"For me?" The childish voice asked as little hands grasped the sweet smelling box of new crayons offered by old calloused fingers...

His rough fingers opened a box of new crayons and he closed his eyes as he inhaled the clean scent of innocent memories. From the small combat pack next to his M-4 Carbine, an upgraded M-16 with a shorter barrel and telescoping buttstock, he drew a leather bound sketchbook, flipped it open, and smiled as he saw childish words scrawled on the inside front cover.

"We miss you daddy. Angel, Lewis," and a tiny ink-black fingerprint next to "Matthew." He tenderly touched the names, imagining small fingers scribbling the words on the paper that he touched.

The sketchbook and crayons wrapped in yellow ribbon and paper, arrived before the last mission. Their meaning still puzzled him.

Major Jeremy Gray chose blue, his favorite colour, and drew wide swirls across the first page with the thin crayon, and filled the loops with brown, yellow and green. Blue reminded him of the freedom of the sky, while brown, yellow, and green represented the warmth of the Earth that so often eluded him as he grew older.

He no longer stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth with concentration, preferring the smoky cigarette that now dangled from his lips.

Jeremy's brown eyes squinted within a lined face beneath a narrow shock of sandy coloured hair that ran from the top of his forehead to the back of his neck, his head otherwise being completely shaved. The haircut was a recognition of his Mohawk heritage through his grandmother, though he knew little else of those warriors who once fought in the forests of the northeast. He was of medium height and husky with broad shoulders.

He was known for his leadership and combat abilities and the contrasts of being quick tempered and unflappable.

He was a far different person from the gangly teenage father looking for a job and an education who joined the Army 13 years before.

Jeremy inspected the completed page, smiled, and turned to the next.

"Damn," a platoon leader seated next to him, a black lieutenant, mumbled as he studied the flat screen on the back of the seat in front of him. The lieutenant was a West Point graduate, one of the generation of officers come of age during the War on Terrorism, now known simply as 'The War.' "The 8th Peacekeepers and 278th Armored Cav rounded up 500 suspects and grabbed arms and munitions caches in Tehran last night."

Jeremy grunted with semi-interest. Iran was one of the countries coerced into asking for an American presence that, in a little over three years, cost America some 1,700 dead and 5,200 wounded. Yet, the terrorist network there was largely crushed and many terrorists were imprisoned, awaiting justice. The Iranian government was well on the way to being remade into a moderate Islamic version of the American government under the strict mentoring of Washington.

"Gentlemen," the pilot's voice rose over the mesmerizing whine of the jet engines of the chartered airliner, "we have left Africa and are over the Mediterranean, bound for Budapest."

The Rangers cheered as lovely, smiling stewardesses pushed little drink carts down the aisle. Jeremy silently looked out the window at the blue Mediterranean far below, shadowed by a wind-borne plain of wispy clouds.

"Drink, sir?"

He looked up at a pretty blonde stewardess. "Rum and coke."

"Dammit!" The grimy, bloody squad leader swore with heartfelt anger as he held his canteen upside down. Not a hint of water fell from the dusty mouth.

"Here," Jeremy said as he tossed his canteen to the sergeant.

The early morning desert heat pressed down on them on the outskirts of the burning nondescript settlement by the Jubba River near the Ethiopian border. Sheep, cattle, and camels wandered freely among the shell and rocket blasted thickets and grass, and the nearby fields of millet and sorghum.

He wrinkled his nose at the rancid, bitter sweet smell of blood, gunsmoke, and napalm that swirled through the air as Black Hawk helicopters marked with red crosses roared in pick up the wounded. Deadly Apache helicopter gunships circled lazily, waiting to pounce on anyone foolish enough to resume the battle or interfere with the evacuation of the wounded. Scores of torn and decomposing bodies -Somali moryan, bandits, Arab, Sudanese, and Nigerian jihadists -scattered among animal carcasses, from which the bodies of Rangers and Polish paratroopers were gathered, created a hellish tableau.

Armored vehicles, a reinforcing company from, in proper nomenclature, the 27th Infantry Brigade (Light) (Separate) (NG) rumbled down the road. They arrived at dawn in spite of ambushes, accompanied by tough Czech paratroopers, with guns blazing, not as a rescue force but as part of the hammer and anvil designed to crush resistance.

"Show time, sir," the sergeant said as he tossed the canteen back. "Thanks for the water." The NCO walked back to the burning settlement.

Jeremy looked over his shoulder and saw a small group, including their battalion commander, approaching. He sighed, checked his M-4 and waited.

"This is Major Jeremy Gray, who was here throughout the battle," the battalion commander announced. He stood straighter and nodded to the tall four star Air Force general looking down at him. To salute the new Chief of Staff of the Air Force while on a battlefield would be a very bad idea.

"Major, congratulations," General Raymond Akers gripped his hand in a crushing shake. A military photographer danced around them, snapping photographs while a grim faced security detail in civilian clothing surrounded them with ready weapons. "I hear tell you played an important role in this fight."

"By default, sir," Jeremy answered. "Captain Bridges ran the battle while I made occasional suggestions."

"Nonetheless," General Akers nodded with a big smile as he adjusted his trademark M-4 slung across his back with two ammunition magazines taped together by red duct tape. The carbine would have been a laughable touch except that he was a former Combat Controller who was a veteran of eye to eye ground combat. He wore his second trademark, a World War II style visored crushed officer's cap, at a rakish angle. His third trademark, a World War II leather bomber jacket, was too hot to wear in the hilly, scrub brush desert of southern Somalia. "I hear tell you led a bayonet charge to recover a machine gun position overrun by the Somalis and jihadists."

