Drabbles of a Screaming Eagle

The cacophony of dying screams, crackling fire and deafening explosions was a melody to the Soldier's ears. Each time he launched himself into the air, it was like a waltz. A rocket jump waltz, to be exact. It wasn't like any stuffy European waltz. Rather, it was American, thus better. It would never be found on the shiny dance floors of drab social events. It was a dance that belonged in the outstretched skies of the battlefield. No need for frills or satin attires. All one needed was a rocket launcher and an American spirit. The rocket jump waltz was a dance for those who vowed to fight for freedom. It was a dance for real fighters who were unafraid to laugh at death in the face and threaten to shoot. From Shakespearicles to Abraham Lincoln, it was the dance of the greats. Soldier hoped he could join them someday. With the explosion of a rocket, a fierce crescendo began. His ascendance into the skies was a slow tempo. His bombings on the enemy kept the beat. His shovel against an enemy’s skull crashed together in a duet. His laughter as he descended was part of the coda. The waltz was short, but his thirst for spilled blood never ended. He will keep dancing. Dancing through the skies in a waltz that repeated itself throughout battle. Spies, temporary bouts of death and Snipers could never bring him down. Thus, the rocket jump waltz would live on.