The day after Christmas 1986, Marine Corps pilot Dale Puhle walked for the last time. Decked out in his Marine Corps dress blues, he strolled over to a waiting military vehicle and climbed in. It was the last time he walked, and the last time he piloted an aircraft until Feb of 2011.

Dale had just finished his initial flight training along with his basic officer training. He was two weeks from being a commissioned officer and moving on to advanced flight training. A driver on drugs and a bus had other plans.

His impaired military driver sped through an intersection in Oceanside, California, and collided with a bus. No one was seriously hurt, except Dale. A police car, not far behind the speeding vehicle, was on the scene immediately. The officer pulled Dale from the wreckage and finding no pulse, resuscitated him. He died again in transport, and again at the hospital. Each time he returned to the land of the living.

Dale spent seven months in a coma. They operated on him multiple times. When he woke up, he was in a military hospital in Minnesota. He couldn’t walk, talk, or handle even the basic daily functions, but he was still alive. After more surgery, and four years of rehab, he was medically retired from the Marine Corps.

The sky was a crisp blue as we drove to Falcon Field in Mesa, AZ, so blue that it hurt to stare at it. The winds were light out of the southeast, and the nearest cloud was hundreds of miles away. At seventy-five degrees, the weather was perfect for taking a hop around the valley of the sun.

My friend Derek Miller met us at the gate and escorted us to the awaiting Cirrus SR-20 aircraft. I parked just off the tarmac, and Linda, Dale’s saint of a wife, pulled the van close to airplane. Linda helped him into his motorized wheelchair as Derek began the preflight. As soon as he got into his chair, Dale scooted over to the bird and started helping with preflight. He inspected the tail, the ailerons, and the prop as I helped remove the tie downs. He was anxious to get airborne.

“I want Starbucks on this flight,” said Dale in his unique manner of speaking. He relearned to speak, but he has to exhale the words from his mouth with force. We laughed and asked if he knew of a fly-thru Starbucks. He looked at me, the airline pilot, pointed his finger and demanded with a grin, “I want peanuts too.”

With the preflight finished, we took a few pictures and prepared to climb in and slip the surly bonds. We lifted him onto the wing, slid him over to the door, and then hoisted him into the seat. The excitement on his face was visible, and he gave me the universal aviator’s thumbs-up sign.

I strapped him in, got his headset situated, and climbed into the back. Derek settled in and began the preflight checklists as Dale watched and cajoled us even more about the Starbucks and peanuts. When Derek checked the CPAS (Cirrus Airframe Parachute System), an onboard parachute to be used in emergencies, Dale asked, “Where’s the ejection button?” He turned and looked at me, “For you!”

When the motor sprang to life and the prop began to turn we all felt that moment of reverence and revelry that all aviators feel at the sound of a healthy engine. We finished our checklist, called for taxi, and added power. It was my first time in a Cirrus aircraft. The visibility was impressive, and the flat panel displays with electronic checklists made me jealous. (I still fly 737 300/500’s with round dials.) Dale must have also been impressed because he stopped busting my chops and gave his full attention to the operation of the aircraft.

After our run-up, we were cleared for takeoff from 4R. We taxied onto the active runway, pushed up the throttle, and accelerated down the runway. We were airborne at 75 knots, and lifted nimbly away from mother earth. I looked at Dale and could see that he was engrossed with the sensation of being airborne, at the controls of an aircraft, for the first time in over twenty-four years.

You don’t understand the concept of freedom unless you have flown. Taking your craft into the blue and feeling the three-dimensional ability to move is an exhilaration that you never grow tired of. The elevated perspective breathes life into a tired soul, and you feel more godlike as the horizon expands in front of you. I imagine that after twenty plus years bound to a wheelchair, the feeling for Dale must have been euphoric.

His silence ended after we leveled off. He showed us that he still remembered his flying training when he asked about our groundspeed and the winds. His left hand doesn’t always work the way he would like it to, but in the right seat of the Cirrus, he could put his rind hand on the control stick. He placed his hand on the controls and forced out the words, “I want to fly.”

Derek and I had discussed safety precautions specific to Dale’s condition. He didn’t have complete control of his legs, so we made sure that his feet stayed clear from the rudder pedals. I sat behind Dale, prepared to restrain him from interfering with the controls if necessary. I hesitated when he asked. Derek glanced over his shoulder. We didn’t want Dale’s first flight in twenty-four years ending in tragedy because we failed to take important precautions. Finally, I responded, “Why don’t you put your hand on the controls and follow along?” Derek nodded in agreement. Dale stretched out his right hand and grabbed the control stick.

