A Soldier's Lament

The job knows not the luxury of a time clock. Banker’s hours exist in another world. A stop for eggs benedict on the way to the office is not on the list of things to do. A can or bag of something which resembles food will suffice for now. Work conditions are deplorable; a veritable hostile environment. Surviving monsoons and mud leads only to be ravaged by heat and humidity. The wind whips the sand so that it stings your very being. The bitter cold chills the soul.

The ring of the office phone is deafening and deadly. The ring is constant. Explosions erupt all around. Small arms take the sound of a runaway freight train. In mid sentence a business associate becomes a mass of raw meat lying in a pool of blood. Zombies walking or crawling without limbs. The acrid smell of burning flesh pervade the nostrils. The eyes are seared by smoke mingled with tears.

No escape to the suburbs at the end of the day. No martini or frosty brew with which to unwind and commiserate for the trials and tribulations of the workplace. No loved one to massage the stressed temples. A brief nap anywhere, anyway, to temporarily relieve the exhaustion, the fear.

Time passes , but the thoughts remain. An arm or leg can be replaced, but the mind may never heal. Sleep is restless and uneasy. The innocuous sound of the refrigerator starting in the middle of the night announces a mortar round leaving the tube. The dreams are unrelenting. Screams pierce the night. Sweat cascades over the body. Paranoia rears its ugly head. Who is the enemy? Where is he?

The country responds with gratitude. A medal, a new limb and to some a flag.