I met him in a church basement, a few days into my service in The Long War.  He was old and grizzled and his face was scarred from many a wound.  He was drinking his coffee black, no sugar.

“Come sit down, young soldier,” he growled, somewhere between an invitation and an order.

I sat.

He looked me up and down.  We sat in silence.  His eyes came to rest on my eyes, looking not so much at, as through.  Finally, his voice cut through the silence.

“So, you are new to The Resistance, I see.”

I nodded.

“No scars yet?  Don’t worry, son, you’ll have plenty before they dump you in a grave.  Likely as not, it’ll be unmarked, and no one will weep.”

He leaned toward me, but his gaze was fixed on my soul still.  “Would you like some advice?  Who knows?  It might keep you out of the grave for a little while.”

I nodded.  I was in way over my head, and I knew it.  What was I thinking when I decided to rebel?  Or was I thinking?  But here I was—cold, and lonely, and scared, wondering how long it would be before I was as old and beat up as this warrior.  How old was he?  I couldn’t tell.

“I’m only thirty-two,” he said, apparently reading what I had been thinking.  What might have passed for a smile faded from his face before it could be positively identified.  “Still, I was young not so long ago, like you.  And I thought the war would be over by now.  I know better now.  I know now why they call this “The Long War”.

He sat back, and took a sip of his coffee, and grimaced.  “Some fool has let my coffee get cold,” he said.  He drank the rest of his coffee in two gulps, and sat the cup down on the table, none too gently.

“And now for the advice,” he said.

“The enemy don’t give a rip about fightin’ fair.  The enemy don’t care whether it kills you by night or by day.  And the enemy don’t sleep.

“You’ll be alone, and the enemy will stick a knife in your back, or you’ll be with your comrades, and the enemy will pick you out and pick you off.

“Nine times out of ten, you won’t even see the enemy, but rest assured, the enemy is still there.

“You could surrender, you know.  You’ll want to do that a thousand times.  But remember that the enemy takes no prisoners, except to torture and use for propaganda.  And, of course, the enemy will kill you in the end, anyway.

“There will be times when you’ll think it would be best to end it all yourself, choose your own time, your own method.  But then you’ll remember that there might be someone who loves you, and that you are part of the Resistance, and you’ll fight on, even when you don’t feel like it, even when you want to die.

“The enemy will turn your family against you, friends will desert you, and you’ll be called a terrorist by people who don’t even want to admit there’s a war.  But there’s a war alright.  And you’re a soldier now, and you are the battlefield.  And remember one thing more.”

Here, he paused to make sure I was with him, and not merely thinking about how to escape from this basement, this man, this reality.  When he was sure that I was captured, he said,

“And one thing more, you must never forget: You are also the enemy!”

He pushed his chair back from the table to get another cup of coffee.

I headed for the door, his words echoing, echoing.

“And you are also the enemy!”

“Also the enemy!”

“Also the enemy!”

I stumbled out the door to face the darkness, to face the enemy, to face my addiction.