Understanding history is not always easy, especially if you are in the thick of things as it is being made.

I entered pilot training for the USAF in January of 1989 as part of UPT class 90-04. We would become the last of the cold-war warriors, but of course at the time we didn’t know it. We were a mess of egos and testosterone. The air of the flight room was thick with competitive vibes beating like the drum of a marching band. Unyielding. Dominant. Constant. We were competitors, peers, and wannabe warriors in the fight against godless communism. During the course of the year we lost half of our class. Some quit. Some were medically disqualified. Some couldn’t learn fast enough. We all started with hope and promise, but in the end the grinder made meat out of all of us.

We graduated in January of 1990, and headed out for follow-on training in our respective aircraft. During the summer of 1990 the cracks in monolithic Soviet Block expanded from tiny fissures to full-blown fractures. On August second 1990, Sadam Hussein invaded Kuwait, and the world would never be the same. By the time I reported to my duty station in September, the Berlin Wall was coming down.

The conflict I had trained for was irrelevant. Tactics became obsolete. Maps changed like the weather. I felt like I was all dressed up with nowhere to go. When the shooting started in the desert, I watched it on CNN from England and Germany.

In July of 1991 I deployed to Incirlik Turkey in support of Operation Provide Comfort. Our mission was to patrol Iraq north of the 36^th parallel and provide some relief for the battered Kurds. We were instructed to “…fly so as to make your presence known.” To a fighter pilot, that is an invitation to buzz Main Street. So, that’s what we did.

We launched our A-10’s from Incirlik with a combat load and flew the hour plus to the northern border of Iraq. We would hit the tanker and airborne refuel, and then push into the Area of Responsibility. We would fly around checking on villages, outposts, and the remnants of the dreaded Republican Guard. Then we would leave Iraq, hit the tanker again, and make our way back to the ‘Lik.

During my three months there, things were quiet. I never fired a shot, or dropped a bomb. I began to feel like the entire thing was a waste. On several occasions Turkish fighters would get gas from the same tanker we used. We would fly into Iraq to “protect” the Kurds. They would bomb the Kurds just across the border in Turkey. Same tanker. Same day. Same Kurds. Maddening.

All I wanted to do was go home to my wife and son.

In my search to find a purpose in my efforts and risks, I began to notice things. Crops were being planted. Homes were being built. Villages were growing. Roads were being repaired. Lives and communities were moving forward.

There in the cockpit of an A-10 over northern Iraq, I began to see the fruits of my efforts grow and ripen. It was small and difficult to see, but our efforts were making a difference. We had given some reprieve to a weary people, and they were trying to put their lives and communities back together.

Years later in a supermarket in Dallas, I noticed that several checkout clerks and bagboys were speaking a foreign language. Being the curious type, I asked them where they were from. They were all Kurds that had escaped the violence and made it to the USA while I was patrolling the skies overhead. We shared stories. We shook hands. I left with the feeling that maybe I had been a part of helping someone else find freedom.

Today we are in the midst of dramatic changes. We face a stateless enemy whose ideology counters the core values of our republic. We have difficulty understanding why they want to kill us. We struggle to find our way through this conflict, both collectively, and individually, because it has affected us all in some way. After almost ten years, we cannot claim an overall victory.

Understanding history is not always easy, especially if you are in the thick of things as it is being made. Sometimes it is years later before you understand and appreciate the history you were a part of and the lessons learned from the experience. I hope I live to learn the lesson of today’s history.

BTW, I'm the A-10 on the left.

The best training I ever did for writing a book was running a marathon. Both require long lonely hours of training and preparation. Both require discipline and sacrifice. Both can bring elation, and pain.

But writing a book is like running a marathon without mile markers or a watch.

You slave away at your computer trying to put words on the page that make sense, words that move the story forward, and words that captivate. Sometimes a scene flows from your fingertips like electricity. Other times its like squeezing blood from a turnip.

When you run a marathon, cheering crowds line the racecourse and encourage you along. Nobody cheers for you when you fiddle for hours with the opening sentence of a scene until you can’t see straight. No one is there to shout inspiring words to you as you grapple with plot structure. Writing is an art form that is both created, and enjoyed, alone.

