He sits with his platoon, deep in the midst of the Iraqi desert. Dark green, light jade, beige and brown spotted jacket, pants, boots, and hat adorn his muscular body, making him chameleon like under the dark hot midday sun. Beads of sweat trickle down from his forehead, past his cheeks towards his lips, neck and back. Dark eyes stare out at the world, hallowed and unsure of the future. A Romanesque nose beautifies and dignifies his face leading down to rough pink lips that speak any of home and death on the battlefield. A song runs constantly through his mind:

Consider the odds,

consider the obvious.

The martyr is meaningless,

the campaign has died.

In the planning stages and the fallen faces

are the singular proof that it was ever alive.

This purchased rebellion has been out bidded,

denounced and rescinded and left to die Championless, Championless, Championless.