The Man He Killed

They hailed me a hero. I was a man of great courage, they all said. I had shown valour in the face of the enemy, saving my commanding officer from certain death despite having suffered grievous injuries from the deadly game of ‘do-or-die’ that we were all playing – also more usually known as a battle.

And now here I sit, recuperating from my many wounds in this charming little hospital, taking a well-deserved holiday from the fighting, watching the cheerfully dirt-encrusted walls in front of me. A delightful sound leaks through from the room next door; my mind vaguely registers the agonised screaming of some lucky soul having his leg amputated. I cast an indifferent glance over to the entrance of my own ward, then resumed my staring contest with the fascinatingly filthy wall, the groans of pain and thundering sounds of war around me having long since lost any effect it may once have had on me.

My eyes glaze over as I ponder over the events of my last, and also my first, battle, only a few days ago. I had saved a man and for that, I was named a hero… yet I cannot help but to feel that such a title was undeserved. What makes a man a hero? I suppose a dictionary may define it as ‘one who is of courage, selflessness and other such noble qualities’. Me, courageous, selfless and noble! I could almost laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of this sentiment bubbles up within me.

So I had saved the life of my commanding officer! But to what cost? The life of another. Of course, he was just an enemy, so it mattered not that he died. Yet, ‘hero’ as I am, I cannot deny it; the blood of another man is on my hands. I can still see it vividly, as though I were watching a play, the scene flashing past my eyes – the last moments of the man I killed.

It’s quite ironic, really. That day, I had expected to die. Killing one of the opposition was the last thing on my mind – well, it would be. I had just watched my childhood friend die in front of me and had expected to follow. The job was already half-done; I was already wounded rather badly and in more pain than I had thought possible; yet even through the hazy red blur of pure agony, I saw another aim for my commanding officer, aiming for the kill, and I shouted out a warning. It wasn’t selflessness or bravery on my part; if anything, it was selfishness; I could not bear to see the death of another that I could have prevented, did not want it on my conscience. It worked, to an extent; the enemy turned from his target to face me. And that was when I saw the face that I fear will haunt me for the rest of my days.

I still remember every detail, as though it were burned into my mind. The young age of the soldier – not the experienced, seasoned old warrior I had expected to see, but a boy, younger than I! He was barely an adult and clearly as naïve in battle as I had been. His eyes were fearful, reflecting the terror I felt myself, and he stood frozen in panic, watching helplessly as I levelled my rifle upon him. Then I shot at him; movement returned to his limbs as he desperately attempted to do likewise, but too late. My bullet struck true, embedding itself in his chest as yet another young life was extinguished from this world. His fleeting expression of shock, that slight widening of his eyes as his hand flew instinctively to his chest and came away dripping with red, shining blood, I can never forget. And then he just died – just dropped like a stone and died.

I am but twenty years old; I have not seen enough of the world to prepare me for the horrors of war. Of course, I had killed before. This is war; one cannot fight in one without having dispatched a few lives. But to execute a man – no, a boy – I had never done before.

I had to do what I did. He was one of the enemy; he was fighting for the other side. Surely, that is reason enough to warrant his death. Yet – had he and I but met by some old ancient inn, we should have sat us down to wet right many a nipperkin! I shot him for being of the opposition, but was that not his only crime? Despite my efforts to prevent myself, I find my thoughts constantly turning to this young soldier, whose life I had stolen. He was most likely merely an ordinary citizen, just become an adult, who’d joined up because he had nothing else to do. Just like me.

An obnoxiously buoyant nurse with a sickeningly saccharine smile plastered upon her visage awakens me from my thoughts to deliver sustenance. As I watch the appetizing brown sludge on my plate uninterestedly, I find I have reached a conclusion; in war, a ‘hero’ is someone like me – one who is able to assassinate another for the heinous crime of having been born and raised in the wrong country. Courage, selflessness and nobility need not come into it any longer. How quaint and curious war is!