I cannot put into words how happy I am to see my family again. I even forgot that I turned forty-three years old during the war. I still cannot believe I got drafted despite being out of the age range. Maybe I should get that paperwork correctly figured out first.

Two days ago, I was called and awarded the Distinguished Service Cross as I demonstrated “exemplary valor and courage taking down a German landship”, fought for months, and killed so many Germans that I lost count. I was awarded the medal on a stage, with my name announced and the audience applauding. My parents were very proud of me. Yet, for some reason, I am not happy to have this golden cross in my hand. Maybe I am just a bit depressed after most of my squad perished—nothing some sleep cannot fix.

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I decided there is enough carnage in Europe, so I am thinking of advocating for peace with a group I found after a bit of searching around. I hope fewer men would be sent to become carrion just because a single person was assassinated in Austria. I also am taking a break from working in Standard Oil — I simply do not feel like it.