Part 398 : Brian's Letter Part 2

I suppose it was the heat I never got use to.

Walking day in and day out in the sweltering heat of the Middle East was something only the locals could get use to. I suppose that is why God gave them brown skin. If that sounds racist, it wasn’t my intent.

It was a day like any other. We had to patrol the local city, looking for insurgents. I don’t know what is wrong with these people, War Dove. They’d been fighting for over hundreds of years and nobody is going to change that. So we do our best to keep the peace and make sure no one dies on a regular basis. I had grabbed my gear and proceeded up toward the men. They were getting their gear set to roll as well, taking water and ammo. A few of them didn’t want to wear the metal plates in their vests because of the added weight. However, luckily as Sergeant, I had no problem ordering them to put them on. Hatcher immediately came up to me with a worried look. I didn’t think nothing of it because it wasn’t the first time we’d gone out on patrol with that type of look. “Don’t worry, Hatch,” I told him with a smirk, “I’ll get you back to your Betty Jean in one piece.”

“No, Sarn, take a look,” he turned his head, “Cyke is with us.”

“Cyke?” I looked up, confused, “But I thought he was sick?”

“He is but he here he is.”

I looked to where Hatcher was pointing. Cyke, one of my best friends, was standing with the men; fully loaded with his gear. However, his nose was bright red and his eye lids were gray. I walked up toward him and patted him on the back. “Cyke, what the hell are you doing here?” I asked him.

“Tripp has some kind of leave and I had to fill his slot,” he sniffed, “I’m good to go, Sarn.”

“No, you are not. You got a full blown cold and you shouldn’t be in the field.”

“Thanks, Schroeder . . . but you know it ain’t up to me.”

I winced my face slightly and I realized what he was talking about. “Did Lt. Crawford order you to join the patrol?” I asked.

Cyke just shook his head in agreement. I patted him on the arm and immediately walked off to talk to the Lieutenant. Lt. Crawford had joined our company about three months ago. He was a spit polish military man, fresh out of officer’s school. I would have assumed he would have went to West Point but no one told me that he did. I knocked on the door to his office and he looked up at me. He didn’t have the decency to acknowledge me; he just motioned me in. I stepped up and stood at attention. “Is there something I can help you with, Sergeant?” he asked me.

“Sir, permission to take Private Nash off the patrol.” I asked him.

“Denied.” Crawford immediately replied.

“Sir, with all due respect, he’s sick. He needs bed rest.”

“Fresh air will do him good. Besides, it’s just a head cold. He’ll live through it. Dismissed.”

“Sir, I just-“

“DISMISSED, Sergeant!” Crawford barked at me.

I saluted him and promptly left the room. I didn’t want to admit that I hated that man but I was coming close. It’s a cliché but it’s mostly true, War Dove. Lieutenants don’t know squat about combat; how could they? They start out in military school to learn combat tactics but like Pop always said; experience is the best teacher. Lt. Crawford had only been out with us twice and I don’t think he liked Cyke either times. Cyke made us all laugh but Crawford was wound so tight; he found no joy in anything. I was going to make sure this turned out to be a routine patrol. It had to be because I refuse to lose any of my boys.


We arrived at the edge of the city to begin our patrol. The men filed out of the back of the truck and got in formation in routine order. Lt. Crawford stepped out of the truck from the passenger side. “Sergeant Schroeder?” he called me.

“Yes, sir?” I inquired.

“Private Nash will take point.” He said coldly.

The scumbag brought him out here with a cold and then has the gall to place him on point? Cyke wiped his nose on his sleeve and then assumed the point. I stared down at Crawford who immediately went to the back of the formation. I decided to join Cyke at the front. Hatcher looked at me like I was half crazy but he knew I was doing it to watch Cyke’s back; so he didn’t say anything.

