I look back upon my life and question it’s purpose.
I spend my nights haunted by visions of death and the losing of all worldly innocence at the singular pull of a trigger. The soft sensation of intestines yielding to the point of my bayonet bind my intellect and reduce me to a terrified child screaming alone in the darkness.
To escape the memories is impossible. I cannot recall what it was to have peace. I think of the men I served with when the enemy advanced, and beg God to forgive us. We, who had no other recourse than the repayment of evil with evil.
We, who killed to prevent murder.
We, who butchered to prevent massacres.
We, who slaughtered to prevent genocide.
We, who crawled through the blood and the the sand and the refuse with no other intent but to choke the life from our foes before they did the same to our families and comrades. Old and broken, I wait here for the day I cease to see the faces of the men who’s lives I snuffed out like insignificant candles, and I pray.
God forgive us all.