Among the tops of the forest canopies, across sun swept plains, down mountains, water flows till its arms outstretched form deltas river beds. That is our purpose, to flow through and out everywhere like water and where it goes. The job at hand is never secured by means of my choice, I follow the words from the ones above till it is my turn to make heed and support my mate beside, in front and even behind me.
Rattling in the leaves like autumn stomping underfoot, our artillery can only do what it is meant to. If I am in charge, then I am in command of its ferocity. Thus training not only ourselves to find the solution to a square peg in a round hole, but to out, without thought, the hero mentality behind. For the hero does not secure the lives of his mate, he can not bring back the wounded nor declare that no one is left behind.
It is rare breeds though, that you will find amongst us, those in search of blood only find their own attempts to mix it with the soil. Blood does not soak into it to create mud, unless you pour the whole, saturate the earth with it. That is not our unit, not our distinction. We sacrifice our choice and loyalty to gain trust in places no one dare tread alone anymore.
For what reasons, we leave to the thinkers, the makers and the system, hoping its general class action leads the way from corrupt negativity. Every cog, every necessity, reason for the next to have an easier job.
And foremost in this, is, their words! We carry that burden of frostbite in our mouths and lungs so others can be heard. This word we tread through, blood sweat and tears is so my family can sleep peacefully at night, knowing that others across their lands are sleeping just as well. We are all responsible for the history we are living in. So this may or may not be clarity for the few that have forgotten that freedom, and its gifts, that it should be dealt with by a seeing justice, not blind.
So we stamp our feet in the ground. “Be brave, my heart, plant your feet and square your shoulders to the enemy. Meet him among the man killing spears. Hold your ground.” Archilochus.
We stamp our humility in our actions. Our realisation that these foreign lands have their own customs and reasons. Which in their process of life enduring brought them freedoms too. Freedoms they wish to continue with. Our duty is but more simpler than that, our, this unit, its duty lies simply in purging the corrupted so called haters. Yes, one man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist. But as in always, the good, great endeavours are those which sail the seas of change. Cast ashore the notion of choice and equality.
It is but humbling, not a gratitude I wish to seek. When the owners of those lands thank the ever present unit. The unit, we call mate.
Don't thank me yet, it's my day off. For the little treasures at the end of my feet are dry and embedded, draped in cotton wool socks. Up three feet in the air, pitched up against the wall. In one hand lies a still too comfortable for a nomad like myself, whilst in the other, cold or warm, nuclear today, a cup of joe, bigger than my third leg.
And we stir, we stir each other's third eye. We stir cause waiting for war breeds fear. Cussing what makes a man a man, or a spear or bow such too. Laughter fills these moments, joy in laden cotton wool socks. Still ever mindful, still ever in our hearts. Relaxed and comfortable with thoughts of our family, his, hers, and theirs too. Because I am still a soldier at heart, my blood edicts it.