The luckiest are the ones that died quick, painful deaths.
Then there are those who suffered, who knew death was near but could not relax into it soon, but where left stranded in a last nightmare of pain and helplessness.
But the unluckiest, the damned, are the ones left alive. A cruel twist of luck kept them safe, but not healthy. These are the men who have all seen friends die, in agony and shame. They have seen the thoughts leave a wracked body, seen it become just another lump of flesh, and witnessed the sweet release that death gives to anguish.
But they could not share in it. They stay alive, with their memories, and their guilt. They are a brotherhood, of sorts. They share those terrible memories, and that pointless guilt. And they share their silence. Ask any of them what it was like, "What did you do in the War?", and they will give only the briefest of answers. They know what it is to see things beyond witch normal life becomes impossible, and they will not damn you by showing you. To spread such hate is the worst thing they can imagine. They are good men; but shadows of their laughing youth, no longer free, and always separate.