An elder remembers

Note: Image associated is from Ironage.media, specifically their writing prompt 'The Dirigible'

"What was it like, papa?"

"Hmm?"

"That, papa, what was it like?"

"Oh," the Grandfather followed his granddaughter's hand, looking again at the painting and the photo the artist had copied. He thought back to the war, 60 years ago and, as had been the case for decades, couldn't find an answer he wanted to give. 'What was it like?' he echoed her question to himself, and immediately the flood of answers came roaring back. Terrifying, horrifying, blood-soaked exhaustion wearied him as it had then, even as the exhilaration and adrenaline came coursing through his aged muscles once more.

The war was long and awful. Even the hamlets hadn't been spared its wrath, not that you could tell anymore; all of them had been rebuilt and flourished in the peace made after, much as the graveyards that now dotted his country. He had been lucky to live through it, so many of his friends and brothers had not, and the grief was never far from his mind. But he could never bring himself to hate the war, even as he still hated their enemy. After all, he had met his wife through it, and his children and grandchildren lived far better than he had, thanks to his status as a war hero. It had taken so much from him, but he reaped many benefits after. All because, as he knew deep down, he had enjoyed the war and revelled in fighting it. But how do you tell your children and grandchildren that? How could you tell them you enjoyed it when they could see your grief, and heard your nightmares? He chose not to.

"They were the worst years of my life, little one. It was, indescribably awful. Seeing you, and your siblings, is all that makes it worthwhile. If I never see war again, it'll be too soon." He lied, not looking her in the eye, hoping to spare her the full truth of himself, as he had done to all his children and other grandchildren. It never got easier to do.