Post by LEO ANGEL HOLBROOK on Feb 21, 2013 1:36:42 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 440px; height: 400px; background-image: url(http://i51.tinypic.com/ngx4hu.jpg); -moz-border-radius: 250px; border-radius: 220px 220px 0px 0px; border: 0px solid #414141;] leo angel holbrook twenty three | 2005 | male | murder | chace crawford “The first, and only, time I ever saw my Father cry was when I was sent off to war. I knew he was proud of me. Ever since the war in Afghanistan had started, my father had been for it. The man was a war veteran himself, having severed in the military for a good portion of his life. I was sixteen when the war started, a long way from really understanding what was going on. But I could still remember sitting in class the day 9/11 started, the shock that spread through the nation. Growing up in a house-hold based on war stories and supporting my country, it was hard not to act that way too. I would never be against war, not with the way my father was. Since my mom died when I was fourteen, it had just been us. I always wanted to make my dad proud, even when my mom was around. I wasn't as for the war as he was though, and I was never the fighting type. But I knew how my father felt, I knew he would want me to sign up for war, even if I didn't really want to go. Several times before I was eighteen, I tried to get in the force with a fake ID. They caught me every time, the men laughing at me jollily. I lived in a small town at the time, just a little post set up for boys like me to be sent off to a training camp. The boys working there knew me, and my father, and generally I got off easy. My father pretended to be mad at me, told me I had to finish school, but I knew he would like nothing better for his son to go off to war. I know, it may sound sick, but that was his country pride for you. We just wanted to protect what was ours, go with what the president thought was right. My father never questioned the government, and honestly, after 9/11, I even thought it was necessary. The day I turned eighteen, I went straight to the sign up post, no celebrations for me. Unfortunately, the men sent me home, warning I didn't want to miss out on cake and presents. I was sure it was for the best, later I brought my father with me, he seemed so happy to see me sign my name to that death warrant, not that either of us thought of it like that. We both thought I was going off to serve my country, war wasn't supposed to kill me. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and ended up getting shot down, a rookie mistake. Most boys, when they go off to war, they have a girl they miss, write home to; a girl to live for. Me, I just really had my Dad. When I was sent off to training, all I could think of was coming home to see his proud smile, those hands ready to clap me on my back. I imagined myself growing old with him, swapping war stories every time we met, laughing about the near misses and good hits. It was never supposed to go like it did. I made friends fast, but that’s what you had to do. Your troop became like family to you, people you had to protect, with your life and gun. I was made fun of, yeah, for coming from a small town and being scrawny, but my dad had taught me how to shoot dead straight, while some of the city boys didn't even look right holding a gun. Training was a breeze. I thought maybe I could do this, it seemed easy enough, just point, and shoot. One big old real life video game. Though my views on fighting differed from those around me, I never felt as though I didn't fit in. My problem wasn''t with the battalion or the training or the thought of anything. In retrospect. I feel as if I was in some form of denial through it all. Just laughing with my new friends while we learned how to fight other people, kill other people. Honestly, war is nothing like you would think it to be. Me, at least, I didn't think it would be all that bad. You go there, you shoot a few guys, its all fine. I didn't really delve down into the pure monstrosity of it. Thinking back, I still want to vomit. All those dead people, laying there, your gun maybe the cause of their death. Those men, with family and friends, the same as you. More then anything though, its the smell. The smell of rotting flesh in the sunlight, so overwhelming and grotesque. No one had time, sometimes, to clear up the bodies laying around. I can still see the vision of a pile of them, flies buzzing around so thick you couldn't see some of the mens faces. Which was better, in a way, I didn't need that image stuck in my head. I only spent two months in Afghanistan the first time around. My outfit was shipped there about a year through my training, I think. Just a safe little thing, more another form of training since we were relatively new. It was like paper work for the army, something no one really wanted to do. It went routinely, but honestly, there’s nothing more shocking then first getting there. Sitting in those vehicles built like tanks, looking out the little windows seeing men like you leading prisoners, malnourished and chained, down the road. Fires still burning from bombs, little kids staring at you with terrified little eyes as you passed. You realize that you're destroying their world, piece by piece, bombing their home, shattering their peace. I began to think there, what if this wasn't the answer? I couldn't help but feel like I wanted to go home, but really, there was no home for me. The second time we were shipped out to Afghanistan, it felt more like heading home then going back to my dad did. Those first two months, I could only think of being home, with my dad, but being there was strange. I felt like such a changed man. The things I'd seen. I had shot a few people, we had been ambushed once and I really didn't know if my bullets had reached a man, but I could feel the blood on my hands. I think it would have been worse though, knowing for certain I had killed a man. When we were walking through the streets after the ambush, we found a man who had survived. I was fine to leave him be, but a friend of mine grabbed the man, dragged him too us, pulled his head back and shot him execution style. I had nightmares about that for the longest time. When I was back with my father, I thought I would be able to forget it all happened. For the most part though, I was quiet, plagued by nightmares at night. All my father seemed to want to talk about was the war, how things were going over there, all I wanted to do was sleep. But going back, I felt as if my mind was elsewhere. I was headed back into the belly of the beast. Being surrounded by the same guys-who all looked a little worse for wear-was good for me though. I felt as if I wasn't the only one. The second time, we were meant to be there for nearly a year. We were done with training, we were up with the big boys. Things got worse for us. Before this. I thought of war was an organized sort of matter, no matter what they showed on the television. I never thought of the stories of men beating the life out of someone, or taking advantage of the woman. But, give a gun and power to a group of young men and they are likely to run rampant. I could just think about going home again. This was nothing to be proud of, ripping innocent men from their home just because of their countries war. If this happened before, I knew nothing of it. This time, I knew I was responsible for several mens death. I can still remember one moment, taking a man from his family, dragging him out onto the streets, and beating him to death, in front of everyone. At first, I wanted them to stop, but after a while, the mentality gets to you. You want to hurt people, pound in flesh, rip skin, make them pay for killing your country men. I felt so sick afterwards, I couldn't believe myself. We were only there for a month before we set out one day, moving through the city. Half the time, I forgot what our mission was. We were just slowly moving forward, shooting people, and everything was lost. That day I was particularly robotic, not noticing as I pointed and shot, my mind a haze.. Maybe this would be all it was for me, turning into a deadly robot, never thinking or holding back again. The sun was setting, as we headed back to our camp, casting a red glow over the Afghanistan sky. I remember thinking of my father then, wishing I could go home and be with him. He was deteriorating in health, old age getting to him. He'd been battered in his war, and I knew dementia ran in the family. It was then that we were ambushed. We didn't really stand a chance, there were so many against our small group. I remember seeing my friends dropping around me, ignoring them, pressing on. But, then, I felt a sudden ripping in my chest. I was down before I could even think, the force of the bullets ripping me off my feet. No one ever turned back, and I could feel blood bubble at the back of my throat. The last thing I remember is seeing the sunset, and the lake-reflection of the moon in the light sky. I wondered the cliche thought if my father could see the moon yet before I felt a grenade explode near me, and I was gone.” heather | 21 | 8 years | canada |
