Walking, walking, trudging, walking.  In the jungle, in the rice paddies; trudging and sloshing with the incessant rain coming down beating your helmet and the constant sound on your poncho.

You know that all is hopeless.  You are hunting for Charlie; you have been walking five clicks a day, for two days.  Rain comes down in sheets day in and day out.  You can’t concentrate on your mission anymore. 

Your mind has withdrawn from reality; it is numb and tired.  Your thoughts wander to another world—to back home—back home you could go where you want, do what you want.  How did I end up here?  All I can do is walk—I can’t stop or go of my own free will; and the rain is coming down in sheets—I wonder what is on the other side of rain. 

I bet it is sunshine in another time and another place—sunshine that I may never see again.  I am sick to death of rain.  On the other side of that sheet of rain I know I will find peace—my girl Donna, my dog Boots—ah and yes my 1958 Chevy Impala—my brother is driving it now.  He is still in High School—I wish I were there.

A voice stirs reality.  “Come on Jones, keep up.”  “How many times do I have to tell you—ten meters apart—ten meters—got that?”

You don’t acknowledge or answer you just keep walking, trudging, walking, trying to find the other side of rain.

©7/19/07Terry Sutherland

Sans Peur

Terry