The Hero of WarA Story by Trevor Bergshoeff A little story about a kid wanting to grow up to be a solider like his dad... little does he know what war can be like. I hear him outside of my door;
sounds of rapid footsteps, a loud crash on the tile, the quick gun like sounds
escaping his mouth. I can picture him all dressed up in his best pretend army uniform. His ranks made of Legos strewn about his breast, a stick for a gun with
a shoelace acting as his strap, and his school backpack taking place of his
equipment bag. His field of war made up of small plastic children’s tables,
couch cushions, and blankets placed over bar stools acting as his
fortifications. He rolls, dives, and ducks as he slays his imaginary enemies
and shouts a loud “hurrah!” when he wins his impossible battle singlehandedly
and completely unscathed. Says he wants to be a marine just
like daddy when he grows up. let him have
his fantasies, I tell myself, keep him young as long I can. He doesn't need
to know what horrors await him in the near future, let alone the atrocities
that take place within the military. I mean, what else is he to know? The
movies and T.V. programs make war out to be such a glorious and honorable
thing. Which it is those things, but only after the war has ended. Though, even
then there are those who never actually leave the field the strife. The hero of war comes home after
months of barely sleeping in the hot dessert with gun in hand, and is awakened
by the faintest sound and aims without regard for fear of his life; is
psychologically tortured by his own mind, morphing sights and sounds into
things of horror. Then, after being ambushed he alone survives and is expected
to show up completely sober, and hold himself together in front a group of
people long enough to receive his medal of honor. After, he quickly retreats to
his home and drinks himself into a drunken stupor trying to drown the ghosts of
his enemies and comrades coming to haunt him.
He beats his wife, and neglects his children. He is supposed to be a
father, one who loves his kids, scares the bogey man away at night, and
kisses their boo boo’s when they fall down. Instead he becomes the bogey man and his own kin are too frightened to
look him in the eye. His marriage falls apart and his wife, of whom he swore to protect and love unconditionally until the day they die is kept awake with wails of terror as his platoon is being mutilated before his dreaming eyes. Then, a few times a night, the routine of calming, soothing, and lolling him back to sleep ensues. When she walks the grocery stores she must endure looks of pity, remorse, and the occasional glance from ignorant passerby displaying their looks of disgust. The store clerk slips her a card with a phone number on it and says “you don’t have to live like this” and then almost robotically, “No, no you just don’t understand he loves me, he really does- he’s just going through a rough time right now” she replies in broken sobs and contorts her face into a an ugly grimace as she hands over the money for the groceries and doesn't bother to wait for the change. She's right though, he does love her, and he really is going through a tough time. What is a wife to do? Then, one day, her life is changed. She comes home from dropping the kids off at school and
the image of a full grown man hunched over and drooling burns its imprint into
her eyes as she sees her husband lying lifeless in a puddle of Jack Daniels and vomit, gripping a bottle of prescription pills. When I look upon my child and see
his late father’s nose, and deep blue eyes and wanting to follow in his
footsteps, I cannot help but to weep silently to myself. I know what the glory
of war entails, and what ghosts follow you home after the enemy is put into his shallow grave as you rest your head upon your pillow. Such a thing I wouldn't
wish upon my worst enemies. © 2014 Trevor BergshoeffAuthor's Note
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Trevor BergshoeffMelbourne , Victoria, AustraliaAboutHi. Name's Trevor. You can call me Trev. Most people do. I'm here as a means to see what people other than friends and family think of my writing. Because, well, for better or worse, I keep writing. I.. more..Writing
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