I fired several shots sending bullets tearing through a living breathing human. He dropped to his knees gasping for any vestige of life, but it was to no avail. Crashing to the ground his last signs of life disappeared. In the middle of it all I felt no sorrow or grief. My mind convinced me he was not really a person; that he had no humanity. Over the years my feelings would change, nevertheless I was still tortured by the memories and I wondered if I would ever find peace. My Country made me a hero, but my conscience told me I was a criminal.
My name is Woody. This is My Story of America.