Here.

“Do you remember that little, short guy from boot-camp? The five-foot four guy who always talked about how  he’d be going to selection ‘in no time at all’. Well, turns out he took a commission in the Navy, he’s gonna be a SEAL. Not bad, I guess. Anyway, it got me thinking how crazy it’s all been, boot-camp feels like centuries ago. Even graduating AIT feels like a totally different person. I guess you could say it is now. But do you ever think about how nuts that is? We were perfect strangers before I fucked-up my bed so bad that Drill-Sarn’t made you show me how to make it for an hour straight. Man, I hated you and felt bad for you at the same time, I guess that was the point. By the way, it’s crazy you ever tried to tease me about that when you and I both know you fumbled the first grenade you ever tried to throw. Seriously, Drill-Sarn’t is dragging you down to safety and the whole time I’m staring at you thinking, ‘This idiot played baseball from little-league to senior year and he can’t through a damn grenade?’  and I don’t want to hear about how you ‘saved my ass’ during the night infill exercise, no you didn’t—I was fine. I had ten whole weeks with you to decide you were the weirdest, dumbest, most corn-fed midwestern idiot on Earth.

“Still, made it even better to find out we’d both be at Bragg. I mean, it lessened the blow. Anyway, here I am, stuck in North Carolina, nearly four-thousand miles from my family in Juneau, and my only friend—who is some mentally handicapped bonobo from Idaho—is begging me to drive him to Westover to hit on the Mormon chicks! Seriously man you are such a freak. Nineteen years old, a ‘professional’ killer, no driver’s license, and obsessed with Mormon girls. Boy, do I know how to pick a best friend. Guess I shoulda known better, you never exactly hid who you were.  I did get revenge, though, convincing you to go for Ranger with me. Boy, did that suck. Especially when you didn’t make the cut.

“I’ll admit it, I missed you for a while. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy to leave your sorry ass behind in the heat while I lived the good life up at McChord, and I was glad of the break from your stupid little nickname. Seriously, ‘Papi-Dick’ from Popovic is not clever. Though, my life did lack a certain surreal insanity without you around to binge-drink before going to the gym. But I wouldn’t change a thing. After all, you made it, what, the next year? It’s alright, bud, we can’t all be perfect. Looking back, I bet we were insufferable. All the way from two idiot kids at Fort Lost-in-the Woods to the greatest living warriors since Hannibal’s legions. Rangers living it up on the west coast—living it up, that luxurious NCO life. Well, at least the weather was better than Missouri.

“Speaking of weather, I hate Syria. I wish the Airforce would hurry up and get here already. Even D.C. in July has to be better than this hell-hole. I know you must be hotter than me—well, with all that stuff on you. It’s—uh—it’s been a long road to get here. Never really thought this is where it would take us. Well, that’s gotta be our bird on final approach. Let me get my stuff and I’ll be right back. Don’t wander off, Ramirez.”

***

“Rangers, post!” The air in D.C. was muggy. “Report for Ranger Roll Call.” His throat was tight. “Ranger Devon Quinn.”

“Here.”

“Ranger Eli Grouse.”

“Here.”

“Ranger Trent Johnson.”

“Here.”

“Ranger Trent Smith.”

“Here.”

“Ranger Miles Frederick.”

“Here.”

“Ranger Carlyle Freeman.”

“Here.”

“Ranger Andrew Popovic.”

“Here.” The word had to be forced through the lump in his throat.

“Ranger Adrian Ramirez.” Silence. “Ranger Adrian Ramirez.” The silence was torture. “Ranger Adrian Ramirez.”

“Sir,” SFC Popovic’s voice was tight, only the slightest warble detectable, “Ranger Adrian Ramirez who was Once an Eagle is now reporting as a U.S. Army Ranger to a much Higher Authority. May God bless him.”

“Hand, Salute!” The OIC’s voice boomed, and Popovic’s arm worked mechanically, without the need of his mind. “Order, Arms!” and slowly down his arm went. “Yes, may God bless him. Rangers, you are dismissed.”

Next came the firing of the guns, then taps. Then slowly, one-by-one, the mourners left. Until SFC Andrew Popovic was alone at the grave of his friend. He knelt there and wept.