Dear diary,
The war was simply disastrous. Ghastly white buildings were smeared with dirt and lined with cruel cracks, transforming into a shabby and monstrous devil, resembling a genuine living hell; Paved and clean roads were suffocated with thick layers of rubble, resulting from the destructive explosives, bombs and cannons; The beautiful sky was obscured with the depressing mass of tiny dust, turning its head in disgust and disappointment to human’s uncivilized behavior…
However, what was left paled into insignificance in contrast with what brave and vigilant soldiers like us suffered. Mental distortion, physical damage, aftermath effects, last but not least, heartbreak due to the loss of loved ones… Those who endured the torture and ordeal of the war may be considered as strongest of men, but they themselves do not – after so much suffering they have gone through, they would only see themselves proud for securing and protecting their countries, or lucky, or maybe only relieved, since so many had died in the whole process of protecting their hometown, and yet only little people who mourned over the dead bodies. The dead do not have their kin and relatives by their sides when their eyes lids were closed – or maybe not, since many died in regret and remorse.
The blinding flash of light, the exploding burst of heat, the excruciating pain, and the crying sound of people and the dejected and solemn faces – all are still vivid in my memories. I still could see the gaunt and weathered face of my teammates, and I still remembered how we gone through the difficulties when at last, one by one they subdued to the war. Looking down at my amputated right arm and stitched stomach, I felt a shiver down my spine, and at the same time, the memories seem to come alive, haunting me.
A grenade was thrown mercilessly at me, tearing out pieces of flesh and bone in a shower of red, and my arm… so this was the hard facts of life?
I still considered myself lucky, just from the mere fact of surviving the war.
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