A Letter to Mr. Birdshaw

This story contains themes such as violence, death, war, existential qualms, PTSD, and other associated sensitive topics. 

Dear Mr. Birdshaw,

I hope that you receive this testimony well, I am nothing but honest. I know journalism can be a tricky field and you are, to a certain extent, required to fit a certain narrative. I am disregarding this stipulation. Let the people read the truth, it takes no side, and if I don’t see this in the newspapers my point will only be strengthened. I know that I said I would give you a story of heroism and victory, so I am sorry for that lie, but please understand me Mr. Birdshaw; this is the most heroic letter I can write.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _  

I remember when I was in my foxhole and all that I could think about was death. The sound of screaming, bullets whizzing by, and artillery fire, kept me awake for 20 hours a day. The four or so hours I slept were not in a row; I took naps whenever the vibration of the shellings we took waned. I never woke up on my own, it was always a shake, an explosion, or a death that I had to be notified of. For a very long time I had to be a soldier and nothing but that. Sleep was a weakness in my armor and death was the only acceptable dream. After deployment, I quickly realized that the worst days came after I had dreamt of home or somebody that I loved. That wasn’t my life anymore and I knew that home could be a false promise. The best days came after vicious nightmares, about something worse than who and where I actually was. When I woke up from those dreams, I could at least find some comfort in reality.

People think that they know about war. They imagine that the worst part of it is the prospect of death. Maybe in the beginning that’s true, I can’t fault anyone for thinking that, but after some time you begin to see the truth. Death is inevitable for us all, but to kill is a sickening choice. I questioned who I would become after I killed a man for the first time, and when it happened, I didn’t really change and perhaps that in itself is what haunts me the most. 

My squad and I managed to maneuver a flank a mile or so beyond the enemy front so that we could set fire to a warehouse known to hold valuable supplies. On our way there we stumbled upon a few tents a few hundred meters from the objective. It was the middle of the night and considering how far we were behind enemy lines we knew that whoever was in these tents were most likely sleeping. There were six of us and three tents. Two men to each tent is how my squad commander split up the job. 

With one statement he sentenced twelve men to death.

“Fire.”

We had to clear our tents and ensure there were no survivors. There wasn’t, only death where there used to be life. I didn't truly think about what happened that night until months after when I was stuck in that foxhole for so many hours on end. I realized something that changed my entire life. I didn’t care about what I did to them. The end of their lives, at my hands, couldn’t even bring a tear out of my eye. Only when I realized that, I became haunted. Many soldiers after coming back from war think of themselves as monsters, but I don’t. I discovered a fundamental truth about humans on the battlefield that I wish that I hadn’t. I am no different than you. I wish that I was a monster that did what the average person is incapable of doing but I’m not. I see that everyone around me, long after my time in the war has ended, has the same look in their eyes as the enemy, and when I look in the mirror into my own eyes, I see it there too. If you think that I am rationalizing the things that I have done or just trying to cope with the trauma of war, I encourage you to learn more about yourself. When a light is turned off, the darkness reveals itself. It is the dormant state of the universe. You are not any different. 

I suppose now that I am no longer a soldier I am required to change. I have also come to realize there is no place for soldiers inside of a society, only out of it. It’s not the masses fault, they don’t know very much about themselves so how could I expect them to understand people like me? Although it may not seem like it, this letter is not about hopelessness, it is about understanding. I am hoping that what I am telling you all in this letter becomes a source of self reflection and change as it has been for me. I am not the same man that I was before the war and for that I am grateful, but there are truths about the human condition that everyone must encounter. I hope this letter makes everyone who reads it uncomfortable as they face the darkness that lies inside of them, and inside all living things. Only then do I believe we have a chance at grasping at true peace, awareness, and progress. If we continue to believe we are too good to be evil, we will continue committing sins against each other until the end of time. If this does find itself to the public eye I will be astonished as I now know that I am one of the many men who have discovered this yet receive no coverage. The world wants to hear of victors and the defeated, winners and losers, and heroes and villains. I don’t believe that people want to hear of how they are the same as their enemies, and I know for a fact that it doesn’t sell. Nonetheless, this is the truth that I have observed. I can’t undo the atrocities of war but I can be the voice of the dead and forgotten. Listen to their cry. 

Sincerely,

An enemy and a friend.