• The war has ended but for soldiers such as myself the war still rages within our hearts. I find myself falling asleep at night only to wake in a crouch, searching for an enemy that isn’t there. Phantom pains return and the multiple scars on my body throb, but it is all worth it now that I am home…a home that is empty just like my heart. My wife still resides here, but we have become distant and that pain throbs the worst. She knows that I killed, but not about the memories that haunt me. Shivering, I pull out my journal to record the new nightmares. Thumbing through the worn journal, I turn to one unforgettable date, the day that I lost myself and became a POW. Running my hands gently over the yellowing pages, I read of my trauma.

    ‘February 8, 1942

    Blood stained the dead grass of the battlefield while the stench of death clouded the air. Mangled bodies lay upon the ground while dying soldiers had tears staining their dirty cheeks. Boys who would never live their lives out. Instead, they were destined to be another number on the death toll.

    Amid the chaos I stood with my remaining men, knowing we had to surrender or die. The pain of being a POW was excruciating but my men didn’t deserve death. We fought proudly, but hunger, exhaustion, and grief was taking it’s toll. Finally, after another soldier was shot, I grasped the motionless white flag and waved it in the air. The bullets stopped as the enemy surrounded us. Placing our weapons on the ground, we knew the horrors that we would face.’

    Shutting the journal, I closed my eyes as memories swept through me. It was memories of knives piercing flesh and the slow deaths that my men endured. It was the memories of my personal hell.