Soldier’s Blood is Poet’s Crimson

By Grace Sweeney

Logbook Entry. October Fourteenth, in the humble year 2568.

Just last month, I gazed upon the old weapons and hovercrafts from the Great War. And I finished reading the faded copy of The Art of War two weeks ago. Never could I have imagined it was preparing me for my fast-approaching conscription.

Father knows well my fascination with the war. He calls it both a blessing to be well-versed in Alhan’s great history, and troubling for a young woman to be interested in bloodshed. I laugh at that. Does he not understand that I only study such things that I may write more accurately on the events, tactics, and heroics?

After all, as I have never personally experienced war, how could I write about blinding explosives lighting up the night, commands crackling from radio to receiver, and the valiant foot soldiers who daily risk their lives in enemy territory without some semblance of knowledge? How could I compose poetry about such things if I did not research and view the old records for myself?

Except now, I shall be part of the glorious endeavor. I shall stand alongside other brave men and women to advance Alhan’s honor, like the brilliant red leaves resisting winter’s chill. How could I find a nobler calling?

Logbook Entry. April Twenty-Ninth, in the humble year 2569.

I have never been more frightened in my life. The training period is finished, and though I am assigned to mere desk work in the offices, I could be called to the battlefield anytime.

The training officers taught us how to use every necessary piece of equipment. I can now shoot a laser handgun at a moment’s notice, fire rounds from old-fashioned, yet effective, machine guns, maneuver a hovercraft, and tend to wounds. I am proficient in all of that—why am I so terrified? None of the historical records mentioned the fear.

Logbook Entry. September Thirtieth, in the humble year 2569.

I’ve been called to the battlefield.

This morning, my cohort was summoned to forsake our desk jobs and begin active duty. I feel as though I’m sleepwalking—moving through a blurry series of events that make very little sense. Suddenly, I’m not sure I want this anymore. I’m not sure I ever wanted it.

In the last month, as the fighting has advanced toward the capital, our command center has received an influx of wounded soldiers.

In my mind, they were brave young men willing to lay it all down. They had sacrificed their own wellbeing and dove in front of a gun aimed at their comrade. They lay on the battlefield, crimson staining the grass around them until medics arrived and lifted them to safety.

But when I saw the wounded myself… it was different. They were all brave—but none of them were the gallant heroes I’d imagined. They were simply Alhanian soldiers whose hovercraft had been shot down. And their wounds were… unthinkable. I’d never pictured it quite like this.

Two weeks ago, families came to visit their husbands, fathers, brothers, and sisters. Nothing prepared me for that, either. Admitting their tear-stained faces, being unable to offer more than a hug, watching them gently embrace the wounded, faces contorting painfully as they tried to keep from breaking down…

Pain like this was never supposed to happen. What has war done to the world?

Logbook Entry. October 15, 2569.
The final page of Karsyne Rafi’s logbook. Transcribed by Medic Hanson.

I was caught today in an explosion. Horribly burned. I realized earlier it’s also a year and a day after my drafting. What a coincidence.

Once again, nothing prepared me. All my research on warfare was for naught. I knew how to describe the flash of bombs and courageous yells during the charge, but I didn’t know the pain. Fie! I never could have imagined the pain, not in a hundred centuries.

I cannot keep writing much longer… The machine and medication are helping to manage the pain, but I am so, so tired. When I’m recovered, I never plan to write about the glory of battle. Ever again.

War is uglier than any other crime I’ve seen. It shrivels the world, just like the forest dies before winter. I want peace—I want this miserable war to be over. I want it to never return.

I have a verse running through my mind. It’s not very good, but I need to put it somewhere.

When peace is stolen, and happiness shattered—
When storms of war sweep o’er the land,
When families mourn all they’ve lost…
Remind me that peace will always stand
In our hearts.

***

Dearest daughter,

You had a beautiful heart. I often envy the way you acted as though we still lived in the days of chivalry and nobility. I will make sure to publish your poetry, especially your final piece, in hopes it will inspire others to do noble deeds, like it has me.

I’m proud of you. You saved another man’s life by pushing him out of harm’s way. You would want me to say that it was more heroic than any of the imaginary deeds you’ve written about. But I miss you already, dearest, more than any words could express. You’ve left a void that won’t ever be filled. I’m selfish, I know. But I do wish you hadn’t taken the blow.

May you rest in perfect peace forever.

Your loving father.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Grace Sweeney is an aspiring teenage author who loves writing epic stories that capture the imagination and bless the soul. Being homeschooled has given her a chance to immerse herself in reading and writing, all while gathering inspiration from her family’s travels. She currently lives in Europe with her parents, three younger siblings, and the cat, Dara, where she enjoys baking, karaoke, and roleplaying with characters in her spare time.

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