Battleground

I can't move now. I knew this time would come, but it's still a shock to find out you can no longer command your body. I commanded men in battle, pushed them forward; forbidding surrender until all of us fell.

And for what?

I lay here now, thinking about my family; and I can't, for the life of me, remember what was worth my life or the lives of the men I was responsible for. Were we really all that different from those we fought? Did we not all breathe the same air? Fall in love? Long for home? Why were we killing each other?

There was a lot of talk about God and country, but I don't believe God had any of this in mind. I'm not even sure there'll be a country left once everything is said and done.

I hear somebody moaning. I believe it's Jackson, but I'm not sure. Everybody is piled on top of each other; so it's hard to tell who's who.

I tried to move Morley off my legs earlier, but didn't have the strength. He was already gone by that time. Half his face is missing. The only way I knew it was him was because of the ring on his finger. He had told us all about the males in his family passing it along to the next generation. He was going to give it to his son when the boy got old enough. I wonder if anyone will send it home to his wife. More likely, scavengers will come along and steal everything we own and sell it.

Jackson quit moaning. Nobody else is stirring, and no sounds reach me. I must be the last one left. It won't be long, now, until I join the others in whatever afterlife awaits. Maybe God has a special place he puts the likes of us: soldiers, just following orders; not wondering if those orders are right until it's too late.

Maybe He can tell us where we went wrong.

It hurts to breathe, but some instinct keeps making me try. My tears taste salty. Funny, I always thought tears were a sign of weakness. Now I know different. Each breath brings more tears as the pain rips through my body, and I know that, sometimes, tears mean you're fighting with everything in you to keep living.

Not that it will do any good. I'm thousands of miles from those who love me, and hundreds from those who sent me into battle. Nobody is coming to rescue me. Everybody who'd try is lying dead all around me.

Now I'm hearing things.

"Charles."

"Grandpa?" I whisper, even though I know I'm losing my mind calling to a man who died years ago.

"It's time, Charles."

I know he's right, because I no longer feel the pressure on my chest. I feel weightless. In this moment, I know everything is going to be fine. The fear and anger are gone, replaced with a feeling of peace.

Peace. What we were all supposed to be fighting for.

I guess we found it, after all.