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A terrible sense of loss: too many good men, lost, gone, given up as a horrible price for a conflict that had not been their choosing, a terrible war that had been thrust upon them. This was no easy walk to victory. This moment had been reached in an endless fight for frozen, agonized footsteps, each step bought with a precious life. Now it seemed their struggle might end in this mud-crusted waste for his remnant, his bloodied handful of survivors who had been his platoon. They had resisted the onslaught, they had regrouped, and they fought again and yet again, but now they were cut down, worn down, depleted.His vision filled with an orange haze and blazing eyes peered forth and he grew and rose up and stalked the battlefield, flowing forward through the shattered trees and over the gaping wounds of the torn earth. Blackness of night wrapped around him; he inhaled the stench of death and savored it on his tongue. He tilted his head back and screamed a thundering, shattering,. And when his hands found their way to my back and to my hips I was lost in him, and after his murmur of ‘bloody, Christ’ I knew I had him lost in me. He pulled away, quickly, and I was sure it was a sign that he did not want to be entangled with me any longer. I expected him to step toward the door, reenter the festivities of the evening and leave me standing alone, with that same feeling of empty pain that he left me with on that pier years before. But he stepped in the opposite direction, toward the inside of the study, and held out his worn hand to me. And with a sharp breath, I took it. He led me to the desk at a pace that matched his excitement and vigor of years past, not the cold, unrelenting sturdiness of a navy officer. I turned before the desk, still holding his hand, and faced him. I saw his chest rise and fall as he looked over me, landing at my eyes. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and after a moment of nothing I put my hand to his cheek, and pulled him down toward.
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