Maurice Joseph Williamson was born on September 28, 1986 in Tuscaloosa, Alabama to Eugene and Violet Williamson. He was the youngest of three. He graduated from Hillcrest High School with better than average grades and played All-State football for the Patriots. Linebacker.

Maurice Williamson’s parents wanted their son to attend the University of Alabama where Eugene worked as an officer of the Campus Police Department. The 26 year veteran of law enforcement dreamed of seeing his only son on the Bama football field wearing the Crimson Tide uniform.

Maurice Williamson fell in love with Lashandra Jackson in the tenth grade. They dated for three years. On the eve of their graduation, along the banks of the Black Warrior River, he asked his high school sweetheart to marry him. She said, “No.”

On the day following his high school graduation, Maurice J. Williamson joined the United States Army. Eugene and Violet were disappointed.

Specialist Williamson held the butt of the M4 tightly to his shoulder, aiming steadily and squeezing off 3-round bursts as he walked towards the burning wreckage of Guardian 26. His truck commander, Corporal Witkowski, Wit, was on his right side doing the same.

“Two Tangos behind that wall,” his TC shouted without taking his eyes off the target.

A continuous spray of hot steel streamed over his head as “Machine Gun” Kelly, firing from the gun turret of their armored humvee behind him, kept the enemy pinned down behind a stone wall some 50-meters in front. He felt a rush of air caused by a passing AK47 round narrowly missing his cheek. He kept walking. “Bastards.”

They were almost to the disabled vehicle when he heard Kelly Hendricks’ voice over the noise of machine gun fire yell, “INCOMING!” The explosion hit before he could react.

He wiped dirt from his face without missing a step and continued walking as if the rocket-propelled grenade had never been fired. It had exploded just 20 feet from his position. His ears rang. He kept firing.

Upon reaching Guardian 26, SPC Williamson immediately crawled inside the vehicle to extract his wounded brothers in arms. The driver, Private Billy Parrish seemed stunned, disoriented. His trousers soaked with urine. He sat the young soldier from Boston Mass outside on the dirt, against the rear tire before climbing back inside, the heavy door to the crippled humvee held open by his TC.

Sergeant Walters, Guardian 26’s truck commander was bleeding profusely from his right leg. Williamson ignored the injured soldier’s screams, dragging him from the burning wreckage and back to the relative safety of Guardian 22, before returning to continue his rescue efforts.

PVT Parrish grabbed SPC Williamson’s ankle, stopping him from entering the vehicle. He looked up with confused eyes, “What happened Mo? Who pissed on my pants?” he asked, looking down at his trousers in disbelief.

“Hurry the fuck up Mo!” Corporal Witkowski shouted, his legs trembling from holding the heavy armored door.

Maurice Williamson’s heart stopped when he took one look at the limp, lifeless body of Private First Class Horace James. Tears filled his eyes as he yelled to his friend, “WAKE UP HO! WAKE THE FUCK UP MAN!”

“WILLIAMSON!” shouted the exhausted corporal still atop the burning wreck barely holding the door open.

SPC Williamson grabbed under the gunner’s armpits and backed out of the truck, dragging James with him. Once outside, he scooped him up into his arms as a father would a child and ran to Guardian 22. He cried uncontrollably the entire way.

PVT Hendricks’ blue eyes flashed with anger in seeing her fellow gunner limp in her number two’s arms. “Mother fuckers!” Her M240B machine gun erupted in a steady stream of deadly fire.

Several minutes later, SPC Williamson was still sitting on the dusty desert floor behind his vehicle, holding PFC Horace James in his arms, unable to stop his tears. He hadn’t noticed that the shooting had stopped. He hadn’t noticed the deafening sounds of a UH60 MEDEVAC helicopter landing 20-meters away. He hadn’t noticed the blood. He hadn’t noticed the painful moans coming from SGT Walters laying just a few feet from him.

“He’s gone Mo Jo,” someone said. He stopped crying, breathed in deeply, wiped the blood from his face with his uniform sleeve, then slowly stood, picking up his rifle and helmet as he did. His friend was dead.

Sgt Hook out.

