As the train rumbles to a start, my eyes run along the fine pages of his journal. The brittle pages are rough to the touch and degrading paper dust lingers on my fingers. His orderly and spruce penmanship is precise. He stays within the lines, his font size and style remain constant on each page. I could see his eyes inspecting the world around him, taking everything in, as he put pen to paper.

The train bounces around a curve as I pull at the next frail page. The next entry is short, and the page is slightly ripped because of past erasing. Dull, blurry outlines of letters compile behind the sure, bolded letters on the page.

1800 hours

It’s amazing, you know? How men have struggled. How one thing leads to the next, and a chain reaction occurs. And though there may be agony in a bleak situation, there are men who preserve because they can take it- they have to take it. They will stand for the right reasons and fall for the wrong, but they will remain an imperfect, continuous, whole.

I dream of my homecoming, of that bench by the ocean, of the innocent things in life, but when I open my eyes I see the men that preserver falling in in front of me… Waiting… So I will drive them toward their battle and victory.

This is war. I was never promised mercy, but I pray for it to land on these men.

I close my eyes and lean back in the wooden bench listening to the rattles of the moving train. I run my calloused hand over the leather cover of my commander’s journal, letting my aged fingers sink into the letter carvings.

Scents of lavender invade the car. Out the ajar window, mountains stretch beyond the highest clouds. Off a flat rock face runs a small waterfall that’s stream dissolves in the air before reaching the dense forest ground. A crisp spring breath whips over the jagged earth, and leaves sway and scatter to birds singing their soft melody.

But I keep my sinful eyes closed from the beauty for the country we fought for fades into memories behind me, and nothing will replace its longevity and refinement.