The New Recruit

I'd like you to meet the new recruit,
with the blush of youth in his cheeks,
the light of glory in his eyes.
His mind is filled with tales
of adventure and gallantry,
his heart with patriotism and pride.
His uniform reflects the pageantry and polish
of his military schooling,
his mind with the unity of his team.
He is both excited and afraid
on the eve of battle,
you can see it in his eyes and
his whoopass grin.

He has all the knowledge of his trade:
he can figure range and trajectory,
lock in the computer,
touch the fire button, and
the enemy dies --
just statistics written in a log.
He can rush from cover to cover,
his weapon at the ready and
beat the clock.

Nobody told him of the terror as
night skies sob with steel and lead, or
the flashes that rob his vision;
his face covered with the gore
of the man who fought beside him,
his shirt streaked with blood and vomit.
Shrieks of terror and screams of pain
come from every side --
some are his.
It's not supposed to be like this.

I'd like you to meet the veteran,
with scars upon his body,
a guarded expression on his face.
His mouth is filled with gallows humor,
his heart is filled with fear --
though he tries not to show it.
His mind is filled with flashbacks
of friends he left in the field.
His uniform is stripped
for comfort and fighting ease.

He has all the knowledge of his trade:
he can figure range and trajectory,
lock in coordinates, and fire.
He knows the sound of incoming,
and has a place to hide.
He can pull the trigger, and
stand his ground.
The dead are no longer statistics,
but faces that haunt his nightmares.
He pines for the days long past
that he believed in dreams, and
slept at night.

He's coming home a different man.

Dallas D'Angelo-Gary 01