The blazing African sun began to settle in the horizon. The God send of a temperature drop was beginning from 120 degrees to to a nice cool 98 degrees. There hadn't been a breeze in the last few days. The dust had settled, like an ash, which clung to everything, and found it's way into every hole, nook, cranny, and corner. In the distance the bark of pack of wild dogs began, a sure sign the temperature really was dropping.
The two sat in folding chairs, topped like cherries on a mound of dirt. They over looked a massive cleared area. Razor wire crisscrossed in a massive oval. Within those wires, in a crude attempt at a road, a dirt path traced the same shape the wire had been laid. Within that, was an array of fighting positions armed with every assortment of arms to slay men. Within reach of those arms were the sweat soaked, heat exhausted, sun beaten 18 and 20 year old
men who had manned them for nearly 8 months. Within there was a series of walls erected to tower over any average man. Within there were an array of aircraft that sat idle, like the flies that idle in the mid day heat. Within there, somewhere, was a mound, just enough to see it all. And there sat the two cherries.
Thick cigar smoke lingered between the two. Their body armor a combination of the ashy dirt and sweat which had permanently died their uniforms a splotchy black. Neither made any attempt to wipe the sweat from their brow, it, like shoeing a fly, was a pointless endeavor.
The two, despite their uniforms, were contrasts of each other. One beaten by age, his hair dark and thin near the top. A sharp mustache had formed around his parched lips, riddled with salt and pepper. War had made his body hard and creak with each move. Life had taught him lessons and love had built walls within him. Opposite of him sat a blond, youth. A full head of hair, and his brow barely creased from stress. His cranked lips holding up only rough stubble of hair. Life had slashed him, and his love had taught the importance of fortifications.
Mike took a heavy drag from his cigar, the cherry a fresh glow in the evening. "You've done well."
"Where'd that come from?"
"Just thought you needed to know. You don't look to great."
"Thanks. I put my makeup on just for you." He took his own drag of his cigar.
"You're fucking weird but we love you for it."
Steven let out a long sigh. He stared off to where the sun had dipped down. He didn't want to look at Mike. "You know, I tried the best I could. A lot of shit happened. I tried to just put that front up. Only talked to you. Tried to get everything right." He shook his head. "I just feel like I was stabbed in the fucking back each time."
"Well brother, you know they say you can't feel the heat until your hand is over the flame. You don't know your worth until you take some hits like this. You've done shit people your age can't even fucking fathom, you have responsibilities your peers couldn't will never have. And you fucking rocked it brother. Everyone here, they fuckin' loves you. That's how you know you did good."
"I guess you're right." Steven knocked ash from his cigar.
"You know, I don't want you to take this the wrong way." Mike sat back, and it was his turn to look where the sun hid from them. "When your old man passed, I kinda-I mean I don't want you to think I compare to him, I just felt like I took you in. You're like a fucking kid of mine." He turned sharply and their gazes met in the dark.
"I think we got shit to do."
Mike stood up, creaking with each movement. "Fuckin' grunts, I'm getting too old for this shit."