We began our patrol and a few of the local citizens went about their daily affairs. One young boy saluted us as we walked by. I appreciate the ones who like the fact that we are here to keep the peace, Kellye. It makes us realize that we’re here for a good reason. The sun was beating down and I constantly checked on Cyke. He looked like he was going to pass out at a moment’s notice. His head cold already made him slow and dehydrated. If it got any worse, I was going to order him back to the truck and I would take the punishment that Crawford would dish out.

But I never got the chance.

I heard someone scream out INSURGENTS and someone started to open fire. A bullet grazed off my helmet, and I jolted to the floor. I screamed for Cyke to take cover but his cold made him too slow to react. By the time I looked up to see him diving for cover, a rocket propelled grenade struck him full bore into his body. War Dove . . .my friend . .my blood brother Cyke was standing in front of me . .and then within seconds, he was gone. Disappeared in a moment of an explosion. I wanted to run to him. I wanted to hold him and promise him I would take him home, like we always talked about. But I couldn’t do that.

Because Cyke was all over me . . .and I couldn’t stop screaming.

“CRAWFORD!!!” I screamed as Cyke’s blood ran off my face, “YOU SON OF A BITCH!!! AAAAHHHHHH!!!”

Hatcher and Bowens ran to me to pick me up and get me back to the rear of the formation. I was still distraught. One of my friends was just blown up in front of me. Hatcher was upset too. However, it didn’t hit him till later because his main concern was getting me out of the line of fire. He and I would spend the next three days mourning Cyke. We didn’t even have a body to place in his coffin to ship home. I was told later that his mother and father, plus his three little sisters filled up the coffin with aspects of him. His favorite ball cap, CDs of his favorite music and his favorite Superman comic books. I wish I could have been there because my contribution would have been the Joker card from our poker deck. He was the Joker; he always made us laugh.

On the fourth day, we went back out onto patrol, War Dove. And that’s where the bad stuff really started to happen. What you are about to hear, only Hatcher knows. If he is still alive by the time you are reading this letter, then you can feel free to discuss it with him. If not, you can lay it to rest, like this letter.

When we went out on the patrol, we were coursing through the corner of the southeastern part of town. There were no citizens, which is always a bad feeling. And then within twenty minutes, we were attacked by insurgents. Hatcher and I ran to an alleyway for cover. Our men were penned down but we continued to fire regardless. I grabbed my mic and screamed for Crawford to tell us what do. I got no response. I peered out of the alley way and much to my surprise, he was running. He was RUNNING, Kellye. Not only was he a bastard, he was a coward to boot. I don’t know what caused me to do it; in fact, I don’t remember even thinking about doing it.

But I raised my rifle and I shot him in the back.

He felt down in a haze and was dead by the time he hit the ground. Hatcher looked at me and I looked at him. He didn’t offer any sign in his face that I had done a bad thing. He just looked at me and smirked, saying, “Your orders, sir?”

He was technically right. With the Lieutenant down, I was left in charge. I ordered bazooka rounds toward the sniper position and ordered the men to fall back under cover fire. Thanks to my efforts, no man died that day. No man but Lt. Crawford. As you well know, Kellye, our guns had been adapted to fire 7.2 MM rounds; same as HK 47’s. That way, if we run out of ammo, we can reload using the enemies weapons. Once we got Crawford back, they’ll pull the bullet out but they won’t be able to tell it came from one of our rifles.

I was numb the first few days. Hatcher told me that no else saw me shoot Crawford and even if they did, no one came forward. Besides, he was running away. Hatcher reminded me that I would have in essence, been shooting a deserter. I wasn’t sure if such a thing was done any more but I didn’t care. Cyke was gone and deep in my heart I knew shooting Crawford couldn’t bring him back. However, there is one thing I do know, War Dove. Crawford’s arrogance will no longer get any good men killed.

I’ll make peace with God in my own way, Kellye. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. And if you take anything away from this story, you take away this one thing.

Don’t ever let your friends get killed for someone’s stupidity. Loyalty to your friends and the Corp will take you a long way. Never forget that.

to be continued . . . .