The Stars Back Home

“Mike, stay with me,” I say, pressing the dressing on the jagged wound that has ripped open his right thigh. “Mike!”

Minutes before, we had dismounted our Bradley Fighting Vehicle and started to patrol our way into this dusty little hardscrabble village. Suddenly, everything became a blur, a huge cloud of sand and rock seemed to wake up from the earth, a concussive sound, and the sight of Mike being smacked through the air.

Time seemed to slow down as I raced without caution toward where Mike lay. I see Sarge with his M4 up and looking for who sent this pale horse of death to attack his men. Lopez is doing the same and screaming over the radio for the guys still on the Bradley to call for a Dustoff.

I reach Mike and he has taken two bad hits from the explosion. The one on his leg looks much worse than the bleeding coming from his arm. All of the lessons from Combat Lifesaver class automatically kick in and I begin treating my brother in arms as I press the dressing to his leg injury.

There seems to be a spiderweb of tiny cuts across his body, but I move to the arm injury as my next action. All this training in how to defeat and kill your enemy doesn’t matter at this moment, just the one course we were taught that is the opposite.

“Mike, how are you doing man?” I keep talking trying to elicit a response from him, get him to give me a verbal sign he is going to make it. I have the two most pressing concerns taken care of.

Sarge comes back to check on us and says that everything is secured and there is a Blackhawk enroute to evacuate Mike. I see Lopez and Knuckles have set up defensive positions to guard against another attack. The Bradley has moved up to provide cover in an overwatch position.

All of a sudden Mike’s eyes snap open and his pupils dart around. He tries to raise up but I push him back down. “Help is coming,” I tell him. “You got hit by an IED, just lie still.”

He lets out a strained chuckle, “IED, I always thought that was the stupidest term, Improvised Explosive Device. Just call it what it is, death.”

“No, man,” I say, “you are going to pull through this, the helo is inbound.”

This was the second tour Mike and I have been on together in Iraq and we had become brothers. I could recount all the stories he told of being raised up poor in Eufaula, Alabama and his adventures on the Chattahoochee River. His life was so much different than my life of privilege I had experienced growing up in San Diego. Two different Americas is where we were from.

Being different drives many people apart, we let our differences cement our friendship. One of the lessons we both learned from our mommas was everyone is fighting their own battles and could use someone to walk with them. We even discussed taking leave and visiting each other's hometowns. Mike said his momma’s cooking would likely be the greatest thing that had ever happened to me. I told him that the California sun and the pristine sands of Coronado Beach would have him moving there.

Mike coughs and a little blood bubbles on his lip. His eyes are alert, their vitality stands into stark contrast to the ravages that have crumbled the rest of his body.

“This sure ain’t like those video games, huh? No respawns here,” Mike says with what could pass as a laugh.

“No, buddy, if only those kids back home knew the truth of it,” I try to keep my voice level despite the rising fear I am having. “The Blackhawk will be here soon, tell more about Big Paw.”

A smile warms Mike’s dirt and blood stained face, “Oh Collin, when you take me back home you gotta meet Big Paw. Get him to tell you about when he was fighting the Germans as part of the Segregated African American 784th Tank Battalion. He said when his Sherman crossed the Rhine River it was the second most beautiful river he had ever seen behind the much loved Chattahoochee. You’ll appreciate his stories more as a soldier yourself.”

“I’m not taking you home brother. We will be going together.” I can feel my emotions betraying me.

“We are going together, just not the way we planned,” Mike says and reaches out to grab my hand. “Make sure you get momma to make you a meal and some of her made from scratch apple pie. Nothing else you ever taste the rest of your life will compare to that pie.”

“I can hear the helo,” I grasp at anything to give Mike hope. “Hold on Mike. I will try that pie with you at your momma’s.”

He doesn’t acknowledge what I said, but continues on, “I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want you to think I was running out on you, but I wasn’t going to reenlist my next time up. I planned on going back home and getting a job with the Fish and Wildlife Service. Spend the rest of my days looking at God’s beauty instead of looking at these scars of war.”

“You still can,” I say, fighting this knowledge of what is coming. “You can’t die man, you promised me we would visit California together. You’ve never broken a promise to me.”

Mike’s eyes flicker, “Sorry my friend, didn’t mean to, those beaches sound pretty nice, but you will see nothing will ever beat...” His voice is barely a whisper and I lean in close to hear the rest of what he says.

His eyes close for a final time.

“I will buddy, I will check out those stars back home.”

Maybe even go live that dream of yours and heal my own scars.