The convoy kicked up a cloud of dust into the sapphire blue Afghanistan sky. Sergeant Jimmy “Killer” O’Reily grumbled. He knew the Taliban could see them for miles. As he leaned on the Humvee’s .50 caliber machine gun, he scanned the hills.
They were a sitting duck and he knew it.
And he knew it from experience. This was his fourth tour overseas. One to Iraq (that was a bucket of chuckles) and three to Afghanistan. The moon was a more hospitable place than Afghanistan. And there weren’t little green men trying to kill you every turn along the road. His luck was running out.
An A-10 Warhog roared overhead. Basically a plane built around a Gatling Gun, the A-10 was a Marine’s best friend. When it came time for close air support, it was Killer’s weapon of the choice. The sound of its gun firing made a “BRRRAPPPPPT!” sound — and it sounded like the song of angels. Or at least the song that sends people to see the angels.
Death. Killer tried not to think about dying. But he had seen too many friends go home in body bags. There really was nothing more heavy than a corpse.
He wiped his forehead with a glove.
And then everything went black.
Killer found himself sitting on a worn, wooden dock. He looked around at the green trees in the distance. This wasn’t Afghanistan. No, there was too much water. And too much foliage. It looked like…. like….. well, it looked like the Tennessee River. But it couldn’t be. And besides, the water wasn’t murky brown. It was crystal clear. He saw bass and bream swimming by the dock. The dock seemed familiar.
Killer recognized it immediately. It was the dock at his grandparent’s cabin.
“There you are little Jimmy. I’ve been lookin’ for you. Need any help baitin’ that hook?” Killer recognized the soft Southern drawl. It was a voice who had comforted him when his parents had died so long ago.
“Grandpa?”
“Of course. Who else would it be?”
Something must have happened. One minute he was in Afghanistan and the next…
The old man sat down on the dock next to him. “Been waitin’ here for you. I love fishin’ with my little Jimmy.”
Jimmy felt tears well in his eyes. “Grandpa, why am I here?”
“Because you aren’t there.” It sounded like something the old man would say. “But you can be. You have a choice. You can stay here and fish with me. Or you can go back.”
“Back?”
The old man waved his arms and the clear water turned into what looked like a video screen. There, in front of Killer, was a burned-out hulk of the Humvee and a crater where the roadside bomb had gone off. A Medivac Blackhawk helicopter landed and loaded his body on board. Killer saw the dust leap off the water.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you stayed. It will be a rough road for you.” He waved his hand again. Killer could see him going through multiple surgeries. “You’re not going to come out of this whole.”
Killer saw himself in rehab. He saw the struggle. He could tell he was in pain.
“You have a choice.”
“A choice? Why should I go back?” Killer felt fear creep into his soul.
The old man waved his hand again and Killer saw himself at the Children’s Hospital, playing with kids who also had lost their legs. He saw himself running a marathon. He felt the inspiration as he spoke before other veterans at the local VA. He saw himself in Congress. He saw his first child being born.
“You have a choice. You can live. But you’re going to have to truly live — and pay your blessing forward. But no whining. No pity parties. You have served your country. Now you must go serve your fellow man.”
Killer looked at the water and said, “God doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle.”
The old man ceased to look like his grandfather and started glowing.
“No son, I don’t.”