Freedom is not Free
“There was gnawing hunger, unquenchable thirst, unrepressed fear, evident pain. Many sleepless nights were spent tossing and turning. Countless nights were spent praying we would live to see a bright, new dawn. We never knew what to expect, we just had to be ready. One time, at 1:24 in the morning, we were awoken with a call to arms. The enemy was moving and an attack on the advancing nemesis was being calculated. We had to get ready fast, but right before I left the barracks I took the time to write out a very special letter. I addressed the letter to my wife and gave it to a mail boy. All I told him was, ‘Make sure my wife receives this.’ My regiment left soon after, not a word was whispered by anyone.”
The worn and elderly man paused to take a deep, steadying breath before continuing his story. “We dispersed when we arrived at the dark and haunting wood. We had to crawl quietly forward and then wait. I had been lying motionless on my stomach for over two hours. I hoped and prayed my comrades were still hiding somewhere in the moonless shadows, but I had no way of knowing since I hadn’t heard any human noise for what seemed like an eternity. My right leg cramped and I stifled a moan as I willed the pain to leave. I longed to stretch, however I didn’t, for I knew it might endanger me and my fellow soldiers. As I steeled myself against doubts that clouded my mind and heart, an owl hooted once…twice. I heard a crackle off to my left and a whisper off to my right. Men evolved from the shadows around me, their eyes tired and their faces lined with fear and determination.”
“Two owl hoots was your cue to move forward and prepare to attack, huh, Grandpa?” The nine year old boy knew his grandpa’s story well. He loved chiming in with prodding questions at just the right moments.
“Yes, Son, it was. And prepare we did. With silent voices we prayed to God, asking Him to protect us and help us gain a little piece of freedom that we could win for our country. We moved forward knowing that some of us would not return. We advanced knowing we might leave loved ones behind. We fought, dodging fire, bombs and bullets, for sons and daughters that we might not ever see again. We battled for wives who were forced to make a living out of nothing. We hurt for the safety of our people. We died so that others may live.
The soft, loving voice of an elderly woman picked up the story. “I was working hard at home hoping for a letter from your Grandpa. I, and many other wives, never really knew if our husbands were dead or alive. One day, as I was working in my little garden by the front fence, the mailman came and delivered a letter. I dusted all the dirt from my hands before reaching for the letter; I didn’t want to smudge it. I opened the envelope and inside there was a piece of scrap paper folded in half. The shaky handwriting read, ‘My dearest love, I just came home from a long battle. I am fine. The thought of you kept me going strong. I miss you and hope to come home soon. All my love, Dan.’ Right as I finished reading your Grandpa’s letter, I heard a wail from next door. It was Mary. Her husband would never come home again. I wept with her for her loss and silently hoped I would not be the next one to receive bad news.”
“But you never did hear bad news, because Grandpa came home.” The young boy beamed at his grandparents.
“That’s right, Michael. After months and months of fighting and war, I finally came home. We had won the long hard battle, but not without many, many losses.”
The boy sobered up, stared at the space where his grandpa’s right arm should have hung, and whispered, “You lost your arm while pushing your friend away from an exploding bomb, huh, Grandpa?”
“Yes, I did, but there are others who lost more than that. Michael, freedom is not free. It is costly because of lives lost. It is priceless because of sacrifices made. It is precious because of love and dedication shown by individuals. It is invaluable because it represents a glimmer of hope. It is cherished because of commitment shown by people young and old. But,” the old man looked at his grandson with tears softly streaming down his cheeks, “it is worth fighting for.”
“I know Grandpa. Thank you.”
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I wrote this fictional story hoping that each of you would be reminded that the freedom we celebrate today is not free.Thank you to all who have served, are serving, and will serve…it means a lot.
~Brianna