Jim Vickaryous

The air burned each time I breathed in the Chihuahuan Desert air. No clouds, no breeze, no escape from the South Texan sun. Our company stood at attention on a lonely tarmac. The heat radiating off the pavement baked into our polished boots. We stood silently looking forward, sunburned and dripping with sweat. Generations of U.S. soldiers had steeled their discipline in this desolate land just north of the Mexican border: U.S. Grant, Black Jack Pershing, George Patton, and countless others. Now it was our turn to embrace the borderlands of Ft. Bliss.

We could see a Blackhawk moving fast from the southern edge of the White Sands desert. Sand blasted our faces as its skids hit the ground. The bird’s blades slowed, but didn’t stop. Whoever was in it had no intention of staying long. Out jumped a dapper soldier wearing the telltale U.S. Army general’s belt:  black leather with a polished silver medallion buckle. We all saluted as he walked up to address us: “Fellow soldiers of the Republic, you have been ordered into the active service of the United States Army by declaration of our President and Commander in Chief to serve an indeterminate time supporting NATO operations in the Republic of Bosnia-Herzegovina and Former Yugoslavia. Godspeed to all of you!” The general saluted us and, without wrinkling his perfectly pressed battle dress uniform, jumped back into the helicopter. The blades turned with more force, blowing the sand in our faces again, and lifted off towards New Mexico.

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