But there comes a point where you have to get the manuscript out of the house. Your hours of effort need validation, even if comes in the form of negative critical feedback. Like the cheering crowds on race day, you need someone to say, “Keep going! You can do it!” (Or maybe, “Stop you idiot! You look like you are about to die!”)

So, here I go…

I am posting the tagline, the back copy, and the first few paragraphs of my manuscript, Donor’s Club. I WANT FEEDBACK, even the negative kind if you are so inclined. I am only giving you the first few paragraphs, because more likely than not, that is all an agent or editor will read before passing judgement on a manuscript.

The main question is – would you keep reading? Feel free to post below, or email your comments to brockbooher@cox.net. All I ask is that you speak up, and let me know that I’m still in the race.

Tagline

Julio fights to survive and care for his brother in the slums of Lima until a mysterious foreign benefactor comes to his aid. Then, the struggle to stay alive begins.

Back Copy

What is the value of a life?

Julio promised his dying mother that he would take care of his brother. In order to survive on the streets of Lima and fulfill his promise, he chooses to accept the help of Isak, a mysterious foreign benefactor. His life is transformed, but in ways he doesn't expect. He soon finds himself in a fight to survive, and must decide on the value of a life.

I woke forty minutes before my alarm went off. It was the shortest day of the year, the winter solstice, and we were going to celebrate it on the field of battle.

Since it was the shortest day of the year, we watched the sun come up during the drive. The sky was cast in a brilliant orange and red as we left the house. We were all dressed in old military fatigues and armed with the latest weapons. The conversation buzzed with excitement and statements of bravado. We were going paintballing!

Somewhere along the way, the game of tag has evolved into a much more sophisticated, and expensive, game called paintball. You run around among the bushes and trees in some designated area and try and tag each other with a hurtling ball of dyed soap encased in a thick pliable shell. When you tag someone they are out of the game until the next round. When you get tagged, it can sting a bit, and sometimes leaves a welt. The measure of pain keeps you sharp and on your toes, keeps you honest, and sends the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

The morning was brisk when we got out of the truck, perfect for keeping us cool in the layers of clothing and protective headgear. Our designated spot sported some small trees, several thick bushes, and a few bunkers made of tires.

We dropped the tailgate of the truck and began gearing up for the fight. The air was filled with the hiss of compressed carbon dioxide as the tanks were attached to the guns, the sound of the paintballs plinking against the plastic hoppers as the guns were loaded, and the dull ratatatat of the weapons being test fired. It was mingled with the active conversation about past battles and future boasts.

After everyone was kitted up and ready to play, we chose teams. For the first two games, the five members of my family were pitted against the other five. A family that fights together, stays together… or dies together. We stayed together – and cleaned up the opposition without a loss!

With the adrenaline rush of the first game starting to wane, we continued to pick teams and fight. Shouts of warning and shouts of pain were mingled with shots of paint hurtling through air searching for a mark. I got nailed in the leg. I shot my son between the eyes. We laughed. We screamed. We argued. We encouraged. We had fun!

With the compressed gas and paintballs all spent, we nursed our wounds and our pride. We boasted of our prowess and our courage on the field of battle. We laughed at our blunders that ended with the sting of paint. We cleaned up our guns, gathered our trash, and with broad grins on our faces, we climbed into the trucks and headed home.

Most sports are a microcosm of life. Entering a non-lethal field of battle with my kids taught us to work together, watch out for one another, and stand shoulder-to-shoulder against an enemy hell-bent on our demise. If I could only convince them to apply those principles when the time comes to clean and sanitize their bathroom…

This year two days before Christmas, I reported to work at the Denver International Airport and found the expected long lines, and hustling crowds. As I came up the escalator into the gate area, I saw something I didn’t expect. My older sister Brande was standing at the top of the escalator with a big grin on her face.

Every Christmas Brande and I (along with our numerous other siblings) would cram into the family station wagon and go over the river and through the woods to Granny and Grampy’s house for Christmas Dinner. When I say cram, I mean squeeze in so close you can barely breathe. You never heard the proverbial – “She’s touching me!” – because someone was always touching you. They were practically sitting in your lap!

Of course, this was long before the invention of portable electronic games, mobile TV, or portable DVD players. So, we had to invent games to keep us busy. One of our favorite games was counting cows (sounds like so much fun doesn’t it?).

