Serve like your father. Love like your Mother. Be like your Brother.
The words are poignant, ringing in your ears like the shockwave of that mortar blast. What are you thinking? What are you feeling? Power as you pour led into the enemy’s chest? Tension as your work your way through the village? Can you feel the sweat rolling over the crest of your brow? Are your teeth chattering in the heat of the Afghani sun?
“Incoming! Down!” I dived for my commanding officer, her heroism inspiring my own in the face of imminent danger.
It wasn’t would you thought it would be, oh no. You long for the days when you could leave your apartment early in the morning, taking a bite out of your bagel, feeling pity for the lazy lumped body of your dog that whimpered in the corner; his tiny ears perking up and his pearlescent eyes sparkling with joy.
You imagined it would be heroic and fulfilling? The way your dad looked when he walked through the front door with that heavy bag? Your very own personal superman. You imagined being out there with him, travelling the world, always outside and athletic, a replacement for school football tournaments-
“Contact, eighty metres, front!” I moved my carbine, its barrel an extension of my arm, to fire upon the new contacts. A round grazed my cheek, a second struck my friend.
-That’s not how it works. Instead you pound on the chest of a dear friend, oily red liquid spilling onto the ground around you, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and the cavity in his chest lacking in vitality.
Does it remind you of the time you sprained your ankle at hockey? Does it feed you that same feeling, that same instinct of comradeship? Or is the pain overpowering what little humanity you have maintained? Does it feel hopeful and victorious to watch the dust fly up into the air with the force of a tsunami with each seven point six two round that drilled into the ground around you?
Where is your red white and blue?
“Suppressing fire!” I screamed, Rye had died right next to me, my friend of sixteen years, and I could have saved him. If this was going to be how it ended, his death would not be without retaliation. I ran, bullets scorching the air and chipping away at the fortified building that the Taliban had holed themselves up in. I slammed my back into the wall, check the mags on my vest, rack-checked my rifle, and turned to face the door.
Your Mother always told you to show compassion. Your Brother always told you to be smart.
Your Father always told you to be strong.
The heel of my boot obliterated the wooden door. I sliced the pie, as had been drilled into me, firing three rounds into a target crouching in the corner, and another four into the tango by the kitchen. I moved forward, past a partial wall that separated the living room from the main door – clear.
This? Or a coach for the NFL? Watching major league players take great leaps, their lives moving in slow motion as that orange ball floating, carried their hopes and dreams into the hoop. You could have made that possible, you could have facilitated other’s dreams. Yet here you are, taking dreams instead.
My feet carried me up the stairs without a second to lose, I spotted the gunner in the window and opened fire, five rounds into his chest, before signalling over the radio for my allies to watch their fire. Two rounds dented the wall above my head, and I ducked into the stairwell. He screamed at me, shouting curses and daring me to die.
Maybe he has a fear of heights just like you, maybe – like you – he was a disappointment, a failure. Maybe all he wanted was to be like his older brother, and avoid his annoying younger siblings.
I fired a few round blindly around the corner, before consolidating once I heard his mag his the ground. I found him reloading, and executed him without a thought. My finger pushed the magazine release, I guided it into my dump pouch, and loaded another stack of death into my machine.
Love like your Mother. Be like your Brother.
Serve, because of what you fear.