"Not quite, sir," Jeremy replied. During the moonlit battle he joined a squad that, after the squad leader was killed and the corporal took over, arrived too late to save the position. Aided by their NODs, Night Observation Devices, they hurled a barrage of grenades, laid down an accurate killing fire, and stormed the position. "I only accompanied the squad."

"Like the haircut," the general, who was bald, said. "Reminds me of the haircuts the 101st wore before they jumped into Normandy." The battalion commander cast a reproving glance at Jeremy who should have had his camouflaged Kevlar helmet on, except that he took it off to mop the sweat and blood from his head and face.

"Yes sir. My grandmother is Mohawk. I figured it was a nice nod to her and her ancestors."

The general nodded appreciatively and asked, "Successful mission?" They crossed the road to a small hill, a rise of the ground actually, covered with rocks and thickets. The hill was part of the defensive perimeter thrown around the settlement by the Rangers and a platoon of Polish paratroopers.

"Yes sir." He was proud of the Ranger company he once commanded. "The night drop went as planned. Our guys and the Poles overran the arms and munitions caches belonging to Omar Mahdi. The Somali gunmen and jihadists, as well as escorting security for a Mahdi camel convoy of qat and weapons, attacked. Mahdi reinforcements crossed over from Ethiopia a couple miles away as expected. We brought in helicopter gunships and air strikes, then the 27th Infantry guys and Czechs threw a ring around the battle. After that, it was our killing ground."

"Was Omar Mahdi involved? Was he killed?"

"No sir. Mahdi runs his gunmen and arms business from next door in Adis Abeba."

"Unfortunate. And you ended up here, how?" The general asked as he folded his arms and looked at the dusty ground strewn with empty ammunition casings.

"Resupply flight, a sling load of M-4 ammunition. RPG hit us as we came in and we crash landed. One door gunner killed, the other and the co-pilot wounded. At least the ammo got in," Jeremy shrugged with a nonchalance he didn't feel. The dead door gunner looked so young. The military photographer snapped away at Jeremy until he responded with an annoyed look.

As smoky tendrils drifted around them the general paused on the rise littered with enemy bodies. He stood with legs apart, hands on hips and a grim look on his broad face as the photographer circled them. General Akers was no fool. The pause was a good public relations opportunity. And PR, coupled with genuine ability, including being the Air Force commander in North Korea and Iran, as well as political acumen, helped his rapid rise through the ranks to become the Chief of Staff.

No less helpful was his nickname of 'The Warrior Poet,' for his published poetry was often compared by the sharpest critics to The Song of Roland and other chansons de geste, the Medieval French poems that celebrated great deeds. It was his chansons de geste of American soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines fighting throughout the world that caught the romantic and idealized attention of a weary public.

Though General Akers had a doctorate in International Relations, he was a well-known medievalist fluent in French and Latin, and authored papers on subjects as diverse as the sociology of the Crusades to the economics of Medieval warfare.

"What's your degree in?"

Jeremy blinked, surprised by the question. "Sir, ah, Associate in Arts, Individual Studies. Jefferson Community College outside of Fort Drum."

"That's all?" Even during wartime military officers needed advanced degrees in order to climb the military rank hierarchy.

"I'm sort of working on a Bachelors in Art through eArmyU."

"What's your goal?"

"After the war, become an art gallery curator. And sculpt and paint."

The general raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Curator? Sculpt and paint?"

"Yes sir." Jeremy felt uncomfortable as the general, his battalion commander, and others studied him.

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I've always loved art."

"The act and beauty of creation? As opposed to the darkness of destruction?"

"I suppose so." It was the strangest conversation he ever had on a battlefield.

"I need an aide," the general announced as he surveyed the smoky battlefield through the shimmering heat waves. "Want the job?" Jeremy's mouth dropped open. The general grinned at him. "There'll be a lot of visits to Air Force bases around the world, and visiting DC headquarters in Budapest, too. You married?"

"Yes sir."

"Where's your family?"

"Fort Benning."

"And?"

"A wife and three children. My daughter is oldest, a son, and my newest son is expected anytime."

"Congratulations," the general boomed and slapped him on the shoulder.

"Thank you sir."

"Think about it. Let me know after you get back to Fort Benning and talk it over with the family," the general said. He started to walk away, then turned and called out, "How does your wife feel about your plans?"

"She can't wait."

"That's good to hear," the general smiled and resumed his battlefield tour.

"Yes sir." Jeremy sighed, sat cross-legged on the dusty ground with his M-4 across his lap, and lit a cigarette. He studied the burning settlement, the bodies of fighters and animals scattered everywhere, listened to the popping of distant gunfire and the clatter of circling helicopters. On the nearby dirt road, men, women and children from the settlement, guarded by grim Polish paratroopers, sat with their hands plasticuffed behind their backs.

The smoky battlefields littered with the bodies of the enemy and friendlies were always the same. The same smell of death and cordite and fresh blood, whether in the icy winds of the western Hindu Kush in Afghanistan, the furious sandstorms of Iraq, or the howling blizzards along the legendary Yalu River between China and North Korea.

And now the ancient heat of Somalia.

From the beginning he understood the disbelief and exhilaration of survival after combat, though understanding his excitement, even his pleasure of combat, left him puzzled.

He looked again at the people, fallen descendants of a fearless warrior race with a centuries long reputation of fighting for Islam without fear of death, dressed in a mix of traditional and western clothing. Children's small brightly coloured school bags lay nearby, torn open. Several of the people, including children, stared at him with hatred. He knew the Somali reputation for avenging the death of family and clan members, even if they had to wait 10 or 20 years to revenge themselves upon the murderer.

And if not the murderer, then the sons or daughters of the murderer.

All he ever wanted was to support his family and be an artist. A mundane job in the Army while he attended college and qualified for educational assistance after his enlistment ended, was his ticket to future success.

