Title: Dulce et decorum est Author: GI Jaye Feedback: If you like it tell me. If it sucks you can tell me that too. Disclaimer: GIJOE is owned by some very lucky individuals, unfortunately, of which I am not one. I have nothing, please don't sue me. This is fiction, please stop for a minute however, to remember the real American heroes that never did come home.

Rating: G Summary: What happened after Trucial Abysmia. Believe it or not, it's not F/L A/N: Thanks to my husband for reading this. It was his originally his idea. The poem is part of "When I am Dead," by Christina G. Rosetti, taken from The Top 500 Poems by William Harmon. The scripture is from Job chapter 12 and taken from The Book of Worship for United States Forces. I found an old copy on my bookshelf of all places.

Spring, 1991 Pittman Center, Tennessee

"And so Lord, we commit to the earth thy servant." The minister paused. Looking up, he smiled in a weak attempt to convey comfort to the small congregation. "Hear now," he proceeded, "these words from the book of Job."

"With God are wisdom and might; he has counsel and understanding...."

He shuddered, knowing the chill he felt came not from the crisp mountain breeze, but from within. This was the fifth time he had done this. Or was it the sixth? They were all blending together- a sort of surrealistic nightmare. "No", the tiny voice in the back of his head chided him, "this is the sixth. You have to remember." He forced himself to relive the garish details. Forgetting would marginalize their lives, what they died for. Death. Deaths he held himself personally responsible for. He was the mastermind of the campaign- the linchpin that was supposed to hold it all together. And he had failed. No one could fault him, he'd done everything right, followed all their rules. "No," the breeze whispered, "No one can fault you, just as you can never purge yourself of the guilt."

He'd done everything right. Yet here he was in this tiny Methodist cemetery at yet another funeral, handing a broken-hearted mother a neatly folded flag in remembrance of her fallen son. And not even a real body to bring home- just some mangled remains. The explosion had taken care of that. His words to Cross-Country haunted him. "We're the Joes, we don't leave our dead behind. We take care of our own." Tomorrow he left for Los Angeles to face his demons for one- he hoped- final time.

"When I am dead my dearest, sing no sad songs for me..."

Lady Jaye's clear, steady voice carried over the friends and family, breaking his introspection. He silently cursed her dramatic mask and well feigned composure. They shared an odd affinity for these mountains. He was born here; they reminded her- and thousands before- so much of her father's homeland.

"And if thou wilt remember, and if thou wilt forget..."

Allowing his mind to drift, he thought back to the rushed empty boot ceremony in the desert of Trucial Abysmia. Somehow, the three of them had managed to survive. For that he was grateful, but it made the guilt even worse. He studied the cold, hard granite of the tombstone, its flecks of pink mottled with the dull gray, bringing a false sense of vibrancy and life. "Dulce et decorum est pro patria moria," it read. There is no greater honor than to die for one's country. "Latin, that's odd," he mused, until he remembered his mother taught Latin at the local high school.

"Haply I may remember and haply may forget."

Hearing the shuffle of feet, he looked up. People were starting to leave. He overheard his mother asking them to stay- they had plenty of food. You were his friends. Please. Mumbling an excuse, he wandered aimlessly to the crest of the hilltop where he stood silently, consumed by guilt.

"I'm sorry, Breaker," Duke finally whispered across the breeze. "God help me, I'm sorry."