Gold Desert Eagle Prices

SERGEANT

Nineteen years old and already a man. On the shoulders the weight of the backpack, the mileage in the legs and those to be done to return home. In her hat wet snow and sweat, with the pen crops, tired and stiff from the cold. Around
, nothingness, the steppe.
The wind whistled through the fire blackened carcasses of trucks, including the bodies of the fallen stone and misty-eyed unseeing. The heavy footsteps sank into the snow to the knees, running non-stop between the distant roar of bombing and shooting the enemy hiding in the bag.
I sat down to rest a little. Or forever. Powerless, hopeless. Far from home, by parents, friends. In the pocket of his uniform a letter written in pencil because the ink freezes in less than thirty. Written in half because there was no need to waste time in the one moment of peace of the day.
E 'was the sergeant pulled me up in weight. It is loaded backpack over his shoulder and left me the gun. Beside me told me about his house, what you would do after the war, he promised me he would come to see me every year, told me the pride and the courage to be alpine. The strength to never give up, to help one another, as he did, with no divisions of age or grade. United by the same prayers, the same symbol: the hat elongated, shelter from sun and rain, water bowl and cushion the nights in the trenches. With the black pen friend through our own suffering, crushed under the weight of backpacks, battered by wind and dust, grazed by bullets.
Without realizing it we had arrived in a village. Isbas of waiting for us with hot food and a bed. And a few hours of rest before another road.
Now I have 86 years. And I still feel the cold turned into badges of ice in his beard unkempt, dirty clothes in the blood and sweat, in boots held together with rags and string. They had the old reason: the smell of grease on the red-hot machine gun will not forget.
There's not much, I know. I see them already have friends left, my brothers who remained there, in the steppe. We are all waiting for me.
there too, my sergeant. He saved my life that day and that night in the snow during the encirclement and the obsessive focus of mortars and guns.
Place your right hand to the visor of his hat, transformed and consumed, has lived his years next to mine.
The sergeant has the same open wounds and sore eyes. But he smiles and beckons me to join him.
me to attention and obey the last time.