Jeremy turned away from the hateful eyes memorizing his face, and watched through his cigarette smoke as the Black Hawks rose into the air with their cargo of wounded.

More than 10 years after 9/11 the Army at last learned the value of 'decompression.' Despite the pained protests of Pentagon accountants and manpower specialists, units withdrawn from the battlefield were no longer loaded onto military and chartered civilian aircraft for immediate return 'stateside.' Now it was 10-14 days of being able to unwind, get drunk, find a woman, and bullshit for hours with buddies in relative safety before they flew back.

And, perhaps a blow to the manhood of combat veterans, encouraged to visit with a social worker or psychologist assigned to each company, when not attending mandatory post-combat transition briefings.

For the Rangers it was a week in occupied and semi-peaceful Mogadishu that still held bitter memories of the October 1993 battle for them. Off-duty troops, always armed and in groups of three or more, relaxed in the mostly ruined whitewashed city of colonial Italian architecture by the Indian Ocean.

The fighting against the Somali warlords and jihadists had moved to the rugged acacia treed Karkaar Mountains of the north, from which myrrh and frankincense was once shipped to the Holy Land, and the woodlands and grasslands of the Somali Plateau to the west and southwest.

Everywhere the warlords were unable to mount an effective defense against the calculated, crushing American offensives to disarm them and establish peace, along with food distribution, across the country to resettled populations.

Nor could the jihadists halt the destruction of terrorist networks that previously flourished in Somalia and within the Ethiopian border areas.

The decompression in Mogadishu was followed by five days in Budapest, once an outpost of the Roman Empire known as Aquincum, on the legendary blue Danube that was birthed from two streams in the Black Forest of Germany just north of the Swiss border.

Budapest knew it's own agony, from the Mongol burning of Pest and the population put to the sword in the 13th century, that resulted in the building of Buda on the west bank, to the last stand by German soldiers until Budapest fell to the Russians in 1945. Budapest knew momentary freedom in 1956 when university students revolted against Communist domination until that heady moment was crushed by the broad metal treads of T-55 tanks and cannon fire.

Since the fall of Communism the city became known as a romantic haven, a reputation helped by the occasional discovery of passionate lovers in isolated areas of grassy, wooded parks.

More recently Budapest was home to the Danube Confederation, i.e., the Janissaries of the eastern countries of 'New Europe' versus the western countries of 'Old Europe,' as a former Secretary of Defense once coined the phrase.

'Washington East' this new outpost was derisively called by critics.

It was five days of exchanging e-mails, chatting with, and telephoning Bethany, his faithful and long suffering wife, and their daughter Angel and son Lewis. Matthew, born the night that his Black Hawk crash landed, was too young to do anything except smile at him over his flat screen laptop.

"He's not smiling," Bethany said during one of their many international telephone calls guaranteed to drive them into poverty. "He's too young. It's just gas."

"Hey, our son is smiling," Jeremy replied as he studied a photograph of Matthew printed out at the American Red Cross Center. "He's a genius doing that at his age when all the other babies are just gassing."

"Sure, if you say so," she responded with a soft chuckle.

Jeremy never tired of hearing the voice of his wife of 11 years.

After the Rangers settled into the airborne base near the airport, Jeremy made a beeline for the colorful artist colony town of Szentendre, St. Andrew, in the Pilis Hills north of Budapest.

The hillside town was once a Roman fort known as Ulcisia Castra, Wolf's Castle, overlooking the Danubius, as the Romans knew the beautiful sparkling river that was the ancient border between empire and barbarians. He wandered the narrow stone lanes that wound up steep green hills, visited small gardens, hilltop churches, and the many art galleries in small homes. Snow flurries interspersed with rainy drizzles swept across Szentendre as he contentedly, and enviously, whiled away the hours sipping coffee while watching artists at work on paintings, drawings, and marble sculptures. He feasted on spicy chicken and beef soup, wild boar, and meat and rice filled peppers, sometimes alone, sometimes in the company of a local artist.

In the homely warmth of the small art galleries and cafes he wished Bethany were with him.

As he watched the Szentendre artists at work he often thought of Michalangelo's beautifully sculpted marble 'Dawn,' from the Medici tomb; Monet's colorful oil "Luncheon (Decorative Panel);' John Singer Sargent's oils of 'Madame X,' and 'Smoke of Ambergris;' Degas's pastels of 'The Morning Bath,' and Auguste Rodin's powerful bronze, 'The Kiss.' He admired the dark beauty of the mythological inspired paintings of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, such as Waterhouse's 'The Magic Circle;' Sandys' 'Morgan-Le-Fey,' and Millais' 'Ophelia.'

And he especially admired the relationships that existed between the Pre-Raphaelites and their models, like the relationship that existed between him and Bethany.

She not only appreciated art and encouraged his dream of being a curator while painting and sculpting, but was his favorite model. His only model. She was the Muse that inspired him. In a corner of the living room at home were stacks of thick folders filled with sketches and drawings of her in pencil, pen, watercolors, chalk, and pastels. His art, depicting her as clothed, semi-clothed, or nude, reflected his love for and appreciation of her.

He often called her from his small, bright room overlooking the Danube, sometimes just to hear her voice, as he pondered the crayons and leather bound sketchbook that arrived before the last mission near the Jubba River and the Ethiopian border.

His friend, lover and wife was a fragile connection to a world so different from his, though she had grown distant through the years. He knew she sometimes despised the uniform he wore.

Three days later, from the railing of a ferry bound for Budapest, Jeremy felt a pang of sadness as he watched the river town fade into the snowy late afternoon grayness. He hoped that someday he and Bethany could visit Szentendre and sail down the Danubius, leisurely sipping wine as she held a dozen red roses.

