A while back I met a Colonel from the Civil War. He wears his dress uniform stoically and walks around with a commanding presence. It’s probably a requirement to have such an authoritative demeanor when you must command so many troops into battle.

During our conversation he testified about surviving many battles by the skin of his teeth; and losing many good men under him, to the enemy, friendly fire, and nature. He’s seen it all and survived it all. In one of his battles, as he explained it, they were outnumbered five to one, muskets and cannons were ineffective in a fog. The men were scared and he was terrified of a faceless enemy inside the thick milky white void of moisture and gunpowder smoke, pop and whizzing of blind musket balls, hoping none would find a target. Faced with certain death, he swallowed the fear, embraced it, and turned it into anger and insanity. Against all odds, they fixed bayonets and stealthily snuck behind enemy lines, turning the tide of the battle. I listened attentively, and respectfully, wondering how all that war affects the mind.

It didn’t last long as it was the next thing he explained. Sleepless nights, screams, voices, and bursts of anger. All repressed to hide the scars of the mental wounds. Next, he gave inventory on his physical wounds: stabbed in the gut, shot in the leg, arms, shoulder, and even in the head. Even with such an impressive resume, he managed to make his way home to his wife after the war was over. They hadn’t had kids yet but planned to get busy as soon as possible.

He didn’t make it home. As luck would have it, a bullet lodged in his skull finally made the slow and silent trudge to the brain and caused an aneurism. He dropped dead right over there, by the ticketing office of the train station. Four people saw him drop and rushed to help, but in the end, there was nothing anyone could do. Emily, his wife, hasn’t visited the station yet, but he waits for her, pacing to and fro, end to end, holding everything in, to not let her see his true self.