War Flower~My Life After Iraq by Brooke King

Author:Brooke King [King, Brooke]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: BIO026000 Biography & Autobiography / Personal Memoirs, HIS027170 History / Military / Iraq War (2003-2011), BIO008000 Biography & Autobiography / Military
Amazon: B07JQZRHTJ
Publisher: Potomac Books
Published: 2019-03-02T00:00:00+00:00

Tin Box Battalion

The flag lowered, sinking down to white-gloved hands that were already saturated with sweat from standing in the late afternoon sun. The rope whipped against the pole, slamming the rings against the metal, the sound of shell casings dropping from a machine gun onto the roof of a Humvee.

I stood there among a sea of black, stuffed tight into a green army dress uniform, the waist of my pants too tight to be considered comfortable. My ungloved hand was pressed against my head in salute, the rigid lines of my fingers tracing the outside edges of my right eyebrow. The trumpet began to play “Taps,” the slow, steady sound ringing through the base as the flag sank down to the ground. The wife and infant son sat in the chapel, the doors open, the music carrying through to the front near the pulpit, where a pair of boots stood next to an upside down rifle, a helmet adorning the top. The music kept playing, each note long and steady, the slow motion of a body rippling from a bullet, explosive, shrapnel impact, the tearing away of flesh and bone, limbs and gear, the flight of the body’s uncertain landing on the ground, met with the collision of air casting the sad melody of the trumpet as I stood there holding back the tears that were blurring my vision. An envisioned look at the Vietnam wall, a man’s palm pressed against the names and an invisible soldier holding him up, a job his legs could not do for him on that day. The tune continues at the grave of the Unknown Soldier, the soldier standing guard, his rifle at salute, the song echoing down the corridors of white, marked gravestones, the price of freedom some would say. But I stood there, unflinching, as the flag was folded, carried inside the chapel, and presented to the woman, now widowed. I didn’t flinch when the first volley went off, or the second. The third, all seven men standing there, guns at the ready, aimed. The final nail in the coffin, the third volley. Many couldn’t stand the gunfire, most flinching through the whole procession, others unable to keep composure at the sounding of “Taps.” I stood there, tears down my face as I watched the soldiers one by one follow suit. Another name was engraved in the stone in front of brigade headquarters to remind me what the cost of war included. But I did not deserve the song, the salute, or the flag. I did not commit my life to stone.

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