"The sky is lit up like the Fourth of July!" I shouted from my safe confines. "There are explosions all around me. You can hear the thundering of the F16s overhead. Even through the noise and turmoil these soldiers continue their attack and they are ruthless." I was the reporter shouting back the 'play by play' of Operation Desert Storm to my close friend who was behind a desk in some news studio back home. I was full of excitement and energy; the kind that you can only get from a heated battle. I had never witnessed death first hand. This was sure to be a spectacle that I would never forget and, to date, I have not.
"The explosions are more than a mile away and I can feel the impact of each one. Using this amount of ammo, we are sure to win the battle. It won't be much longer before they run screaming and beg us to stop." I reported. "We are losing very few men and morale is high!" My friend replied, "Thank you for the update, and now, your local weather."
"The forecast looks good, a bit colder than yesterday but not much snow through the weekend." I explained, now taking the role of the weatherman.
At twelve years old my swift imagination put me closer to the action than the T.V. ever could. My friend and I were recreating the news cast we had just watched. The war seemed more comparable to a violent story book than reality; it was so surreal. We laughed and played while soldiers fought. War, at this point, meant that people I didn't know, went somewhere I couldn't go, to do things I couldn't do. I had no clear picture of what really happened during Desert Storm. Even now though, I enjoy those childhood imaginings of being a journalist.
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