There is something lonely about a peaceful life. I am lucky, very lucky, but I've always been lucky. Ever since I was a lad I've always had a knack for being at the right place at the right time. I wasn't the tallest, strongest, nor fastest, but I was lucky.

This luck seemed to have helped me through life, after all I am still alive, and many are not. But throughout the years I spent in the war I started thinking, maybe I was the unlucky one. After all, here my body sits, writing in this journal on a nice porch in the Southern March. My lovely wife is inside with my little ones, three now.

But my mind, my mind is not here. My mind is not sitting on the nice porch writing a journal, with its wife and kids inside, my mind is back, back in the war. Back in the trenches of the overland, the jungle of the south, and the deserts of the east. My luck saw me through the war, through the miseries and trials of war.

But there is something I miss, that my mind hangs on. Not just the atrocities that I've witnessed, but the camaraderie, the brotherhood, my mind is stuck on all of it. There is something lonely about a peaceful life.