Author- returning home

>They always asked me why I signed up in the first place. For duty and country, I responded, my face without a hint of wariness and untouched from hardship. At first, I was proud, as I stood tall in my fatigues, with my metal helmet slightly askew. With a bright smile, and boots that were slightly too big, I remember reporting to my first duty station – as if the world was my oyster and full of experience.

>After spending the first Christmas alone, cold, and relentlessly shivering in my foxhole I started to wonder too – as I sat and heard my teeth chatter throughout the night. I wonder how she was doing, the one whom I thought of dearest. At this time of the night, she was most likely in her warm covers – the heavy blankets wrapped around a figure whose image had started to drift away from my memory.

>As I felt my stomach gnaw at itself for the countless time that week, the first seeds of doubt had been sown. The whispers started to grow louder as days passed when my mind taunted me with inklings of dissent. When I sat alone nursing a bottle of liquor while others traveled and eventually settled down, I started to question my decisions time and time again. Was it all really worth it? Would she stop waiting for me eventually too?
>While others wouldn’t, I knew she would. For her, I would fight – if not for my brothers in arms.

>When a couple of years passed by and I first left for war, my acquaintances from another life asked me why I how I felt. Would I get out before I was sent? How did you feel about it? Are you going to see your girlfriend? When are you going to marry her? Do you think it will change you? Could you kill someone? Would she still love you afterwards?

>I laughed, and smiled back at them –their concern obviously half-hearted at the time. I didn’t have an answer for them – as an order was an order, and something I didn’t feel strongly against. Through enough fortitude, I had silenced my demons, for the military was my life now. I had the Army, and the Army had me. Whether it was to stand at attention, or crawl mindlessly through muddy fields and barbed wire – I would go, for I signed the dotted line. I had gone this long away from my love – another year wouldn’t be too hard.

>It would all be worth it in the end, when I would return to her arms a changed man. Love would only become sweeter with distance – something that desperately clinged on to justify my last couple of years of hardship and separation from her. She too suffered, but still held steadfast.

>Where on the continent I first arrived, I wasn’t quite sure. Somewhere far away, in a region in the world where most people couldn’t point out on a map. It was different, the air harsh and cold, where the water in our canteens would freeze if left unattended. A frozen hell, where young men like me were sent to conquer the folly of older generations. It was nothing new – like the twice used mittens I was issued upon arrival.

>Yet, in the opening weeks here, I was happy. Though seldom, carefully folded and delicately written letters would find their way here – their corners slightly wrinkled in their arduous journey. were laced with the slightest hint of vanilla, something to cut the mixture of stenches I had grown accustomed to here. Through those, I caught rare glimpses of her life – what she did that week, her daily routines her musings about life. Through her I found comfort, despite the chilling cold or the constant howling winds. For now, my heart was warm and full.

>Yet, those were only brief solaces from the day to day exercises and patrols. More than once, I would return from the field, and simply occupy a still warm bunk as I let exhaustion take me once again. Day in and out we marched – and just as commonly did we take fire as well - the numerous rounds kicking small wisps in the snow banks besides me.

>When I first shot another man, I didn’t feel as much as I thought I would. I don’t remember his face, or whether he had ever noticed me – but the bright crimson splash against the snow would be what I’d carry from then on. Yet – I still felt concerned, what would she think if I ever told her that I had to do it? That to be honest, I didn't feel much when I took a life. Could I still grasp her delicate hands with my own?

>I sent her numerous letters, but was always wary to never tell her much. I wanted to ask her if I had changed, but I could already see the answer in the writing. Slowly but surely, the contents of each became more and more vague – until really, I was feeding off her own experiences back home. Perhaps when I got home I could finally tell her about my own days and what I thought to be my own aspirations. Maybe when I returned and proposed, she’d understand and listen to my stories.

>However, the glimpses into the life I once knew had started to wane – as the letters became a rarer opportunity as we drew further and further into the front. In the beginning, whenever I had returned from patrol, I sent many a fleeting glance at the postbox, but as the time between letters went from weeks to months, I eventually learned to walk passed it – my joints achy from marching and eyes tired from the constant harsh glare of the snow.

>The artistic strokes and splatters of crimson became common sight. I used to watch each figure fall through my sights, though soon it became routine to simply move to the next one in line. In the back of my mind, I had started to count the experiences – but I didn’t care once I had seen a dozen bodies at once. Their figures were strewn against the desolate tundra, their uniforms and scarlet swatches of blood the only color I’d seen for days other than my own.

>In the blanketed white landscape, my comrades always rumored that one’s heart would turn cold from the unrelenting cold if left with an idle mind. Perhaps it was being so isolated and desensitized in this awful wonderland that did it. If one was able to resist that fate, then a slow and subtle madness would sink it – it’s tendrils taking root then slowly inching their way through every crevice of your mind. No matter the man, such an outcome would eventually befall them if they remained here too long.

>So when my time was up, I hopped on the next train back home. I left the powdered cold landscape behind, yet I felt the slightest twangs pulling me back as the train roared down the tracks. With my bags in tow and a newly purchased ring in hand – I was anxious to finally return home. Perhaps her letters were simply lost in transit, and I simply needed to pick up where things left off. Maybe if she asked, I would be okay with leaving the service behind. A fresh start, with the experiences and mentality of a changed man.
>My heart was gripped in anticipation as I made my way towards her familiar steps. How long had it been since I had last gazed on that ornate cobblestone? How I wanted to see, speak, and hold her again – the one link to normalcy I still had. I didn’t even bother to drop my things off – for the time was opportune. A leap of faith – I knew, but one that would finally answer all the nagging questions that had taken root in my skull.

>I knocked, my knuckles rapped against her wooden door in a punctuated staccato. When she appeared, I should have been prepared to have my hopes shattered. In retrospect, I’d like to think I was relatively civil – as I was invited in for a cup of tea out of curtesy. She was surprised to see me, but her eyes were not filled with the flirty glee that I thought would greet me upon my return.

>We sat around the simple wooden table, and engaged in pithy conversation. At first glance, it may have appeared to be a delightful reunion between friends, but my mind endlessly taunted me knowing it wasn’t supposed to be just that. With all my might, I resisted the urge to stare at her ring finger, as it only took a glance to realize that time did not stop while I was away.

>With a smile and a halfhearted hug, I left her residence a scant half an hour later – the ring now a heavy weight in my trouser pockets. I chuckled, and feebly produced a cigarette – the aroma doing little for my nerves. I walked for a couple of hours – though the time did not seem to pass. It was the strangest of feelings, as I simply only felt numb. There were no stabs of heartbreak or teary refusals of reality – only a sinking cold emptiness. As I pondered I eventually found myself back at the very train station I had just departed hours ago.

>I stood motionlessly, my eyes drawn to the recruitment sign that had drawn me in so long ago before. A strong man, with rifle in hand, fought valiantly for the ones at home. His uniform fluttered in the winter expanse, knowing that he was there for the common good. The Army was nothing without it's people, and the people nothing without the Army.

>Yet I had to ask, had I ever been that man? Did I ever think I was going to become him? In the end, what good did it do me now?

>They were questions that I didn't have answers for here. It didn't matter now - as with a frozen heart, I signed my papers waiving my leave and hopped back onto the train. When they asked why I came back, it was because I had left everything I had back in the dreary snowy wasteland – heart and all.

>And so, I came back to winter war – but this time with nothing to lose. Perhaps one day, I will recover what I left behind all those years ago.