I can hear the distant echoes of screams and gunshots, but they can hardly drown out the rapidly beating rhythm of my own heart. Looking through the small, filthy window, full of grime and dirt from the chaos outside, I see the soldiers marching away and dragging an innocent man with them.
Fear encases me, flooding my brain with a cold wave of shock as the life bleeds out of his limp form and the soldiers stand, laughing. This is why I have to leave, I can’t stay in a place where they steal the lives of the innocent.
A soft pressure on my hand stirs me from my slow descent into misery. Looking up, I meet the kind yet frail face of my only family left: Grandma. She is the sole reason that some light still peeks through the hooded cloud of death
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Packing my life away. How can I possibly pack a lifetime of memories into one bundle? Yet, these are the sacrifices of war; limiting myself to a few precious memories to recall the times when home was overfilling with warmth and happiness.
I tentatively place my most precious possession, a storybook, into the bundle as if it holds the secrets of the universe. It was given to me by my parents right before the soldiers violently tore them from my arms. Stifling the cries trying to crawl up my throat, I continue packing and soon, all my memories lie safely in the bundle.
Looking up, I exchange a glance with my grandma and I know it’s time to leave our home, but then again, we’re only leaving because home won’t let us stay. I glance at my home for one final time, and before the onslaught of memories and sadness can attack me, we leave the house in the dead of the night.
With silent, even paces, we tread, ignoring the palpable fear polluting the air and silently praying that the soldiers do not find us.
Abruptly, we stop when an army of footsteps as mighty as thunder overpowers our passage to freedom. Soldiers. Paralysing fear spreads through my body like poison, and closing my eyes tight, I squeeze grandma’s hands. It’s over. Three months of preparation and our escape plan
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Silence washes over us and we barely release any breaths as the soldiers march by us without stopping. Finally, I release my breath and my heart slows. We’re safe for now, they didn’t spot us.
What I fail to notice is that Grandma lies on the ground, her fragile legs no longer supporting her. Dropping my bundle of memories I reach for her, and I don’t know how but an unknown strength passes over me like lightning, and I lift her lithe form in my hands. My bundle long forgotten, I carry Grandma with carefully measured paces hidden under the dark shadows of the night, to where our vessel to freedom waits.
Reaching the docks, a small boat waits. The boat is already overflowing with people ready to flee their homes towards a safer future. Gently setting my Grandma down, I hold her hands in a vice like grip to keep her steady on her feet.
Nearby, I spot a small family exchanging their final goodbyes with a young boy, his face full of the innocence held only by children. Tears were spilling down his soft face like rain, and I knew that he has to get on the boat alone, without his family. Yet these are the sacrifices of
War can be considered a tragedy, but war can also signify bravery. So many men and women die fighting for their country daily. What really happens behind enemy lines? In “The Things They Carried,” a short story by Tim O’Brien, he uses various rhetorical devices to explain to his readers to help them truly understand what it is like to be in war.
You run, stumbling over roots and rocks, terrified out of your mind. You cannot think, and your breath comes in stutters. Your instincts tell you to hide, to try to outrun the being that is ravaging the corpses of your fallen comrades. You do not know where you are going, but your brain and your body are screaming at you to GO AWAY RUNRUNRUNRUNRUN so you do.
“The Things They Carried” by Tim O’Brien is a non fiction body of fiction writing. While names, characters and situations are imaginary, the circumstances encountered by the people represented in the war depicted are very much real.There is an intriguing story line beneath yet another story that is being told and with each sentence the more it resonates. There is the story of unrequited love, unabashed bravery, and unfathomable pain. Throughout all of this turmoil and what is the very essence of discomfort, the story moves forward and the reader is compelled to follow. In relating the layers of stories wrapped into the writing O’Brien masterfully uses the techniques of repetition, pattern and indirect style of writing to emphasize that no amount of physical weight compares to the mental and
For the seventeen Soldiers portrayed in “The Things We Carried” by Tim O’Brien, the physical pain was very minimal weight to carry compared to the emotional scars that they will carry throughout their entire life. This story does an amazing job portraying full human emotion that anyone put into a situation would feel, such as heavy guilt, sadness, anger, lack of motivation, perseverance, horror, and false security. All of these are notorious feelings that every soldier back in history, and now still feel when they are on a mission. “The Things They carried” shows a deep vulnerability of everyday human’s thought process during times of great stress, that before, wasn’t considered by the general public and media when speaking about what it
. . . Like I was losing myself, everything spilling out” (O’Brien 202). Provided with only laconic, expository definitions, an audience cannot truly feel the pains of war. O’Brien utilizes descriptions which evoke all the senses and submerge the audience in the unique and powerful sensations of war. Witnessing war’s pains through the familiar tactile crunch of an ornament or the splash of liquid spilling, the audience can immediately understand the inconceivable pressure placed on the soldier’s injured body. O’Brien continues, “All I could do was scream. . . . I tightened up and squeezed. . . . then I slipped under for a while” (203). His abrupt syntax and terse diction conveys a quickness to these events. Not bothering with extraneous adornment, his raw images transport the audience to the urgency of the moment and the severity of the pain. Now supplied with an eyewitness’s perspective of war’s injuries, the audience can begin to recognize the significance of the suffering. O’Brien tells his audience, “Tinny sounds get heightened and distorted. . . . There was rifle fire somewhere off to my right, and people yelling, except none of it seemed real anymore. I smelled myself dying” (203). In the same frame, O’Brien paints the rumbling chaos of the big war juxtaposed with the slow death of the small individual. His description emphasizes the purposeless discord and confusion of war and seeks to condemn its disorder. He argues that war’s lack of
O’Brien discusses the physical items the soldiers carry with them to characterize each soldier and demonstrate how these items are used as an escape mechanism for them. For example, Rat Kiley carries comic books, Kiowa carries his Bible, Ted Lavender carries dope, and Lieutenant Cross carries love letters and pictures from his love back home, Martha. These items that distract the soldiers from war play a major role in the soldier’s sanity. Their personal distractions give them something else to focus on rather than the thought of misery and despair in their times at war, especially in Lieutenant
For many years war has been a huge part of history. Thousands of people go to war for their country and come back physically fine. But what people usually do not notice is the emotional distress and burden that the veterans come back with on their back. That is what drives the purpose of the book in “The things they carried”. Tim O’Brien wrote this book in way that shows how war can be part of the soldier for the rest of their life. Coming home veterans have to deal with individual sufferings, but the emotional baggage the soldiers bring also effect the people around them. The characters in the book the “The things they carried” portray this very well.