"Wait until you've been married 20 years," Danny, the squat Battalion Sergeant Major, told him as they entered the Cafe Imperium, a small two story tavern set against the ramparts of Castle Hill on a tree lined Medieval cobblestone street, above the Danube. Budapest was forest green, decorated with flowers of every colour, and so full of life compared to the dying drabness of Mogadishu. They brushed the late winter raindrops from their faces and jackets. "Then you'll claim you've got white screen on your end or the computer booted you."

"Never," he replied as they sat at a dark wood bar, though recent e-mails from Bethany now that he was out of Somalia took on a new tone. A harsher, impatient, yet tired tone. Being a 'single parent' of three children, especially Lewis, their eight-year-old middle child with Downs Syndrome, wasn't easy.

Their headstrong 13-year-old daughter Angel, born out of wedlock two years before they were married, always took exception to school bullies who tormented Lewis. Her exceptions resulted in Bethany meeting the principal about the latest bully that Angel took down. Punishment meant little to Angel as she immersed herself in science books because she wanted to be the first female astronaut on Mars.

"Hello mates," a tall, strong-framed man with a weathered face and short-cropped brown hair limped over to them. "What'll you have?"

"Hello Nigel," Danny, who discovered the tavern, answered. There were few customers in the afternoon but in the evening it would be loud and crowded. "Budweiser. Start a tab," he added as he put 6,000 Hungarian forints on the bar; it seemed like a lot but at the rate of 300 to the dollar, it was only twenty dollars.

"Pils," Jeremy ordered as he added more forints to the pile. Everyone exchanged their dollars for Hungarian forints after they landed at the military side of Ferihegy International Airport southeast of Budapest.

"Coming right up." Since the fall of Communism a number of western businesses had sprung up throughout Budapest. Their number, including the Cafe Imperium, mushroomed with the establishment of the medievalistic church-like DC headquarters with its inner courtyard surrounded by tall columns, not far from Castle Hill, on the west bank of the Danube.

Not everyone was happy with the increased American presence and there were protesters.

The front of the narrow wood floored tavern was a typical bar with a round stone fireplace in the center surrounded by wooden tables and chairs. Behind the bar was a small kitchen that turned out wonderful American and Hungarian appetizers. The back room contained another fireplace, more tables, stuffed chairs and couches, while the upstairs was a small restaurant with an excellent kitchen.

Nigel, the owner, was an Englishman, a former SAS trooper, and a veteran of the Persian Gulf War, Afghanistan, and Iraq, before losing a leg in the first year of war in North Korea. He married a well to do Hungarian woman and settled in Budapest. Local wags hinted he came to Budapest because he was a 'mail order groom.'

"So, are you going to do it?" Danny asked after Nigel brought their beers. They lit cigarettes and clinked their heavy beer mugs together, a silent toast to leaving another combat zone alive.

"What?"

"Aide to the Warrior Poet."

"I don't know," Jeremy shrugged.

"You ought to. Looks good on the record."

"I've never thought about what looks good on the record."

"It'll keep you out of combat," Danny replied. "I like combat, but it's hell on the family. Each morning they always wonder if that'll be the day when an officer and chaplain show up with bad news. At least you'll have a desk job though you'll be on the road a lot."

"I don't know."

"Sir, you're not smiling as much when you talk to your wife. A desk job might give a chance to heal whatever is eating away at the two of you." Jeremy studied Danny's deeply lined face that spoke of years of wisdom and combat experience. "It might give you a chance to think about what you want to do next."

"Next?"

"You've pretty much been at war since the 10th Mountain went into Afghanistan. You know the Marshal and Deputy Marshal will keep sending us into Indian Country."

Jeremy grunted and said, "We all have."

The nickname was a common and descriptive one for the elderly white goateed President Abraham William Marshal III, a fundamentalist Christian determined to crush terrorism. He was an Annapolis graduate and a veteran carrier pilot with combat experience from North Vietnam through the Persian Gulf War to the first wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. The President was a skilled orator, and his TV addresses were combinations of political rhetoric and hellfire and brimstone sermons.

The Deputy Marshal was the slim and attractive Vice President Rachel Marie Fraley, once a Vietnam anti-war protester and housewife who divorced her unfaithful politician husband. After her divorce she created a political career in New York before going on to the State Department, the United Nations, and the Pentagon. She became a 'hawk' after the World Trade Center collapsed in smoky agony, and her son returned from studies at Oxford to enlist in the Marines.

Indian Country, of course, was a nickname for hostile territories around the world and insulted many Native Americans, though many of them in the field used it too.

"You have an art degree and you draw and paint a lot," Danny continued. "Is the Army what you really want to do with your life?"

"When I was a Personnel clerk in the 10th Mountain and going to college in Watertown I thought I had it made. Do my three years and get out. Go to college for a Bachelors, maybe a Masters, and work as an art gallery curator. I'd paint and sculpt on the side until I hit the big time."

"What happened? 9/11?"

"No, no it wasn't," Jeremy replied as he held his empty Pils up to Nigel. "I didn't know anyone killed or hurt in 9/11. I was shocked. I couldn't believe it. Things like that happen in movies or stories, but not in real life."

"So what was it?"

"Crayons."

Danny paused in draining his beer and stared at Jeremy. "Sir?"

"I'm not a God and country, mom and apple pie sort of guy. My grandfather is. He's Irish by the way."

"Excellent heritage," Danny grinned and held his beer up in mock salute. His great grandparents hailed from Belfast. "Hey Nigel! More beer! Chicken wings and mozzarella sticks!"

