War

War. War is a horrid thing. It’s like a sport, or even a competition, but the objective of the game is to kill.

I remember when I served in the Second World War. I was deployed to the Netherlands. My goal rid the Netherlands of Nazi occupation.it was a sorry thing to have to do. Having to shoot all of those young German boys. They may have gone on to live fulfilling lives, had it not been for me squarely placing a bullet in their chests. I soon understood what my grandmother had meat that day.

We sat on her front porch, saying our goodbyes. I was being deployed tomorrow. She gazed at me with her old sunken in eyes, and she gave me a single piece of advice.

“You may kill one person, but the blood of thousands will be on your hands. Remember, my dear boy, they may be the enemy but their still human, just like you. You’ll be killing a piece of yourself too, whenever you kill one of them”.

As I placed a bullet between another Germans eyes, I walked over to where his lifeless body had flopped to the war ravaged earth. I stared into the dead man’s vacant eyes, and I understood. This man, this solider, may have killed thousands of people, but I killed him. I was now responsible for his blood being spilt. His blood was on my hands, and his victim’s blood on his.

He was a human, like me. He may not have wanted to fight in any war, like me. He had been a person with his own mind, a mind that was no longer alive and thinking. I was like him, and he was like me. I shot a man like me. I shot myself.