War Torn and Battle Weary

    There are times, more frequent than I really care to admit to, that I wish I had a strong shoulder to cry on. An ally. Someone at my back. A voice in my darkness to tell me that, "everything will be okay." A voice that can say it with truth and conviction, not as an empty platitude, a placebo. A companion in the foxhole to relieve me of guard duty. But in the end, it is my shoulders that must remain broad and strong through storms and assaults. Lack of sleep has left me brittle and susceptable to damage, and I am easy prey for emotional turmoil. My defenses are ragged, my battlements weakened by seige machines, I am ripe for defeat. I try to rally the wounded, bolster the shellshocked, revive the dying, equip the few healthy remainder in a last ditch attempt to fortify and defend against the oncoming forces. I dig in and entrench. For it seems the axis forces know when I am at my most defenseless, and they will launch an assault. It is a two-pronged attack; full frontal attack on my gates, and a nefarious undermining of my foundations. I try to react, respond, launch a counter attack. But my forces are depleted, I need reinforcements that will not miraculously appear at the last minute in a perfect Hollywood ending. It is my own fight. There is no backup, no options, no allies. It is my own fight, and I am battle weary. I am truly weary to the bone.
    These assaults blindside me. I begin to think I have won the war, and yet skirmishes continue to flare up in unexpected places, at unexpected times. I have relaxed my guard, called in the forward observers. My scouts have gone awol.   
    But once again, in the tradition of the likes of the WW2 defense of England, Robert E. Lee, Vercingetorix, I will continue to fight with inferior numbers. I will out-maneuver my assailant, I will be victorious despite the odds. I will rally my spirit, shoulder my weapon and ready myself for the next attack I am exhausted by the battle, weary of the fight, dreaming of an ally. But I will soldier on, become the silent sniper, a furtive guerilla, the lone gunman if I have to. I will continue to fight the good fight, find mental reserves long after I think I have tapped the well dry. I will force a lone victory, because the alternative is not to be allowed. I may change tactics, find a dry bunker to catch some needed rest, raid a farmhouse for supplies, but I will soldier on alone, hoping for peace, dreaming of an ally, knowing I will be the victor. I have to be the victor.