Previous Installments of The Guardians…

Fallen Guardian
Guardian Mourning
Guardian Wit

In view of a recent tendency to identify characters in fiction with real people, it seems proper to state that there are no real people in this volume: both the characters and their names are ficticious. The names or designations of any military units are ficticious. There are no living people nor existing military units presented in this book. -Ernest Hemingway

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His watch chirped at precisely 0430 hours. His eyes were already open. He lay on his cot anticipating the chirp. Finding the raised button on the side of his Timex with his thumb, he pressed it. The chirping stopped. The early morning darkness was cut by the blue light of his time piece. There really wasn’t much light, but just enough for him to see the switch at the base of the desk lamp sitting atop a desk made of plywood. He made the desk himself. It wasn’t a very large desk, but it served well enough for sitting at to write letters home to his family when he found the time. He switched the desk lamp on, swung his legs off the cot and sat for a minute rubbing his eyes.

Corporal Pieter Witkowski is a soldier in the United States Army. CPL Witkowski is not an American citizen. As his name implies, Pieter Witkowski is a native of Poland. His parents packed him and his three sisters up when he was eight and moved to New York. Brooklyn, New York. Greenpoint, New York actually. They lived in a modest apartment above a small, family owned Polish bakery along brick row on Larimer Street. His mother worked in the bakery downstairs, starting her day at four each morning, busily preparing fresh baked goods. She would sneak upstairs to wake him for school at about six o’clock, bringing him hot from the oven baba cakes before returning to work. On special occasions his mother would bring home a bag of chruscik, bow-shaped fried pastries dusted with confectioner’s sugar for him to bring to school. He never knew that she paid for these treats out of her meager weekly salary.

CPL Witkowski finished up a short 30-minute run and an even shorter 7-minute shower before heading to the mess hall for breakfast. He wanted to keep up with his workout routine and eat something before going out on mission. They always started early, the presence patrols did. He was the TC for Guardian 22, an up-armored humvee assigned to second patrol. He had a good crew.

Private First Class Marco Estrada was the driver. The 21 year old native-American from Arizona was probably the best driver in the entire platoon.

Private Kelly Hendricks, “Machine Gun Kelly,” was the team’s gunner. She had joined the Army a year previously to be an aircraft fueler but volunteered for the QRF as soon as she heard about it. PVT Hendricks was a crack shot with the M240B machine gun. She took exceptional pride in keeping her “hog” clean.

Specialist Maurice Williamson, born and raised in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, served as the team’s “Number Two.” Number two sits in the rear left seat of the vehicle, behind the driver, and is prepared to assume any position on the team, including the truck commander, if need be.

Guardian 22 has trained together since day one, back at Fort Campbell, when the platoon was formed some eight months before deploying. Guardian 22 was the second vehicle of five in today’s presence patrol. They followed Guardian 21, the lead vehicle. Guardian 26 was number three behind them. Guardian 20 and 28 finished out the order of march.

CPL Witkowski heard the explosion a split second before his headset filled with the piercing screams of Private First Class Horace James. Guardian 26 had been hit.

“Turn it around Marco NOW!” the TC instructed his driver before going on. “Gunner, bogeys 4 O’clock, take them out!”

Guardian too zero this is Guardian too too, we’ve turned around and are going into the kill zone. Bogeys right side next to an old red brick building, over.

Guardian too too, this is too zero, negative, negative on turning around. Take up defensive position and engage enemy, do not return to kill zone, how copy over?

“What do I do Wit?” PFC Estrada asked his TC.

“Continue on to 26, stop just to the rear of the victor at an angle facing away from the bogeys. Kelly you got the bad guys?” he responded.

“I’ve got them boss, laying down suppressive fire,” she said as her finger squeezed the trigger for 3 to 5 second bursts.

Too zero this is too too, dismounting to render aid to too siks.

Dammit too too! SSG Wright transmitted. Too wun, too zero, cut off the street, nobody, nothing passes. Too ait, close the back door.

Too wun roger.

Too ait, back door is closed.

“Let’s go Mo!” CPL Witkowski said just before pulling his headset off, grabbing his M4 Carbine and exiting the vehicle, making sure to close and lock his armored door.

Camelot base this is Guardian too zero, fife victors twenty-wun pax, vicinity sector ait, tree clicks west of IBIZ, IED detonated, wun victor diasbled, status of pax unknown this time. Currently tic with too bravo gulfs, repeat, tic with too bravo gulfs, over.

Guardian too zero, Camelot base, roger. Will send cavalry time now. Send sitrep soonest, over.

Guardian too zero, roger out.

