last full measure

I breathed heavily, my lungs stinging as I took in a breath and released it in a moist fog. The wind whipped wildly and violently tossed the innocent, light feathery flakes of snow. It was really the only beauty I could see. The ground was brown with upturned earth, and the peaceful snow turned to slush by the constant tread of feet. I blinked to clear my eyelashes from the snowflakes as my buddy next to me cleared his sinuses. His pants were smeared with blood and I wondered if it was his or somebody else's.
Screaming and yelling rose and fell around my ears. I'd grown expectant of the constant noise but not immune. It shattered the quiet of the falling snow and unfailing wind and the occasional whistle called me out of the dream-like trance I could've so easily fallen into.
We were lining up. Good God, not again. I wanted to pray, but did God listen to prayers for such things? Last time we'd been hit so hard, and I couldn't feel my hands anymore. I looked down at them to see them bleeding. I hoped I had all my fingers and purposely counted to make sure. Was there any purpose? Why were we here? My ears burned with the last bit of warm blood before going numb. Then I heard the calls, voices cracking with the strain, and we got into position. I crouched down and saw my enemy opposite me. There he was, just like all the times before. Same watery eyes in the wind, same red face from the cold, same shaking knees from the persistent running, dodging, diving. We were all of us tired. Couldn't we stop? Couldn't we take a break and pick up where we left off?
No, I remembered. We were there for a reason. He wasn't just like me: he was wearing different colors, speaking a different language, calling out different names. He hit us hard, but we hit back. We were there to win, to beat him, to come out victorious in what seemed like a draining, fruitless battle. We were there for home, who listened for reports on the radio and waited to hear from us. They needed this as much as we did. Maybe we did it for them. It hurt, but the pain made the rest afterward more defined. I couldn't imagine the rest, but soon I wouldn't have to. Just get through this night, and I could rest.
More shouts from behind. It was coming. The moment to charge, to push, to try until my hands fell off or my knees broke. I dug my hands into the mud. I waited.
"Blue! 42! Hike!"
Clashing of helmets, deep-chested grunts of men being pounded, the sound of cleats sticking in the cold ground. I sprinted forward, cut to the right, and looked up just in time to see the spiraling ball appear out of a cloud of white snowflakes. I reached out, pulled it close to my chest, and ran. I don't remember sidestepping, stiff-arming, or juking. I don't remember crossing the line or feeling the slaps and pats and punches of victory from my teammates. I remember the feeling of the warm sheets on my aching legs and the sight of the snow falling outside. Outside, where it belonged. And never had a sleep seemed so deserved, saved for those who worked hardest to get it. I knew that it was over, that my hands would heal, that my soreness tomorrow would prove as a pleasantly-aching reminder that we had accomplished and survived and won. It was over. Until next week.