The Guardian

The Guardian1

By Zaffen2

It’s raining again or, still, you’re really not sure, which nor do you really care. It’s hard to spare the energy to be concerned about such trivial matters.3

You make no movement or sound to betray your presence or that of your comrades, who, just as exhausted as you are, sleep nearby wrapped in their ponchos, lying in the mud.4

They depend on you for their safety; their lives are literally in your hands, lest through some error on your part, the enemy finds your location, and descends upon you and your comrades in overwhelming numbers.5

There would be no prisoners, even if death was to come at your own hand, or at the hand of a comrade-in-arms, it would be preferable to the torture inflicted by the enemy.6

Gripping your rifle in anticipation of attack, your senses strain into the wet blackness, seeing movement and shadows where none exists.7

Your eyes are tired, so very tired, but you dare not allow your eyes to close, even for a second, a second which could last a very short lifetime.8

You body twitches slightly at the sound of the faintest rustle, anything different from the sound of the blood pounding in your head.9

Your body aches from the miles traveled in stealth, and constant tension, through swamp and jungle, up hill and down, the weight of your equipment a torture that you must bear.10

Finally, the clouds part, the rain ceases, and the stars appear in the moonless sky as temporary quiet reigns.11

Quiet, that is, until the night creatures begin to call out to mark their territory or advertise for a mate and the hungry insects find you once again to saw their irritating sound into you ears, flying into your eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, while pausing to bite, and feed occasionally, until it very nearly drives you mad.12

The heat converts the water and it rises as steam, which becomes fog, and soaks you under your poncho as if you had been standing uncovered in the rain anyway.13

You can smell your self; the stench of a body, long unwashed, is all but nauseating, and your comrades don’t give off a better bouquet.14

The patrol should be ending soon and you look foreword to the showers, hot meals, and relatively soft bunks that haven’t been available where you have been for far too long.15

Still, you have to get through the rest of the night, as you note the false dawn through a break in the overhead canopy of tropical foliage.16

Soon, very soon, the merciless Sun will shoot above the horizon bringing with it the blast furnace heat, cooking your brain.17

The humidity, combined with that heat, will be making it difficult to breath, causing you to gasp for air under the load of your equipment and almost, wish that it would go ahead and just rain even if it allows for the endless mud’s return to suck at your boots, making each step a challenge.18

There is no good time, place, or season for a war; it’s always too hot, cold, wet, windy, or dry.19

The last to seek a fight, a soldier knows better than anyone the cost, that is the province of the politicians, most of which have never served.20

Hours or days of tedium interspersed with minutes of pure terror but you have a choice, you always have a choice, you can choose to live in fear, bowing to someone else’s will, or you can fight. It is just as simple as that.21

Some always want to appease, to take the easy way out, not realizing that the path they would take leads to slavery, or death.22

Down through the ages, such has been the case, and you’re proud to take you place in that honored band.23

You’re the Guardian.24