CPL Witkowski and SPC Williamson returned fire as they moved towards the disabled, burning hulk of metal that was once a moving armored vehicle. Exposing himself to enemy fire, Pieter Witkowski climbed on top of the truck to gain leverage on the Number Two door with his foot. Pushing the 300 lb door open wide enough to squeeze himself between it and the frame, he ignored the whizzing sounds of ricocheting bullets as they narrowly missed him. Witkowski held the heavy door open with his back for several minutes while Williamson helped drag out the wounded occupants.

“Hurry!” he yelled as his legs trembled from fatigue.

Too too this is two zero, we’re coming up on your left side to take position on your flank over.

Nearly 20-minutes after the IED detonated, CPL Witkowski and SPC Williamson returned to their vehicle with the injured soldiers. “Call in a 9-line, Ho’s gone and SGT Walters is in bad shape, arterial bleeding from his right leg.”

Camelot base, Camelot base, this is Guardian too too with a nine line, over.

“Kelly, you got enough ammo?” the TC yelled up to his gunner.

“I’m good boss!” she replied, not taking her blue eyes off of her target. She had two bad guys pinned down behind a brick wall 50 meters away; sure that they had no avenue of escape.

“Mo, stay with the injured,” Witkowski shouted before running back to the damaged humvee.

CPL Witkowski leaned against the spare tire attached to the rear hatch and took careful aim at a spot just above the waist high brick wall. He waited. The chaotic sounds of battle faded. He heard only his breathing, his heart beating though machine guns fired and people screamed around him. Minutes passed. Suddenly a figure popped up with an RPG on his shoulder, aimed directly at Guardian 22. CPL Witkowski exhaled. He waited until his lungs completely emptied, paused, and squeezed the trigger.

The enemy fighter fell backwards, firing the RPG into the brick wall immediately to his right as he fell. The grenade exploded, killing his partner next to him. In a single shot, the battle was over. All the noise and chaos returned as Witkowski ran back to his fallen comrades.

“Chopper’s on the way Wit!” PVT Estrada informed his team leader.

“Good shooting Wit.” SSG Reginald Wright said as he kneeled down beside the Polish immigrant, placing a reassuring hand on his soldier.

Sgt Hook out.

Previous Installments of The Guardians…

Fallen Guardian
Guardian Mourning

In view of a recent tendency to identify characters in fiction with real people, it seems proper to state that there are no real people in this volume: both the characters and their names are ficticious. The names or designations of any military units are ficticious. There are no living people nor existing military units presented in this book. -Ernest Hemingway

---

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After the memorial service for Private First Class Horace A. James, several of the Guardians went to the ready room to hang out. They called it the Round Table though there weren’t any tables, unless you considered a couple of empty ammo crates to be tables. But it was their space, their place to unwind while they waited to be called to action.

They sat on well worn sofas and lounge chairs. They didn’t talk much. There was an aura of sadness in the air, painful sadness.

Private Billy Parrish walked into the Round Table, slumped onto one of the well worn sofas, kicking up a cloud of dust and sitting almost on top of Private First Class Kelly Hendricks. “Hey Mo, is it OK if I talk now?” he asked sarcastically.

Specialist Maurice Williamson managed to get out a “Fuck you!” as he leapt from his chair lunging for Billy Parrish’s neck. A scuffle ensued. Punches were landed, furniture overturned, and expletives shouted.

“AT EASE!” The loud, commanding words pierced the frenzied room. Like a pack of Pavlovian dogs, everyone jumped to their feet and froze in place at the position of parade rest.

Staff Sergeant Reginald Wright stood in the doorframe, his hands on his hips. The stocky 5 foot 8 inch tall, 170 pound black native of Hartford, Connecticut rarely got animated. Today was an exception. “What the hell is going on in here?” he boomed in an unmistakably authoritative voice.

Nobody answered. They didn’t need to, the 27 year old patrol leader knew what the hell was going on, his guys were hurting.

The Guardian Platoon was divided into two patrols, 1st and 2nd, each with twenty-four soldiers assigned. Reginald Wright had 2nd Patrol.

SSG Wright had joined the Army nine years earlier, signing up to be a helicopter mechanic and has worked as such until he was assigned to the security detachment eight months ago. SSG Wright was not happy when he was first informed of his move to the SD and his first sergeant knew it.

“By the look on your face SSG Wright, I assume you are not happy with this assignment?” First Sergeant Marcus Washington asked.

“I will do whatever you ask of me first sergeant.”

“Sit down Wright,” the seasoned noncommissioned officer said, making a motion towards a chair across from his desk with his hand. “And I know you’ll do what the Army asks you to do, but you don’t seem too pleased about the askin’ part.”

