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And I Marched (standard:other, 1015 words)
Author: sickboyAdded: Oct 21 2002Views/Reads: 2351/1388Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Monologue of a "warrior"...

Who am I say? Who am I to judge? When you're a mere tool playing an
almost insignificant part in the course of history, what you think 
means nothing. Neither does what you feel, or what you see or who you 

Was it us who started it? The need for us to destroy or be destroyed?
Was it them? The need to take back what was rightfully theirs or 
forever be robbed of dignity? Even as the urging propagandas flagged 
their way into the heart of every man, woman and child, the questions 
were never answered, the pleas were never heard, and the truths were 
never spoken though it seemed standing high and mighty among the lines 
written in bold red and blue and yellow. 

“Truths elude themselves in the face of conflict,” said a comrade, a
former student of philosophy in a university until the campus crumbled 
to ashes along with the town which was home to him. General, Sergeant, 
Private, GS9, titles in front of anonymous names, fight, combat and die 
for the “Glory of the Nation”, “Security of the World”, “Sovereignty of 
the People”, what else did they say? I forgot, too tired to remember, 
too battered to think. 

Perhaps this was the Gods' way of controlling the over-grown numbers of
our kind, casting this endless bloodlust in us, leading us to conflict 
after conflict after conflict. Yet if They truly exists, why do They 
stand by and watch the mortals who worship them annihilate each other, 
casting ourselves to the fire and the bloodshed and the dead. Marching 
senselessly down this path, “to victory” they said, I saw nothing in 
me, not a man nor an animal, not a believer nor a skeptic, not a savior 
nor a sinner. 

We charged, fought and marched on, regardless of how many brothers
falling before us, or how many scorching corpses we left behind. Yet, 
no matter how many battles we emerged as victors, the “enemy” never 
rested, the missions never stopped, the battles never ceased. For every 
fallen brother, there were 10 more waiting to burn, kill, destroy, 
fearless of any peril. For every time I set foot in the outpost, 
thinking perhaps that was the end, there would be another briefing, 
another order, another shrieking sound of the alarm, mocking my 

It always began. “Attack!” and onward we rushed. Explosions in the front
lines, roaring gunshots, screams of pain, shouts of horror: none of it 
would slow us down, for on the battle grounds, we were machines, 
vessels of death and destruction made to murder, slay, slaughter, all 
in the name of “honour”. As the lead pierced the mortal shells of 
nameless warriors, their blood painted the earth, their screams echoed 
through the air, their souls lost in the fire, yet as we stand 
“triumphant” of every massacre, I felt nothing: no sympathy nor joy, 
neither grief nor satisfaction. Not even the wounded would give me 
pause. One look into those pathetic eyes begging for mercy, and I would 
end their suffering instantly without shivering a single hairline. 

The battle fields were ever changing: dense jungles, deserted villages,
ruins of once thriving metropolises. Yet every terrain we set foot 
upon, every rock we climbed over, every tree we passed, what we saw was 
the same: rotting corpses with bullet holes, deserted weapons, 
exhausted bullet shells, collapsed towers of fallen military outposts. 
I sat my battered body upon a rock along with my remaining comrades in 
what was left of this burned-out forest. I cast my sight towards the 
horizon, perhaps looking for something beyond it until Apollo rode his 
chariot back into the mountains and I dwelled in a long forgotten 
tranquility, watching silently as the sky turned red then orange, then 
blue and black. I found myself dreaming of the simple things I once 
neglected, a warm shower, hot coffee, a full night's sleep... 

It was also moments like these, as we sat resting our tired, wounded
vessels that we had the uncanny ability to transform ourselves into 
men: body, mind and soul. Some would joke and sing and laugh, as if 
forgotten who or what or where they were; some would speak of their 
families, smiling as they relived their memories; some would shed their 
tears in shadows, missing the touch of their lovers. Watching them made 
me realize how fortunate I was, for I didn't have anyone who would miss 
or cry or agonize should I left the next minute; but I was equally 
unfortunate, knowing that when I leave here, I would leave nothing, no 
yellow envelope, no weeping widow, no crying parent, an insignificant 

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