My Country Tis of Thee

That night it was not a single boom of another IED or smoke that filled the air. It was instead the rapid fire of semi-automatic weapons. He and his men ducked into doorways. Hid behind a cart here or there. Found whatever cover they could.

It had taken them a couple of minutes to figure out where the fire was coming from. And a couple more to do a head count. Someone was missing. Manny Hernandez was not accounted for. Mike went searching on his hands and knees for him. The others fired back at shadows that they could not see even with night vision goggles. Someone called for help, reinforcements were on the way as was a medical team.

Mike found him. Found Manny slumped in a door way of the last building where they were when the gun fire started. He was gone already. A bullet had shattered his face, taking much of his lower jaw with it. The smile that Mike had come to know as Manny was gone forever. Mike has stayed with him, commanding the others as he could.

They managed to pin down the location of the gun men on top of the house across the way. The Seal extraction team was at least half an hour away. A half an hour they did not have. Mike had ordered an assault on the house, a risky move if there were explosives inside, but it beat the hell out of sitting out here and being picked off one by one. One of his other men had been injured, taken a bullet to his thigh, but thanks to the first aid training that was now as standard as how to clean and load your gun, he would make it.

The three young gun men on the roof were not so lucky. When Mike stood over the bodies, he could only shake his head in sadness. If Manny had been young, these guys were little more than children. They did not even have a hint of the facial hair that was a sign of holiness for these people.

The sound of someone clearing their throat brought Mike out of his memory. Hector frowned at him and motioned for them to lower the shiny box onto the stand in front of the church. Mike shook his head to clear it as he followed the young man's lead back down the aisle to a hard wooden bench.

The priest stood and led the group in prayer. Mike felt every muscle in his body tighten. Prayers and gods were not at the top of his list. What help had god been to Manny? Or even to those boys that had killed him? How many wars, this one included, had been fought in the name of gods? But it was not the gods that suffered, but the fragile humans who fought in their names. Mike let out the breath he had been holding as the man and all those around him said 'Amen.'

This day was about honoring a young man, who had served his country and his fellow Marines with honor. And it was his country, no matter what a piece of paper might or might not say. Manuel Hernandez had been one of the best Americans Mike had ever known.

So Mike sat stiffly as the man droned on and on about the will of god and the sacrifices of man. Mike fought back the urge to shout, 'what do you know of sacrifice,' to the old man who spoke in a cracking voice.

Instead Mike focused upon the flag drabbed box. Its silver peeked beneath the sides of Old Glory. Mike knew that Manny was not really in there. Not the laughing, smiling, joking young man he had known anyway. What was in that box was the same empty flesh that Mike had found that night in the door way. Cold. Still. A shell. Just like an empty conch shell that you found upon a beach. Only the echo of life's oceans could be heard.

Mike sat ramrod straight as the man continued. In his own way, he became a shell. His mind far away. Dry deserts. Green jungles. Misty mountains. Lands so far from this place that the people around him would probably not even be able to find them on a map. Iraq, Kenya, Kosovo, Afghanistan. They echoed like the six o'clock news, but few knew where or what they were. Hell, he had spent his life time in those places and he barely understood the depths of poverty, injustice and rage that erupted in war for each of them.

What he did know was that the people in this church and on the streets outside counted on him and Manny and hundreds of thousands like them to keep those conflicts so distant that they could go on with their lives in peace. That's what they did every single day. And looking around the room at the sea of faces; some light, some dark, all somber, Mike knew that it was worth it.

America was not perfect. There was poverty. People were losing their jobs while fat cat bankers made multi-million dollar bonuses. Hector caught his eye. Mothers might even have to worry about stray bullets killing their babies. Gangs.

But still, it beat the hell out of any other place Mike had ever been. Even his tours on embassy duty in places like England and Germany, he had never witnessed anything like it. The American Spirit. It was alive and well in the faces of these people even as they wept and mourned. There was hope that tomorrow things would be better. That their children would have and be the things that they never could. And that was worth it all.

Mike rose with the others as their voices sang out as one. The song unfamiliar but the sentiment shared. When the song ended, they knelt once more.

