Purple Heart

Purple Heart

A Story by Hayden Bruce

 

Wars are fought by soldiers but only won with bullets.  

My father's words revolve in my head as I stare into half a glass of amber comfort, but there's no solace for cowards.  

"Only won with bullets."  

I take another long drink, trying to forget what I've failed to do. Shame pours into my mind with every sip, as the bar subtly disappears around me. I stare at my glass but all I see are the faces of men dying around me. Good men. My men. 

I've been in Germany for three weeks now. Three weeks since the war worn general's words were given. Three weeks those words have paralyzed me. How many people have died because I couldn't pull the trigger?  

Another long drink to ignore the faces of everyone I've let down. So many expectations of "the most promising private from Virginia." Best shot in my rank. My father is so proud of his boy. Fourth generation military man. Destined for great things.  

You just have to pull the trigger. 

I look over at the gun resting on the bar. The shaking returns to my hands. Looking down, I notice the golden symbol of my angel. Those rosy cheeks that so beautifully contrast her soft porcelain skin. My hands shook all the way to the alter. That is until she walked through those chapel doors, like an angel breaking through the clouds. Time stopped as she slowly came towards me, never breaking from her soul piercing gaze. But wars are fought by soldiers and I was deploying in one week.  

What would she say if she knew she married a coward? She would live for the rest of her life knowing that when she laid her head down at night, it would be next to a man who couldn't fulfill his duty. A soldier who let his men die around him while he stood frozen on the battlefield.  

I can save her if I pull the trig--  

I jump to my feet at the sound of gunfire. I reach for my gun but it's not there. I look up to see it resting menacingly on the counter. Heart pounding, hands shaking-- I'm frozen by its powerful cold glare. 

The glass of beer explodes, shattering my trance. The bar comes back into my vision, and I reach for the gun. I turn around to see a rifle pointed at me, the German soldier only feet away. 

Adrenaline forces my hand up, but then I'm petrified. Hands shaking. Heart pounding. Streams of sweat flow down my face as I'm fixed on the rifle of my executioner. I accept that this is it for me. In a moment I will be freed from the ghosts who haunt my every thought. I've been fighting this war for too long, and now it will be won by a single bullet.  

Moments pass and I notice the rifle shaking. I look up to the face of the one who will release me from my bondage. Face glistening. Hands shaking. Heart pounding. A haunted man stares back at me, tortured by the demons I know all too well. 

Pull the trigger. 

Duty cuts through my empathy. I only have moments. One opportunity. One chance to slay my demons. No one else will die because I can't... 

Pull the trigger. 

"John, come on!" Dan shouts from the entrance, interrupting my focus. The shot rings through the bar, and Dan's body drops to the ground.  

Pull the trigger! 

The German turns back to face me, and my hands stop shaking. Time stops as I see the face of a haunted private from Virginia looking back at me. "Pull the trigger." 

With a flash of the rifle, John shouts, jumping out of bed.  

"John! What is it?" Startled, she jumps up beside her husband as he tries to catch his breath. 

"Go back to bed."  

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks, following the fifteen year ritual. 

"It's over." 

She lies back down. 

"Angel?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I've always loved you" 

"I know John."  

He climbs out of bed, following the ritual to the kitchen. Walking down the hall, he stops to look up at the Purple Heart framed on the wall. It has haunted him for fifteen years whispering names of ghosts who seek vengeance with every nightmare. 

His hand starts to shake as he continues down the hall. Passing the kitchen, he slips into a brown leather jacket, and walks outside. He opens the door to his silver pick up and climbs in. Lighting a cigarette, the ghosts beckon him from the glove compartment. The shaking stops.  

Wars are fought by soldiers... 

"But only won..." 

Taking a long drag of his cigarette, the war worn private turns the ignition and drives down the dirt country road.  

© 2015 Hayden Bruce


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Very few times do I feel a giant claw wrapped around my gut; a frog in my throat that climbed through my mouth while I read a story. This gave me that feeling. Chilling to the bone, but very, very solemn.
My entire family lineage is military. My great grandfather, a Corporal during WWII, my grandfather, A technical sergeant in Vietnam, my father a staff sergeant, and now my brother a private in the air force.
If this doesn't describe the loneliness, and isolation that something like war can drop on our shoulders, than I'll never read anything that does.
I would like to thank you for not just writing, but writing with purpose, whether that was your goal or not. It meant a lot.
-Noah

Posted 8 Years Ago



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Added on October 21, 2015
Last Updated on October 21, 2015
Tags: short story, war, soldier

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