"Be adventurous," Jeremy admonished him as he examined the bar menu. "Add gesztenye and camembert," he said, meaning roasted chestnuts and cauliflower fried in bread crumbs.

"My dad never served," Jeremy continued after giving Nigel his order. "My grandfather enlisted in the Marines when he was 17. His only battle was Iwo Jima. He was wounded twice and became squad leader because he was the senior man left. His division was training to invade Japan when the war ended." Jeremy stabbed the cigarette out and lit another. "He called World War II a holy war, a war to smite pure evil. He was recalled for Korea. He called that a dirty little frontier war. Vietnam was another one. Both were the kind the Roman legions or the Imperial British infantry fought when barbarians crossed the frontier. When I was older he told me he fought in World War II to rid the world of evil so I wouldn't have to wear a uniform. Anyway, he gave me crayons when I was little."

"Crayons," Danny repeated with a puzzled tone.

Jeremy smiled at the memory. "One of the first things I remember. I was four years old and it was my birthday. I was always drawing on sketch paper, typing paper, even tiny little spaces in the newspapers. My dad always thought being an artist was a ridiculous idea."

"Your dad still a blackjack dealer?"

"Yep, same as my mom," Jeremy said. He remembered being an impatient teenager wanting to be an adult, wandering the bright Las Vegas Strip surrounded by the endless temptations of easy money, casino gambling and drinking. And the scantily clad women in thin summer tops and tight short shorts.

"The crayons?"

"Crayons. So in a better world I could be an artist instead of someday wearing a uniform," Jeremy replied as more beers appeared. "Noble sentiment. And useless. Angel was born before her mom and I were married. Her parents were financiers with long ties to the West and the Mafia. I joined the Army for a steady paycheck and an education. Had to."

Danny laughed. "Support your wife and kid or a one way trip to the desert?"

"Something like that," Jeremy grinned for the first time in a long time. "I was a virgin innocent 17 and Bethany was a 16 year old cheerleader with wonderful red fingernails."

Bethany was a small, shapely woman with large hazel eyes surrounded by delicate black eyelashes, thin eyebrows, model-like high pink cheekbones, and a long brown ponytail with pale reddish highlights. He adored her for many reasons, including her ever present smile and sense of humour, though she could be an absolute bitch when she wanted to. Her exaggerated 'Valley Girl' routine of shaking her head with long ponytail flying wildly and her slender form in a tight T-shirt and pedal pusher pants, grinding lustily like an exotic dancer while she dusted, always made him laugh, and led to lengthy sensual moments with one another.

Angel was the result of an exotic dusting routine.

"Damn, sir!"

The idea worked for a time. He obtained his degree while stationed at Fort Drum and Bethany gave up her dream of being a Las Vegas showgirl, and joined him with Angel. They were married. They were a family. Life was comfortable and it had meaning and a future.

Until 9/11.

Weeks later the 10th Mountain was on the way to Afghanistan. As The War continued he rose through the ranks in the 3rd Infantry Division, and became an officer in the 101st Airborne Division. Years later, without a grand epiphany or blaring of pivotal trumpets, though he still wanted to be a curator, and sculpt and paint, he recognized everything was on hold until 'after The War.'

Except, when it came to crushing terrorism there was no 'after.' American military strength could no longer spread itself across the world, even with the assistance of the loyal Danube Confederation, without a World War II type mobilization.

"A world without need of a uniform," Jeremy shook his head and chuckled. "I gave Angel a box of crayons on the night of 9/11 with the same useless hope of the world being rid of evil and no need of an army. After Lewis was born I put a box of crayons in his crib for the same useless reason, though he has nothing to worry about."

"Not useless," Danny disagreed. "Impractical perhaps, but not useless."

"Useless," Jeremy repeated and shook his head. "Israel never stamped out terrorism even after 60 years of fighting and building a damned fence. We hunt and destroy terrorists and occupy the countries sheltering them, but there's always more waiting to come out of the woodwork. Every time we land moderates become radicals, radicals become extremists, and extremists become jihadists. The hydra keeps growing new heads."

"Not useless," Danny insisted.

"It is," Jeremy shook his head in disagreement.

"It could be worse." Jeremy looked at Danny. "It could be Vietnam all over again. Except this time the government, the military, and the people are in synch. The people realize what's at stake after 9/11, Las Vegas, and Black April. The government, the military, and the people. A holy trinity."

Jeremy nodded and they sat quietly, listening to the music of the 19th century Hungarian composer Franz Lizst. Hungarian Rhapsody No 1 in F Minor started off quietly, slowly, like an overture to a grand, magnificent movie, then became faster until the music settled into a quick, excited rhythm. The late afternoon classical music would give way to the latest American rock and roll in the evening when the mixed Western and Hungarian crowd of preening youth and professional diplomats and soldiers poured in.

Unlike Vietnam, The War did not spawn a drug and music culture, especially a culture of anti-war music.

The holy trinity was due to a visionary reorganization of the military, led by the Army Chief of Staff, after Vietnam. The Reserves and National Guard became an integral part of the active duty military. Never again could the US go to war without them, which was proven in the Persian Gulf War and succeeding wars. It wouldn't be just a small segment of the American population that had a stake in the fighting on distant frontiers, but every town and city.

The vision was proven correct after all of the Reserve and Guard combat units were mobilized, and new units raised and equipped. It was the largest mobilization since World War II. The people remained resolute in winning The War, even in the worst year with over 8,500 combat dead. They finally understood that 'push-button warfare' or aerial bombardment without young men dying on savage battlefields was only a dream.

The hijacking of a Japanese 747 was another catalyst. Terrorists planned to crash the airliner onto the Las Vegas Strip one New Year's Eve, except an Air Force fighter downed it with an air-to-air missile. Few celebrants were aware of the significance of the fireball that plummeted through the moonless night 40 miles southwest of Las Vegas with 350 men, women and children aboard. The Air Force pilot, a brave and decorated veteran of Afghanistan, Iraq, and North Korea, later committed suicide.