Mike felt the twinge in his knees. He was getting too old for this. It was why he had decided to retire. When the lives of your friends rested upon your shoulders, when even a moment's hesitation could cost someone their lives, there was no place for knees that hurt so badly you could hardly walk each morning. Or shoulders that ached from the weight of a pack. It had been time. Tommy and Manny were just reminders of that.

The man proclaimed 'amen' once more. Let it be. The end.

With the others, Mike made it back to the front of the church. They lined up around that flag draped box and on the man's signal they lifted it once more to their shoulders. Slowly they walked back the way that they had come.

But this time, Mike studied the faces around them. Manny's family filled the first row. His mother's eyes swollen and red as she fumbled with that tissue. Were Senor Hernandez's shoulder stooped a bit more? A life time of mowing other people's lawns, cutting hedges and now this; his greatest hope, his only son was mowed down before he even had time to bloom. The girls flanked their parents. Even Lupe was quiet. And the bulk of Mama Nona, her head bowed in prayer.

There were rows and rows of other faces too. A couple Mike recognized from photographs that Manny had hung in his tent. Young men that had been his friends in high school.

But she was not there. Rachel. The young woman who had been Manny's first love. His only love. Neither was the little boy that was Manny's legacy.

Mike slowed as he approached the back of the church. On the last row sat a tattered group, out of place with the rest of this congregation. Old men, much older than Mike even. To a man they wore the freshly pressed and decorated uniform of the US Marine Corps. Some dated, of course. Half a dozen of them.

But one stood head and shoulders above the others. A great bear of a man. His grey hair and freshly shaved face looked vaguely familiar to Mike, but he could not place it as they marched out of the church into the bright Southern California sunshine.

The door to the hearse was open and they slid the casket back inside. The slamming of that door echoed in Mike's mind like an IED.

He stood off to the side and waited as people began to mill slowly out the church. The Hernandez family came first and stood with the priest on the top step. Then the rest of the packed church came one by one to greet the family and offer what comfort they could.

The band of brothers that Mike had noticed was among the first out. They stopped and gripped Senor Hernandez's hand firmly. They nodded to Senora Hernandez and the other women. Then they walked slowly down the church steps.

The eldest of the group wore the distinct uniform of an officer. A Colonel. He leaned upon a walking stick but still he stood tall. A Marine to the core. Mike's eyes again centered upon the larger man. He shuffled through over twenty years of memories trying in vain to place him. The group approached him. And the large man spoke.

"How's Esther?"

Mike's eyes grew wide with recognition. "She's as perfect as her namesake," he replied.

"Glad to hear it, my boy. This where you were off to in such a hurry yesterday?" he asked.

Mike nodded. "Manny was one of mine."

"One of ours," the oldest man said in a voice gruff from too many years and too many cigarettes.

"Yes, Sir," Mike saluted. Turning back to what had been the long haired biker, who sold him his motorcycle he asked, "So what brings you here?"

The man looked at the ground and blushed a bit. "We make a habit of it. The group of us attends all the Marine funerals around these parts. Show our respect."

Mike nodded as he studied the group. Only one of them was anywhere near his age. A black man in a Corporal's uniform. He looked to be a few years older than Mike's forty-one, but not much.

Most of the group was in their sixties. Vietnam veterans, Mike guessed. Guys for whom returning home had brought more pain. Guys, whom this country had shown anything except the respect they deserved. Guys, who were still suffering in the pain of that abandonment.

Of course, the Colonel was older still. A man clearly in his seventh decade upon this earth, perhaps more. He represented another time, when war was still some honorable rite of passage through which most young men passed.

Mike smiled...a motley crew for sure. But one of which he was proud to count himself.

The bear spoke again. "We usually get together for a drink afterwards. You're welcome to join us." He gave Mike the name and address of a bar before he led the others off to waiting cars.

The Hernandez's were coming down the steps now. Most of the other people were already in their vehicles, awaiting the drive to the cemetery. Mike followed behind them as they climbed into the limousine.

