what we did in the war || @ofdarkfeathers
Like every dutiful American boy, James Ford enlisted in the army to help fight for his country. Truthfully, he'd never much been the patriotic type, but seeing Pearl Harbor attacked ignited a fire in his own heart, and he knew it wouldn't sit right with him to not get out there and help any way he could.
So many of the other soldiers had people back home missing them, but James had no one. Nothing. For most of his life, it had been that way, and while he wasn't suicidal, he couldn't help thinking if a bullet happened to catch him out there in the field, better that he die than some kid with a wife and baby waiting for him back home.
He didn't think of that particular mindset as noble, it was just a fact; he didn't have much worth living for, so he might as well die for something worthwhile, if that was the way things worked out.
Shipped out to France a few months into his tour of duty, he found himself both exhilarated and terrified. He wasn't looking forward to shooting at people, but running from people trying to kill him gave him a purpose, sick as it was. During an ambush in a small village, he'd caught a bullet to his leg, and it bled like a son of a bitch before anyone could get to him. He must have passed out right there in the streets, bullets exchanged on both sides, because when he woke up, he was laying in a stiff bed in what he assumed was a makeshift hospital of some sort. He was disoriented, and in a hell of a lot of pain, and made that known loudly as he tried to push himself up on his elbows.