I heard the news.
Like most people I felt sick with worry.
How could this be happening? I mean, really happening? Is everyone mad?
Like most people I wondered what it meant.
Like most people I felt regret.
Wait, one second. Does this mean…
I’m not sure about this,
I’m not sure I want to say how I think and feel about this.
I’m not sure,
This is a good idea,
A good decision, a good solution, and a good way of resolving things I can’t, maybe, control.
Or can I?
Maybe: I don’t want to face the guns. Maybe: I don’t feel “brave”. Maybe: I’m surviving. Maybe: I’m thinking of my children, or those I may father. Maybe: I think this wrong and I don’t want a part of it. Maybe: I don’t want to contribute…to this.
Some newspapers publicly hounded us. Those who dared to think different; questioning the meaning of what was printed and the purpose of willing sacrifice. We were publicly ridiculed as “cowards”.
Of course, there was always a journalist available to write about such cowardice.
Sadly some of my closest friends turned against me. They thought exactly what they felt based on a sensational view of the world written by someone who would never experience their position. They were provided for and “safe”.
They also died.
I wore a White Feather with pride because I asked questions that could not reasonably be answered with any logic suitable for humanity to progress.
Apparently, I was a coward.