This might be a pick that most of us in real life would gladly avoid. But as it’s just an attempt to create an illusion where I could put myself in the shoes of someone else, I’d choose to be a soldier from the past, maybe from around WW1 or WW2 to be exact, who gets hurled away from his peaceful, calm life into a world of destruction.
Why??
It’s simply because I’m a sucker for tragedy and yearning. Also, who doesn’t want to hit themselves up with a healthy dose of PTSD and suffering? No one?? Huh…okay, let’s just get into it then. Let me show you how I want the thing to play out.
I’d be a healthy British chap, just freshly turned twenty, still young and wild at heart. Maybe I’d already be registered in the army, or perhaps the sudden recruitment campaigns would catch my eyes, and being too blinded by the glory and status, I’d sign up with a couple of the lads.
I’d probably have a lover at home. Some young lady who I’d fancy back in my small village. We’d meet on the town squares and markets, and take long walks around lakes, and on one meeting like this, I’d tell her I have to leave for training casually, explaining to her that it won’t be long till I’m back. She’d be upset, but I’d coax her by talking about our future; a lovely small wedding, a big diamond ring and a long wedding dress, a lovely house with all the wine we both could drink.
“It'd be grand!” I’d tell her with a smile on my face. “Just a few months, I’ll be back before Christmas!” I’d say, ever so confident with my words. And she would reluctantly agree, tell me that she would wait for me, with a promise of writing to her every day.
And off I’d go, waving to my family from the train, heading towards the training camps with dreams of a better life. Which would slowly start to fade once I’d get there.
Training would be harsh, the nights would be long, and I’d struggle to find a balance between it all; the life and stories I watched veterans talk about, I’d search for it while trying to make myself fit in. I never had touched a gun before. Never killed. Never knew how it felt to have a bullet in my hand.
I’ll write to my family, my girl back at home, fabricating stories to assure them I’m fine while also assuring myself, waiting for the day things would get over and I’d get to go home.
And maybe they’d let me. For a couple of days after training and I’d show up to my small town wearing my uniform, looking like a proud grown man. My mother would cry, my father would clap on my back. And my girl, she’d be so happy.
That is until I’d get deployed to Somme. And then hell would be upon me unlike ever before.
I’ll watch hundreds of my brothers die on the first day as I’d watch bullets fall like rain, would be struck by the fact of how easy it really is to kill a man, would fire my gun and not even know how many I myself had killed. The sky would turn grey from the ashes, the ground will be drenched in blood. And it would never end, never end.
I’d lose count of days, and months passing, and would no longer know when it was day or night. I had thought this would end. I had thought it to be easy. What I hadn’t thought of was having to look at all the dead bodies, all the wounded and selfishly hope that I wouldn’t be among them.
And then it would end. After five long months that felt like five decades.
Maybe I’d taken a bullet to my knees by then, maybe I’d even die on that battlefield. Maybe they’d deport me after I’d suffered a serious injury, and I’d return home broken beyond repair, only to find out my girl got married to another man. A life full of dreams, a desire for glory, will fade by then for sure. War does that to people. It changes them, moulds them into something entirely else.
Who knows really?
I never faced a war, so I wouldn’t know. This is just my imagination anyway…
