On the Eve of Peace

A man sits at his desk.

This is it.

What's left for a man of war in a time of peace?

My entire life's work. My youth. My family. The sum of all my fears and the result of every victory is pinned across my chest. And for what? This? All of this feels foreign. It's too late to try and start a new life in this new society. One that has nearly blanched itself of what my life has been spent doing. I'm a living anachronism. A thing that simultaneously is and used to be. That's all I am to them anyways. A thing. Like some toy. A sometimes useful item that's kept out of the sight of company when it's not needed. Packed behind other things and stuff. Collecting dust, but never for too long. They can't help themselves, can they? They want, no, need to bring the old war hero out when they're about to honk the trumpets. They need you until they don't. And they don't need you until they do. I suppose that's the way it goes.

The man removes a bottle of scotch and a glass from his drawer. He pours himself a few thick fingers.

Even this peat smells bitter to me now. It tastes dry. There's no moisture in the valley of dry bones. I'm no Ezekiel and they're no Israelites. These are modern times with modern solutions. The way you speak about the present shows you where you are in its plans. By that logic, I guess I've been left behind the times. Where do you go where you can see the future and it has no place for you? A happy ending for some is the damp beacon of catastrophe for others. Peace is murder for a man like me. I'm not the only one, but certainly others like me could adapt. Peace is bad for business, but look at Volkswagen, Krupp and all the other Nazi war machine makers from all of those years ago. They're fine. That should be inspiring.

He inhales a good portion of the scotch. He fills it again, though it was not empty.

I can sit here and go through all the times I was needed. All the times I laid blueprints to manufacture success out of impossibility. All the times we stared at the jaws of annihilation and tore out the enemy's throat. How many times did I turn certain defeat into glasses of smoke and stars? My battledress feels pounds heavier with all these pieces of metallic glory. These honours are now coffin spikes. There was a time when they meant something. A status of worship and an homage of revere. Now it feels like I'm holding immense wealth in a country that declared bankruptcy, unable to trade millions for a heel of bread.

It's crazy to think that I'd be more anxious on the night before peace than during all my nights of war. I've used the sounds of gunfire and bombs splatting in the distance to sharpen my wits for what seems like forever. I grew more captivated the closer that they came. My anxiety became so familiar that it felt like a child's excitement when they're about to open a gift. There was no fear of a noble death, only a lust for battle and a reproach for surrender. Death is inevitable and I should've probably died twice for every accolade that I've earned. Each medal must have cost the lives of hundreds if not thousands of good men and innocent civilians. Evil never dies quite how we like it to, does it? We envision its destruction with the wettest lips and most dreadful intentions, but its punishment and execution never quite seems adequate. Such is the unfulfilling nature of victory. My body became used to the hymns of battle serenading me to sleep. I would close my eyes and wave my hands like a musical conductor, knowing when the dropping of every missile would occur. A beautiful symphony. It's not the destruction that enthralls me. That would be sadistic. I'm not a villain and I don't enjoy commuting destruction or trading deaths. I place no importance on death tolls, unfortunately, always more innocent civilians than enemies. Sadly, it became as commonplace a sight as a sin-less calf to a butcher. Instead, I heard the poetic fluidity of a well-paced orchestra. It moved me as sublimely as any score. My victories felt like the success of an offspring and I the humble pride as its progenitor. All while our people lapped up the veal and returned to the line to ask for more.