Loneliness personified

Cold, he did the acrobatic dance in his sleeping bag, a skill he had become quite adept at over the past few years. Getting dressed - head to toe - all the while zipped up against the chill of the 3 am desert sometimes caused cramps in his back and arms, but they always went away after he snapped his body into a different position.

"Jesus", he thought to himself. Another guard shift on another night on another tour. "What number is this?", he thought to himself as he silently pulled his rifle last out of his sleeping bag. For those unfamiliar, one sleeps with their rifle when it may be needed at a moment's notice. Uncomfortable in there? No, not really. Quite comforting, to be honest.

"How many guard shifts?"..."Shit"..."How many tours?"

He trudges out and is surprised he can see his breath in the moonless sky. He quietly approaches the post, and his counterpart whispers a word...he responds with the password, and they silently exchange handshakes and make the eye contact that only those who have been there understand:

"I'm tired, you're tired, we're tired...but that is irrelevant. I was here for you and now you'll be here for me".

His fellow guardian crouches low and disappears in the darkness, intent on finding his own sleeping bag and warming it up. As he slides into the small hole surrounded by a low wall of sandbags, his thoughts turn to the fact that another Christmas has passed without a tree, turkey, or even a can of beer and a ballgame. The other day he was reading on line - he thankfully (or possibly not) - has internet access at the HQ tent; in any case, he was reading and he was rather dismayed at what he saw.

Post-Thanksgiving shopping excursions mania. Something about a new Playstation commanding thousands on E-Bay. A state Senator has a stroke or an embolism, and all anyone on either side can talk about is the balance of power in Congress. A woman forces a city council to spend money on attorney fees to stop her from putting up 5 billboards in a major city telling children Santa isn't real. She quotes her first amendment rights. Our man in the hole can't help but note the only people who talk relentlessly about their freedom of speech are the people who want to do something stupid with it.

He wonders if anyone really gives a shit any more that he is here. Gone is the patriotism of 2001 through 2003, replaced with disappointment at bungled policy and a frighteningly false sense of security. "Words", he chuckles silently to himself. "We're going to solve this problem with words". He shakes his head slowly as he scans the broad horizon in his night vision goggles.

Patting his rifle he whispers, "I got your words right here".