To play the game you divide into teams based on which side of the car you were squeezed into. Then you started counting the cows that passed on your side of the vehicle. If you passed a church, you added two more. If you passed a school, you multiplied by two. But if you passed a graveyard, and your opponents from the other side of the vehicle actually saw it, you had to bury your cows and start from scratch all over again.

It doesn’t sound like much of a game, but when you are jammed into a station wagon like sardines, anything to take your mind off of the fact that your brother just passed gas, is a fun game.

As I got to the top of the escalator, I gave Brande a great big hug. As it turned out, she was going to Nashville and I was going to be her Captain. We visited until the aircraft arrived at the gate, and then I got to work preparing for the flight. Once my preparations were complete, I hurried up the jet way and boarded my sister first, thanks to the accommodating operations agent.

I put her in the First Officer’s seat, and we took a picture together. We sat there in the cockpit of the Boeing 737 and caught up on the latest family news. We discussed kids, grandkids, and the health issues of the day until it was time to board the rest of the passengers.

After everyone boarded, I made my usual announcements about the flying time and the weather, but I made sure that everyone knew that my big sister was on board. I didn’t embarrass her though. She knows too many things about me, and she has pictures.

The flight from Denver to Nashville lasted only a few minutes longer than our usual Christmas drive to Granny and Grampy’s house. We cruised in comfort at a smooth 35,000 feet and averaged over 500 hundred miles an hour because of a nice tailwind. Ironically enough, our flight path into Nashville took us almost over the top of Granny’s house.

I put a little extra effort into the landing to impress my sister, and we taxied to the gate. Since I had a little time before my next flight, I walked her to security. We embraced again, shared our affection, and said our farewells.

As she walked away, I was bummed that we flew too high to count cows during the flight. It was just as well. I passed a graveyard on my side as we approached the runway and she would have won.

Merry Christmas Brande!

The minivan’s check-engine light stared me in the face when I started it. It nagged at me and reminded me of all the things I needed to get done and all the reasons I shouldn’t be going to Hawaii for the week. I ignored it. It was probably just a bad sensor, and I wasn’t going to let it keep me from the spontaneous jaunt. With a couple of bags in the back of the van, we backed out of the garage and headed for Phoenix Sky Harbor in the dark December morning.

I saw familiar faces at the airport, and almost got off at terminal four where I go to work, but I didn’t. We went on to the Hawaiian ticket counter where I saw my buddy Veron, a New Zealander of Maori decent with a cool accent and a ponytail. He teased us as always, and told us the flight looked pretty good for space-available travel. We made it through security without a full-body scan or a groping, and onto the flight. We even got to sit together. As the Phoenix skyline disappeared in the soft morning light, I quit thinking of the check-engine light.

We landed in a beautiful Hawaiian sun, got the rental car, and headed for the North Shore – Sunset Beach in particular. David & Peggy, my wife’s cousins, live across from Sunset Beach and rent out part of their house to visiting surfers. They were kind enough to let us stay in one of the unused bedrooms, as long as we didn’t mind using the “surfer’s” shower and bathroom that was housed out back in the bathhouse and storage shed. It was rustic, but clean, and added to the whole north-shore-I’m-here-to-surf-not-be-pampered ambience.

We tossed our bags in the room, and I went for a run while Britt chilled. Then we headed for BYU Hawaii to see my son Cody. We had only driven a quarter mile when the car made an unexpected stop at Ted’s Bakery. Ted’s is a local dive that makes the best chocolate haupia pie, pineapple cheese pie, and Hawaiian plate lunches found in all of Oahu. It’s popular, so you might have to wait in line, or find that your favorite treat is sold out, but it is SO worth the wait. I recommend the pineapple cheese pie.

We made our way to campus and found Cody hard at work in the computer lab, reading a book. It was good to see him, and our spontaneous trip made him smile. When he finished work we took Cody and two of his friends to dinner. Each night of our trip we took him and one or two of his friends to dinner. In spite of their pre-purchased full-meal plan at the “caf” (their slang for cafeteria), they were always hungry. One night we went to the L&L, a local style food joint, just off the BYU campus. It is decorated with yellow stained paint, dripping air conditioning units, and faded oriental paintings. The food was typical L&L, but after Britt went to the bathroom, she swore she would have the place shut down for serious health-code violations. Nobody got sick, but we didn’t go back.

