Letters From A Fallen Soldier:

I am the tyrant’s ghost. I haunt his visions, and dominate his mind. He conquered territories, but he didn’t conquer me. Even in death, I am his victor, for while he took the life of others, I gave all others my own.

I did not fight because I hated what was in front of me; I fought because I loved what was behind me. My passion was not in taking life, but saving it. I didn’t fight for my country because it was perfect. I didn’t fight for my family because they were righteous. I fought for those things because they were mine.

At the foundation of my service was a passionate love for God and country. It meant I was ruthless in battle, and uncompromising in my mission.

There are some who believe that love is roses, and act like it’s soft, weak, and nothing but sweet smells and gentle kisses, but they’re wrong.

Love is a lion - powerful, protective, fearless, and intimidating - so I roared like a lion in war. It filled me with a ferocity unmatched by any of the other virtues or emotions, and I completed my task with dreadful efficiency.

None of this needed to happen, but it did, in part because there were some who believed the answer to war is not waging war.

Great Britain promoted that policy in the 1930s, and so did the other European nations (well, all of them except for one or two). They didn’t believe in war, so they were confident war wouldn’t come to them.

I died because of their mistake. The men and women who were confident war would not come to them came to them quickest. Those who refused to fight guaranteed the rest of us had to.

Thus, I participated in unspeakable battles because I was in love with a world I’d never see again. I died a foreigner in a foreign land, giving up my life so others might have it.

I am called the fallen soldier, but I am not yet fallen. My regiment still stands in the structure of modern civilization. I’ve stained the pages of history crimson with my blood, and it cries out against those who would dare wash it away from the annuals. My life, poured out on Normandy’s sand, serves as a reminder to the living, young and old, of the price they never paid for their freedom which cost me everything.

I do not regret my sacrifice, for I did what I needed to do. I followed in the footsteps of Christ. I gave up my life so that others might live. “I desired my life like water, and I drank my death like wine.”