10yrs. too late now

We lived in Africa. I was about 10 the first time a mortar hit our home. Father was away, leaving me, mother and 2 sisters. They cried - but I didn't 'cos I had an automatic shotgun and spare rounds. I realized they really were trying to kill us, I hated them. Soviet RPG7's, recoiless rifles, Stalin Organs fired at us. Despite all the crashing and banging, the only sound that frightened me was small-arms: bursts of AK and RPD fire, close, with green and blue tracer rounds, flying in sheets over us. But I knew the gully they were hiding in - it was my playground. I crawled in the safe darkness til I could see their muzzles-flashes. Then I put the front sight on them, and shot them. The shotgun recoil always made my nose bleed. They screamed and crawled away. I crawled back to my mother. She was angry. When my father got home, he called me a damn fool. I didn't care. I loved it. Still miss it. only one thing: why didn't anyone tell me I did good?