We march as one. Brothers of arms. I know not who walks beside me, I remember no-one. We are all the same, hidden by our disguise. Coated in armor that crunches in time with our mechanic steps as we reach the peak of the sprawling canyon. We wear heavy hearts. Gazing into solitude, such peace sends shivers, lowers heads. We breathe this in. This 'before'. This knowing yet not knowing of just what is beyond the horizon. The imagery cuts inside cold eyes, such beauty against the ugly picture we men must paint. All placed in unified rows, yet we couldn't feel more distanced. Silence breaks into the barren words of our officer. He speaks, hushed whispers, emotionless orders of our approach. Our charge into brutality, fierce uncertainty, probable death. Certain loss. Will I see these men again? We avoid eye contact, hidden by our masks of steel, inside we feel fragile, unprepared for what we train our lives towards.

We 'men of honor' have to find hope to cling to tightly. We have this moment to think. Moments before the assault, of what this is all for. Some feel they are not yet ready to die. Some question their small part in the scheme of a million lives. Others are inspired to make this count. Make their life something for another. Few believe they will see their loved ones again. I wish I could feel something other than constant pain. A numb sensation that this routine we work through shapes lives, forges and fragments worlds. Tearing them apart. Tearing us apart. A bird swoops inside purple swirls of the sky at sunset. It flies free. We freeze in our units. Nothing can be worth this.

Our guns lowered, our wandering eyes blink to find focus. We wait. I notice crystal clear water pouring from a waterfall in the distance, catch vast forests surrounding us. Not a movement. Sounds of blustering wind broken by escaping rushes of nature. A huddle of rabbits sneaking home, a thousand fireflies stinging the glimpses of uncovered flesh we bare. It is near dark. It is near.

The wind breaks into a howl, lashing against our motionless figures. We dig our boots tighter into the dusty gravel below. We see it as one. Three o'clock. Figures. Darkness blurs them into one shape forming a thousand bodies. We lift our heads to the leader. He seems less ready than any of us as he gravely readies the troops. Catching the tension of the moment, a soldier sets free a piercing battle cry. We turn away and curse such idiocy. Our cover once secure now lost forever. We never

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