‘Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge.’ I was a soldier in the army and I fought in a war. I fought because I was ardent to honour my country, come back as a hero, come back to cheering crowds of millions and be proud of myself. Instead, I came back a survivor.
I remember as a child, my dad bent down so he could look me straight in the eye. His face was solemnly serious and his eyes held a coolness or hardness that could only have been there to shield some unknown pain he had experienced in his life. His eyes pierced through my own and I saw myself reflected in his pupils, small and fragile. “You have to be strong. Always remember, son, scars make you stronger. Tears make you tougher. Fears make you a fighter. You have to be a survivor.” is what his fatherly advice was to me before he left mother and me. I spent most of my life hating this hypocrite of a man who told me I had to be strong, but ran out the door when his marriage began to tremble. Nevertheless, I carried this advice with me. I hung on to it because I felt his words were the remaining fragments l had of my father. The way I built my life revolved around his advice which is why I felt compelled to join the war.
‘GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling.’ The man next to me was floundering. He couldn’t get his gas mask on in time. I watched in helpless shock as the man I had shared my drink with, shared my stories with, shared my life with fall onto his knees. He choked on his own saliva, and drowned in his blood. I could do nothing to help. My fellow soldiers were already getting into position to fight the enemy, ignoring the empty capsule of a man that had fought along side us for so long. I watched this man writhe in pain and then go still. I didn’t even shed a tear for this man. Instead, I kept fighting. I kept surviving.
I came back to my country defeated. This time when I walked I didn’t walk with the premature confidence of a soldier, but with a distinct sadness of one who had lost everything. The pathetic number of us who managed to return were deemed survivors. Three gas attacks had destroyed the necessary people we needed to win the war. We lost precious lives, we lost friends and comrades and we lost our hope. I ran when the last gas attack came. There were about ten of us that managed to escape safely, watching the rest die through the glass of our helmets that was the barrier between us and the poisonous air, the only barrier that protected us from becoming like them. So in the end, we gave up and returned to our country filled with sadness. We came back as survivors, not victors. My father had let me down again…the remnants of his advice crumbled away.
The war changed me. I no longer had emotion. It was as if in the desperate times of the war, I had used up my tears and my fears. I felt like I was wringed dry from my humanity. I sat in my chair which had dents in it, an imprint of my decaying body, caused from my long hours in it. My life meant nothing to me because I could not bear to really live it. I spent most my life wondering why everyone around me died, but not me.”It’s because you’re strong enough to keep fighting.” was the answer I received from my mother who was deluded with her love for me. I wasn’t strong, I was broken. In the end I realised I would always be with my fellow soldiers and because of that, I too was an empty capsule, void of all feelings.
People often ask me how great it is to be a survivor. How proud I must feel, but I am only a man and there is only so much a mere man like me can endure. Yes I was a survivor, but I was devoured by guilt and regret. I was a survivor, but I was haunted by memory.
This is the curse of being a survivor.