Deja Vu, a slap in the face - or been there done that and it hurts. Strange but appropriate in describing my dream, my life.

Last night I had a dream, and in this dream I see a great
white horse. On this horse is a very old and noble knight.
They stand on a hill overlooking an open field.

Far below, a battle rages on. As the aged and battle
weary warrior gazes out over the activity occurring
below, He remembers the countless past battles he was
somehow drawn to, from the very first time he drew his
sword and so brazenly rushed into a similar fray to the
reluctant advances into the more recent battles. Each battle
was as vivid in that instant as the action occurring down
below. He remembered each wound he had received over the
years, the worst being the anguish on the faces of his fallen
and long forgotten victims. These images from his past make
this great warrior want to turn away, but the savage
beast in his nature and the call of one more challenge makes
him realize he must go on. The sweat on his body symbolizes
the countless tears of the mothers, sisters, and the wives of
his fallen foes. Slowly the warrior dons his battle vestments
and armament as the call to battle burns in his breast.
As if in counterpoint, his mind is whispering in his ear that
this fighting is senseless; there are no flags, no true
armies - just many young and old men fighting and dying. As
the knight mounts the blazing white steed, he feels a slight
tremble in his companion's great frame. His horse appears
more apprehensive than he as they start down the hill
toward their destiny.

The reluctance of his steed brings forth a disjointed
kaleidoscope of images. this new barrage of visions shows
every time he was wounded. The warrior shakes his head in
disbelief as if trying to clear the images from his mind's
eye. yes, countless battles, and still there are twinges of
fear. He swallows his fear as he draws forth his sword. The
weight feels good in his trembling hand, and the blade
shines, like a jewel sparkling in the sun. His courage begins
to grow, as if it were being drawn up like the sword. The
noble warrior unbuckles his scabbard and throws it aside. He
feels there is little chance he will ever live to sheath his
sword again. The beast in his breast screams for action
. . . with one final prayer the warrior spurs his horse
toward the thick of battle. The old horse burst forward, his
hooves sounding like thunder, his tack glittering like the
flash of lightning. Never has he run so fast. Never has he
felt so strong. A spirit of youth still burns in his heart,
he must also know that this may be his last battle . . .
The warrior feels the "Gods" have given his companion a gift,
the gift of youth, for one final blaze of glory. As they
enter the valley, the first of many foes advances on
them, and the battle is engaged. The horse and knight
fight as one, so many were the times they had fought
together.

Flashing steel rings a greeting as it strikes his shield.
his own sword returns the greeting. Instead of steel, it
meets flesh and bone. Another enemy vanquished;another face
burned in his memory. There is no time for remorse or to
wonder who or what the slain foe may have been. For another
is advancing, it doesn't take long in a battle where
there are no sides. This great warrior and his
magnificent steed become no more than characters on a
greater stage, their actions and reactions choreographed from
the many past battles they have encountered before.
In contrast, the warrior's mind and senses take on a life of
their own recording every sight, sound, and smell. The eyes
see blood hitting the ground. They see it start to steam,
each drop adding to the volume of steam that hit before. The
fog it creates is sickening. The nose records the stench
created by the fog of death. The smell is unbearable. " The
Red Haze," a perfect setting for such a savage slaughter
. . . is the thought in the knight's mind. The battle continues . . .

The red fog thickens with each and every death. The battle
increases in intensity and ferocity, and time loses all
meaning here; hours become mere moments, and the seconds
between encounters seem like days. This is the ritual of
battle, where no quarter is given and none is taken. The old
knight was tired, not only from this day's actions, but also
from the meaningless actions of the years gone by. What would
be remembered of this battle? what problems would it
solve? With reluctance the warrior shrugs and sighs, yes the
warrior was tired, but still his sword is held high. His
shield is bent and ragged from the parrying of blows it has
received. His armor is stained and covered in blood - some
his, but mostly from his vanquished opponents. Finally, after
what seems like an eternity, the battle starts to wane ...
the ancient and weary knight gazes through the red fog
waiting for the next encounter with death, but the encounter
fails to appear. For the old and noble warrior is the last
man to ride away.

Somewhere lost in the sickening fog of death and
destruction, he hears a single weak and trembling voice
filled with pain and dying anguish. Slowly he dismounts,every
muscle aching as he wades through the bodies and debris
toward the pitiful sound. The red fog slowly begins to lift
as the old warrior finds the wounded and dying knight. He
sees before him a young man bleeding from countless and
senseless wounds. by the armor he is wearing, the rich
plumage on his helm, and the regal crest emblazoned on his
chestplate and shield. This young man appears to be from a
royal family, could he be a prince? Was he the heir of some
kingdom afar? Somehow he appears as a broken child's toy to
this old and experienced warrior. For now, this lad is
gravely wounded, waiting for the approach of "Death's Angels."

The old knight is disheartened and sickened by this
ghastly sight. What was once a proud young man, in many ways
much like he could have been, had things been different, was
nothing more than a living cadaver now. Deep inside a new
voice is felt and heard. with deep regrets he answers the
pleading call from his heart. With tears streaming down his
aged cheeks he says a warrior's prayer for this brave and
foolish child, the son of a mother who would never know.
Slowly he raises his sword once again, and in its flash the
pain is over; the young lad finds peace. this was the only
mercy given this day.

The old knight turns and walks slowly back toward his
horse. Through tear-filled eyes the knight notices his
companion's coat is stained in scarlet, yet still he stands
proud and unconquerable. the horse's nostrils flaring with
each labored breath; the fire of battle is still coursing
through his great frame. The old knight slowly bends down and
rips the tunic off a nearby man. With great care the old
knight begins to rub his companion's coat, both cleansing and
checking to see if his steed is injured. Assuring himself
that his companion is well enough to travel, the old knight
begins the journey back to the hill where his belongings were
placed. The old and haggard knight retrieves his scabbard and
replaces his sword. Once again the old knight kneels and bows
his head in prayer, praying to whatever "Gods" might be
listening, that these foolish fighters receive whatever
rewards or punishments they have earned. Having completed
what he felt were his duties and obligations to the fallen,
he prepares to leave. The sun is slowly fading below the
western hills as they stand on the hill, the knight looking
back at the senseless waste that had occurred today.
Heedless of his part in the senseless death and
destruction. Lost in thought, the knight wonders, how
many more times would they stand looking back on a
battlefield after the battle is over? how long before
someone showed him the mercy of a quick death? he wonders as
they ride into the fading sun," could I actually die of old
age?" Inside he knows that this is his greatest fear.

As I awoke from this dream, my body soaked and covered in
sweat, my helmet and gun beside me, I realize that I was, and
am, that man. from the battles in ancient Egypt, to the fall
of mighty Rome, to the religious wars of the Crusades, to the
final ride with General Custer, to the jungles of Viet-Nam,
I have always sought, but never found that final rest and
peace. For these very gifts are forbidden to this
immortal warrior.

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