Berting had been gone from their village for five years. He was a soldier. Everyone expected that when he came home, he would have many stories of heroism, plenty of money, and a chest full of medals.
But when Berting stepped down from the tricycle, he looked different.
Thin. Hollow-eyed. And most noticeable of all — his arms and neck were covered in scars. There was a large gash on his face that looked like it had been slashed by a blade.
No medals. No new uniform. Just an old duffel bag in his hand.
He immediately became the topic of conversation at the drinking spot in front of Aling Bebang’s store.
“Look at Berting,” laughed Mang Kanor, the village drunk. “Wasn’t he supposed to be Special Forces? Why does he look like Special Garbage?”
His drinking buddies burst into laughter.
“He didn’t even bring a single medal!” another chimed in. “The Captain’s son came home with a Gold Cross! And Berting? He came back with scars! Maybe he was a coward in war! Maybe at the first gunshot he ran and got wounded in the back!”
Berting passed by the drinking area to buy cigarettes. He heard every insult clearly.
“Hey, Berting!” Mang Kanor shouted. “What happened to your face? Did you trip from fear? Where were you assigned? The camp kitchen? Hahaha!”
Berting said nothing. He simply lowered his head, took what he bought, and walked home. He was used to pain. He had endured far worse than the words of drunken men.
Days passed, and the gossip only worsened. Some said he had been dishonorably discharged. Others claimed he had gone crazy in the mountains. No one wanted to talk to Berting.
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