The drive was just a couple of miles to rolling green hills marked only by the shade of a couple of large trees and the gleaming white marble markers that bore the names of hundreds of people. Mike drew a deep breath as he looked out the window and saw the Honor Guard hidden beneath one of those trees.

It was not a duty that had ever been his. He wondered how those young men felt. What was it like to hear that tune dozens of times? To lift your guns not against an enemy but in salute to fallen comrades? To watch the faces of dozens of families knowing that one day it could be your own?

The door opened and Mike squinted into the sun as he stepped out the car. He helped the women out before joining the other young men by the hearse. As the man slid the metal box out, Mike ran his hand over its smooth surface. "Adios, mi amigo," he whispered as he fought back moisture caused by the bright sun light.

Together they lifted the heavy burden once more and carried it to the green tarp. They sat it down over what Mike knew was an empty hole in the ground. His throat tightened at the thought. The empty hole in his own soul stared back at him as he stepped to the side with the others beneath the dark green canopy that covered a couple dozen folding chairs.

The priest came to stand near them as the Hernandez's took their places in the front row. Once more the man commanded them to bow their heads in prayer. With his hands tucked behind his back, Mike stood with the others and listened as the man spoke. The words 'yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil' taunted him.

What did the priest know of war? You always feared evil and death. The difference was in what you did, not how you felt. You did whatever you had to in the face of that fear. Just like Manny and the others had that night. You fought on.

The casket stared at him as the strains of that lonesome bugle reached his ears. Until there was nothing left to fight on with, he thought as the shots rang out across the peaceful green grass. The bright sun glinted off the metal stocks and sparkled like diamonds hidden behind that tree.

Mike forced his eyes from that box, scanning the crowd instead. He noticed as the car pulled up behind the others. A young blonde in a designer black dress stepped out. She paused by the door as the last notes of the song echoed out. Then she opened the back door and leaned inside. A moment later, she appeared again cradling a little boy in a navy and white sailor suit. His hair was only a shade or two darker than the woman's.

But as they approached the back of the crowd, it was his dark eyes and smile that Mike noticed. A smile so like his father's that his heart shuttered in his chest. A smile Mike had thought he would never see again.

Mike watched them as the Honor Guard approached the casket. They lifted the flag and began the meticulous process of folding it. Corner to corner they repeated the process until it was a neat triangle. They placed it in Mike's hands. He nodded in gratitude to the young Sergeant, who was leading the guard this day. Had he ever been that young? That naïve?

Walking over to where the Hernandez family sat, Mike knelt in front of Manny's mother. He placed the flag into Senora Hernandez's trembling hands.

"This country thanks you for your sacrifice, Ma'am," he whispered as the words caught in his throat. A country that did not even call one of the bravest men he knew its own.

But not for much longer. Not if he had a damned thing to say about it. If he had to climb on the back of Esther and drive down the halls of Congress itself. This country was going to acknowledge the bravery of Manuel Hernandez and his family. He swore it then and there as he placed the measly token into her lap.

He stood slowly and walked out of the shade into the sun. Its warmth failed to reach the depths of his soul as he passed the little boy.

He was in no mood to ride back to the house with the family, but with his bike parked at their home he saw little alternative. He supposed it would not be too far to walk. He had marched further in his day. But generally not in full dress uniform, he thought as he found a tree near the road to hide behind as people began to find their cars and leave.

Mike had not smoked in years. But damn at that moment, he wanted a cigarette. A drink. Hell, a pitcher or a bottle was more like it, he thought.

"Can we give you a lift?" asked a friendly voice.

Mike looked up at the bear and nodded in relief. "My bike is back at the Hernandez's house. Besides there is one more thing I need to do there. But if you don't mind dropping me off, I would sure appreciate it."

"No problem, my friend," said the man grabbing his hand and leading him towards a SUV.

"Wait a minute," Mike said as he excused himself. He walked over to where Hector was standing with the other cousins and friends, who had served as pall bearers alongside him.

"I can't believe that puta," he heard Hector say. "How dare she come here today? Manny wasn't good enough for her when he was alive. So why she coming round now?"

