The Marine woke again at first daylight and, putting his arm out, he felt the stinging air where aching memories surrounded him. He looked at the frozen tomb where the dead grass wore a frost-rimmed coat. A shadowed figure came out of the tree line with a rifle slung over his shoulder like a medal.

The Marine slowly cocooned out of his mold-infested bag, and felt with his hand the light frost that surrounded him. He could still hear the receding voice of the unidentified fire-watch Marine announcing the wa

He motioned the Marine over to the chow truck, pointing his finger down the trail in the direction of the cluster of Marines. He turned slightly in the direction, and with his head down, made his way up the steep trail through the trees. As he walked, he felt the weight of his rifle against his back. In his hand, he felt the dirt between his fingers.

The end of the chow line seemed never-ending. The Marine watched the others reaching impatiently for their canteens, anticipating the watered-down soup, seeing the steam rising from the camouflaged canisters, slowly inching their way through the line.

“We are moving north, closer to the Delta,” explained the Marine.

The gunny was short and heavy, white-faced, with broad cheekbones; gray haired with dark green eyes, a thin-bridged, curved nose like an Italian’s, a long upper lip and a broad, thin mouth. He was clea

Some topics in this essay:
Keeping Faith, Gunnery Sergeant, Marine Maine, chow truck, tree line,