I remember the smell, the sounds, the taste of blood. I remember seeing my comrades fall beside me, the sting of the cuts. The numbness as I fell alongside them, the sadness, the tears. The price of war, I believe my father said that to me before he died. I remember being lifted and carried, I remember a laugh. Then I felt my mind slowly becoming numb, and soon my mind was consumed by the darkness. Like a wildfire it spread from the farthest of places, destroying everything in its’ path. It was over, the war was lost, hope gone; at least until today….
He charges out to the front lines, along with other soldiers. The gun trembles in his hand and he wills himself not to drop it. Above him, aircrafts beat their heavy wings, whirring as they drop bombs down below. Jimin bites back his tears and his fears, and surrenders himself to the mistakes of his country.
The sounds loud, deafening even, as shots rang out. The fighting raged on, over to the left, an explosion went off, knocking a young man off his feet, pain stung his arms, legs, his body, as he fell to the ground, first to his knees then to his hands. His face hit the dirt. The sounds were loud, deafening even, as more shots rang out, and then the sounds were just in the background, a distant memory, the young man faded, but as he did, he did for his country. Before I walked into The Coles Museum, after I left, and during my time there, I had, and still am thinking and pondering greatly on what freedom is, and what it means to me. Freedom is a power, freedom is a privilege, and we have it because of our veterans and those who fight.
“War is Hell!” These three words have stood the test of time and numerous wars. These words uttered by General William Sherman, a unionist Civil War Veteran, perfectly describe the hardships faced by all soldiers, from the American Revolutionist to the modern day soldier in Afghanistan. Tim O’Brien served in the Vietnam Conflict from 1968 to 1970, (O’Brien 1131) during some of the most intense fighting known as the Tet Offensive (Durkin). During the conflict 58,202 Americans were killed in action (Durkin) and hundreds of thousands, more were left with not only the physical scars of war but the emotional ones too. In the short story “The Things They Carried,” Tim O’Brien uses symbolism and conflict to show that soldiers often carry more weight than what is on their backs.
As the plane lands in Atlanta, Georgia two hundred others and I are escorted by Drill Sergeants to the buses. Several hours go by and finally I arrive at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. I glance at my watch, it’s three o’clock in the morning. The Drill Sergeants are screaming “MOVE PRIVATES! WE DON’T HAVE ALL DAY!” I run as fast as I can to formation just to stand at the position of attention for three hours. The morning sun is beating me in the face and the Drill Sergeants are still yelling.
She lays helplessly, hopelessly tranced. What will remain of her in the coming hours is unknown, but one thing is for certain, I will remain by her side until she is an empty house, cold and unseeing. Though sorrow may fill my bones, all that I let show through is a sense of tranquil energy in lieu of the recent events. She mumbles and murmurs longing for the life long past. Embarrassment occupies her brain as she contemplates why and how her life has come to this. She reeks of stupidity and frailness when her life was nothing close to that. She fears that what we leave behind is more important that what we were. Is it though? Regardless of what she was or what she has become, I am here and I will always be here.
As it approach the time to leave grandmas seemed like everything got blurry, the rug seemed like it was moving and the air seemed like it was getting cold out of nowhere. Grandma always grabbed me tight as she seen mother taking footsteps to the door and saying her goodbyes. She know I never wanted to
I rush out before them with them tailing me. We run towards the exit stairs. Moments later, we reached outside into the cold winter and the clatter of gunfire fills the air “ratatata-ratatata.” Military Jets scream by with sound breaking speed. Helicopter blades beats the air like drums. Military officers shouting orders and tanks rolling past with clanking metal tracks. We rushed out into the direction where the military officials pointed. Soldiers leading the way and soldiers follow. Escorting us to safety, we reached an area of quietness with only machine-gun fire in the distance and explosions are from afar. “QUIET DOWN!” ordered a soldier. Every whispering voice lowered into silent footsteps. My military training kicks in with flashbacks from my past: “GET DOWN!” said an army mate as a rocket propelled grenade whooshes past and hitting the wall behind us. Returning fire with our military issued M4A1 carbine rifle. With only 5 of us left and outnumbered with 20 insurgents engaging us with AK-47 assault rifles. We radio in for support and I hear a thud as my face gets smeared with blood. I check to see who’s it is…” The leader in the front held up his arm in a ninety degree angle with a fist clenched. Everyone stopped. There is nothing but quietness. The leader signals for two soldiers to check ahead in a building. The two soldiers move in closer to the building. “BOOM! BOOM!” Rockets hit where the two soldiers are. “GUAN XI!”