What do you say to your best friend and brother, who's just been through hell and survived, in a war that he sees an unwinnable? Tells you stories of just what he went through. And now here he was standing in front of you, obviously a changed man, without a scratch on him. But several of his friends and squad mates weren't so lucky and went home in boxes instead of arm-in-arm with his brothers. And he grieved for them weeks after the fact. He'll never stop grieving. The sadness I felt...I hugged him and didn't want to let go. What was that? Friendship? Brotherhood? Camaraderie? Why? How? Perhaps those questions will never be answered. But Ricky soldiers on. He's home and ok, that's what counts the most. But at what cost is this freedom...
He had stayed back at base when his squad went on patrol. He had asked this to be so, as he had a "bad feeling". As if something was telling him not to go. As he sat there and started talking about it, his eyes wandered. His expression changed. He went into a trance, as if it happened yesterday. I realized what he was feeling. I grabbed his shoulder and said "it's ok, you're home now." "Nahhhh dude you've gotta hear this." He persisted, so I relented. He went on. His squad was called to reinforce another group that had taken casualties in battle. As they moved to reinforce, his sergeant (he had paused and looked skyward to say "God Bless that sonuvabitch" before continuing - I knew it was bad news) stepped on a pressure plate, a triggering device for an IED. Graphic as this may sound, it must be said...that man was blown clear in half. 2 other soldiers that went to help stepped on another IED, killing them as well. 5 other soldiers were wounded in the blast. As he spoke, his eyes would continue to trail off. The funerals, the memorials, the site of his dead friends when the bodies were returned to base. Again, I grabbed him and said "You Are OK. You're here with me now. I am sorry about your friends." In the moment, that was all I could come up with. My stomach turned. This kid, who seemed so relaxed and laid back years ago, was now a hardened combat veteran. He spoke of patrols in the mountains where rockets would rain down mere hundreds of feet from him. The sounds of bullets flying over his head ("whizzzzz" "squeaakkkk" "pop pop pop"), that feeling of knowing somebody is trying to kill you. Can you feel the emotions, friends? The man, moment, and machine of those times? Words cannot describe such things.
Was God watching him? A fellow Army soldier who was part of a squad that relieved his at an observation post was killed, sitting on the very same machine gun that Ricky was mere hours before. His pale Irish white skin turned almost ashen, and he choked up. Once again, I hugged him and cried myself. We both had tears. I told him once again "It's over. You're home safe, that's what matters". Finally he returned to his previous mindset and said "I need a damn cigarette." We shared some humorous YouTube videos to break the mood. Seeing him laugh again was a big relief.
What he told me about his family and personal life shall remain private between friends. He has suffered unimaginable pain and sadness, sorrow, and fear. And yet he had survived. As we parted ways for the night, once last hug was exchanged. I kissed him on the neck out of pure instinct. My emotions were flowing, and no I don't regularly kiss guys! This was my fucking brother and I loved him to death. What would I do if something were to happen to him in combat or whatever? I have no answer to that, but I'd rather not think about it. For Ricky is A Soldier That I Love, and his life is one I cherish as much as mine and my family's. God Bless You, Rick You Salty Bastard! And God Bless All Of Our Armed Forces!
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