The Boys of Kilo

It’s a curious thing when the boys of Kilo assemble.


The expressions of love and the way they embrace in near violent form, arrest the attention of onlookers.
They wrestle and roar like young lions, but the gray is clearly visible in their wild, unkempt manes. Their leathery tattooed skin harkens to mighty men of old, warriors who’ve painted their bodies for centuries.


Some still look the same. Ready to face to the right and take them up the hill.


They speak in the vile, coarse language of pirates and prisoners, sending the faint of heart running while covering the ears of their children.
Little do the delicate ones know their children are the most safe in the shadow of these boys of Kilo.


Boys? Yes and no.


Some are forever young, struck down in the peak of their youth. In that violent confrontation of flesh and steel. Over there. We remember them as they were then. We never forget.


Others, grizzled and worn, maintain the same mischievous twinkle in their eye. The look they held as a man-child. Warriors still.
But they were already old when they were young. Combat brought it on too soon.


The boys of Kilo were strong and fought well. Many still fight, but the conflict is inside.
They are at war for quiet and peace. The chain is long, and the anchor is still buried in the desert sand.
They are not alone on that ship, but it feels that way sometimes when you are standing the mid-watch.


When the boys of Kilo assemble it’s like being in formation once again, standing by for the word.
At formation they trade a bucket of tears for a barrel of laughter. It’s a good trade.
When they boys of Kilo return to their home port they look back across the sand.


It was good to talk at formation. There are things those in the homeport don’t understand. The talk reminds them that they aren’t crazy, they are not alone. Well, maybe they are crazy; but it’s the same crazy. It is enough.

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