In this blog,
I wrote a brief interpretation of how a soldier might feel returning home,
inspired by The Things They Carried and the quote "home was no longer the hills of childhood, the playing fields
of school, or the addresses of relatives; it became instead a place behind the
line, a group of comrades, the sound of familiar voices within earshot of a
foxhole" from Postcards from the
Trenches (Booth).
The thought of returning home was all that kept me sane
during the war. Whenever a friend was blown to bits or a scorching wound was
brought onto me, I imagined my family and friends lucky enough to escape the clutches
of war waiting for me at home. Sometimes that was the only reason I tried to
stay alive. To come back to them in one piece. But nobody told me I would rebound
feeling like an outsider. Initially, I didn’t understand what was wrong with
me. I mean, how could something that once felt so safe and close to your heart
feel so far upon return? That was messed up. But it just kept coming back. The sounds
of explosion ringing in your ears, the way a body dripped with blood until it
was painted in a deep, crusting red, the filth of laying in foxholes with your
buddies, some of whom were no longer breathing. Coming home flooded my mind with jubilant memories, almost overwhelmingly, though it just wasn’t the same. In a sense, I felt
that I was in a place I had never been to before. I was happy, but deep down, it simply was not home
anymore. I was forever bonded to horrors from the war.
