Sometimes it is necessary to imagine those last moments... |
*Sometimes it is necessary to imagine those last moments, and with the imagining, comes understanding.* Devotion to Duty We were on the road to An Nasiriyah When our convoy was hit by mortar fire. HumVees are supposed to be safe. They aren’t. When the mortar struck sounds of crackling bacon accompanied the stench of burning flesh. Adams, Sarge and I run through a swarm of angry bees, finding shelter within a crumbled concrete hut. Sarge, he who lay dying From lead beestings, had an M-16. I am a journalist. My weapon is my pen. Last words from a dying man: Scorof, you’re in charge. Take my weapon. Don’t worry, Mom: Females don’t get sent to front lines. I am a journalist. I have no sex. Adams? No. Not you, too. Don’t leave me here alone. Got to stop the bleeding. Pressure bandage. Adams? What was that? Half buried behind Sarge, Lying weight on Adam. I see moving shadows. Mom, I just killed four men. They dropped like discarded ragdolls at the end of the game of let's pretend. Adams is unconscious, barely breathing. Bleeding under control, I think. My breathing controlled by training I never thought to use. I’m scared, Mom. Sarge’s or is it Adam’s blood a dried-up garnet necklace where it sprayed across me. I will never wear my birthstone again. Gunfire. Bullets send up little flags of dust passing through concrete. Dragged Sarge's body over us. Adam's is bleeding again- Maybe I should have kept the pressure on. Wish I could see who or what is where. Got to keep him safe. Mortar fire. Close. I love y A voice summons me From my reverie. Presenting the flag to her mother is Journalist 2nd Class Christopher Adams standing here today due to the courageous actions above and beyond the call of duty of Petty Officer 3rd Class Laura Scorof. Taps sound. The simple notes echo across Arlington where my daughter has joined the rank and file of those who gave their all to God and Country. |