Dear Diary

I’m scared. Not in the way I was as a kid, when mother told me to go down the basement to fetch some potatoes or some of her pickled vegetables. Nor is it the fear that I felt, when we used to sit back home and discuss the arms race. That was more of an abstract fear that we all felt. 

This is another deeper kind of terror that I can’t handle or control. It starts out of the blue for no apparent reason. I start shaking and sweating all over. Then I get the wildest and scariest images in my mind and everything ends up in chaos. It’s not just me. Most of the times it’s also about everyone back home. It’s like having nightmares just in broad daylight while being fully awake.

It almost sound like panic attacks when he decribes his fear
It almost sound like panic attacks when he decribes his fear

I’m not a psychologist. Not even a drive-through kind of psychologist and I never really believed that much in Freud. I think he was just an old horny goat who never really understood much about gender equality. But something is wrong with me and I don’t know what it is. 

I know that I’m not going to get out of here alive and I have come to terms with my own thoughts about my pending death. At least I think so. It’s just so damn spooky walking on reconnaissance in our own complete silence, sneaking around in the jungle to find and kill the enemy before they kill us. 

On our way home from patrol yesterday one of the young guys stepped on a landmine. He stopped and we could all see that he knew that he was going to die right there and then. For a second he stopped lying to himself and you could see that he was afraid of dying. It was like staring into the eyes of a caught animal. If eyes could scream they would have done just that. 

I don’t know what he was thinking or if it was just pure instinct shining through those eyes but it only lasted for that one second. Then his legs were blown off in a cloud of wet red dust and bits of bone. He screamed shortly for help but one of the older soldiers shot him right in the head. That was cold blooded murder but he couldn’t be saved and he shouldn’t have to suffer for too long. But man, that was cold.

describing the fear of death in The Danes Diary
Fear of death

Maybe that’s where the fear comes from. It’s not death itself or as such but the fact that I don’t know how or when it is coming to me. I fear being as afraid as that young man was in that second. If I could choose for myself, I would want to get shot in the head without ever knowing that it was coming. That way I wouldn’t have time to feel fear or anything else for that matter. 

But I don’t get to choose. Like everyone else here in the jungle I walk around waiting to die and can only hope that it will be without fear. I’m positive that everyone fears that terror. Everyone isn’t afraid of dying but we all fear the fear. 

Still we are here fighting. Fighting for something, for each other and to instill fear in the enemy.  

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