Life (Part 5)

The first day I had stepped foot into the camp, I was beaten up by a man named Rosco. He was huge, he was bulky and twice as strong as I. I had half a mind to run away, but I stayed. I had caused this, I had done wrong, so, I should be the one receiving the punishment. For the next three months, I suffered brutal training regimes, black eyes and even shot myself trying to handle the gun they had placed in my hands. By my side, Rosco had laughed and then he had helped me to the medical bay. I had hardly believed what he was doing, but I accepted the help. He was starting to warm up to my presence it seemed and I was immensely grateful for the company. I hadn't made many friends at the site, it was starting to get lonely.

The war had broken out not too long after I had completed my training and every day was a grim reminder that wars killed more than just people. Friendships were lost and I had helped pen out more condolence letters than I could care to keep track of. I was terrified, but my comrades kept my hope alive; the hope that we would win the war was burning like a flame that could not be extinguished. I had lost almost everything by the time the war had been won, including my father, but I kept the memory of everything that once was alive in the deeper crevices of my mind.

Every day after I had retired from the army was difficult. My left arm had been lost to a brutal knife wound and my eyesight was beginning to fail me in my old age. Rosco visited me occasionally, only to check up on me if not to keep me company, having lost a leg himself. He was still huge, fairly muscular but the war had worn him down and we had become the best of friends.  One day, he mentioned that our commanding officer, a man much younger than either one of us, had called us back and I could only wonder why. Even so, we packed our bags and left for the meeting place. When we arrived, I realised it was a ceremony had been planned. They were honouring veterans who had served during the war. I could barely contain my shock when I was called. Had I finally done something worthy of my life? I hoped my mother would forgive me because I had never been brave enough to tell her that I wanted something else. The experience with the war had left me with nothing but the bitter aftertaste of tears and unspoken words to the ones I loved most. I hoped she understood and forgave my wrong doings. With tears in my eyes, I walked up the stage to receive the medal of bravery.