Personal Narrative Essay: The Military Draft

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A dark, thunderous bolt pierced the freezing night, as a messenger came to my house. It was nearly midnight, and I was nearly getting ready for bed. Tomorrow would be the same day as today - a short trip to the local industrial complexes, and a shift of 12 hours before being sent home. It was like an endless cycle of labor - no one knew when it will stop.
The messenger stopped by our house. Usually, one can tell if it is an “authorized messenger” if he was escorted by several soldiers. This one was different - he was a member of the quickly dwindling “resistance” in our town. He panicked knocked on the door - fearful that this routine mail delivery may be his very last.
I didn’t respond. Soon, he gave up, and just left the note on the snow.
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As I put on my overcoat, a series of loudspeakers, announcements, and horns started to resonate throughout the neighborhood like an atomic bomb. It sounded awfully familiar.
It's the damned draft again, I whispered silently.
The "draft" happened once every year, and people hired were forced into military service until a new draft would be organized. It was basically the government's way of getting more fresh blood for the military, and a way to prevent the common people from slacking off. Most importantly, it saved the regional central committee from overcrowding their labor camps - they would just use “undesirables” as targets for recruits to shoot - and therefore, free themselves from having to schedule executions.
I hated my service in the military. We were forced to match in the rain, in the mud, in the sand. Since our military taught us the importance to obey our 'glorious general secretary', political dissidents were usually "target practice". These poor people were tied down in poles, and we, the soldiers, had to take shots at them. One person in our camp threw down his rifle in disgust and ended up bludgeoned in the head by our commissar - a vivid memory of the horrors that lurked in the
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