After what seemed like a long pause with the first sergeant’s quiet stare making him a little uncomfortable, SSG Wright spoke, “Top, it’s just that I’ve spent the past several months getting my maintenance team trained and ready for deployment and…’

With a raised hand 1SG Washington stopped the young leader in mid sentence. “I got it sergeant Wright, but let me try to explain. The 214th Aviation Support Battalion will have the mission to provide a QRF for base defense when we get over there and I’ve been tasked with providing soldiers to fill that requirement.”

The first sergeant paused to read Wright’s face before going on, “And if I can quote the sergeant major, ‘don’t give me any shitbags first sergeants.’” SSG Wright fought to hold back a smile at the thought of their battalion sergeant major’s choice of words; it was very much in his character.

“The 50 soldiers on the QRF will habitually be outside the wire and routinely find themselves in harm’s way Wright,” the first sergeant continued, “And you are far from what one might call a ‘shitbag.’ You are a good NCO, a good leader, someone I can trust with getting the soldiers trained and ready to do this important mission. You’ve done an outstanding job with your maintenance team, and I know you’d like to see that through, but I, actually, the soldiers on QRF, need you more.”

Almost immediately SSG Wright asked, “What exactly is the mission first sergeant? How many soldiers will be on my team? What kind of special equipment will we have? When do we start training?”

1SG Washington knew he had picked the right NCO for the job.

SSG Reginald Wright remained standing in the Round Table, his hands on his hips, calmly surveying the room, allowing for tempers to settle and adrenalin levels to wane.

“Team One, SSG Lapointe is looking for you guys over at Camelot Base, you’re picking up the mission for the rest of the week to give us some time to regroup,” he said to the two members of Guardian 1 who were in the room. “If you see any of our guys, send them over here,” he added as they were leaving the ready room.

“Sit down everyone,” SSG Wright ordered before picking up the assault pack he had dropped when first coming into the room. Reaching into the bag he grabbed a handful of cigars and started handing them out to his patrol members. Most of the soldiers hesitated before accepting the large, obviously expensive, cigars with inquisitive looks of confusion on their faces.

Confusion turned to concern when they watched their patrol leader light his cigar and pass the lighter. “But sergeant, we can’t smoke in here,” PVT Foster protested.

SSG Reginald Wright blew a cloud of cobalt smoke into the air and said, “Do me a favor Foster, all of you actually, if I should get my ass blowed up over here, smoke a big fat cigar in my honor, deal?”

Lighters clicked and cigars were lit as the room suddenly filled with the aromatic smoke of Honduran cigars, “Deal sergeant,” a collective voice announced.

Grabbing an ammo crate and turning it on its head, SSG Wright sat down exhaling a puff of smoke as he did. “James was a good man, a good soldier. I think we’ve all benefited from knowing him,” he softly said, looking around the room at the twenty some sets of young eyes upon him.

After a few moments of absolute silence, Private Gryzbowski said, “Tony was the best friend I ever had.”

“Yeah, remember that time before we left when Tony drove me all the way to Florida so I could see my moms before she passed?”

“How ‘bout when we were all out at the lake and Ho drank too much…”

“Ho always did well with the ladies too. Man he was smooth.”

“I miss him,” Private Parrish said, dead panned.

“Me too,” echoed Specialist Williamson.

“AT EASE!” yelled Private Gryzbowski as soon as he noticed their platoon sergeant, SFC King, standing in the doorway.

“What in thee fuck is this?!” the unhappy senior NCO boomed. “I got me a bunch of gottdamned morons who either, A. can’t read the gottdamned no smokin’ signs plastered all over this place, or B. don’t give a rat’s ass about the rules and regulations,” he went on in his cold scratchy, albeit loud, voice.

SSG Wright began to speak, “Sergeant King, the soldiers…”

“STOP,” SFC King cut him off. “I want this place cleaned up in 20 minutes,” he said turning to leave. “And I want you in my office in two sergeant Wright.” The door slammed and their platoon sergeant was gone.

The awkward silence was broken with, “OK Guardians clean it up and get some sleep. PT at 0600 tomorrow, don’t be late,” SSG Reginald Wright said, turning to leave and preparing himself for the ass chewing he was about to receive from his superior.

“Hey Sergeant Wright,” PFC Hendricks called to him as he was walking towards the plywood door. Stopping with his hand on the handle, he turned to see what she wanted.

