Morning after morning, like waves lapping on the shore, over and over, a band of young, brave, selfless boy-men would rise out of the dark early morning, moving relentlessly with flight gear draped over lean bodies. Our faces were drawn, but you could catch a twinkle of humor in our eyes, but only if you knew us well enough, to look long enough.

We moved out of our sandbagged homes, called hooches, to the mess halls, to the ready rooms, to the launch pads, to the helicopters and for some to their death. Some of us on that particular day would dissolve like watery white foam on the sandy beach of life. But for most of us, we returned to the barbed wire oasis, our source of life, mail, beer and laughter; only to rise again the next dark and dreary morning to revisit the ocean of life and death.

We were as reliable as those slapping small waves on the beach. Many of us would arise with the taste of cotton balls of stale beer in our mouth, then putting on our damp flight suits, immodest and unconcerned that the numerous centerfolds were starring at us. Again we drape our survival gear over our bit leaner bodies, leaving the security of our hooches. We are drawn like moths to the warmth and light of the mess hall, with the hot coffee, powdered eggs and of course the endless cigarettes.

Then we moved on to the ready rooms for the briefings, briefings with far too many emergency extracts, (jokingly referred to as a "shit sandwich" that's a Recon team in deep, deep trouble, so close to the enemy they could only whisper on the radios). Then the walk or run across the ramp to our bunkered protected helicopters. Climbing into our heavily loaded Gunships no pre-flight, total trust and faith in our unfatiguable and dedicated plane captains and crew, some just kids with more responsibility than many corporate CEO's, of course, they didn't want to die either.

Yes, there are some remaining caverns in my mind. Some are as rich with treasures as the pirate caves imagined in my boyhood.