"Be proud and brave," the boy's father said to him and everyone within earshot, as we waited in the pouring rain for the trucks that were to bus us on the first stage of what it would prove to be a long trip to the Florida training area. Our friend's father was indeed a "father" because not only was he our friend's father, but he was also a professional preacher, filled to overflowing with ecclesiastical bullshit. It was a throwback of sorts to the days of missionaries from the African and Pacific Islands, who enthusiastically delighted in spreading the word of the Lord among those classified as devil-worshipping pagans. He had relieved a man we all deeply respected for his quiet way of getting things done for anyone who requested his help. Believer or non-believer, he assisted everyone regardless of faith, or lack thereof. Besides, he never beat the good book or grated our nerves with pious talk like this new guy did. Yes, our old Preacher was truly a father to all, a perfect example of what a spiritual leader should be. Even better, he had survived two tours in Vietnam. Therefore, he was one of us. Our new preacher turned to everyone present, raised his arms and spread them wide. His face lifted to the sky as the rain thundered down in a celestial torrent. He cried out in prayer, "Lord, bless these young crusaders who go forth and do your work, to smite your enemies, let them be a credit to you and their families as they fight the good fight, the lords fight, crushing the pagans them first!" With a smile on his lips, his face turned to the sky and his arms still wide open, he slowly looked down at us. Waiting for shouts of joy, for a great outpouring of crusading applause, for helmets thrown into the middle of the paper.......The trucks arrived and we piled on board with many senseless and useless things shouting from the non-commissioned officers. Then I looked at the field for the last time. In a distant corner of the parade ground, I could see a solitary figure standing in the torrential rain with his arm raised in salute: it was the Preacher. As we exited the field in a great blue cloud of exhaust fumes, only one arm between us raised in response to his salute. No, not his children, he was mine. Because at that moment I really felt sorry for him. Then the lone wolf howled again, crying out to the Preacher. "Hey! Tell me! If we are young crusaders doing the work of the lords, then how come he always pisses on us!" So, after all, he had absorbed some words of the prayer. If either of us actually believed what was in it, it would ultimately become a whole other issue.