“NEITHER RHYME NOR REASON”
by OPOVV, ©2017
(Jul. 29, 2017) — He never, in his short life, never felt so alone. “So this is what loneliness is,” he thought as he looked around and saw the faces of the determined, the desperate, afraid to show fear but, in the monumental effort not to show fear, even showed it all the more. And up ahead he knew there were those like him, in the same struggle for life and death, as if they were performing for some Aztec king playing a sport where the winner gets to live another day and the vanquished is put to death, never to see another sunrise, least of all the setting sun.
He looked down and saw his feet move forward. He thought that he never really saw his feet move at all, yet here they are, moving: “So these are my feet moving, step after step” (as if it’s an out-of-body experience). And then comes the question: “How in tarnation did I end up here at this time and at this place?” And yet he’s acutely aware of the slightest nuisance around him: an ant just moved a grain of sand out of its nest; a whisper of wind caused a blade of grass to rub against another.
And now it’s time to crawl, ever so slowly, so as not to step on a twig and make a snap, which would be tantamount as standing up and pounding your fists on your chest, hereby proclaiming the right to be King of the Jungle as a bullet takes you down. Wasn’t it all one big surprise that people don’t bend down and fall, silently, when they die, after they’re shot, or when they’re winged it’s without a grown man screaming just because his right knee is completely gone; or he just took a bullet in the hip, which in turn ricochets and severs his spinal cord so, here he lies, alive but unable to move; can’t even cry out for help; can’t even move his arms to eat a bullet.
And all of this takes place faster than even you could read these words. You live on adrenaline, your life’s blood, the thing that keeps you alive. “How was it?” is forever asked. It was a “piece of cake” or “not too bad,” but it really wasn’t quite the slice that was dished out. There’s nothing fair about it: either you eat it or you don’t. And why don’t you deal with it? I don’t know, but neither do you, so let’s cut to the chase and just say it’s a Rite of Passage and leave it at that.
I’ve been out for a few years and guys have often said to me, “Had I to do it all over again I would’ve joined up.” I stay silent but inside I’m saying to myself it’s a darn good thing you didn’t, because if the enemy didn’t take you out I might’ve. And then there’re those who say, “I guess it was pretty rough, wasn’t it?” as if they want the truthful answer, but they don’t and you don’t want to take the time nor make the effort to tell them, “Well, now, how do you think you’d feel after?” and then you get to recite all the things you had to do to keep it together. But you play along with the charade because if you don’t they’ll send you away to the Farm, Loony Bin, Padded Cell; take your pick.
Of course most of the warriors are crass and unimaginative, inarticulate, unread and unwashed, and that goes for the top brass as well as the grunt. There’s neither rhyme nor reason as to who gets to live and who dies. One can recite passages from The Iliad while another from the Bible and yet each, apparently, is equal fodder for a harvest by the Grim Reaper. Lady Luck is the Goddess of the Field of Battle; there is none other.
Right or wrong doesn’t enter the scenario: he who deals the last hand wins. Does the dealer deal from the bottom of the deck? From the sleeve? The only thing that matters is being alive after it’s all said and done; second place doesn’t count, for there is no room for graves among the living. And that’s all I have to say about it.
Except this: the Oath is paramount, which means the Constitution is at the apex of it all. Any infringement on the Constitution, such as illegal voting, is absolutely no different from the enemy taking a bead on me with the express purpose of rendering me dead. The same can be said for a Muslim being in my country: even though the government of the USA capitulated does not necessarily mean that I have, not by a long shot.
By the way, my mule don’t like people laughing at him.
[And just as an aside, don’t be fooled: Newt Gingrich is a full-fledged Swamp Rat. “Serving in the trenches of Congress” may sound brave, but I bet he never had to sharpen his K-Bar the night before he went into combat. And one other thing: being “volunteered” is the same as wrapping yourself up in Old Glory and jumping into the head of the line, when it’s all said and done; when it’s all over; after the shower and the hot meal.]
[And last, but certainly not least: we can’t have Muslims in our police forces, in our military or ON our bases, no matter where in the world they may be, let alone within our borders.]