Mike stopped at the anger in the young man's voice. "Maybe for the same reason we all came here. To honor someone she cared about. Or maybe she came so that little boy could say good-bye to the father he will never remember. But whatever reason she came here, I know one thing. Manny would have been happy as hell she did."

Hector looked at the ground and puffed out his chest. "Yeah well, it ain't right," he mumbled.

Mike did not respond to this latest comment. "Please tell your aunt and uncle that I caught a ride back to the house with some friends. I'll see them there."

Holding out his hand to the others, he said his good-byes and turned back to where the motley crew waited by the vehicle. "This is why you don't do funerals, buddy," he said to himself as he double timed it to the relative safety of his comrades.

As he piled into the car, the men had tried to get Mike to join them for one quick beer before heading off to the Hernandez. Mike was tempted, very tempted. The reality of this day, of a lifetime, rode him hard, but he did not want to dishonor the uniform or Manny by drinking. Just yet anyway. He promised them that as soon as his errand was over he would meet them there. It was another promise he intended to keep.

The short ride back to the Hernandez home was made in utter silence, not even introductions to mar the solemn occasion. Each of the four men in the vehicle lost in their own thoughts and memories.

It had been over a decade since he had drowned his troubles in alcohol. Somewhere in his late twenties, he had discovered that the price was just too high. Actually, it was pretty easy to remember when he had given the partying up. It was a day when a lot of people gave up a lot of things. A day that few people would forget. September eleventh, two-thousand and one. Nine-eleven.

He was coming to the end of his second enlistment. He had just finished a tour of duty, peacekeeping in Kosovo. And he was seriously considering getting out. But that morning, watching those buildings burn and then fall from a television screen in Camp Pendleton, had changed all that.

He had battle experience. He would be needed. And there was no way he was letting his country or the Marines down, not then. He had known the cost going into things. He had been in Desert Storm and Nairobi when Al Quaid attacked the embassy there.

As they pulled up in front of the Hernandez home, the men reminded him of his promise to join them later. He nodded and waved as they drove off. No one was back at the Hernandez's home. But that was all right. He could use a bit of quiet. Time alone to get his head together while he smoked that first cigarette in eleven years. It was another thing he had given up that day in his determination to as the saying goes...be all that he could be.

Mike drew deeply on the cigarette the cigarette that he had gotten off the Colonel, felt the smoke fill his lungs. These fumes so different from the others that clung to his mind. Gun powder. Burning flesh. But the truth was that it burned his throat and lungs almost as much as those memories. He stubbed it out.

The limousine had brought the Hernandez's back almost twenty minutes ago. He was sure that the family was settling in by now. Besides the representative from the Congresswoman's office would be here soon.

He almost missed her. The sedan blended in with the other cars in the neighborhood. If it had not been for the soft sobs coming from the window that was rolled down a bit, Mike would have walked right past it. Rachel was just sitting there, a block down the road from the Hernandez home. He could see the baby sleeping in the car seat on the back seat.

Mike tapped lightly on the window, calling her name. The young woman looked up, her eyes swollen and red from the tears. She rolled the window down the rest of the way.

"Sergeant Mike?" she asked.

Mike halted in shock. How did this girl know him? "Yes."

She opened the car door and got out slowly. "Manny told us about you in his letters, sent pictures," she explained.

Mike was not certain which surprised him more that Manny had told her so much about him or that she had read the letters and emails at all. Manny had shared the story behind their break-up with Mike. It was not what most people suspected.

Even after having Miguel, Rachel had finished high school. Like Manny, she was at the top of her graduating class. Both of them had been accepted at UCLA. For her it was a foregone conclusion. Her father was an executive with one of the Hollywood studios. She could easily afford tuition as well as manage childcare for her son.

But for Manny it was a different story. Even with grants, scholarships and if he continued to live at home, enduring the hour commute across the city each day, it would still not be enough. He could have gotten part-time jobs perhaps. But then his grades would have suffered. He knew that with two younger sisters, who would soon be off to college as well as a mortgage to pay, his parents could not afford to help out.