For my friend and all of those who have left us too soon. To all of the Veterans out there, thank you. Soldiers are my personal heroes. Anyone who comments on this post and can tell me where my friend is buried (city and state) will have a chance to receive a free reading. Thank you for listening to my story and thank you for remembering how much soldiers sacrifice every day. My Friends call me Jimmy Part of me will always be standing in shock and disbelief in front of his flag-draped coffin; stars and stripes over silver like a farewell kiss under the winter triangle. The streets outside the church were lined with patriots and Kentucky blue grass. I half expected him to be there, alive, at any minute. I half expected to see his broad shoulders and warm smile as he made his way to greet me. But, reality was in his Soldier’s wake and in the haunting epitaph: Staff Sergeant James P. Hunter, KIA, Ohio, Army, 18 June 2010. To this day those words repeat in my head like a broken record. They are burned into who I am just as surely as a brand on flesh. Dead. Killed in action. My dear friend, gone. James and I met on Fort Meade in Maryland in 2004. We were both kids with our lives ahead of us, though he was 7 years my junior. Both of us had enlisted in the US Army as a public affairs specialist/journalist. We were trained at the Defense Information School near Washington, D.C. I still remember the first time I saw him. He was sitting on a chair in the barracks wearing a blue and white checked, button-up shirt and that golden smile I will never forget. From the moment our eyes locked, there was a connection. It was one of those connections that come easily, quickly and only happens on rare occasion in life. We were immediate friends. Every day in class he saved a seat for me, or I for him. During our first day of studies, I asked him for his first name. We all went by our last names, as is tradition in the military. He smiled and said, “My friends call me Jimmy.” We passed notes like junior-high school kids and giggled under stifled breath. I still have a few of the scribbles he left in one of my study guides. They aren’t much, but they are an extension of him and the time we shared. I remember having to wake him up in class because he would stay up all night shining his boots and starching his uniform. He was that kind of Soldier. Jimmy was at the top of our class. He was the best and brightest at everything he did and indeed, at the time of his death had made staff sergeant at the young age of 25. He was on the fast track with nothing but promises and possibilities ahead of him. I used to tell him he’d be Sergeant Major of the Army one day. He was so humble, he’d just blush and say, “Nah.” The two of us enjoyed every minute we spent together. If only I had known just how precious those moments were, I would have set everything else aside just to have one more. But, as it does, time passed and we were sent to separate duty stations. He went on to Fort Bragg, North Carolina; I was shipped out to Korea. As fortune would have it, we were both stationed at Fort Bragg a couple of years later. When I saw him again for the first time I ran to him full force and threw my arms around him. I knew he was special and I knew I wanted to hold on to him with all of my might. From there he deployed to Iraq. He would write me frequently and get online when he was able so we could talk. He was endlessly positive and never once complained about a single thing. I loved him. Jimmy did two combat tours in Iraq and wrote me just before he was leaving for his third combat tour in Afghanistan. He said he missed me and wished we had more time to spend together. He apologized for letting months go by without writing. He said he was busy getting ready to leave for his mission and that life had been moving so quickly for him. I told him that I understood and that he never needed to be sorry for life getting in the way of staying in touch. I told him I loved him and to be safe because if anything happened to him I would be devastated. That was the last time we spoke. Six weeks later, he was dead. I was in Oregon when I heard the news. I had traveled alone on a whim to visit family and friends for a few days. I had spent all day catching up with an old high school friend. It was a good day. After an amazing meal, wine and some belly laughter I left my friend’s house and went to see my mother. Early evening turned into late night as I sat on my mother’s porch and eased into my secure place in the world. As I listened to the soothing whistle of a train passing on nearby tracks, I sank into a comfort that I can only now look back on with confusion and distress. To be so comfortable in one moment and so soulfully disturbed and shaken in the next; it’s hard to find words for that sort of contrast. The telephone cut into the silence of the evening, but I barely noticed until my mother handed it to me. “It’s Jimmy,” our mutual friend spoke to me, and I knew right away. “He’s dead?” I asked. “Yes, he was killed by an IED while on a foot patrol. The convoy he was with came under attack.” A roadside bomb detonated remotely and killed my friend. In that moment my entire world went black and gray. Every image from the sky to the ground swirled in my vision like some grim and twisted painting. I dropped the phone and fell to my knees. I sobbed and screamed. I could barely breathe. When I was pulled up from the ground I ran straight for the front door. It was nearly midnight and I wanted the entire country to wake up. My mother’s neighborhood was all I had, so I decided in an instant that would have to suffice. I ran into the street screaming for everyone to wake up. I sobbed that there was still a war going on and that people were still dying. I had truly never known pain until that night. It lingers still and though the wounds are gently scarred, it doesn’t take much to bring me back. I loved him. I was angry. I wanted to watch the world burn. Not surprisingly, someone called the police. Fortunately for me, both officers were combat veterans. Unfortunately, they had both lost dear friends in Afghanistan. I cried into the chest of one officer while he tried to comfort and soothe me. He took me back to my friend’s house where she greeted me with open arms. For a while I laid and listened to the train passing; the whistle so haunting and mournful. I thought it odd how in one moment a sound could be so peaceful and in the next, so lonely. Exhausted, I finally fell asleep. The next morning brought with it a sort of confusion I’d never known. I didn’t understand how the birds could be going about their business chirping and singing, how the sun could rise so easily, or how the sky was still so blue. Suddenly, the world I knew made no sense. I didn’t understand a world without Jimmy in it. I didn’t want to understand a world without Jimmy in it. Yet, here it was and what was I to do? I had to be near him again. I had to stand in the same room with him one last time. There was no alternative. I needed to get to Kentucky, where he would be laid to rest in Lexington. And then, there I was, standing in front of that silver casket covered by a blanket of red, white and blue. There I was, with every memory he and I shared playing in my mind’s eye against a foreground of floral wreaths and church pews. There wasnt anything in the world that mattered to me as much as being there beside him. Most of the ceremony is still a blur to me. I couldnt let myself be still long enough to take in the image of my dear friend being lowered into the ground. My world was upside down. The only thing I knew was death and dead. To be sure, a part of me is still there, dazed and confused as horses carried him to his resting place and the world fell apart around me. I will never escape the day I learned he had been killed nor the day I saw him buried. Indeed, I am still on my knees on my mother’s porch. I am still standing in that church in Kentucky. I am still pacing in that Lexington cemetery. I am still standing under that farewell constellation. I loved him. Dead. Killed in action. My dear friend, gone.
Posted on: Tue, 11 Nov 2014 22:02:40 +0000
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