And no one would ever forget Black April. Terrorists slipped across the Canadian-US border and one sunny morning before Easter, attacked a dozen day care centers across the country with AK-47s and hand grenades.

"Motherfucker," Jeremy whispered as word of the bloody attacks spread through his company.

They felt helpless perched on a hilltop under starry skies in the Kangnam Range beside the broad Yalu River, or the Amnok-gang, as the Koreans called it. Their position, meant to keep an eye on the suspicious Chinese across the Yalu, in addition to patrolling for guerillas, was carved with trenches and decorated with strong wood and sandbagged bunkers with heavy weapons, and coils of razor wire and claymore mines.

So far the Chinese hadn't intervened in the war, but North Korean guerillas, remnants of their special operations forces, operated from across the border.

He moved through the trenches with Danny, noting the anger and grief on the faces of his combat hardened paratroopers. Many asked for the latest news, but he didn't have additional details for them.

After making the rounds they returned to the company command post and sat in silence waiting for more news from battalion. Jeremy chain smoked as, seated at the crude desk where he planned daily patrols to demonstrate American presence and intent, he looked at small photographs of Bethany, Angel, and Lewis.

It was odd what memories came to him in the smoky silence of the timber and sandbagged bunker crammed with radios, telephones, maps, cots, and personal effects.

Though he was present for Angel's birth, it was Lewis he thought of the most. Perhaps because he had Downs Syndrome, which meant someone would have to take care of him the rest of his life. Or perhaps because Jeremy recently returned from convalescent leave in the states after being badly wounded during a mortar barrage shortly before Halloween.

Lewis was two months old before Jeremy saw him, having fought in Iraq with the 3rd Infantry Division (Mechanized) when he was born. After a romantic home cooked 'welcome home dinner' he was looking forward to a lusty evening with Bethany, except that Lewis woke up.

He lay on the bed next to her as she placed the nipple of her full breast against the baby's eager lips. As hurt as the baby without a future was, instinct drove the little mouth to seek what gave it sustenance and life.

Jeremy watched his son drink while tiny fingers grasped at the warm flesh of Bethany's breast. There was a content, loving smile on her face as she gently stroked Lewis's head. She looked at Jeremy and he smiled and touched his son's chubby wrist that poked out of the blanket.

"Are you sure he's getting enough?"

Bethany nodded. "He'll drink until he's full."

"You sure?"

"He's no different than Angel was," Bethany replied. It was an old conversation from Angel's birth, more poignant due to the Downs Syndrome. "He knows when he's not hungry anymore. And mother's milk is perfect. It's filling for him."

"Okay."

Jeremy moved a corner of the baby blanket and rested his cupped hand over the ankle. He wondered what would happen to Lewis if he and Bethany died. Perhaps Angel, or even their parents, might care for him rather than put him a home of some sort. He banished the thoughts and listened to Bethany hum a nursery rhyme as she stroked the tiny cheeks of their son.

Major combat in Iraq was officially over, being back at home with his wife and children felt good, and the world was alive and warm. He contentedly watched them until he fell asleep...

The field telephone rang.

The company clerk grabbed it, listened and nodded. Though the Chinese and North Koreans were no real threat regarding radio communications intercepts since American communications was electronically encrypted, the company still relied on wire to connect their positions. Radios served only as a backup.

"Sir, 2nd Platoon reports movement down the slope in front of them."

Another field telephone rang and Danny picked it up. Jeremy and the lieutenant, his XO, leaned forward.

"Sir, 3rd Platoon reports movement near the river."

"Thank God," Jeremy whispered as he checked his M-4 carbine and stuffed extra ammunition magazines in whatever pockets he could find. "Let's kill the motherfuckers."

The daycare terrorists were beyond their reach but not the North Korean guerillas attempting to raid their position.

For two years it was the special operations soldiers of the Reconnaissance Bureau, and the Light Infantry Training Guidance Bureau who conducted a barbaric guerilla war against the Americans. However, the tide of war was turning and the government in exile was offering to negotiate a peace, though they controlled no territory to speak of. Except the Americans were in no mood to watch the guerillas march under a peace treaty from their hiding places to join their comrades in the safety of China.

Continual and merciless pressure was crushing the guerillas, and sometimes they made desperate, suicidal assaults against American positions as if making a last symbolic gesture.

The paratroopers let the stealthy guerillas cut through the barbed wire and sneak halfway through the minefield to the perimeter before opening up with machine guns, automatic rifles, and grenade launchers. Though the guerillas had supporting machine guns, mortars and RPGs, they were unable to slow the firestorm of paratrooper weapons fire.

Few guerillas survived the one-sided battle in which air support wasn't requested or needed.

Jeremy peered through his NOD at the green tinted smoke and dust of the battlefield, and the crumpled bodies scattered around the perimeter. He listened to the groans and cries of the wounded and saw many raise an arm for help, or try to crawl away.

Even the fanatical guerillas had mothers. Even the guerillas started out as helpless little babies dependant on mothers and fathers for life and survival.

Like the helpless little babies and toddlers slaughtered in burning daycare centers before Easter.

There was only one answer to such evil aimed at such innocence.

Jeremy raised his carbine and aimed at a wounded guerilla slowly pulling himself toward the broken coils of razor wire. He placed his sight on the back of the green tinted head.

"Sir," Danny said from beside him.

"They're not soldiers," Jeremy replied in a low voice.

"But we are," Danny answered. He felt Danny's hand on his shoulder.

