Forgotten Soldiers

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Not even hell could be this bad.

I heard that phrase repeated above all others in the decade I spent in the army. During the early years, those few words sent a cold shiver down a man’s back. It often did mine for what they implied.

I heard a private say it while dragging his dead buddy over to a funeral pyre after a battle. I heard it pass through a captain’s lips as he watched survivors from a burned out town beg for bread or offer their emaciated bodies up to passing soldiers in exchange for the smallest morsel of food. I heard that same captain say it again, correcting himself, when one of those survivors got their food and refused to divide it with the sickly children pleading for their share.

The captain’s whisper still echoed in my mind. “Gods Tyrus, I was wrong. Not even hell could be this bad.”

I heard soldiers and mages of all ranks in the infirmary say the phrase, usually between sobs while they stared at a missing limb. I heard physicians and healers mumble the words over and over after their shifts, drowning themselves in a bottle of whiskey, hoping they might forget the horrors of their profession for at least a little while.

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