The war came when I was eighteen. My mother thought it would be best for me to stay home, but my father disagreed. He recounted tales of himself fighting honourably years ago, and said that it would be edifying for me to do so as well. I was eager to begin such an adventure with my father’s blessing, yet in my heart, I was sad to leave home. My parents and the green hill were all I knew in life.

            The other men, as I learned on the train, were almost all from the city. Their view on life was very different from mine. Coming from the sprawling city, I had imagined they would be looking out the train window in amazement at the rolling green country; instead, they seemed more interested in their own two feet. While I was curious about the war, the other men shook nervously. I did not understand then that they were already acquainted with the reality of the world: suffering and death.

            I began to question my decision to leave home the moment a gun was put in my hand. This object was designed for death, a concept I had not pondered as a child. I dreaded the feel of the steel, cold as ice in my hands. Our commander would often stop to look at me as I awkwardly fumbled my rifle.

            I had been trained to fight by the time I saw action. Once our differences were resolved, the other men became my brothers. They were there with me helping to cope with my first kill; they were there with me mourning every loss.

            My best friend Jack died one month after I met him. As far as I knew, he was the only soldier besides me who had grown up in the country. We had spent much of our downtime reminiscing of the green grass and clear skies, but now he was gone. The mourning was bitter, and the grief was relentless. The remnant of my childhood faded away under the constant grey mist. I would never be that child on the hill again.

            Our nation eventually won the war, but I experienced little joy. All my dreams and expectations of life had been altered in a few short years. In my heart, the clarity of a blue sky was replaced by the dull smoke of gunfire, and the pristine alpine water now ran red with blood. “Such is the way of the world,” the others had told me. And so it was.

Reilly Irvine