavier than the silence that stretched between us. 

I sat still and silent, and so did he, till he turned slightly and spoke.

“You look oddly familiar. Have we met before?” It was only till I turned to face him, and the light of the lamppost now illuminated his face, the fedora casting little shadow over his forehead.

The face I saw was one that I saw in my nightmares, his voice a soft murmur that I tried to tune out.

The same face that looked down on me with pure hatred and anger, something colder and emptier, back in Stalingrad, back when we were both only in our 20’s. When time stood still, when the world was reduced to blood and ash, the time when I lost sight to half the world.

Perhaps the time when he was cursed with that wretched limp. Those bandaged hands.

The time that scarred me for lifetimes to come.

His face then had so much anger, so much hate, so much pain and selfishness. When we fought. When my soul died. When his killed itself due to him killing another man’s. A time I tried too hard to forget, a time he seemed to have forgotten, tried to shut out and succeeded, whether through will or some blessed gift of forgetfulness. Memory loss at a time like now seemed like a blessing, remembering was the curse.

Faces upon faces, all bloodied, all twisted in pain and most dead. All the horrors of a land where names ceased to matter, where faces become blurred and men turn into animals, something less than human and more stone cold, bloody killer. When the earth was painted red, and we were the ones holding the brushes in forms of fists of rage, guns and knives and bombs that split skin and flesh to honour our country. Death by man in war, horrid war, horrid man. Gruesome intentions.

It was as if I was back in the midst of it all. The world around me blurred, dissolving into the smoke-filled skies of Stalingrad, and the crack of gunfire pierced my ears. Frantic shouts of orders and terror echoed throughout my memory. The smell of blood and burnt earth filled my lungs with a sharp intake of oxygen.

I could see his face again, clearly this time, towering over me as the barrel of his rifle gleamed in the dim light of winter.

And it was in this moment I came to the realisation I submitted to remembering my past, caused by the man that scarred me, and I thought of what I would answer his question with.

I could say it all now, every built up emotion I felt in my every atom of my whole being, unleash the flood of memories, force him to see what he’d done to scar me.

But my voice caught in my throat, words tangled in the weight of years and decades gone by.

What good would it do? Would he even remember, or perhaps forget again?

And even if I did, it wouldn’t be near the expression of what I truly feel, what I can’t voice. We shared only an inkling of the horrors in the midst of chaos, the aftermath took the toll on me entirely.

And I thought again, have we really met before? Truly known each other, our names, our stories, what makes us who we are.

Because beneath the same sky, we’ve all met before.

You’ve seen my face, but never the man behind it.

You’ve looked at me, but never saw the life I carried.

You know my face, but my truth remains hidden.

You saw the surface, but never glimpsed what lies beneath bloodshed.

You recognise this face, but not the weight I bear.

You’ve marked this face with yours of hatred, but not the story etched within.

Pig for slaughter

Chaff in the wind

Target in the crosshairs

Vessel for their whims

Look what this war has done to us, done to humanity. But in the end, aren’t we all the same? Soldiers with names that history will never remember, playing parts in a game we didn’t choose.

Stripped of our humanity by the cruelty of war, shaped by forces far beyond our control. You were just like me once.

We were young.

We were afraid. Perhaps in the darkest parts of our minds, we still are.

Full of rage we still don’t understand.

Trapped in a moment where life and death felt like the flip of a coin, a game of chance.

I wonder, do you carry it still—the weight of the lives we took, the souls we crushed? Do you hear the cries in the quiet moments, when the world feels like it’s moving too slowly? Or have you buried it, deeper than memory, where the ghosts can’t reach you?

Perhaps that’s what separates us. I’ve never been able to forget. But you, you sit here, looking at me like I’m nothing more than a fleeting memory, a shadow you’ve half forgotten. I carry your face in my nightmares, and you—do you carry mine at all?

“снова в Сталинграде (Back in Stalingrad).” I muttered softly.

“Pardon?” His voice was softer now, a crack in his once-unshakeable demeanour. But in the end, parts of truth should be shared. Maybe this weight on my shoulders could be lifted off slightly.

"Beneath the same sky, we’ve all met before." A pause. "But you’ve only seen my face, you don’t know my story, and with clouded judgement painted the earth red.”

His hand tightened around his cane, knuckles white, though blinked in confusion and his face was scrunched in wonder. The weight stayed the same, not lifted yet instead it became heavier by an unbearable amount.

He might remember this encounter some day, but I and my soul will be left to suffer in silence.