by Mike "Mule" Mullane
My sanity has always been like a balloon on a string, a gift from my parents when I was a little boy. I had to concentrate on holding the string. If I let my mind wander, even for a moment, it would slip through my fingers, bobbing, up an away, out of reach before I could snatch it back. Gone forever. Later, when I must think about such things it is clear I am more afraid of being a prisoner than of dying Death means no more threat, pain, fear, or failure. So, plan A is death not capture. But, can I? Will I? Maybe not. In training, they told us about the POW's in Korea who went crazy. Broken beyond repair, any usefulness gone, they were left alone. And so, if I can't pull the trigger, Plan B is: Let go of the string. But my luck holds. That is a hell I never have to visit, and here I am, still clutching, the string.