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