First Entry:
Sitting in the same eerie darkness as my comrades, I lifted my head once to see the dark outlines of their faces. Each face was hardened and darkened by the interminable warfare that each of them had struggled through. Medals, titles, they had earned them all. But what did it do? What does a title mean through the course of a raging war, where men leave their families every day, going off to a faraway land where they will never return? What do medals do when we take the lives of others who have families to take care of? Shadows danced along the sides of the wall as the the truck bumped over the different terrain. The truck jerked to a halt at the drop point. All the men in the care stood up, straightened their backs with deadly precision, and loaded their weapons. We had all been briefed, each man knowing their own job to do. That was the way in our special unit. The lack of windows made it impossible to see out of the
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The humanity and nature on the battlefield would never be the same again. It would take years to recuperate. Then there was Joe. Lying face down on the ground, puddles of blood pouring out from a wound on his arm. I turned him over. His face was ragged with pain. The stains of blood and dirt were all over him. The back of his head had been damaged severely. My arm still throbbing, I checked his pulse. The trees and their shadows danced with delight at all the blood and gore on the ground. The buzz of motion after the bombing whizzed by me. People came in in ambulances, and medics of their teams hurriedly checked people’s pulses and treated their various wounds. It didn’t matter at all to me. Hours later I was told that there was nothing they could do to save him. I sat on his hospital bed, held his hand, and held the tears back. It didn’t help. I had lost my nerve, and I had flung my gun against the wall. What good were weapons when my aim could save the lives of people I didn't even know and not those close to