Sometimes I
wonder if peace is worth its weight in death. It’s a thought that came to mind
during our last approach on Tae-Var. Forty-two trained flyers, down from our
initial ninety. Less than half of the tightly knit air force I’ve been with for
two decades now. Before each war they spoke of the danger of the people we
battled, and during they promised quiet after, and peace.
They lied.
With the end
of each war came the advent of a new enemy, a bigger, fiercer, darker evil we
must destroy. That is the price of peace: my sons’ lives, my best friend’s
blood and the futures of peoples we never took the time to know.
The last of
us, all forty-two, rest on the edge of becoming men. Before, we were babes, not
even boys, unwilling to think and act for ourselves. Floundering at the mercy
of our commander-in-chief. Today that will change. Today it will end.
Somewhere
below a trumpet called up into the sky and our squadron turned along with the
forces below us. Back home back towards our capitol, back toward the
commander-in-chief. Wings expanded, guns loaded, we made our move to finally be
free.
