Silence Isn’t Always Silent

The crutch struck the cobble stones along with his left foot, the right dragging behind, and the sounds echoed strangely off the closed-in buildings.

The quiet was the hardest thing to get used to. In camp, there was always some kind of noise, the other boys talking, or the sergeant yelling, trucks driving past the tents, radio’s squawking, and on the bad days, people shouting as they came off the ambulances, gunshot, one hundred boots moving in the same direction, the whistling of mortars –

Leaning against a lamppost, breathing hard, he watched as his last cigarette fell from his fingers.

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