by John Krohn PhD

Created on: June 13, 2008

There are never any heroes in war, there are only survivors. In the crimson aftermath of battle, selfless acts of courage are hastily forgotten as weary survivors gather name tags and render aid to the wounded. How they survived the battle is remembered when time etches itself upon the faces of soldiers who fought desperately to stay alive and to somehow make it home. They are the veterans of war who later see life in an hourglass of certain memories that never fade as the years go by. The kaleidoscope of experiences along the pathway of time may dim, but the faces of the fallen soldiers always remain. This is especially so of the image of the soldier who had paid the ultimate sacrifice so that another might live.

History seldom marks the significant places in the endless roster of war, where warriors fought with honor and became what we call heroes. We remember the wars of history, and sometimes strategic battles, but the soldiers who fought in them are faceless to all but a few. They are ordinary people who for a moment in time became brilliant torches who lit up the darkness with acts of selfless courage. They are genderless people, who are myriad in color, and they span the tapestry of every political ideology and religious faith. They are soldiers and civilians who reached into the crucible of the soul in the heat of battle to grasp the courage to act bravely, even though it often cost them their own lives.

To Dr. Richard Connors, such reflection often came when the turbulent winds of winter caressed the coastline near his home like an unwelcome lover. The gusty wind this night was pregnant with rain, and misty with the tears of angels. It was one of those nights along the California coast where you can continuously feel the light mist caressing your face, your hair and your hands. The kind of mist that gradually soaks you to the bone, but so slowly that you don't notice how drenched you are until its too late and you find yourself dripping wet. Richard was laying on a chase lounge on the back deck of his home that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. The patio umbrella provided some protection from the light falling rain.

Sometimes a gust of wind would blow a spattering of rain into his face, and Richard would close his eyes and let the cold spray run down his cheeks and drip off of his chin. It was cold enough that it was not a pleasant experience but rather made him gasp and shake his head like a black lab back from the pond after retrieving a stick thrown by

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