Usually I write about silly Things or useful Things or just Things that catch my eye. But today, I have a story to tell. And the Thing it's about is courage.

Last night I spent a few hours with an old friend, a retired Air Force veteran. He was severely injured in the line of duty. No one really knew what happened, but now he's finally starting to talk about it. His is a story of incredible bravery and unimaginable horror. I'm not sure exactly how much I'm allowed to tell, so I'll call my friend "Marcus" and I won't say where he was fighting.

Marcus and his unit were patrolling when they were ambushed. Enemy troups had hemmed them in on three sides and were quickly closing the unit's only escape route. Marcus was shooting, running and yelling out to the soldiers behind him so they wouldn't get separated when he felt "a ball of fire explode" in his left shoulder. He'd been shot. Bad. He kept running. His only concern was to get himself and his unit out of the trap before enemy forces closed in. It was too late. The only way out was up. They had called for help, but they had no way of knowing if anyone could get to them in time.

They hunkered down and kept the enemy at bay for an incredible six hours. Finally, they heard helicopters in the distance. Marcus, weak and in "mind-bending pain," hoped they were "friendlies." They were. Two helicopters began firing on the enemy while a third flew into the center of the fighting to rescue the men on the ground. "You can't believe how loud it was," Marcus said. "The gunfire, the choppers, everyone screaming. I still can't hear too good." The area was too rough for the chopper to land, so the men were lifted one by one. But when it was Marcus' turn, he couldn't grasp the harness. His upper arm was destroyed and he'd lost a lot of blood. He motioned for the rest of his unit to go ahead and collapsed onto the ground.

"I couldn't grab anything," he said. "I knew I was going to die there in that foreign dirt."

The wind from the chopper got stronger and stronger. Marcus looked up. The helicopter was so close to the ground Marcus thought it would crash right on top of him, killing everyone. He tried to wave them away, but even his good arm was weak. The chopper edged even closer.

At this point in the story, Marcus' eyes began to fill and he choked back a swig of his warming beer before he continued, "I would have, you know. I would have died for my country and been proud to do it. But they weren't going to let me. They wouldn't leave me." His rescuer crouched in the chopper's doorway, waiting for a chance. When the helicopter was nearly touching the ground, the soldier laid on his belly, grabbed Marcus by his wounded arm and yanked him out of that foreign dirt. "It hurt like nothing you can believe when he took hold of that arm," Marcus said. "All I remember is the sound of my own screams."

Later, in the VA hospital, Marcus underwent another heroic fight -- to save his left arm. The doctors wanted to amputate, but Marcus refused. They warned of a long, long recovery time, infection, gangrene. If they did save the arm, they told him he'd have limited if any use of it. But Marcus is left-handed. "No way they were taking my left arm. No way." He underwent sixteen surgeries, fought off infections seven times and endured torturous physical therapy over a period of four years. And now? Unless he shows you the scars (which he will not) you would never know he'd been shot. And unless he tells you the story (which he just might) you'd never know how much we owe him. How much we owe all who serve and have served.

Why did I share this story with you? To honor both my friend and all the men and women who risk everything, every single day, on every corner of the globe. All gave some. Some gave all. Marcus gave all he had. And then he was willing to give more. That's a soldier. That's my friend Marcus.





Take the time to thank a soldier. Salute their courage. I'll see you next week.
Bobby