"They're not babies anymore," Jeremy added in a whisper.

"Sir," Danny tightened his grip on Jeremy's shoulder. "This is murder."

Just like the slow, methodical practice of the rifle range. Inhale deeply. Hold his breath. Squeeze the trigger slowly.

The carbine jerked with a mechanical crack. The back of the head erupted in a dark spray.

"The bastards," Jeremy said as he placed his sight on the shadowy chest of a guerilla trying to roll onto his back. He knew what a baby sounded like when it was hurt. What did a helpless baby sound like when it was being killed? A tear rolled down his cheek. "The fucking bastards."

"I know, sir," Danny removed his hand as a carbine from their left fired a shot. Jeremy fired and the guerilla jerked and flopped face down. From their right a volley of carbine fire rang out.

By dawn only dead North Korean guerillas lay around the perimeter...

The resulting outrage at innocent deaths by such evil fueled the anger of the American people. They backed without question the orders of the Marshal and Deputy Marshal that sent a merciless American military in a vengeful march across the world. The allies of Old Europe, long-time veterans of domestic terrorism, and once so vocal in their opposition to the continuing American wars, wisely remained silent.

Though the march frightened and angered many countries, who could stand against a furious and determined, technologically superior America, the strongest country in the world?

Or who would stand against America, especially when one considered some 14,000 foreign terrorists who disappeared into American custody, or were delivered to Syrian interrogation centers? Of those thousands, some 1,100 were reportedly tried and executed by secret military tribunals.

Not to mention some 9,000 of America's own citizens held incommunicado, hidden in anonymous detention camps due to ongoing investigations or merely unproven suspicions?

"You're quite a philosopher," Jeremy finally said as he signaled for more beers.

"Nah, just a centurion," Danny chuckled as he drained his beer. "Just a centurion, sir."

"You know, when Lewis was born I was in Iraq. And now, with Matthew, I was in Somalia. In the past 10 years I've spent so much time away from home and Bethany carried the load, especially with Lewis." He stared at the mug of Pils and took a big gulp. It wasn't easy having a child with Downs Syndrome. Medical and therapy appointments took up a lot of time and took time away from Angel.

For Bethany it was a lonely and tiring life.

"Your marriage is on the rocks," Danny guessed.

Jeremy sighed. "Maybe. I'm not sure. Something doesn't feel right, like Bethany isn't telling me everything. I know she keeps things from me when I'm in the field. She doesn't want me to worry. You know she's almost got her Bachelors in Political Science. She has her eye on a Masters, too."

"Washington might be a good place for the two of you," Danny suggested. When Jeremy looked puzzled he added, "The State Department and the Office of Civilian Infrastructure."

The OCI, nicknamed 'The Colonial Service,' administered occupied territories and provided assistance when unfriendly national governments were coerced into asking for an American presence. The OCI presence included the new peacekeeping brigades made up of recruited police, Highway Patrol, FBI agents, judges and attorneys. The work of the blue combat uniformed, sun glass wearing peacekeepers was to advise and train national police and judicial authorities, even rewriting constitutions and legal codes, as everything that made up civilization flowed from the law and law enforcement.

Those countries answered to an OCI Administrator nicknamed the 'Proconsul,' who even had authority over American military forces. The US had come a long way since the confused early days of Iraqi occupation, premature withdrawal and reoccupation after Iraq plunged into anarchy.

"She might find a job with the OCI?"

"You'll be in Washington with the Air Force Chief of Staff. Like an adviser sitting next to the king, you won't have real power, but you'll have the king's ear. You'll have his influence and contacts."

Jeremy nodded slowly. "That might be an idea. Bethany will like Washington over Fort Benning. Lot of opportunity there these days."

"There's always opportunity," Danny replied. "What do you really want to do, sir? Stay in or get out?"

Jeremy thought for a moment and said, "I want to be a family. Like other families." He looked at Danny helplessly. "Bethany has started to hate the Army for all of the time I've been away, and for the times I'm in combat. She talks about my being a curator, and painting and sculpting."

Nigel and a female bartender put heaping plates of fried chicken wings, mozzarella sticks, roasted chestnuts and fried cauliflower on the bar.

"Here you go, mates," Nigel said. "Enjoy. If you're interested, tonight's special is grilled goose with potatoes, onions, and steamed cabbage."

"Sounds great," Jeremy smiled.

"Yeah, okay," Danny shrugged.

Jeremy munched on a mozzarella stick, then said, "Danny, come with me to Washington. In that politicized coliseum I need a good NCO who's got some common sense."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I've been offered the position of Brigade Sergeant Major with the 11th Airborne."

The 11th Airborne Division stationed near Budapest was one of the newly raised divisions. It was a ready reaction force to augment American units in Europe and Southwest Asia. "Lucky son of a bitch," Jeremy chuckled. He wasn't sure what really waited for him in Washington, but he envied Danny staying in the real military world. "You're accepting it?"

"I'll have my orders in a few weeks."

"Sure your family wouldn't like Washington better?"

Danny smiled and said, "I won't tell them about your offer. Our son won't be with us, though."

"That's right. Turns 18 this spring, doesn't he?"

"Yes sir," Danny answered solemnly as he swirled the beer in his mug. "He's joining the Marines. Wants to go into Marine Force Recon."

Jeremy nodded sadly.

Early in his career he learned to listen to the counsel of a senior NCO. When he arrived in the 101st Airborne Division as a brand new OCS graduate, Danny was the Operations Sergeant for the battalion S-3 Plans & Operations. After he became a rifle company commander in North Korea, he asked Danny to be his company First Sergeant. Jeremy attended school at Fort Leavenworth upon rotation from North Korea, then Ranger training, and was assigned to the Ranger regiment. Danny, a long time Ranger, was the Battalion Sergeant Major for his battalion.

