Tonight, just before the truck arrived to Kilo Ramp to send a Fallen Warrior on his final trip home, a trio of F-16s thundered down the runway, chasing each other into the darkness. Their brilliant white-blue flames became angels in furious flight, lighting the way home. This time, I was in the back of the formation, and found myself straining to be sure I caught a glimpse of the flag-shielded case as he went by. I thought of the woman reaching out to touch the hem of Jesus' garment: that by seeing the red stripes as they passed by questions might be answered, or perhaps some profound truth might be uncovered.
But all I could think of were those jets, now long gone somewhere near the mountains. They weren't chariots to take this soldier home. They were the archangel Michael, with flaming swords ready to strike at the heart of evil, answering the prayers of some other infantryman in Helmand, or Pakitka or Zabul. And I realized, as my teeth ground in desperation to keep the tears back that I would never again hear a jet rocket away or see those blue stars without remembering this place. And these men.
When you're in a football stadium or watching television before a race and those sky-gray bullets come screaming over a cheering crowd: that earth-shaking rumble is not for the men on the field. That deafening, ear-thumping boom is not for you. It's for Sergeant Tyler J. Smith.
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