It was a cold and empty night, with the barrage of mosquitoes baring down on us the only sound in the area. How were we so sure that the plague of stinging insects were the only ones to create noise? Any other movement, be it a snapping twig, a rustling of leaves, or the deep exhale of a waiting breath, was heard and determined by sharp ears and over-active imaginations.

This was the most memorable experience, for me, knee deep in swamp waters in the middle of the Vietnam jungle. Our brigade is full of cadets or other pawns of war with more adrenaline then experience, all with eager ears and eyes and a certain feeling of unease at the eerily silent surroundings. Our commanding sergeant had held up a hand, and we were waiting now, senses on high alert as the surrounding jungle was filled with the familiar sound of insects and the smell of death and decay.

How many bodies of how many men had to be killed, to create that unbearable stench? How many of those men had come to this war with no real idea of the danger or the purpose?
A war without personal meaning is a war with NO meaning.
For each and every soldier, like the men around me today, to go to war is to fight FOR something, to fight with someone, to fight against a common enemy. Standing in these shadows though, in the tangent air of pointless death and destruction, meaning does not exist.

We stand here, the smell burning into our senses, extending beyond smell and into taste. A few are resisting the urge to gag, I am sure, as we wait.
Several hours have passed, and many are now restless, the concentration crossing the barrier to paranoia, but we must not be found. Ambush.
We must not be seen, heard, sensed in anyway possible. But, as these fighters, these soldiers, these boys, are forced to wait, to stand there and wait, the restlessness grows. As it grows, the opportunity arises far too quickly for error. Like it does now.

A twig breaks, and the youngest, (what was his name? Ryan I think...) aims his rifle for the vast expanse of trees and leaves, opening fire. His mistake realized, he freezes, the eyes of his comrades burning holes into his uniform, as we wait.

Waiting, it's all we ever do, as we stay in this same rut of eat, sleep, shoot and ambush. A constant game where the prize is paid in blood, sweat and tears. We wait, as the shadows continue to creep, blotting out the fleeting sunlight which had only just managed to creep through the tree canopies above. The waiting, in

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