WarsBy Edmund JanasWars should be so far offthe young soldiers grow exhaustedbefore ever reaching the fight.I only know warthrough my old man’s nightmares –The hell he survived, then battledalone for decades after,before I could try to help him.Close as ragged breathsand raw, sleepless skin,wars are never far off.So when I hear out-of-shape, gray warriorstalk tough from armchairs and podiums,I know they’d shatter firstunder the brutal truth of combat.War means mules overloaded, tumblingdown cliff sides. “Dear John” and “Dear Jane” letterstear-stained on bloodsoaked grass.Mile after mile of soul-sucking mud,the unforgettable reekof friend and foe.It means screaming regrets, aimless,into cold night air, night after night.Not some blowhard’s call to actionas the politicians calling for itlicks chicken grease from their plates.My Pop, who...