<div style="color:black;font: 10pt arial;"> <div><font size="5">I wrote this in memory of all who served and those who made the ultimate sacrifice.</font></div> <div><font size="5"><br> </font></div> <div><font size="5"> Chris</font></div> <div><font size="5"> The Lurking Fox<br> </font></div> <div><font size="5"><br> </font></div> <div><font size="5"><br> </font></div> <div><font size="5"><br> </font></div> <div><font size="5"><br> </font></div> <div><font size="5"> </font> <div class="MsoNormal"><font size="5">Afterward<br> -----------------<br> </font> <font size="5"><br> It seems strange to sit here and write these words. The visit to the cemetery went well. It seemed so peaceful, a fitting place for them to rest. It took all of us to find the right stone. There were so many, too many. Jessica found it, laughing and running among the crosses reading name. She thought it was a game. I think John would have liked that. He always loved kids. Too bad he didn't live to see his grandchildren. His daughter Janet brought a huge bouquet of flowers and spent a long time fussing about their placement. Still, after that she stood quietly by the grave for a long time. Then she presented her own granddaughter to him. "I want you to meet your great grand child, Sarah Ann," she said.<br> </font> <font size="5"><br> Lord but Sarah has John's eyes, and Janet has his voice. Every time she speaks I hear him and his face comes back to me, as young and alive as ever. That's how I see him; laughing and joking. I remember how we used to laugh, and drink and party together, and I remember how he died. At least it was quick, painless.<br> </font> <font size="5"><br> The faces of all those I left behind come back to me, John, Willie, Andrew, fat corporal Hernandez. To my children they're nothing but names carved on stone, but to me they're faces, young faces that will never grow old. I remember seeing Hernandez screaming with his legs blown off, I see Andrews body scattered all over the ground, and I remember the shriek of the shell that killed John. I see their faces again and I wonder if their deaths were worth it. I cried at their graves and I'm crying now as I write this. Was it worth it?<br> </font> <font size="5"><br> Suddenly I feel the touch of a small hand on my arm. It's Jessica come to see why Grandpa was crying. She hugs me and gives me the picture she drew to cheer me up. It's of the flowers at John's grave.<br> </font> <font size="5"><br> Were their deaths worth it? Yes. I see my giggling granddaughter wiggling in my lap and smile. John always loved kids.<br> </font> <font size="5"><br> End</font></div> </div> </div>