With trepidation, and no small amount of anxiety I made the preparations. Winter gear went in the A4 bag. Uniforms stacked neatly in the rolling camo bag. All manner of necessities filled the available space in each.

Orders cut, flight booked and no chance of turning back, I drove with bleary eyes towards the armory, my one remaining task a last minute errand to retrieve my allotted confections of destruction-my M&M’s. Nursing a Mountain Dew I tried to convince myself the gnawing in my stomach was from the caffeine.

Predawn but post-nightmares, I clumsily went to the armory window. A friendly sergeant fetched my items.

The moment the black metal of the M4 touched my hand it happened, my moment. That little manly part of my brain, heretofore the cause of mostly trouble, kicked into gear,_ “[deleted] yeah, I can do this [deleted]. [deleted], yes, mother [deleted]._”

I understood, clearly and palpably why people own superfluous weaponry—that feeling.

It feels good.

Sure beats fear and dread anyway.