Angels Of Hope

Chapter 33

What is war, but the slaughter of our finest at the devil's command? How can we evolve when our best are taken? So let's stop being fooled into blind hate and violence and reach out with the only arms God gave us in full love, in the name of, and with the bravery of, our fallen heroes of all sides.

War was always problematic. People just didn't want to fight. In their hearts they're all namby-pamby traders who want to take junior out to the ball park on the weekend. Even with the finest psychologists it was near impossible, those "Your country needs you" posters just wouldn't cut it anymore. We employed ivy league graduates to tell us what it would take to raise the population against our "enemy." We didn't like the answer. But what was the alternative? We needed war for our economy, to maintain our global position, but you can't rally a population around that flag. They needed to be "educated" on why the enemy is bad and fear that they or their families will personally suffer if action isn't taken. It takes years of course, but so long as the lie is big enough no-one suspects a thing - apart from the crazies. But then they also believe in UFO's and dress up for Star Trek conventions, so in a way, the louder they shout the better. It just solidifies the "normal" opinions.

With each bullet fired I felt nothing; my brain just shut down. I prayed the kids were alright with their mother, my best friend. Had I stopped for a moment to consider the awfulness of war I can't say I would have made it home at all. Every death was a man I could have loved as a brother in another time or place. The bombs we dropped killed folks I would have laid down my life for had I been given the chance to know them. But that is war. You fight and win or you die. On wintry nights when my wife sleeps, I creep out to the porch and let the bitter wind bite at my skin. It's real. It keeps me grounded when I think the memories will drown me from the inside. On bad nights I hear the screaming, see the blood, smell the gun powder. One time I saw a toddler at the end of my bed dressed in an enemy uniform. We aren't meant to kill each other, we're supposed to protect, to love. What kind of sociopaths get us into wars anyway? Kids aren't collateral damage, each one is as precious as the ones I love back home with Letty.

Writing letters home was the most difficult thing. When I put pen to paper it opened up emotions inside of me that I had locked down hard in order to be able to do my job. It made me softer, more vulnerable. But at the same time it was all that kept me going, to re-read my crumpled mud-stained correspondence, to remind me what I was fighting for. It was hard to know what to say though, I didn't want to scare her, I didn't want to say so much I cried while writing it. Spelling had always been a problem for me too, so I was reluctant to use large words. In the end it was brief, I ended it with a description of the battlefield at sundown that I hoped was poetic. I told her of my undying love for her and how I hoped she would write soon.