The Veteran’s Tale

There used to be this old man who lived in our little town. Now this may not be much of a surprise to you youngsters nowadays, but back then, it was rare indeed. It was right after the Great War that every man old enough to fight got enlisted into, and only a handful survived. We all knew he fought in the War, for you could see the scars on his face and arms. The townspeople never expected him to do anything but drink at the bar, which he did rather well I might add. One day, after a long days work, I sat by him at the bar. He never looked up or said anything to me, but for some reason, I kept staring at him. Then suddenly, without ever looking up, he spoke to me.

“Take yerself a good long look boy. Dis is wha’ happens ta a man o’ war. I’s like ya once strong, young, full o’ life an’ vigor. I lived ‘ere all me life. Fell in love wit’ da places simplicity. I found meself a good-lookin’ warm-hearted young lass an’ planned on a marry’n ‘er. But then da War broke out, an’ I’s drafted. I did me duty an’was proud o’ it. I had no problems wit’ war ‘til after me first battle. Out o’ the ten thousan’ o’ us, I alone lived. O’ course, I’s given medals and awards and such fer it, but I’s ne’er da same. I can’t describe wat ‘tis like ta look aroun’ on a plain dat stretched as far as ya can see, an’ be da only living thing standin’ der, drenched ‘n blood. Da next battle, four o’ us survived, an’ we got more medals and awards, but each battle we fought, I died a bit more inside. It got ta da point I prayed dat death would free me from da guilt of survivin’, but it ne’er did…

So I came home, hopin’ dat da town could cure me. An’ though I cam back a hero, an’ I married the lass, who waited fer me da whole time, it will ne’er be da same as it wer ‘fore. Da pain o’ life will ne’er end. Not from me scars, but from me soul. Er’y time I close me eyes, I’m back ‘n dat field standin’ in a pool o’ blood, dead faces starin’ back at me. I can’t even find solace in da house of God, for when da preacher stands an’ gives his sermons about sins and hell, and how only those who do God’s will will find a place in h’aven, I think o’ da sin I’m guilty of, the sin o’ livin’ thru da war. They say it is no sin, an I’ve me spot in h’aven already, but it is a sin. The killin’ ain’t da reason it is, the livin’ is. Livin’ when fate took all the rest, ne’er understandin’ why ya did, what gave ya da right ta live when no one els’ did, dat makes it such. So alls dat’s left fer me is sittin’ ‘ere, drinkin’ ta ease da pain o’ life when da joy o’ da simplicity o’ things is taken from ya, an’ hopin’ dat da guilt o’ living goes away.”

“Why tell me all this?” I asked after what seemed to be an eternity of silence.

“Cuz yer jus’ like I’s, an’ it gives me a bit o’ hope dat by tellin’ dis all ta ya, I can save ya from me fate. Ne’er lose sight o’ wat matters in life: da simple things…”

He trailed off with that. I left the bar, hoping to make sense of his words. When I awoke the next morning, I realized why he told me his tale. For that morning, news came of war, and they drafted me. Now, like he was, I am guilty of the sin of living. It is the veteran’s curse I suppose. So now I sit here, Drinking and praying for death. My only hope is that you can understand it all, so you won’t live through our fate…