When the shit hits the fan, the world becomes a very small place. Imagine if you will, standing on the beach. The incredibly blue Pacific stretched out before you as the sun peeks over the horizon behind you. The sky slowly edges from black to purple to pink. You can smell the coffee brewing as the soft, sweet music from the radio lulls you, caresses you, takes you back home to her, to Mom's bread baking, to Dad's pipe smoke, to Grandpa's farm where the fresh cut alfalfa makes the air even better than this salt-fresh air. Back home, they would all be getting ready for church, this being Sunday morning. As you stare out over the crisp blue ocean at the sea birds flying almost as if in formation, it slowly dawns on you that they really are flying in formation. What kind of birds fly like that? Well, they are flying in to shore, so pretty soon you will be able to identify them. Maybe write back home to let everyone know about them. But they are not birds. They are planes. Japanese Zeros.

The world explodes into noise, heat, and smoke. Steam from ship's boilers mixes with the screams of dying men. The smell of the bombs mixes with the blood and death. As of this second, your world becomes those things you can reach. The men below deck are foriegners, in some other world, well beyond your influence. They might as well be back on Grandpa's farm, they are so far away. The population of the world has just become those men who are in your sight.

When the shit hits the fan, the world becomes a very small place. Put yourself back in the ville. It has been dark for hours. The mosquitos whining have replaced the flies buzzing around your face. The smell of the night has replaced the stench of day. The fear of ambush has replaced the terror of waiting for a mortar to crash into your hootch. It is a different world as you stare through the Starlight into the green. You know the other half of the CAP is right over there... 200 yards away, watching the same world you are. But when the green tracers start coming into the other half, when the red tracers start going out, your world suddenly moves 200 yards. Time no longer exists. What matters is your buddies. The radio becomes your connection to the human race.

When the shit hits the fan, the world becomes a very small place. The white markers stretch out as far as you can see. Taps comes from somewhere out in Arlington, echoing off your past, your kids' future, your grandkids' heritage. There is no world other than what these men in front of you have bought with their courage, their kids' lives, their grandkids' heritage.

When the shit hits the fan, the world becomes a very small place. The Dragon has come to drag you back into Hell. The fight is intense, and surrender would be so simple. The world has become what is inside your skull. The nightmares, the hypervigilance, the fear all come back in living color. You want to fight back, but you are so very tired.

When the shit hits the fan, the world becomes... just you and your buddies.

When the shit hit the fan, we counted on our buddies. It seems possible that every Medal of Honor recipient was just protecting his world, his buddies.

When the shit hits the fan, the world becomes just you and us.