Once upon a time

There was a soldier.
He had served his time, done his duty, fought honourably.
And now he was leaving.
He was formally saluted, congratulated, and then sent home with his pay.
Some comrades-in-arms walked with him a ways, then parted for their homes.
Other soldiers and captains stayed. There was still a battle to fight.
But he was not needed.
He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
He did know that his feelings were not of crucial importance, though, so he stood tall and carried on, deciding to think things through later.
Maybe, he mused, there would be warmer weather in the south.
He could picture the friendly mountains of his home, so unlike the snowy cliffs he was surrounded by. He thought of the graceful cypress trees that sheltered his house, and the grapevines that wound cheerfully around their arbour. He would sit and rest, he thought. Rest a long time. Perhaps in the gentler winter he would find the purpose that had eluded him this long service....

He told himself dispassionately that peace was not everything. As everyone knew, the army gave one purpose. Aimless lives suddenly found meaning in the discipline and daily harshness of life. Whether or not one personally believed in conquest of the natives, expansion of the empire, etc., was irrelevent - one simply had to obey, defend one's comrades, and survive. If not glorious, life was at least simple.

Returning to civilian life, now.... He shook his head absently. That would be complicated. What does one say to old friends who may be friends no more? To small (and older) boys who think the life of a soldier is the most glorious adventure ever? To housewives and village maidens who are either attracted or repulsed by the blood and sweat of the wars? Would it even be possible, as he half hoped, to prop his feet on a wooden bench, watch the sea, and forget all he'd seen and done?

He looked ruefully at his boots as he kept his methodical tramp along the muddy roads. The dirt stains might wash out. What about the blood, or the memory of it? What about invisible memories of quiet, frozen tears on nights in the desolate Alps? There were also, he added fairly, memories of fields of wildflowers he and his men had marched through. And a rare day of rest by a fresh mountain stream with odd fish that nibbled cheerfully at his bare toes. Tense, sandy marches on beaches by midnight to escape barbarian arrows and hide tracks under the tide. It would be easier to burn the boots than the memories. He wasn't sure he wanted to lose either.


He kept trudging. There would be many more miles ahead for thinking. All that he knew was that a small, sunny house was waiting for him, with embraces from relatives. It would be good to spend time with them, share meals and stories again. Perhaps letters to and from his comrades, wherever they might also have arrived. Maybe in time he would learn to blend his old life and his recent life, on his way to a new life....

The End