I recently met an interresting young man named Joe. Like most people, Joe had a story to tell. He had been in the armed forced and served several tours in combat. Joe shared with me, some of the horror he lives with after killing children and adults because he was ordered to do so. "We wiped them all out." He said in a soft voice as he lowered his head as if he were giving his respect to the dead.

"We didn't know who the enemy was or what it looked like. So we had to do it." He explained. I nodded my head and agreed that he had no other choice.

Joe went on to tell me of an attack he had been under. He told his story as if he were enduring it for the first time.

"We were driving a convoy. I was a gunner but I drove a truck. That's just what we did." Joe began to make bullet sounds, "Plink, Plink." He looked around like he was hearing the bullets.

He kept crouching low and saying, "Get back! Stay down. Just wait." He waved his hand as if he were motioning someone to wait. I wondered if maybe he truely saw this scene over and over in his head. 

He went on to tell of how his unit was under attack. "He made a swooshing sound and backed up.  He bent backwards and said, "That was my buddy's brains hitting my face."

We had been sitting on the sidewalk enjoying the night's breeze as we chatted. Then Joe stood up as he continued his story. "I was shaking. What should I do?" He held his arms like he was cradeling a gun. He his eyes searched left to right. He wasn't ashamed to admit he was afraid. I found that to be interresting. Joe went on,

"Locked on target. Sppft. Bullets went straight over the trucks. We got them all." He had a look of both pleasure and disgust. He was proud he had done the job he was trained and ordered to do. Yet he still saw the faces of those he put to death. I wondered how many soldiers across the world were dealing with the same scenes each night.

"I have a metal." He told me as he straightened his sock and sat down beside me again.  I am not sure if it was a medal of honor or a purple heart. He showed me the scar on his leg where he had been sewn up after being hurt in the war.

"How do you handle it?" Was a question I am sure he has been asked many times. But I too had to ask. "I work ." he answered. "And I drink.  Alcohol is my drug of choice. Of course if I could get it all out of my head it would really be good." He smiled.

I wonder how many soldiers fight the same battles each day even though they are safe in the USA now?

I wanted to add this story because I think we need to know just how much these men and women truely do for our country.  Even when thier job is done,  they still carry the horror of it with them.

To all the men and women serving our country in the armed forces,

THANK YOU!  MAY GOD BLESS YOU AND GIVE YOU PEACE FOR A JOB WELL DONE!

Margarita Peak-Clewett