The Blades of our Fathers
He took the shoebox down from his closet. Lifting the cardboard lid he began rummaging through the contents. Sifting thought the old Boy Scouts scarf and badges, stubs from concert tickets, souvenir buttons, and other keepsakes he took each item out of the box and placed them on his bed. Finally he found what he was looking for.
The leather sheath was falling apart with age, but he still smiled as he ran his thumb along the edge. Two Japanese military daggers were placed inside. The handles were blue with an ivory dragon on one and a bird on the other. One dagger had a chip in the blue that covered the handles. He unsheathed the blades and looked at the steel. The blades had dulled over time and brown specks spotted the blades; he never knew if it was blood or rust.
His uncle had given him the military blades when he was younger. They had belonged to his grandfather when he served in the Pacific during World War II. He had served as a cook for his unit. The story was that he had taken the blades from a Japanese solider he had killed in combat.
It couldn't have been easy taking another man's life. He must have been scared to death, knowing it was either he or this Japanese soldier who he didn't even know his name. It was war, and men had to do things to survive they normally wouldn't do. But he had helped the good fight, saving the world from the horrors of the Japanese and the Germans.
A tear rolled down his eye. Not of sadness but of pride. The bravery that the men in service exhibit constantly in fighting the the enemies of his home. He placed the blades back in their sheath, placed them in the shoebox. They were then returned to their place in the closet, for some other day of reflection.
The leather sheath was falling apart with age, but he still smiled as he ran his thumb along the edge. Two Japanese military daggers were placed inside. The handles were blue with an ivory dragon on one and a bird on the other. One dagger had a chip in the blue that covered the handles. He unsheathed the blades and looked at the steel. The blades had dulled over time and brown specks spotted the blades; he never knew if it was blood or rust.
His uncle had given him the military blades when he was younger. They had belonged to his grandfather when he served in the Pacific during World War II. He had served as a cook for his unit. The story was that he had taken the blades from a Japanese solider he had killed in combat.
It couldn't have been easy taking another man's life. He must have been scared to death, knowing it was either he or this Japanese soldier who he didn't even know his name. It was war, and men had to do things to survive they normally wouldn't do. But he had helped the good fight, saving the world from the horrors of the Japanese and the Germans.
A tear rolled down his eye. Not of sadness but of pride. The bravery that the men in service exhibit constantly in fighting the the enemies of his home. He placed the blades back in their sheath, placed them in the shoebox. They were then returned to their place in the closet, for some other day of reflection.
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