your headdress stifles unders the schoring mid-day sun..
the trinkiles of anoying sweat seem to have drenched your navy blue uniform...
your arm aches screaming as muscle fibres try to hold your forearms parrallel to the grown so you don't look like a moron trying to support the over sized flag currently resting on a holster near your groin area.
the parade seems so far so good .... apart from a near knock out experience , a coarse throat ,
a fast blurring image of the parade commander..
ohh the parade commander..
part of my feels envy that he is where he is..
yet another part of me feels relieved i ain't shoutng commands in a language i do not know...
your toes wrigle aimlessly about your roomy boots ...
black boots .... hot sun ... deadly combination...
remember , you are an SI ... your rank means you're suppossed to be the best...
mow is the time .. be the best ....
the commander returns to his position...
readies the contingents for their march past ...
this is it....
your cca flag catches a random breeze and almost caused the flag pole
to slip out of your hands..
its okay , i reassured myself.... more of a life than a reasurance
heres something with more truth in it ..
"whats the worst that could happen? die only..." Qoute from my president..
its seemed quite true ... death would probably be what i would getting after this..
my arm droops..
the march.....
it feels good to finally be moving ...
whats more important is that whether or not we're syncronized...
march past the contingents ...
march past the reviewing ofiicer..
march off ...
simple ... not that bad ...
or at least that was what i thought..........................................
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