It's 1969, and most of my days are hot, only to turn cold at night. So I sweat by day, and shiver by night. At the end of my day, I am thankful for being alive, and I pray to see another sunrise. Now, the darkness limits my sight, and my ears work over-time to compensate for what I can't see. I sleep in shifts, and even then, with my minds eye open. I cling to my weapon, ready for what may come, as times before has taught me what can. The fear I feel, pulsates through my soul. While my body is taunt with at-the-ready muscles, I try to rest. But, like a coiled snake ready to strike, I'm tense though out the night. Always ready. Always.
Not wanting to, I sometimes slip into thoughts of home. I miss the laughter, the smell of fresh air, the taste of a homemade pie, or burgers. I miss my family. Even as a young warrior in full battle gear, I miss my mother. Strange, how during times of fear, we are like little children and miss the tender security of our mother's arms. Yes, I miss home, but I fight to make those thoughts pass. I have to let it go. I can't linger in such thoughts of home. I force myself to focus on the duties of this day, because warriors don't cry.
The new day gives me visibility, but so too does it give light to my enemy. I set out with my buddies, hoping our training, our alertness, and each other, will give us the upper hand and make it through another day and night. Day and night, night and day. Like putting one foot in front of the other to get somewhere, we cautiously march the time through the days and nights, that will hopefully get us closer to going home.
In our other life, our life before this war, we were kids mostly, or young adults at most. Some came right out of high school. Others had real world jobs. Where ever we came from, here, now, we're in this together. No color, no wealth or poverty, not even the part of the country really mattered in this place. We wear the green, carry the weapons, and do what our country asks of us. At the end of the day, it is each other that we really fight for, and that coming of a new day.
At the start of each new day, we plan our missions and prepare our gear. We watch our backs and move out to do our jobs. In face of our fears, we do what we must anyway. Some nights we light up the sky, and during the day, well, more of the same. On some days, we grit through the toughest of times, when someone we know won't see another sunrise. Every day is a test of physical and mental endurance, and the facing down of our fears. After a while, it becomes a strange norm for us. We fear, we do our jobs, and at times, we tend to those fallen, then go on. We go on each day, putting one foot in front of the other, night after night, day after day. A warrior at all times. No matter what happens, warriors don't cry.
When we're done and our part of the mission is over, what do we tell our families? What can we tell our families? How can we tell our families? We don't. We can't. We don't know how. We're afraid to even try, because warriors don't cry. At least, not that we'll let you see.
