War Wombs

We all had our purpose, it’s what keeps us up at night when it passes.

Ask anybody nowadays how they feel about children, the thought sickens them. Could you imagine? Splitting yourself open in service of someone else? Man, sperm donor? It all seems so foreign to this generation, so far off in the land of racism and dated platitudes. Meanwhile, we’re happy. We meant something to the rotation of the planet, kept the beds warm fighting our own wars at home.

I’d have a million children if I could. You start to forget the names you give them after six or so, it becomes a numbers game, little pieces of you roaming the countryside in the pain of war and precious jewels, they hardly care that they’re just barcodes. Service to the country matters whichever way you slice it, I was too blind to be a pilot and too uncoordinated to fire a rifle. The Doctors told me these were recessive genetics, offspring meant to be strong and virile.

Slightly looking like me, the facial structure, bones of the nose. Piercing eyes, those were distant from some relative i’ve never met before. Everything else belongs to the Country, their doing. I trust their judgement, i’m amazed at the advanced technology. You used to see this stuff in dystopia, in movies counting on some future that could be saved with the human spirit. Now it’s here, locked in bases kept protected from society, doled out in plane-loads over the Atlantic. I used to fight to keep at least one of them, but it wasn’t my job to save the vessels. It was my job to prepare them.

I’m infertile now but i’m considered a veteran. I’ve got a funny hat with marksman symbols on it, i’ve got a rank, i’m on disability. They can’t fit you with a new surgical womb, but they sure can stitch it up and make it look shiny brand new. Those trade arguments on the TV scare me sometimes, I know what level we can produce at now and it’ll pale in comparison to whatever the world can throw at us. I mean, just look at Africa. Their not even investing in the science and yet we’ll have formidable savage armies screaming elephants galloping down on the tanks when the fight inevitably spills into the Oasis. Left scrambling, we’ll outsource like we do all to Vietnam or China, in the prayer that they’re not against us too. Another element for the trade war, ship the soldiers in from overseas, boats and planes, secretive Coast Guards. War-games are sensitive, to tell the truth I hardly pay attention to foreign affairs. I believe only in what we’re doing, and the little part we all play even if we don’t participate.

There are those that live tragic, the fence-sitters. Have no purpose as they age out of possibility, born into the dirt these lost souls are. I thank God every day I was the right age, the right size, when they slowly tacked off every possible position for me except for the one I served. Back then it was called archaic, to be a breeding experiment.

Yet, without me and many others, our ranks would’ve dwindled to the death-wishes of bored eighteen year-old’s and Air Force rejects. Allow me some pride, we only raise the best.

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