We Will Remember Them

It seemed that out of battle I escaped thanks to the leaders who led, and no thanks to the leaders who fled. Tonight I lie in a dugout covered in mud while memories of the war flood my mind. The silence of the fields above us is more horrifying than anything I’ve experienced. In the corner sits a young man, hugging his knees and rocking. He was once a fit young soldier with a strong mind and a good humour but now he is a lifeless entity who jumps at every movement. Some despise him, others send him off for a diagnosis, but I envy him. Soon he will be relieved of his duty, sent back home to recover and in ten years time will be married with kids. The rest of us are destined to join those who lay above us, adding to the silence of death.

I do not fear death. I fear what death will make me. Death in this wasteland makes me one man out of thousands who died for freedom, but I won’t be remembered. I don’t remember any one name from any war in history, so why should they. Why should the future generations remember my name? My worst fear is to be stereotyped as a soldier who died for freedom. We are all very different. We had lives, we had families, and we had hopes and dreams, just like they will. I don’t want to be a name on a wall; I want to be a memory in the hearts of many and an inspiration to future generations. I am a patriot and I have no problem dying for my country, as long as my country recognises it as the act that it is.

…To all the soldiers who died for freedom,
we will remember them

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6 responses to “We Will Remember Them

  1. i like the last paragraph especially the last line

    I am a patriot and I have no problem dying for my country, as long as my country recognises it as the act that it is.

  2. I have a name – my great uncle, who died in 1918, aged 17 and 10 months. I have written of him in our family’s history, and I hope he will live on there as well as in memorials.
    I hate what war does – to civilisations, to countries and to families. But especially to individuals. Even as a girl, I used to cry for those who had died so young. I still do.

  3. My uncle was beheaded by the Japanese when they caught him (then all of 13 years old) bringing dried stale rice to the Australian soldiers hiding in the Malayan jungles. No grave, no name on a wall, nothing. Before my memory fails, I intent to write a micro fiction and post on my blog – perhaps his name will live on in cyberspace.

  4. Well done, Sir. As a vet, and as the son, nephew, brother and father of other vets, this is something that I think strikes just the right note – patriotic, but not jingoistic, noble without being pretentious.

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