Derived from a Dream
I never thought I'd ever be a soldier, decked out in my combat fatigues, peering through a pair of binoculars at the barren landscape. It's not a war game anymore, this is the real thing, Brigadier General, you're in for it, sir, you really are. You may be an elite unit, your men and women may be stronger and smarter and faster than the rest, they might be Rangers in tanks, but you're all still human. This is war, sir.
And these boys and girls, they trust me. They trust me, and I don't know whether or not it's because I wear these stripes on my breast and the stars on my shoulder, or what, or because I'm beautiful and passionate and like an angel of death when we descend upon an outpost.
I knelt in the streets of this town, I don't know where we were, exactly, and I held the little boy's hands in mine. I felt big, bigger than I think I am, because I'm only five foot two. He was six, or close to it, and his dark eyes were wide. I gave him some food and some water from our rations, and he ate ravenously. He couldn't find his momma and poppa. It's not like I'm pro-war, but it's not like I'm a peacenik either, but that's just wrenching. He wanted to know who to trust.
I couldn't tell him, but I tried to explain to him about the Americans and the French, the British, the Germans, the Chinese, I tried to explain to him about terror, but what are you supposed to say to a kid? All he knew for real was that I was a stranger, albiet a kind one, and he wasn't sure where in hell he was (as if I knew) and he couldn't find his parents. He started to cry when I offered him more of the chow, and I was so close to crying...but...
My troops were standing nearby, they were watching me. They loved me, they trusted me...I couldn't cry, I breathed in my tears and reabsorbed my passions, I couldn't show these people that soldiers have souls.
I remember a blaze of blood and fire, plumes of burning oil likcing at the dome of the sky, expanses of blowing sand and ancient energy. I could only feel my hands in my gloves, my anger, my passion, my burning need to send my troops home. Send them home, my little voice whispered, send them home.
And these boys and girls, they trust me. They trust me, and I don't know whether or not it's because I wear these stripes on my breast and the stars on my shoulder, or what, or because I'm beautiful and passionate and like an angel of death when we descend upon an outpost.
I knelt in the streets of this town, I don't know where we were, exactly, and I held the little boy's hands in mine. I felt big, bigger than I think I am, because I'm only five foot two. He was six, or close to it, and his dark eyes were wide. I gave him some food and some water from our rations, and he ate ravenously. He couldn't find his momma and poppa. It's not like I'm pro-war, but it's not like I'm a peacenik either, but that's just wrenching. He wanted to know who to trust.
I couldn't tell him, but I tried to explain to him about the Americans and the French, the British, the Germans, the Chinese, I tried to explain to him about terror, but what are you supposed to say to a kid? All he knew for real was that I was a stranger, albiet a kind one, and he wasn't sure where in hell he was (as if I knew) and he couldn't find his parents. He started to cry when I offered him more of the chow, and I was so close to crying...but...
My troops were standing nearby, they were watching me. They loved me, they trusted me...I couldn't cry, I breathed in my tears and reabsorbed my passions, I couldn't show these people that soldiers have souls.
I remember a blaze of blood and fire, plumes of burning oil likcing at the dome of the sky, expanses of blowing sand and ancient energy. I could only feel my hands in my gloves, my anger, my passion, my burning need to send my troops home. Send them home, my little voice whispered, send them home.