[Week 126] A soldier deployed in wartime.

I will certainly write about this prompt with painful nostalgia.

More than a creative exercise in fiction, it will be a trip down memory lane of almost thirty years.

I don't know if you will have participated in armed combat or how close you came.

What I do know from experience is about the harmful effects despite the romanticism and heroism that the elites attribute to them.

Of course, this is my perspective of a military uprising against a supposedly corrupt government.

In 1993, I was a young officer stationed in the elite regiment serving the government palace of my country.

The political situation was difficult due to the implementation of harsh and unpopular economic reforms that had led years earlier to violence in the streets and failed coups d'états.

So, distrust and paranoia rightly dominated the political and military hierarchy.

At that time, I was strongly dogmatized (not to say idiotized) with the ideas of justice and honor.

Not that I don't believe in honor and justice. Of course, I do! But not in the kind of values taught by the dominant systems.

On the night before the aerial bombing of the presidential palace, there was a tense calm in the air. At last, what had been long awaited for months was about to happen.

I remember the night of November 26 as if it were yesterday. It was nine o'clock at night when I confidently entered through the regimental gates after a short leave. I saluted my superior, who was on duty, and we chatted for a while. I complained about my bad luck and ended by telling him: What I am missing is that tomorrow we will be attacked. The captain stared at me without speaking while I retired to the dormitory.

The alarms sounded around four o'clock in the morning of November 27, and everyone ran back and forth to and from the armor parks.

Everyone took his place according to the defense plan. My platoon was part of the strategic reserve and was waiting for instructions in the casino area.

At sunrise, I heard the sound of the planes approaching the city center, and I said to myself, "Alright, the insurrection is over."

Suddenly, I was shaken by the shock wave and stunned by the explosions. How delusional to think they were on our side.

It wasn't long before the first corpses were brought to the infirmary. I received the papers of the dead lieutenant, whom I had only one year of graduation from the same military school.

The bombardment lasted sporadically until late in the afternoon. The scare stories to instill the courage to resist did not cease during the first day of the actions.

The insurgents were subdued before the final charge on the presidential palace, and all returned to a tense calm.

Several families mourned due to clashes between brothers.

It was my turn to return the corpse of the lieutenant to his family. The only male son among several sisters with the nickname of a hero of the homeland.

Lives are forgotten for an absurd cause, demonstrated by the performance of the rulers who followed them.

Regardless of the type of conflict, internal or external, the consequences are the same: suffering and pain so that everything remains the same.