“Thanks,” was all she said. SSG Wright nodded before pulling the door open and leaving the Round Table.

“Get your ass in here Sergeant Wright!” came the reply from behind the office door that Reginald Wright had seconds before knocked on. SFC King, sitting in his chair, his feet resting on the top of his homemade plywood desk, himself lighting a cigar said, “What in thee fuck is wrong with you Wright? You are the senior noncommissioned officer of that patrol, a staff sergeant in the United States Army, and you allowed that behavior to go on!” Motioning with his hand for the patrol leader to take a seat, he handed him a cold Gatorade, and continued, “I cannot, WILL NOT, allow this kinda bull shit to happen on my watch, do YOU understand me?”

The “ass chewing” went on for a few more minutes before SFC King said in a low voice, “How they doin’?”

“They’ll be OK, thanks for the help Sergeant King. I think a good long run in the morning will complete the mourning period and get everyone’s head straight.”

The sun was barely creeping above the horizon, turning the dark sky orange and casting its warmth across the miles of flat desert between the Guardians and the rising star. SSG Wright was stretching out his patrol, preparing for the workout session.

“Stretch them out good Sergeant Wright, we’re gonna run to the sun this morning Guardians” the platoon sergeant said in his raspy voice, a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other. SFC King didn’t warm up or stretch out himself, he just stood there, smoking and waiting. After several minutes, stepping on his second smoked cigarette butt, he said, “OK, that’s enough, let’s go.”

The 23 surviving members of Guardian 2 formed up in three columns ready to “run to the sun” with their platoon sergeant. “DOUBLE TIME, MARCH” commanded SSG Wright and off they went, not to return for almost an hour and a half.

After a grueling 8.2 mile run, sweating and gasping for air, the soldiers coughing and hacking, eagerly grabbed bottles of cold water and started re-hydrating.

Sergeant First Class King, showing hardly any signs that he had run at all, picked up his stainless steel travel mug, emblazoned with a gold emblem depicting a lone soldier standing with the wings of a guardian angel silhouetted behind him, lit a Camel cigarette and said before walking away, “good run Guardians, good mourning.”

Sgt Hook out.

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“Private First Class James!” the first sergeant called, standing in front of the formation.

“PFC Horace James!” he repeated after not getting a reply.

“Horace A. James!” he said a third time, again with no reply.

“READY, AIM, FIRE,” ordered the color sergeant. His individual commands were answered with sharp, well practiced movements executed in unison by each of three riflemen in the honor guard formed up a safe distance from the hundreds of attendees; snapping their M16 rifles to the ready position, simultaneously aiming into the sky, then pulling the trigger, firing seemingly a single round with a loud retort. “READY, AIM, FIRE,” they reverently repeated two more times before silently returning their weapons to the position of present arms, standing steadfast at the position of attention. While the echo of the final volley of gunfire hung in the air, a lone bugler, standing off in the distant, solemnly played Taps on his well worn brass instrument.

“You OK Mo?” Billy whispered to Specialist Maurice Williamson standing next to him in formation.

The 20 year old soldier from Alabama did not answer his friend. He was standing at attention, paying respects to his fallen comrade and would be damned if he’d stoop to Private Parrish’s level of indiscipline.

Private William Parrish repeated, “Mo, you OK man?” He knew that Specialist Williamson was putting up a front, he knew Mo was close with James, hell they all were. Ho was a teammate, a fellow Guardian, and now he’s gone.

“It’s OK Mo, I got tears in my eyes too man, Ho was a brother to us all,” he continued to whisper.

Feeling his blood beginning to boil, Specialist Maurice Williamson turned his head and angrily replied, “Shut the fuck up Boston, can’t you show some Goddamn respect!”

A terse “Knock it off,” came from behind them, chilling the blood in both of their veins. The scratchy, steeled voice was that of their platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class King, positioned to the rear of the platoon.

Both soldiers looked straight ahead just as the sounds of bagpipes began to fill the air. Before them a line formed as the brass filed by Private First Class James’ battlefield shrine; an M4 carbine, with bayonet affixed and stuck into the ground at the heels of a pair of desert tan boots. Atop the butt stock of the weapon sat the army combat helmet that once belonged to PFC Horace A. James, “Tony” to his comrades, “Ho” to his close friends and teammates. Tony’s dog tags hung from the pistol grip, dangling in the wind. The boots did not belong to Private First Class Horace A. James. They were brand new ones from the supply room. PVT James’ boots were in no condition to be put on display.

