He said "Son, have you seen the world?
What would you say if I said that you could?"
Alfred F. Jones, at the time, had never even heard of war. He was just barely becoming an adult at the time, and was still finding out about the world, and what it contained.
Seeing the world? He thought to himself as he listened to his "father" talk about how in order to "see the world" all he needed to do was learn how to, and carry, a gun. Alfred had seen guns, even held them, but never once actually shot one. Once his father mentioned that he'd get a paycheck from this, Alfred said "That sounds pretty good."
After he was in the military for a while, he was following orders and making friends with ease. At first, he objected to the idea of it, because he would have to cut his hair in order to meet requirements, but after he looked in a mirror, he decided that his hair actually did kinda look alright, and that it fit well with the rest of his uniform.
"Attention!" The general called, putting all of the soldiers at attention and saluting. "Today we will march the premises!"
"Sir, yes, sir!" The young men sang out. Minutes later, they were out and about, walking in an orderly manner, just as they were trained to.
"Your left, your left" One of the soldiers near the front of the group belted out, beginning to sing an all-too-familiar song.
A few of the other soldiers began to join along. "Your left, right, left."
"My back aches, my belt's too tight."
"My balls itch from left to right!"
Alfred was the one to shout the next line, "I don't know but I've been told, Eskimo-"
He didn't get to finish the line because the General interrupted, barking for the men to get back to training, and that every one of them was going to have to scrub the living quarters with their toothbrushes.
Later on that night, Alfred realized that he was scrubbing the floor with his best, closest friends.
"A hero of war!"
Alfred exclaimed at lunch the next day, talking with his friends. They all stopped and glanced at him, waiting for him to go on, as he always does.
"Yeah that's what I'll be!
And when I come home,
They'll be damned proud of me!"
"'Course they will, Jones," One of his pals spoke through chews, "From now on, I think I'll call you Hero, since you like it so much."
After lunch, the General called them in to the meeting room to talk about a future assignment. They had to go to some country and get some illegal dude. That's all Alfred got out of that part.
"Jones, you're going to be leading the mission." Alfred's eyes grew wide with shock and horror, but then he nodded and saluted, as every soldier should.
Right before the mission, Alfred was called into the General's private office, for a little discussion.
"Sit, Jones," He ordered, then stood as the Hero sat. He walked a few steps away from his seat, then gestured to the American flag. "What does this flag mean to you, Jones?"
"Well, Sir," Alfred began his thought process. "It means everything to me. I mean, it's the flag that I love. Hell, I'd carry it to the grave, even if it wasn't mandatory, and then keep it with me to the afterlife, Sir. I love that flag like it's my own child. "
The General smiled, and saluted Alfred, "Get out of here and onto your plane, America."
A new nickname, Alfred thought, That's twice in one day. But I like America, I'm going to stick with that.
And he did, it was the only thing people would call him.
The mission was a success, although America did feel guilty about the crying children.
"This is no place for guilt." A soldier told him. With that, he carried the man back on to the helicopter.
Minutes later, America smelled an awful stench. He turned around to see shame all over the suspect's face. "I command you all to sto-" His voice was lost once they started hitting the suspect over and over again with weapons. Eventually, Alfred would join in. He felt it was right, and he enjoyed every last bit of it.
Now, ask any soldier and watch them tell you that when they first went into the military, they could not wait for the time to fight. This went with America as well. He would always say things like "I can't wait to be all hero and save our country!" He would make plans that would end with him being the main credited person, and the others- his sidekicks. All was well until the day that he first tasted combat.
Smoke filled the giant field in which gunfires were passed like small talk between old friends. Bodies fell, and sides cursed. Eventually, the sounds began to decrease, and America thought for sure that they were winning. Some of the Americans retreated for the day, leaving the hero alone at his post.
He heard footsteps and looked forward. He spotted a woman, carrying something.
"Listen, ma'am. This is man's territory." He began. "If you don't retreat, you'll leave me with no choice but to shoot. Please turn around."
The woman just smiled, and continued to walk. He lifted his gun, not seeing what she was carrying- yet, and fired away.
And the shells
jumped through the smoke
And into the sand
The blood now had soaked.
She collapsed
With a flag in her hand
A flag white as snow
America gasped, and fell to his knees. He couldn't walk for minutes, possibly hours. He couldn't move. All he could think about was how he had killed a surrendering woman. When he finally stood to his wobbly feet, he walked over to the woman.
"I must be a monster," He muttered, leaning down and kissing the woman's forehead, then using his thumb and pinkie to close her crystal blue eyes. He picked up the flag, now dotted with blood, her blood, and carried it back to base.
"War's over." He said, lightly waving the flag.
He sat as the cheers went off, and buried his face in his hands. He wished that his fellow soldiers would stopping yelling about how 'America is a hero.' He wasn't a hero, and he knew it.
When he went back to his father's house, things were not the same at all. When his father finally was able to get Alfred to speak, he swelled up with anger. Anger that was building up from the moment of the celebration.
"A hero of war,"
He shouted, then pointed towards the door.
"Is that what they see?
Just medals and scars?
So damned proud of me!"
His father tried to sooth him. He told Alfred that it was his country's duty to fight, and they were proud. His father didn't understand about the pain and suffering that happens after killing an innocent. Alfred walked over, and grabbed the still-stained white flag, and laid it on the table, dust flying off of it.
"And I brought home that flag,
Now it gathers dust!
But it's the flag that I love!
It's the only flag I trust!"
"Alfred F. Jones!" His father shouted, standing from his seat, "I don't care what flag you trust, you will fight for the American flag, and that's it."
Alfred grabbed his most sacred item, and looked dead in his father's eyes. "If that's the flag I'm fighting for, then I will never fight again."