Free Beneath Wandering Stars by Ashlee; Cowles Page A

e-reader to see what he was so absorbed in during R&R. Lucas had almost finished this history book about medieval knights during the Crusades who weren’t allowed to reenter their villages until they confessed their sins to a priest and were absolved of the violence they’d taken part in. I guess these warriors felt a strong desire to purge themselves of war before returning to their communities.” Seth hesitates, like he’s trying to connect the dots.
    “So what you’re telling me is these knights were sent to fight in a war sanctioned by the government and the church, but the people in power had the audacity to make them apologize for it when they got back? Wow. That’s a whole new level of messed up.”
    “See, that’s what I thought at first too, but then I read what Lucas typed in the eBook’s margin:
It’s the only way home.
There’s no other way home
.”
    Now I get why Seth didn’t tell my parents any of this. It’s hard enough when your kid is wounded in action, but hailed as a hero. It’s even worse when your kid considers
himself
a coward, or worse, a criminal who has no right to return to the people who love him most. “What do you think Lucas meant by that?”
    “PTSD is the big buzzword, but the symptoms are pretty specific. Flashbacks, nightmares, extreme anxiety. All that. A lot of people throw the label around as if every returning soldier has it, but there are other types of trauma.”
    “That makes sense.” My dad has mentioned this before too, though I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t pay much attention to his meditations on life as a chaplain’s assistant until they applied to my own brother. “What kinds of trauma?”
    “Moral wounds. Regarding yourself as one type of person—G.I. Joe, the good guy—but feeling like you’re forced to become someone else.” Seth lets out his breath in a slow, even exhale before stringing together more words than I’ve ever heard him speak in one sitting.
    “Taking human life is heavy shit. There’s no easy way to process it, regardless of our justifications or claims that it was necessary. Then afterwards we’re supposed to return to the regularly scheduled program, as if nothing happened. Strangers at the airport buy you drinks and everyone treats you like a hero, but you don’t feel like one, even if you love your country and believe in the mission. You feel like there’s this giant stone hanging around your neck, but you don’t know what to do with it because no one who cares about you would dare suggest you’ve done anything wrong. They all say you did what you had to do, what a soldier is
supposed
to do. There’s no middle ground. Either antiwar protesters on the street call you a baby killer, or people turn you into some kind of idol. They don’t acknowledge that the only reason you’re back home at all is because other people are dead. And not all of them terrorists.”
    Seth’s tone has gone from frustrated to morose in a matter of seconds. I wonder who we’re talking about here: my brother or him? Does Seth have something to feel guilty about, too?
    “Do you think Lucas believed walking this pilgrimage route would alleviate his conscience somehow?” I ask. “Do you think that would even work?”
    “That’s the only way I can make sense of his sudden obsession with pilgrimages. A lot of people think ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ are just a matter of opinion, but if that’s the case, I don’t think soldiers—you know, like Lucas—would experience inner anguish over simply doing their jobs. We have a conscience and you can kill it eventually, but your brother isn’t the type to numb himself.”
    But is Seth?
    He falls silent as we approach the café. I can feel him rebuilding his walls, layer by unspoken layer. Our conversation has hit a nerve. Something
is
eating away at Seth’s scruples. Something that has to do with Lucas.
    This is my chance. He’s already opened up this much, so I might as well push in further.