PART 3 — THE DAY I LEARNED WHAT WAR REALLY WAS
The old soldier stared into the fire for a long time.
The little boy noticed that his smile had disappeared.
“Was this the battle you remember most?” the boy asked.
The old man nodded.
“Yes.”
His voice became quieter.
“I remember the morning.”
I remember the sound before I remember the fighting.
Drums.
Orders.
Horses.
Men shouting.
Then came the smoke.
The smell of gunpowder filled the air.
I held my musket so tightly that my hands hurt.
But they were still shaking.
I was scared.
I looked to my left.
Samuel was there.
He looked just as frightened as I was.
I looked to my right.
Another young soldier was praying.
For a moment, I wondered what I was doing there.
I thought about my mother.
I thought about my home.
I thought about the farm.
I thought about the possibility that I might never see any of it again.
Then the order came.
We moved forward.
I wish I could tell you that I suddenly became brave.
I didn’t.
I was still afraid.
But I saw Samuel moving forward.
So I followed him.
That’s how it happened.
Not because I was a hero.
Because I didn’t want to leave my friend alone.
The fighting was confusing.
Smoke covered the field.
Men shouted.
Cannons thundered.
And then, suddenly…
silence.
The old soldier paused.
The little boy didn’t say anything.
“I’ll never forget that silence,” the old man whispered.
“War sounds terrible when it’s happening.”
“But when the guns stop…”
He looked down.
“That’s when you hear the things you don’t want to hear.”
Some of my friends didn’t get up.
Samuel was wounded.
I ran to him.
I held his hand.
He tried to smile.
“You still owe me half a loaf of bread,” he whispered.
I laughed.
Then I cried.
I told him I’d pay him back.
But he never got the chance to collect.
I carried that memory for the rest of my life.
People sometimes talk about battles as if victory is the only thing that matters.
But soldiers remember something different.
We remember faces.
Names.
Voices.
The empty spaces where our friends used to stand.