Generals, Colonels, and Command Sergeants Major walked past the shrine, stopping momentarily to salute, some quietly saying a private prayer, and some leaving a challenge coin at the base of the boots, a coin usually given to soldiers by the higher ups in recognition of excellence.

“Look at those hypocrites,” PVT Parrish again whispered, “None of those bastards know Ho, and they wait until he’s dead to give him a damn coin?”

“Parrish!” snapped the scratchy steeled voice again.

Just as he was about to turn and tell his platoon sergeant to kiss his ass, Billy Parrish felt a hand grab his and squeeze it tightly. That hand belonged to Private Kelly Hendricks standing on his right side. She knew her teammate was hurting and didn’t want him to do anything stupid. She nonchalantly reached over and grabbed his hand, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed by their NCOs. It wasn’t.

Billy Parrish calmed down, in part because of the soft hand holding his, in part because he reminded himself, “Ho’s already earned his gottdamned coin.”

On the day they had assumed the mission just over a month ago, SFC King called a platoon formation. He reminded the men and women in his charge of the hard work and training they had gone through for several months prior to deploying to Iraq. He reminded them that their mission of providing security for the FOB was the most important mission they’ll ever undertake in their military careers. He reminded them that the thousands of soldiers working and living on FOB Phoenix were depending on the Guardians to keep them safe so that they can carry out their duties. Then he did something that surprised the entire platoon.

In his hard raspy voice, a voice developed from over 17 years of smoking a pack of Camels a day, he said, “Listen up Guardians, if you think you wanna be a fuckin’ hero and came out here to earn a fuckin’ Purple Heart, or one of them sexy Combat Action Badges, or even a gottdamned coin, you can leave my formation now. Each of you needs to understand completely that we ain’t here for no glory, we’re here to do a gottdamned job and then get our asses home!” Ignoring a few chuckles from the ranks, SFC King continued, “I’m gonna take care of the recognition bullshit right now so’s you can get it out of your systems.”

SFC King went up to every member of the platoon, looked each in the eyes and shook each of their hands leaving a coin in each of their palms. It wasn’t much of a coin; in fact it couldn’t really be called a coin at all. To each Guardian he gave a round piece of brass about the size of a quarter with a large “G” stamped somewhat in the center.

“Now, you’ve got your gottdamned coin, get to work!”

One month and three days later, the soldiers of the security detachment platoon were paying respects to their first fallen Guardian.

As is the tradition with battlefield memorial services, the platoon remained formed, silently unmoving, as the hundreds of soldiers in attendance lined up to pay their last respects to the fallen warrior. The bagpipes continued to play while the Guardians looked on through watery eyes.

Nearly two hours later, they were still standing in silence, everyone else long gone, only the platoon, the wind, the dust, and Private First Class Horace A. James’ rifle, helmet, and dog tags. No more brass, no more flags, no more bagpipes; just the Guardians.

Lieutenant Lott did an about face, turning his back to the memorial some ten meters away, and called, “SERGEANT KING!”

SFC King executed a right face, then stepping off with his left foot walked briskly to the end of the platoon, making a left face he continued marching past his squad leaders on his left until he reached the first rank where he made a half-left facing movement and stepped in front of his platoon leader rendering the hand salute.

“Take charge of the platoon and have them say goodbye to PVT James,” ordered the LT as he returned SFC King’s salute before turning about.

After several minutes, sure that the LT had finished his farewell and left the area, SFC King gave the commands, “RIGHT FACE, FILE FROM THE LEFT, COLUMN LEFT, MARCH!”

The grieving members of Guardian Platoon marched single file to the battlefield shrine; each spending a moment to salute their comrade before heading off to mourn in their own ways. SFC King remained rigid, facing the empty space where the platoon had previously been formed, his back to the soldiers. There he stood until darkness fell. Alone, he turned about and sharply walked to the memorial, taking a knee and grabbing the dangling dog tags in his right hand, he felt his heart break.

After several silent moments, the salty old soldier wiped a tear from his eye noticing a pile of gottdamned coins cascading around the boots, covering any of the more ornate coins left by the senior officers. They were the brass discs he had given his platoon a month earlier; each and every one of them had given their gottdamned coin to Private Horace A. James.

Standing erect and rendering a slow, deliberate salute he whispered, “I’ll see you on Fiddler’s Green Ho.”

Sgt Hook out.

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