Dreams on Fire

11:00 PM

The night was seemingly endless for all concerned. Sentries paced back in forth, soaked by the warm tropical rain. Men and women couldn't sleep in the wet, humid atmosphere, eaten alive by mosquitoes and gnats, but neither did most of them have energy to do anything but lie in their tents and drink and read and pray. They were in a state of nervous limbo, forced to impatiently wait for the dawn that would signal their entrance to Valhalla.

Groggy Dundee sat in his tent listening to his MP3 player. As it shuffled to a familiar tune, his mind quickly lapsed into a contemplative reverie.

You are my ocean wave
You are my thought each day
You are the laughter from childhood games

His mind flickered back to Edith. It was always Edith. No matter how much tried, no matter how much he thought about the campaign or his men or his own ambition, his mind always came back to the plump, shy and smart brunette, his girlfriend, the first person to give him her whole heart. What a horrible tragedy it had been to lose her. Liz Ackatsis was barely a dim memory, a one-time event who had already faded from memory. Losing Edith had hurt him more than any howitzer shells and mortars could hope to, and it was a scar he couldn't hope to heal. And yet, reflecting back on their final conversation together, he couldn't help but think she had something of a point.

You are my spark of dawn
You are where I belong
You are the ache I feel in every song

What had he achieved in all his years, he wondered. A trail of blood-soaked bodies, friends used for cynical, selfish ends, and nothing to show for it but a few dirty epaulettes. It was nothing, and now he was fighting in yet another war he'd helped to intiate, with men and women dying as a result of his actions. He could take some solace in that the war originated in the backrooms of Washington and New York, far beyond his own reach, but it still gnawed at him. For one of the first times in his life, Groggy began to feel painful guilt.

Dreams on fire
Higher and higher
Passions burning
Right on the pyre

This was perhaps the closest Groggy, in his egotistical state of mind, could come to self-actualization, to realizing what a bitter, twisted joke his life and actions had been up to this point. Whatever would take place tomorrow would either validate his life or destroy it, whether literally or psychically. For this reason, selfish though it was, he knew everything was riding on the outcome of the battle. In twenty-four hours, he'd be a hero, a goat, a corpse, or a combination of the three. Even more than his Mexican expedition, he needed a victory for his own vindication.

One spark
Forever yours
Give me
All your heart

Well, tomorrow is my day of reckoning, Groggy thought, hot tears streaming down his cheeks as the song wound to its conclusion.

Dreams on fire
Higher and higher...

He stood up and exited the tent.

* * *

Groggy walked through the pelting rain into the officer's tent. The handful officers present snapped to attention, but Groggy, lost in thought, barely acknowledged them.

After a moment of silence, Groggy sat down. Looking down at the ground, he off-handedly spoke. "Terry," he said to his old school chum-turned-Sergeant, "What do the men think about our war? Why do they think we're here?"

Sergeant Falk seemed surprised by the question. "Well, sir," he began, unsure of how to proceed. "Some say it's to liberate the Palacians from tyranny, some say it's to check Russia's imperial ambitions, some say it's to re-establish American military credibility... some say it's to ensure our President's re-election... and some say it's for the benefit of corporate America and the media, so they could sell papers."

An awkward, comteplative silence overtook the tent as these words sunk in.

"Either way," Terry added, "It doesn't matter to me. I'm here for the regiment."

Lieutenant-Colonel Starbuck interrupted, his voice brimming with passion. "Pardon me, gentlemen, but I've seen why we're here. I've met the people and seen the way they look at me, look at my men. Didn't you hear from Major Atlas about the Palacian militiamen who shot their officers and joined our advance on the right? That shows we're on the right side."

Captain Harriman spoke up. "America has always struck me as overbearing and self-absorbed in its foreign policy," she interjected, skepticism and hoped intermingled. "It would be nice for if I could believe we were doing something justifiable, for once."

"What people exactly are you helping?" Martinez said cynically. "I haven't seen more than a handful of civilians the whole time we've been here. All partsians or Russians or mosquitoes."

"And why do you think that is?" Joe said defensively. "Because they're all dead or in prison."

"Bullshit," Martinez said, but cut himself off after catching the glance of his Colonel.

"Regardless, gentlemen, of why we're here," Groggy said, realizing that his works, speeches and writings had played no small part in amplifying the drums of war, "Is it worth dying for?"

"Charlie White sure thought so," Terry answered. "Enough to die for it. And I'd rather think that it wasn't for President Obama's re-election, or for Rupert Murdoch's circulation."

At this, Major Atlas entered, with a huge bottle of Dr. Pepper. "Excuse me, Colonel," he said, saluting. "I've procured this soda ration."

"That's bully," the Colonel replied, allowing the Major to pour out the drinks for all assembled.

"To the regiment," Lieutenant-Colonel Starbuck offered his glass in toast.

"To victory," Captain Harriman added.

"To the officers," Atlas countered. "May we all be killed, wounded, or promoted."

The officers assembled chuckled at this macabre statement and turned to their cups. Groggy slowly downed his Dr. Pepper, the slightly spiced taste lingering in his mouth. He savored it, realizing it may be the last time he would ever taste a drink, soft or otherwise. And Atlas's words, attending as self-deprecating braggadacio, more or less summed up what Groggy needed to come from the morrow.

"To Valhalla," Groggy said quietly.