Somehow he always expected to rely on Danny's wise counsel as if they would never part ways.

"Congratulations. I wish your son luck, and that he returns home safely." They clinked their beer mugs together. "Danny, if you ever need anything let me know."

"Thanks, sir. It's been an honour and a pleasure to serve under your command. And if I might make a contribution," Danny dug into his pocket and pulled out a five dollar bill, "when you get home, buy a box of crayons for Matthew." He pressed the money into Jeremy's hand. "And a box for yourself, as a reminder of what's important to you."

"You know that package I got just as we headed out for the last mission by the Jubba?" Jeremy said as he stared at himself in the mirror that ran the length of the bar. An older, wiser, and haunted face stared back. "It was a box of crayons and a sketchbook from Bethany and the children." He looked at his mentor, friend, confidant, and stoic centurion, a veteran of the Persian Gulf War, the Day of the Rangers in Mogadishu, and a hundred battles and firefights since. "I'm not sure what it means."

The next day the battalion boarded chartered aircraft and flew a winding route across Eastern Europe to land in Great Britain, still an ally of the US, albeit a 'strained' one, for refueling. From there the aerial convoy flew west through cloudy white fairy mountains and valleys far above the darkly sparkling North Atlantic.

"Gentlemen," the pilot's voice came over the intercom above the whine of the engines. Jeremy put the sketchbook down, a quarter of the pages filled with crayon doodles and sketches, many of Bethany and the children. "Let me be the first to welcome you home. If you look out your windows you'll see the coast of New York ahead of us."

Wild cheers filled the aircraft and even the airline stewardesses joined in. Jeremy raised his crayon filled fists and bellowed.

With a tremor of trepidation he picked up the video telephone from the back of the seat in front of him, swiped his credit card, dialed his home number, and triggered the video connection.

"Hmmm," the black lieutenant mumbled. "The 81st Infantry Brigade guys and Japanese commandos sliced and diced some jihadists in the al Mahrah in Yemen."

After several long rings a wonderfully feminine voice hesitantly said, "Jeremy?"

He shuddered and looked up at the aircraft ceiling. "Bethany? How did you know?"

She chuckled. The flat screen on the back of the seat flickered and her beautiful, smiling face appeared as she completed the video connection. "After the telephone number there's what looks like a flight number."

"Hey, we're about to cross the coast of New York. I'm almost home."

She blinked, wiped her eyes, and smiled.

"We're waiting. The wives put together a welcome home buffet after all the official hoopla."

Jeremy stared out the window as the hazy coastline passed under the wing of the aircraft. He turned back to the flat screen. "Hey, uh, feel like leaving Fort Benning for Washington? I've been offered the job as aide to the Air Force Chief of Staff."

"Daddy? Daddy?" Angel pushed her way into view. The skinny, gap toothed future astronaut waved. "Hey! I haven't taken anyone down this week! I'll do better next week!" She grinned and gave a thumbs up.

"Daddy?" The slurred accent of Lewis's voice was next. His broad, heavy eye lidded face swam into view. He had a puzzled look, then smiled when he saw Jeremy. "Where are you?"

From behind Lewis he heard the angry wail of Matthew.

"I'll be damned," the lieutenant mumbled again. "The Army's reactivating a horse cavalry regiment to patrol the Canadian border."

"I'm coming home son."

"Did you get the package?" Bethany asked over the faces of the children who continued to smile and wave at him.

"Yes," Jeremy frowned at the mention of the sketchbook and crayons wrapped in yellow paper with yellow ribbon. "I'm, not sure what it means."

The children parted and Bethany held a small bundle up in her red fingernailed hands. An angry little round face with eyes squeezed shut, nostrils flaring and tiny fists clenched tight, appeared. Jeremy smiled and his eyes teared as he touched the flat screen, knowing that in a few hours he would be holding his son, almost a month old, born on Valentine's Day.

"Your son, Matthew," Bethany smiled as the angry baby took a deep shuddering breath and let out another wail.

"Bethany," Jeremy finally said with burning eyes as he studied her face, "Bethany, I don't know what the package means."

There was a long pause and a distant, lonely look in her large hazel eyes as she said softly, "You've been away so much, at war. Whatever you have to do, wherever you are, don't forget why you've spent so many years away from us. Don't forget us. Don't forget me."

Jeremy bit his lower lip and blinked rapidly as he looked at the hazy land below, then back at her eyes.

As if he could ever forget them!

Especially her.

The wild cheerleader he fell in love with had grown up to become a wonderful mother and wife.

Bethany and the children was the sustaining anchor whether he was fighting diehard North Korean guerillas who continued to believe in the discredited and overthrown Juche Idea of Kim Il Sung, the fanatical moryan of desperate and power hungry Somali warlords, or the zealous anti-American jihadists of Southwest Asia and Africa. They were his anchor while dead comrades were gathered from bloody battlefields or as he watched, while on foot patrol, for that telling clue that a so-called civilian on a foreign city street was about to reach for a weapon or throw a hand grenade.

Jeremy looked at the box of crayons in his hand. He inhaled the aromatic memories, folded the lid and touched it to the flat screen of the bawling baby.

The lieutenant watched curiously.

"For you, Matthew," Jeremy whispered.

He knew he would stay in the Army.

Not for a steady paycheck or retirement. Whether he shuffled papers at a desk in Washington or fought terrorists in savage battles, his place was in the Army, even if it meant the end of his marriage.

And someday, after he hung his uniform up, he could watch his grandchildren color and paint while listening to music, as he tried to explain what an army once was.

Tears trickled from his eyes as Bethany, like a life-giving beacon, gently said, "Welcome home. I love you."