I served time in both the Marine Corps 2003-2007 and Army 2008-2015. Growing up watching military movies and heroic acts fueled my desire to serve at any cost. That was a deal I made with the devil that changed me to my core and left deep scars inside. I did spend a year in Iraq, and to be honest, it was tame compared to what some of my friends that truly are heroes went through.
A friend of mine that I had deployed with had a very difficult previous deployment and carried a lot of baggage. For years he kept going forward and things seemed ok. In September 2013 he lost his battle and took his life. He was one of the most calm and collected personalities I knew, and built tough. Everyone loved him.
(His drink of choice)
The vacuum that he left behind was quickly filled with pain that I didn't even show to mutual friends or really anyone after the funeral. I ended up getting hammered drunk after the funeral and took off running down the street like a complete moron where another friend eventually found me passed out sitting on a curb and took me home. I left my own pain unchecked after that and combined with the lingering question "why didn't I do something?". Searching for some way to have been a better friend and prevented this.
Eventually, he became the voice of my guilty conscience, and I am tormented by things he wouldn't ever say. I don't know if it ever goes away, and sometimes the quietest nights are the loudest.
Fiddlers Green
Halfway down the trail to Hell,
In a shady meadow green
Are the Souls of all dead troopers camped,
Near a good old-time canteen.
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddlers Green.
Marching past, straight through to Hell
The Infantry are seen.
Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marines,
For none but the shades of Cavalrymen
Dismount at Fiddlers Green.
Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene.
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he’s emptied his canteen.
And so rides back to drink again
With friends at Fiddlers Green.
And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers Green.