The Dull Blade

At the RSL club, I caught a glimpse of an old man grabbing his drink. His face was a battlefield of deep lines and sun-worn creases. His eyes, pale and sharp, were the color of storm clouds just before a downpour. A faded army medal clung to his weathered jacket and gleamed under the chandelier, as if it had been part of him for so long that neither could exist without the other. Curious, I strolled over and sparked a question.

“Excuse me sir, where did you get that pin from?” 

“Why d’ya care lil’ tim?” He snorted harshly. 

Then after a brief moment of silence, he stared sternly at me;

“Operation Rolling Thunder,” He reluctantly answered.  

“Huh?” I was confused.

“Alright I’ll tell ya,” He began to grumble in a gravelly voice.

That was the beginning of many conversations together. He always spoke firmly, with a certain strength. He spoke of his service in the Vietnam War as a B-52 pilot. He always kept me at the edge of my seat. His every word felt like a time machine, immediately transporting me to the whistling bombs, firing guns and falling parachutes. The stories stuck to me like super glue and filled me with adrenaline. 

We kept running into each other. Overtime, the sharpness in his words softened, like an old blade losing its edge. 

He mentioned the ‘worst day of his life’. 

“I was struck in the leg by a nasty Vietnamese, that one bullet, it changed me. I couldn’t walk, fight or avenge my brothers, I felt like I betrayed em’,’

He solemnly recalled the blood and tears on the battlefield. He missed his fallen brothers, who left before he could thank them at his wedding.

The battle never stopped. Anti air missiles, anti air auto cannons and interceptors stalked him at night. It “tore him like 7.62”. Going on a flight felt just like 1972. He felt broken, unable to find someone in the community who shared the experience. "Like a single tree in an empty field,” he moped.

I was lost in his jungle of pain, grief and silence. 

Then, one evening, his usual seat was empty. A strange kind of stillness hung in the air, like a candle just blown out. The grey-haired bartender met my eyes.

“He’s gone, love. He’s left this for you.” The bartender passed me a box. Inside, nestled in velvet, were his war medals. The medals were cool against my fingers, the ribbons frayed but still sturdy, like the man himself. Under all the medals was also a handwritten note,

“Thanks l’il Tim.’

Reflection 

When composing my short story “A Dull Blade”, I wanted to spread awareness on the alienation and isolation in the war veterans' community. I want to create a powerful impact on readers by using similes, metaphors, and anecdotes to help them truly understand the hardships faced by the war veteran community. 

Firstly, I opened my narrative with metaphors to describe the veteran’s appearance. By comparing his wrinkly face to a “battlefield of deep lines”,  I aimed to exhibit the rough battles the old man has been through. Moreover, as revealed by the dialogue “Why d’ya care lil’ tim?” The veteran has a distant and aggressive nature. In contrast, after speaking to the boy, the veteran transforms, which indicates the emotional change of the veteran from being hostile to cordial. The use of a simile in “his every word felt like a time machine” conveys the veteran's wisdom and knowledge and the boy's willingness to listen to him. 

As seen in “overtime, the sharpness in his words softened, like an old blade losing its edge’, the veteran reveals his vulnerability beneath his razor-sharp exterior.

Moreover, similes are used in his anecdotes. There are anecdotes about the 'worst day of his life,’ and ‘Dreams that ‘tore him like 7.62’.  These anecdotes represent struggles and psychological trauma of the veteran, thus evoking condolence from the reader.

Through the use of literary techniques, ‘A Dull Blade’ evokes a sense of sympathy for the unappreciated veterans and sheds light on the importance of companionship.