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The warrior's cry from a distant ancestry rose up in his soul and took his heart. The unknown lure of a drummer's march mesmerized his young conscience. He yearns for a bastion of glorious peril, the thrust of the bayonet, firing of the gun. He lauds the ranting of a Machiavellian scamp who sends him into the screams of war, but he needs no clarion call as he is delivered into the fray. The Soldier Boy takes up the gauntlet, the shroud of fear a gift from the Gods. Fighting distant battles he waves the bloody shirt, carries his wounded brother, and prays for the pathfinder. A mothers foreboding a necessary vigil, the letters on a page kiss his face. She traces his years of laughter on memory's page, and waits for his voice to fill the empty space.
No matter how I tried my son was adament about joining the army rather than his classmates in college. Like his grandfathers and great grandfathers before him the fates took him to a war he didn't plan on seeing. Now home from Afghanastan, my Soldier Boy can be nothing less than my hero. God is good.
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