The Price Of Pride

"Father, I want to fight the war"

No, you won't.

"Why won't you let me do anything?!"

Hmm Then tell me why you want to join the war.

"I want to become a man and protect my country from those devils on the other side. I want to be something good in my life. And even if I die, I want to die fighting for something worth it."

Hmm

"And I want to kill all those people who dare to take our land away from us."

Kill, you say, child. Do you know what it means to kill? To have blood on your hands, your enemies' blood, cutting throats while they beg for mercy? I have killed dozens of kids your age. So don't you dare talk about killing.

"Then at least let me die a hero, Father, fighting for the right cause."

Let me open your eyes, child. You’ll die a gruesome death at the border, and they’ll give you a glory you’ll never get to see. If you want your life to matter, it's not death that makes it worthy, it's what you do and achieve while living. So please, son, leave this idea and do something good.

"But I want to be able to protect this country and my family."

Son, please don’t join the war. Listen to your old man who has seen and fought wars. If you want to protect, then study. Achieve a position from where you can prevent wars.

"Father, you know the pride of being a soldier. Of wearing the uniform for our country and having guns hanging from your shoulder. A uniform filled with badges. How can you deny me that pride?"

That’s the reason I don’t want you to join. Son, what you hear in church and read in the papers is the half-truth of war, romanticised to lure the young like you to give up their lives. How have you gone so blind, my dear son? Have you not seen my scars?

"Don’t worry, Father. I’ll train hard. I’ll make good comrades and we will take care of each other. I won’t die before you, Father."

You know why I’m still here, even after all the wars? Because my comrades died protecting me. It’s because of their death that I lived. I still see their guts spilling out... legs torn off... faces split in half. That image haunts me every day. This guilt of surviving, it eats me alive. Every loud noise reminds me of grenades. The nightmares never end. The flashbacks drive me mad. Son, please... understand what I’m saying.

"I understand you, Father. I’ve been there when you came home broken from the border. I’ve heard your cries at night. I know the truth of war—and I’m ready to accept all the suffering it carries. Please, Father... this is my true calling. I want to be someone you can rely on."

Why, son? Please don’t... please...

"I’ll be okay, Father. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ve grown now."
A.V

Inspired by: All Quite On The Western Front