Each morning I ran along the Sunset Beach trail, and Britt ran/walked Chester, David and Peggy’s white labrador. The trail offers a unique running experience. It follows the shoreline just out of traffic with vistas of the Pacific tides and white beaches interspersed with squatty houses nestled among the trees. Local beach bums, school children, and vacationers frequent the trail. A canopy of tropical trees and bushes offer some protection from the spitting rain, the beating sun, and the noise of the passing traffic. Running is good for your heart. Running the trail along Sunset Beach is good for your heart, head, and soul.

A surfing competition was on hiatus at Sunset Beach for our first two days there, due to lack of surf. I watched the surfers on the beach. They stood genuflecting to their god. They gazed out at the incoming tides, staring at the undulating motion of the water hoping that some of the sea spray would rise up and sprinkle them like holy water, but their god did not offer up any tokens of faith that day. The surf was flat.

We snorkeled the calm ocean for shells in the gentle North-Shore surf without conflicting with the surfers. Shells are like relics of a lost civilization that remain to testify of the previous existence of a living creature. Britt found several small shells in the curling tide close to shore. I found a couple languishing in the small coral indentations further off shore. Both of mine had hermit crabs in them, so we threw them back. I found an old marine battery and dragged it out of the water for proper disposal.

The next afternoon the surf gods smiled and the competition began again in earnest. We headed over to snorkel Shark’s Cove (named for its shape, not the presence of sharks). The water was a bit rough, and we proceeded with caution out into to the cove. I was worried about the less experienced snorkelers getting injured on the rocks, but in the end, I was the only one that lost any blood (good thing there weren’t sharks). The churning sea reduced the visibility, but we still saw abundant marine life, and enjoyed the swim.

Our last day on the North Shore, we took Cody to Haleiwa, surf capital of the world. It is a quaint old town with art galleries, shops, and more shaved-ice stores per capita than anywhere else in the world. We ducked in to a couple of art galleries (after feeding Cody three McChicken sandwiches) and admired the art. We wanted to buy the stuff we admired, but our vacation budget didn’t allow for that.

We also checked out one of the surf clothing shops. They had a small shrine to Eddie Aikau, a big-wave surfer that was killed on the open ocean on his surfboard. The phrase “Eddie would go,” has come to symbolize the indomitable spirit of big-wave surfing and the inherent risk associated with flinging yourself into the jaws of the ocean’s fury. Based on the merchandising of Eddie’s tragic and courageous deed, if he had known how much money his name would bring in… he might NOT have gone.

We said our aloha oe to Cody, and made our way across the island to Waikiki for our last night. A light rain had passed over us off and on throughout the drive across the island, and it also invaded downtown Honolulu. We checked into the Aston Waikiki Beach Hotel and ventured out to Duke’s for dinner. Dinner at Duke’s is always good. We ended it with the Hula pie, and waddled out.

We stopped at another gallery and Britt was enthralled with the art of Brigette D’Anniable, whose art is a mix of throwback old-style posters and sexy figurines of wahines. Somehow we had more money than before, and my wife began discussing an actual purchase. I objected politely, out of personal reasons (I couldn’t afford it), and slinked to the front of store to wait for her to finish. Fortunately, she only made plans to purchase and didn’t pull out the credit card. I have a feeling that she will put art in the budget for the next trip.


The next day, we woke to a beautiful Hawaii morning complete with a rainbow. We ate breakfast in our room and watched the Waikiki scene from our balcony. On our way to the airport, we stopped at Leonard’s Bakery and bought malasadas for the flight crew (and a few for ourselves). We maneuvered our way through security and onto the eastbound Hawaiian 767.

When we landed in the dark, Phoenix seemed much as we left it. When I started the minivan for the drive home, the check engine light was still on.

I didn’t really want to go to the Veteran’s Day celebration at our local high school. I always considered Veteran’s Day was for men and women who bled and sacrificed, not for some spoiled jet jockey that spent the war buzzing officer’s clubs and wearing Tom Cruise glasses. My youngest son is in AFJROTC (Air Force Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps for all you civilian types) and he insisted I attend because he was helping out with the event. So, I went.

