These are my friends. My friends.

Matoskah, White Bear, the proud Native American.

Juan, the guitar player from Puerto Rico.

Rick the farmer's son. Sean from the Bronx, Bob from Texas.

And I, Staff Sergeant Rick.

I have been through hell with them.

They have been through hell with me.

Wounds are treated like insults. Anger is returned.

We are the best when it is the worst.

We fight for our country. We fight for the honor to do so.

No one will stop us from defeating the enemy.

No one will come between me and my friends.

Many have fallen without a second word; others die in screams.

I have killed. We have killed. We do our jobs.  Indifference blinds our memories.

Forward, always forward. We are tired of walking.  When will it end?

When will we go home? It is cold. It is hot. It is always raining.

The mud sticks to our boots like a mass of leeches.

The bugs. The bugs. More and more bugs.

Artillery shells rain down on our foxholes.

Men disappear in a roar.

Even though we are brave we cower in our homes in the ground.

It feels like the safety of 'home', the only memory we have left.

A deafening roar. Help me! I am hit.

Blood oozes from my chest. My friends surround me.

White Bear presses a bandage onto the gaping wound.

They tell me to hang on.

The world around me grows dim.

Their voices become slow mumbles.

The world goes dark.

I am alive. I am home.