A Lost Fighting Spirit

A/N:

For those of you that don't know what Power of the Pen is, it is a tournament where we are all put into a room with 15-30 other students, given a prompt, and forced to write something amazing in 40 minutes or less. I'm sorry if it sucks (especially the ending) because of time restraints. Also, this is about the Civil War and yes, I do know that there are many historical inaccuracies. Keep in mind that I was in the eight grade when I wrote this and we did not have any access to research materials while we wrote. I simply got this idea because I was sitting in a history classroom at the time. Therefore, do not complain about the inaccuracies because I have warned you and am not changing this story.

Have fun!

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A fighting spirit. That is what I have lost throughout my years as a retired soldier. I needed it when I was fighting. I needed it when I was forced to be strong. Now I don't need to use my anger. I don't need to use my hate. All I need is a peaceful rest.

As a child, I was a slave. I was a slave to the white man and their discrimination. My parents were slaves and my grandparents were slaves. I was the first one to be free.

I lived in South Carolina, where it was always hot and the days dragged on without any end in sight. To me, it didn't matter how many days I worked until I couldn't work anymore. I knew that one day I would be free so I fought. I rebelled against me master and I refused to do more work. I was beaten bloody because of my resistance. I was never killed though. It was because my master's wife was a kind woman and hated murder.

One day, I heard that Lincoln was letting African Americans into the military. I didn't care about any civil war. All I wanted was to get rid of white men because they were the enemy. They hid behind white masks and I wanted to show people the dirty hands under their gloves.

I used my hate, my anger. And I fought. I fought for freedom. Never again would I be controlled. Never again would I be beaten for hoping. I promised that I would free my family and friends. I would get my revenge.

That is what I wanted to believe, until I met a nice nurse in the army. She was kind and sweet. She showed no hate or anger. She showed no malice towards the white people. I couldn't understand her motives no matter how hard I tried.

One day, I came to her and begged her to answer my question. I asked, "Why? Why do you forgive them? How can you forgive them?" She simply smiled and told me, "All I want to do is save lives. I joined the army to save dying men. I did not join the army to kill men."

She didn't believe in the concept of a bad person. She believed that a good person does not exist. She thought that the Southerners were good people to themselves. The Northerners were good people to themselves as well.  She told me that only God would choose who was bad and who was good.

I don't remember how many times I promised to get her out of this dark and evil place we call war. She always told me that I worked too hard and that I shouldn't try to save her because she could take care of herself.

The day that she had to leave was the worst day of my life. I was fighting like I always did, with anger and hate. Only this time I promised myself that I would stop fighting after this battle. With her, there is no need to fight.

But I wouldn't be able to save her after all. The gunshots rang for hours and many men died. That nice nurse ran out onto the field in order to save a fallen soldier. In the process, she was shot. I couldn't save her as she fell to the ground. Dead. I couldn't save her from this dark place. But I saved her memory. I remembered her until the very end.

Nowadays, I don't need to fight or use my hate or anger to fuel my fighting spirit. All I can do is rest peacefully and free, remembering the day where I was saved by a kind and caring nurse. Remembering the day I lost my will to fight and gained my want for quiet peace.