I showed up with my Ray Bans and my fighter-pilot jacket covered in multiple cool patches that would surely turn the heads of anyone important or knowledgeable. I was taken back as I strolled into the football stadium and saw the layout. The school had done the place up real nice with a large decorated stage, VIP seating, and displays from each of the armed services. They even had some civil-war cannons. I was directed to the veteran seating area at the base of the stage – it must have been the patches.

I took my seat behind a bunch of old guys with VFW hats and khaki uniforms. They nodded and smiled. A guy with a Vietnam patch and a walker shuffled on to the field and sat down behind me. I remembered why I didn’t like coming to these things. I always felt guilty for all the times I complained about my cushy time in the Air Force.

The guy behind me was named Paul. He had been injured in a vehicle accident and was left disabled because of it. He had a twinkle in his eye and as he told his story he punctuated the difficult parts with laughter. “You have to laugh and keep your sense of humor,” he said. “What else can you do?”

Grow bitter and become cynical, I thought to myself as I smiled back.

“I feel out of place,” I told Paul. “All the veteran’s I saw at Veteran’s Day celebrations growing up had beards, an American-flag bandana, and rode loud Harley motorcycles.” He laughed.

The program began with fanfare and they introduced the veteran’s from WWII and the Korean War by name. All the guys in front of me got introduced. Two of them had been eyewitnesses to the famous flag raising on Iwo Jima. Several of them had liberated concentration camps from the tyranny of the Nazis. A few more had been in the heat of battle on the Korean peninsula. I hid behind my Tom Cruise Ray Bans and pretended to be somebody important in the presence of heroes.

You can’t have a good military-related event without three things – the colors, pyrotechnics, and speeches. This event had all three in just the right amount.

The flags from each of the different branches of services were posted ceremoniously on stage one at a time. Next the Patriot Guard Riders roared into the stadium on their motorcycles with flags waving behind them. Several of them had beards and American-flag bandanas on their heads. Then skydivers with the POW/MIA flag, the Arizona flag, and United States flag dropped in from overhead and nailed their target in the middle of the football field. It was amazing to see Old Glory’s colors against a clear blue sky as the last skydiver came to earth. At last, the color guard formed from multiple ROTC units posted the colors to a rousing rendition of the national anthem, punctuated by fireworks. I was thankful for the dark sunglasses that hid the tears in my eyes as they beheld the majestic symbol of freedom and the rule of law.

The first time the fireworks went off during the program it surprised me. I teased the city councilman sitting next to me that getting approval from the city for the pyrotechnics must have been difficult. He just grinned, and then the civil war cannons went off. I was so close I felt the shock wave from the blasts. He spoke. I think he said, “We’ll approve anything for Veterans,” but my ears were still ringing. It seemed so real I was worried that some of the other members in the audience might have flashbacks, but from the grins on everyone’s faces it was clear that all of us soldiers loved watching things blow up.

Then the speeches began. I thought at first that I would end up playing with my new smart phone during some long-winded delivery of an overstated politician, but I never pulled the phone from my pocket. Each speech was short, passionate, and delivered with sincerity. From the politicians to the war heroes, the words were inspiring and reminded me why I joined the military in the first place. I was inspired once again by the greatness of the common man in our great country, or maybe I should say that I was inspired by how the common man in a country such as ours can aspire to and achieve greatness.

Being a former Air Force pilot, I feel that no military celebration should be without a flyby, and I was not disappointed. Towards the end of the program, a two ship of F-16’s from Luke AFB came roaring overhead just as they fired off a series of fireworks. (Let's see Unmanned Aerospace Vehicles do that!) The cannons roared again to accentuate the roar of jet engines. I never grow tired of the sound of jet noise – the sound of freedom.

As the event wrapped up, the Principal invited the students in the stands to come down and shake veteran’s hands before returning to class. It was an unexpected treat to have those young men and women reach out to me and thank me for my service. I took the opportunity to thank them, and the other veteran’s, for inviting me to the best Veteran’s Day ceremony I had ever attended.

I guess my attitude that day was similar to the attitude of most veterans when their country called them into military service. I was reluctant to go, but I went anyway, mostly out of a sense of duty. Once I got to my post, I was inspired by our flag and everything it represents. I enjoyed the red glare of rockets, and bombs bursting in air. I felt the camaraderie of my peers, no matter the era or difficulty of service. I felt sadness for those who never returned to celebrate the day with us. I was glad I had served, and I was hopeful that the rising generation would pick up freedom’s torch and carry it forward.