Memorial Day from a Survivor - By BK Mac

Yes. We, as a society, tent to speak of war in a glorified way. Many who have served, yet never served in combat, tend to do the same. It's not until you're looking down your iron sights or through your scope, beading down on an enemy combatant, that you truly understand.

When that time comes, you do as you were trained, without thought most times. But when you have to go in for the cleanup sweep, and you witness what you have done, you see that man lying there dead. That's when it hits you. It returns that night, and many nights thereafter, as you try to fall asleep. That man was just like you, following orders, following the same orders you were given, which were given onto those who ordered you, by men who do not serve.

The power hungry, those who seek to rule, call upon braver men than they, to do their bidding. They use our sense of goodness, right and wrong, our religious convictions. They whisper in our ears that what we do is for the greater good, their good.

They will stand before the masses claiming, "Mission Accomplished," though they themselves fired no shots. They suffered not the scent of burning flesh, the pungent sting of a rotting corpse, the smell of iron in human blood, now soaking the walls, floors, streets, and soil. The sound of those left still in the last throws of death, making inhuman sounds, or begging mercy from you, in a language you do not understand. The weeping of women and children faintly heard in a distant place.

Those who have died in this "Glorious Battle," all release their bowels. There are many sights, sounds, and scents, all of which are unpleasant, which must be rummaged through with robotic efficiency, as if the horror you brought does not exist. It's not until you are alone in your own mind, that the truth of your deeds comes back to you. Every sensation, every unpleasantry, is forever burned into your soul. These things can never be scrubbed out, cleaned away. You are evil. You are the maker of terror.

What mission, exactly what mission do they speak of with such fervor? Was the mission to eliminate other men, women, and children. Was the mission to destroy homes, businesses, livelihoods? Was the mission a test, a test of the mettle of one army versus another? Or was the mission one of more insidious purposes, power and greed?

They hail us as heroes when we return home. They pin medals and ribbons upon our chest. This is our spoils of war, trinkets, two dollars worth of decorative fodder upon our breast, which signifies to all who witness, that we were good Soldiers, Marines, Sailors, and Airman. These colorful decorations tell the world that we earned our overlords greater wealth and power.

This is the true nature of war. The visions which never leave your mind. The sounds, the smells, the haunting knowledge that on yet another night, you will awaken from yet another dream, wet with sweat, shocked awake by the echoes of long silenced screams. This is the reward few know of. This is the one thing none thought they would take with them from the battle field. Eternal regret! That punishment which none can deliver as effectively as thyself. This is the reward.

The mind never sleeps. It reminds you in the night, when there are no others there to protect you, because you are alone in your mind, until you awake.

Come to my land and I shall end you with a merciless vengeance. Then I shall seek out and hunt down the men who sent you, the men who gave you and me no choice but to do it again, I shall end you.

This is the reward of war, for the men called upon to do the hard fighting, a piece of your humanity forever lost,

Forever Torment.

By BK Mac