I remembered that laugh. That cute little smile that could make a gloomy day be a ray of sunshine. Her face, that sweet dimpled face with all those red, curly locks, could give Ariel a run for her money. What he wouldn’t give to be back with his daughter, in her embrace, smelling her strawberry scent. Instead he was here standing in a war-torn country, fighting for freedom. He was fighting for a line between the good and the bad. He was fighting a war so his daughter could grow up to decide who was the good and the bad.

Sure, there were some innocents drafted into war. Some who left a lasting impression; while others would be another face forgotten. The most unforgettable was the old, blind man. His story was never shared. His blindness caused by another war forty years earlier. Today, he sits outside shooting at the dark world around him, not knowing his target. The man, with his wise and spine chilling words, echoed his beliefs to the soldiers whispering, “You better bow your head and pray for the mercy of God to forgive you. I should know since I was once in your shoes. You don’t realize until it’s too late that you’re fighting for the wrong cause. I pray that God forgives you because you’ve all been bad.” I didn’t believe him then. That man who I thought had been crazy, had soon turned out to be right in the long run.

That same week was the week I went to hell, but somehow came back to tell the story. It started out with a noise, which turned into a threat, and later turned into a ricochet of bullets flying overhead. All you could do is close your eyes and try to drown out the noise of gunfire by waiting … waiting for the fire to cease so you wouldn’t be shot or worse killed. As I sat in a foxhole all I could think about were two things. First, my wife and daughter who I desperately wanted to see and the old man’s lingering words, “You better bow your heads because you’ve all been bad.” After I finished mulling over my thoughts, the gunfire died down. I hesitated, then stood up and looked at my surroundings. That’s when it hit me, the smell of burning flesh, a smell I would never be able to forget in all my life. My own leg had a bullet hole in it that I had failed to notice. As I was lured out of my trance, I found some fellow soldiers and limped back to the base, where we would leave to later be united with our families.

After I got home, I soon learned the true fate of my brothers and buddies. Most of them had died in that terrible fire fight that made me almost lose my leg. I also learned about the prudent, old man. The old man had died two weeks after I got home when a mortar fire hit his house. I learned that man was in the Cold War, and that he went blind after he was hit over the head with a butt of a gun by a fellow soldier who thought he was a mole trying to escape before the Berlin Wall was erected. After the incident, he returned to civilian life and moved far away to forget his past. When the war came through, it brought back all of the painful memories of hope being destroyed, of losing sight of everything he knew.

As I sit at home, an average man, not a day goes by that I don’t think about him. Some days are harder than others, but I am grateful that I met a man who was willing to tell the truth. He taught me that fighting for a cause without knowing the real reason and people blaming others over things they have no control over is why war exists. I have learned from this man not to regret anything because it could have been me. Who am I kidding, it should’ve been me that died; not my brothers. I should be the one they put six feet under, not them. Most days I wonder if the world would be better off without me. If I died would anyone care? Would my wife grieve but eventually move on? Would my daughter with her auburn red curls, lay a rose on my coffin, but forget why after life went on? Would anyone remember me?

I guess I’ll never really know.