Four braided metal ropes are all which separate me from the ocean beyond. Spaced evenly, one above the next, they serve as a small fence against an accidental fall.

It wouldn't take much, just a little hop.

Shining off the water, the half moon above the Atlantic Ocean looks bigger than it did at the Front.

Everything looks bigger than it did at the Front.

Our eyes were narrowed.

Our existence focused.

Our awareness fine.

Shimmering reflections of the moon, itself a reflection, dance on the crests of choppy ocean.

It’s all a reflection, isn’t it?

Aren’t I?

A reflection of this time.

A reflection of my experience.

A reflection of what the world has endured.

My left foot rises, finding a place to rest on the bottom metal braided rope.

Many no longer have the chance to reflect.

Josh, Tom, Eric, Mark, Gene. . . the whole lot of’em never made it out.

My right foot rises off the deck, resting on the second metal braided rope.

Pushing against my groin, the top rope tells me I’m almost high enough.

I can’t reflect anymore.

I don’t want to reflect anything again.

My left foot leaves the bottom rope, rising to the third.

This may be high enough.

Leaning forward, my knees push against the top rope.

Maybe this will set me free.

I lean forward more, loosening my feet from the metal rope.

This will end the guilt.

My feet slip off the rope as I fall forward, face down toward the glistening waves.

Cool air rushes past me as I descend toward the water.

It’s cooling me.

It’s soothing.

It’s liberating.

Charles Whittlesey, commander of the 308th Battalion of the 77th “The Lost Battalion” took his own life in 1921 by jumping overboard from a ship at sea. Whittlesey was in charge when the battalion was trapped behind German lines, losing most of the 550 men under his command. He never recovered from this loss, blaming himself and his leadership abilities for it. In war, even good people, who are quality commanders, can break when situations beyond their control destroy all they hold dear.