The Final Entry of a Soldier Going Home...

Two applications of tired tape, stolen outright from the supply sergeant in the beginning of the war, secured her sacred image to the inside of my helmet for two and a half long years.

In moments of uncommon and much deserved down-time I would light a stale British cigarette and begin a review of my surroundings for a regulation-annal officer. In finding none I would stealthily remove my steel pot, place it before me, and completely dissolve myself in front of the alter of her loving existence tucked neatly underneath the helmet's net lining.

I would stare for a minute or two, counting the assured ten curls, two buttons, and one ear and I would ask her about her day - I'd tell her about mine. We would laugh and we would carry on for ten, sometimes fifteen minutes, then we would exchange goodbye's until the next time ... and until the time that we would submit to goodbye's no longer.

You'll read this one day - I know - and you'll likely laugh but nonetheless understand that you were and are and shall forever be my perfect escape to comfort and serenity.