September 29, 2007
The weight of my tattered helmet felt like a heavy burden digging into my forehead. Only twenty-five days were left until I could return to a place called home: familiar and wonderful. I am sick of this place, the dark dirty nature of this jungle. I shifted uncomfortably and noticed the collar of my shirt was stiff with dried blood. It was cold. It was very cold, and the harsh wind was howeling fiercely against my back. Everyone was huddled together in a frozen cluster. I stared lonesomley at the worn out condition of my helmet. "Just like me," I thought. "We've been here to long," I murmured to my fading helmet: "Hang in there kid; you've always been a tropper," the voice of my father whispered in my ear. "Twenty-five days," I reminded my helmet, "Almost home."