man of war

Sacred soldier, 

Dark destroyer, 

Avenger of sorrows. 

Manchild— frightened, faithful, strong, and true. 

Life’s blood, his currency. 

Life’s blood—his own if need be! 

Down to the valley, 

With brothers in arms, 

The conflict fierce and raging, 

All in smoke and thunder 

And terror and screams of the damned, 

The holy, hallowed, hollowed lost. 

What sacred hopeless folly, this children’s crusade! 

What bitter treachery, moonrise over hell, 

Brother against brother, 

In service to the gods. 

He had always known that there was something powerful and holy in the bond and love of brothers in arms. It was neither noble nor base, but profoundly sacred and mysterious. It was the root of the heart laid bare and naked before comrades. No pretense, no bravado, no clever devices. It was total dependence on men who held your life in their hands and utterly depended on you for the preservation of their own. It was the brotherhood of those who have laid down their lives and walked side by side into hell, their only hope resting in each other. It was the haunting hollow comfort of shared horror—of secrets too brutal, too dark, too painful to speak, or ever to reveal to the uninitiated. It was the haunting emptiness of death shared between those who slipped lost and alone beneath its shimmering blackness and those who held them in their arms as the last fading light ebbed away, only to carry their death with them long and unmercifully to elderly graves.

He had known countless Viet Nam Vets over the years. Each seemed to have a strategy all his own for carrying the sacred burden of his membership in this tragic thing. Some managed better than others. Some did not manage at all. But none would speak of it freely. He understood this. They were the sacrifice laid down before the gods of war. They were the unclean thing—anathema to a self righteous culture that had no sense of its own unclean heart. They were scapegoats for the unexamined darkness of our own black shadows. They dared not share their hell with us. Neither we nor they could hope to bear it. All of us were far too insecure, much too fragile, hopelessly unconscious.

Brothers in arms found no rest. No one could or would comfort their crushing sorrows and tortured hearts. And so, they have carried on, shrouded in secrecy—silent in condemnation, forbidden and unclean, but by no means profane—holy dogs of war, the sacred hounds of hell, set loose among us to torment our complacency and to mark the way of shadows for those of us brave enough and strong enough to venture to the edges of our own moonless black night.