Gooseberry Island by Steven Manchester

service.
    Fourth Ranger Battalion isn’t just a band of tough guys. It’s a battalion of trained soldiers, which is much more dangerous. Unlike the ragged Taliban, we have dominant firepower as well as superior training and leadership.
    Being here is justified—all of it
, he thought.
We have a duty, a mission that we’ve been trained for and sworn to carry out—defending democracy.
He nodded.
As soldiers, we don’t have the luxury to question politics. We don’t see things the way civilians do. Our world is black and white, and any shade of gray can prove fatal. Words like
honor
and
duty
and
brotherhood
are our lifeblood, not just catch phrases
. He looked down the line at his brothers and smiled.
We depend on each other completely, like a well-oiled machine with every part working in sync, the whole so much greater than each individual part.
    It was a selfless purpose they served, with a need to have faith in God and a belief that good could and would defeat evil. These were men who stood up for those who couldn’t stand up for themselves—against the world’s most vicious bullies. Young and naïve, they faced paralyzing fear requiring extraordinary courage—heroes born in the moment out of the love for their fellow soldiers—hell-bent to take a stand and fight.
    We understand that the ultimate sacrifice may be asked at any time,
David thought,
though we’d much rather our enemy be the one to make that sacrifice.
    Their only requests from home were prayers and gratitude.
Home
, David thought; it was now a distant place that was safely kept in the heart but better stricken from the mind.
Family now means those who wear the same uniform
.
    It’s kill or be killed over here
, he thought,
not a real difficult game to understand
—although the mind was challenged and often sabotaged by the most basic fight-or-flight instincts. And being labeled a coward, especially in one’s own mind, was a fate worse than death.
I’d accept anything but that,
David thought.
*
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤
*
    Nodding proudly, David returned to the present and the dangerous task at hand. As usual, the boys were smoking and joking.
    “You want a cigarette, G.I.?” Max asked Big Al, who was walking the position right behind David.
    Gooseberry Island
, David instantly thought.
I really miss Lindsey.
    “Thanks anyway,” Al said, “but I just quit. It was killing my marathon times.”
    Everyone laughed.
    “Aren’t you ever serious?” Lieutenant Menker asked.
    Big Al nodded. “I used to be, until my dad told me to dance like no one was watching.” He grinned. “I tried it at the mall a few months ago, and they asked me to leave. I’m not sure…”
    There was a loud bang, high above the laughter. David spun to see a cloud of dirt and dust where Big Al had just stood. David did a double-take. Al was lying on the ground, his right leg severed clean above the knee. David sprinted toward the man, sliding on his knees to attend to his friend.
    Half the patrol immediately established a perimeter—a quartering party to provide security on all sides—in case this was an ambush. In that brief time, Al had already removed his belt and begun to apply a tourniquet to his own leg. Still trying to process the grisly scene, David looked into Al’s eyes. They were distant, in shock, and struggling to focus on the painful task at hand. Al moaned, but never uttered a word. David looked at his friend’s other leg: it was a heap of raw hamburger, with splinters of white bone protruding from his bloodied pants. David applied a tourniquet to Al’s second leg, while Max administered a field IV. Billy Brodeur called in a medivac. “We need it now!” he screamed.
    “Inbound in five mikes,” the radio announced, the garbled message barely understood through the heavy static.
    David finished the tourniquet and placed his hand on Al’s shoulder. “Relax, brother. The flyboys are on their way.”
    Al nodded, but he’d already lost a lot of blood. His face had