Before I read the play, “The Sandstorm,” by Sean Huze, I looked at the cover of the play and saw the symbolism of the soldier, looking through his goggles, and only seeing death in front of him. The day I began to read the play, it was ironically September 11, 2010. It was the 9th anniversary of the most horrendous attack in our country’s history. As I was reading, I started to feel the sadness, and the fear I felt on that same day, back in 2001. I know someone who is over seas fighting for our country. The pain and the emotions that Huze expresses with each of the men’s stories is heart felt. The play really shows us a realization on what the men and women are going through everyday, while being over seas.
Each of the men’s stories gives us a picture as to what they’re truly going through being over seas and fighting for our freedom. They each tell their story with such anger and disgust to what they see everyday. They talk about the killing of innocent civilians, and the death of their best friends, their comrades in battle. Some of the men’s stories were terrifying even to read, let alone be there to see it all happen. We realize that there is a war going on everyday, but for these men and women they see things we could not imagine. I do not think we stop to realize what they go through everyday waking up asking themselves “is today the day I’m going to die?” They miss home, their families and friends. They’re always tired, hot and hungry. They stay there to help keep our nations freedom and we should all thank them more often.
Wounds That Never Heal
In the blood red sunset I hear the sounds
It resounds, resounds, resounds
with the lonely bugle call that brings
each soul from the hell that was there,
together again as comrades in despair.
In the darkness that follows the sun
a new day is born, begun
with pearl pink streaks of light
hat cannot be seen at sunset of night.
I touch my wife, me sleeping grandchild,
and think awhile.
Perhaps these wasted dead are heroes
that have made
God smile.
In the blood red sunset I hear the sounds
It resounds, resounds, resounds
with the lonely bugle call that brings
each soul from the hell that was there,
together again as comrades in despair.
In the darkness that follows the sun
a new day is born, begun
with pearl pink streaks of light
hat cannot be seen at sunset of night.
I touch my wife, me sleeping grandchild,
and think awhile.
Perhaps these wasted dead are heroes
that have made
God smile.
Richard E. McGintry
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