He is leaving, woman, you just need to understand that. Crying ain't going to help a thing. He's a soldier and he's got to do for the country what it ain't done for him yet, be free. James Carr's singing narrator is soft and firm. You see him coming home and standing in the kitchen door, all military khaki and deployment orders. He explains, in that honey moan of his, a few depths darker than Otis Redding's, that he is doing his part. Carr pleads with her not to cry, but the tears come anyway. He tells the woman that he'd be by her side everyday, were it up to him. Brushing her slick cheek with the backside of his hand, looking into her eyes, he promises that everything will be fine. He can't stand to look as fresh tears well up and roll down both of their faces now. This is the kind of emotion that makes you love someone so much that you have to break everything in goddamn room. This is soul so fucking good it makes your chest tingle and your mouth dry. He hugs her again, and walks across their yard to the waiting military transport. You wish you could call Carr at home, and demand to know whether the solider got home again.