Food Fight: Battle of Turkey Hill

In the hours before dawn, the air was thick with anxiety and the smell of an ocean on the verge of what could be the most brutal battle of the season. It was the start of an epic campaign in the Holiday Theater of War. A war that, some say, would last for the next 60 days, and have no less than three major skirmishes before it's end. Each battle a crucial step to making it through this god forsaken offensive. This, the first of three battles, the Battle of Turkey Hill, was about to get under way.
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We left the safety of the ship in the 11th hour. Our boat bounced through the pitch of night towards the shores that would soon become a harsh proving ground. My assignment to report on the war, found me entrenched in an elite outfit sent to secure an unruly mound of terra firma known as Turkey Hill. The mission; to storm the beaches and set-up a nutritional defensive to fend off dietary saboteurs on the most thankful day of the year.

The intelligence reports that had come in over the past few months or so, indicated that enemy forces were planning to invade on Thanksgiving Day. The intel spoke of excess, gluttony, empty calories, memories, traditions and the guilt from family members, would be the order of the day. Formidable enemies these men and women would face when the sun rose and the battle begins.

I am shoulder to shoulder with the troops, packed like sardines in transport boats, fresh from the intense conditioning of boot camp. It was now time to use what they had learned to stand or fall against the enemies that had claimed so many others before them. This was no ordinary group of patriots. They are soldiers that were once prisoners of war in holiday seasons past.

They are visibly nervous. The memories of those years seared into their minds. The indignities they suffered at the hands of the enemy and the after math that still lingers on their battle harden frames. Food can be a brutal captor, and it's methods of punishment border on inhumane. Mental interrogation is it's favorite tool, tearing down all will power. It gets into your brain and programs your thoughts with deadly consequence. It makes you feel safe and comfortable, erasing all common sense and restraint. Once the programing takes hold, like a land mine, it waits for the trigger to be tripped and the collateral damage that follows. Triggers that are plentiful during the holidays.

Sitting to my right, I notice a soldier that bears the weight of his former captors, and an intense look of focus and thought on his war torn face. The moon light that shines down on the boat, creates a silhouette, revealing his large frame and a portrait on a man who has been here before. A veteran, that recently reenlisted after years of running from himself.

As we wait in the shallow waters just off shore, the transports bob in the waves. An unnerving calm washes over us as we wait for the signal to deploy. He turns to me, and in a low voice, begins to bare his soul as if seeking absolution for sins that seemed to haunt him. "I've been here before." Taking a swig from his canteen he continues with his confession. "I've seen it all. War is never pretty and those bastards are ugly for sure. They aren't gonna get me this year." The story he told was all too common for a soldier of his stature. His size evidence of a weaker will that once held him captive.

"They will not do to me what they have done so many times before. After years of being a slave to their mind games, I am ready to show them no mercy." He makes a last minute check of his gear, making sure he has sufficient ammunition. It was clear he planned to lay waste to the enemy with all the vengeance of a man who had suffered greatly at hands of their atrocities.

It is now the early hours of morning. As the sun begins to break, I glance towards the horizon and stare in awe at the mountain that was to be their call to honor. The call comes in and the gates drop spilling the warriors into the shallow water. This is where my journey with these brave ones will end. The battle would be too dangerous for me to observe from the trenches.

My riding companion readied himself to escape the safety of our craft. Throwing on his pack he seems confident, ready to follow his brothers and sisters in arms into what could be triumph or defeat. As he stands and begins to rush towards that defining moment, he turns to me, a sly smile on his face. "Stay strong my friend. Show those bastards who's boss!" I wished him luck and in one quick motion he was gone.

I had come to this place for a story. An impartial observer to a battle that has been fought for generations, and will be fought for generations to come. But instead I would be leaving with a new respect for a clever foe, and a man that spoke volumes to me in a few short sentences. As the transport returned to the ship, I said a quite prayer in the hopes I would get a chance to talk with him again.