I've been to war, and it's not easy to kill. It's bloody and

The words of Oliver Stone, both warrior and storyteller, fall heavy with the weight of experience: “I’ve been to war, and it’s not easy to kill. It’s bloody and messy and totally horrifying, and the consequences are serious.” In these words, he tears away the illusions of glory that so often clothe the talk of war. He speaks not as a dreamer nor as a politician, but as one who has stood in the fire, who has felt the burden of taking life, and who knows that battle leaves scars deeper than the flesh.

The ancients, too, struggled with this truth. Homer sang of Achilles, whose hands were swift to kill, yet whose heart was burdened by grief and rage, haunted by the deaths he dealt. The poets of old told us plainly: to kill is not easy, no matter how songs may glorify it. War is bloody and messy, not only upon the fields where bodies lie, but also within the soul of the one who survives. Stone’s words remind us that the true horror of war is not in the clash of weapons alone, but in the enduring wound it leaves upon humanity.

Consider Stone’s own story. As a young man, he fought in the Vietnam War, a conflict that scarred a generation. He saw firsthand the chaos, the horror, the “mess” of combat. Later, in his films such as Platoon, he sought to show the world what he had seen: the dirt, the blood, the moral confusion. He gave voice to those who returned with broken spirits, who knew the truth behind the banners—that killing is not clean, not easy, not noble, but soul-shattering.

His words also reveal the folly of those who speak lightly of war, who treat it as a chess match of nations. For every strike carries consequences, not only for the dead, but for the living who must carry the memory. Armies may count victories in land or numbers, but the true cost is borne in shattered families, wounded minds, and generations who inherit the pain. Thus, Stone warns us: war is no tool to be wielded casually, but a fire that consumes all who touch it.

Let the generations remember: the warrior who returns from battle knows what others forget—that killing is no act of triumph, but of tragedy. The blood spilled cannot be undone, the horrors cannot be erased, and the weight of it cannot be easily borne. Oliver Stone’s voice, like the voices of the ancients who sang of Troy, calls us to wisdom: glorify not war, for its true face is sorrow. If we must fight, let it be only with full knowledge of its cost, and with reverence for the lives it will forever change.