Can a soldier soldier on?

I tried to lift my eyes from the crimson street but I couldn’t pull my gaze from the scene. How had it all come to this? These ‘paan’- filled streets are now stained with blood, the only true inheritance. It sickened me to think about how many personalities, how many traits, how many genes, had given the streets new colours. It was all going to unfold some day — havoc, mayhem, war — but even after knowing what would happen, the sudden silence played tricks with my conscience. My polished boots walked through carefully, making sure to keep them clean, but after a while I realised that it was my morals that were stained, much like my shoes. I could scrub the canvas, change the laces, polish the supple leather, but the true essence of the shoe, the sole, could never be truly clean. My soul could never be clean.

A sharp scream directed my gaze to a dilapidated structure. It was beautiful in its own way. Perhaps it was a grenade, or napalm that had done it, but the metal had bent outwards, making the entire building curve into the shape of a lotus. Death’s lapel pin, my mind said under its breath. I reluctantly walked towards it, leaving my soul behind, tugging at my heartstrings urging me to return. Walking through, the sickly sweet smell of blood turned unwillingly to that of steak and soup. The voices of the dead echoed within those somber walls. I quickened my pace. The voices followed. I threw my belongings to the floor and started running. Another sharp scream followed, almost inside my ear. Something grabbed my hand and held on tightly. I distinctly felt a twinge of pain as I felt something cut my arm. I slowed as my labored breathing began getting the better of me. I stopped. In front of me written on the walls were the words “You did this”.

Another scream. The grip on my hand grew even tighter. The pain from my cut subsided. A face, a white coat, a blinking heart rate, the strong smell of chlorophorm and relaxant. The face of my worried wife and her strong grip on my arm brought me out of my thoughts. What is a veteran most scared of? The enemy? Their guns? War? The irony is, the strongest of soldiers are the most scared of the ghosts under their beds.