September eleventh, a day not many Americans will ever forget, while thousands of pimple-faced young men rushed to the recruiting office to join the war on terror, I boarded a plane to Afghanistan, ready to do some real medicine, the kind I was trained for. Just as those starry-eyed young men imagined themselves running down the battle lines, kicking Al-Qaida in the face and grabbing the victory flag, I imagined my hands like Harry Potter’s wand, healing wounded victims with a single, skilled touch. The reality for both of us would make any horror movie ever watched seem like a Saturday morning cartoon in comparison. I never imagined the unending supply of heat, sand, and broken bodies; both the enemy and ours. Or how the sounds of helicopter blades, filled my chest with dread, instead of adrenalin as it did back in the States.

Death had already filled his quota for the day as far as I was concerned, when the helicopters landed once more, bringing more bodies of men who came here with a dream, only to find a nightmare waiting instead. As I stood under the blazing heat of the desert, the sun seeming to get closer to the Earth every time I left the protection of the shade, I once again questioned why I thought I could save anyone with death swirling around like the never-ending dirt and sand.

My team of nurses and corpsman rush from behind me, ready to do their part as we stitch the holes created by a faceless enemy, the action to be repeated over and over.  IV bags hung from strips of metal, designed to secure machine guns to the inside of the cabin, the medics using anything at their disposal to carry out their duty. The floor of the aircraft was stained in blood, no time to rinse away the evidence of the previous battle.

Hands reach in, pulling out the board where a set of boots is connected to the body of my next patient, and author of my regretful lie. The noise of the blades was too much to ask many questions about the patient, their story could be found written in magic marker across their forehead and chest. As the last of the board comes toward me, I notice the uniform of the marine is drenched in his own blood, black against the tan material. I know before I look at his face, this man has minutes before death does another victory dance.

The lights of my exam table give me no better news. The marine, whose name tag is unreadable from dried blood mixed with the elements he was pulled from, is tugging at my arm, demanding I lower my ear to his mouth. My team tries to assure him, giving him an ounce of hope he will walk away from this, with a scar and a story to share.  But my eyes betray me, telling him the fear in his own is warranted.

“Sir?” his voice cracks, a trickle of blood rushes from the corner of his mouth and down his cheek, blending with the sweat and filth collected there. Reaching into his pocket, searching for something deep within its hidden compartments, his eyes close in relief the second his fingers land on their intended target. With his left hand wrapped tightly around my right, he places his treasure against the skin of my palm.

“Tell her I always loved her.”

I want to tell him he will have the opportunity to give this back to whomever her is. Instead, my mouth betrayed me, letting loose a promise I will never keep, to a man I don’t know.

“I promise.”

Hours later, I watched the sun dip behind the horizon, the chill of the night air wrapping me in it's freezing clenches, teasing me with reprieve before the sun of a new day bakes me to a crisp. Glancing down at my bloodstained boots, I scoff at all the time I once spent agonizing over keeping them dirt and lint free. After the events of the last six months, I no longer give a fuck, when all my attempts to keep the blood inside the bodies of the men instead of caked on the leather of my boots, were all in vein.

Two marines walk past me, mutter their required greeting, and then approach a team of SEALs who had reported early this morning. Their presence indicates a serious mission, one they would never be able to talk about around a campfire, wrapped around the girl they loved. They lived a secret life, one where they approached an enemy while their eyes were closed, took what they needed and disappeared into the thickness of the night. Any injuries suffered, were attended to by a member of the team who stood beside you, not a helicopter ride away.

The epiphany hit me so hard, I bent over laughing, garnering me strange looks from the SEALs and two men who stood with them. As if slapped by the hand of fate herself, the Commander of the base walked past me, returning from the mess tent.

“Captain, do you have a free moment?”  The sounds of more helicopters in the distance snagged both of our attention, warning us of more wounded fast approaching.

“Honestly, yes. Your name crossed my desk earlier and I meant to have a word with you, but—” Tipping his head to the team approaching the helicopter.

“My office,” he shouted, leaning as close as he could so I could hear, squinting his eyes as the sand kicks up from the rising helicopter.  

“Earlier today we had a number of injuries—” Not waiting a second to dive into how my name crossed his desk. This seasoned officer knew how quickly things could change around here.

“One of the men you worked on was the nephew of the Secretary of Defense, William Burge.  He was at his sister’s house when she got the call from her son, detailing the quick actions a Lieutenant Forbes used to remove the bullet in his thigh.”

Keeping my resolve, I remembered the kid in question cried as if his leg had been shot off, instead of the graze I found when I cut his pants open. There was more damage done from his thrashing than what I could give the bullet credit for. Two stitches and some silver nitrate to cauterize the bleeding, and he was off having chow with his buddies.

“Mr. Secretary extends his gratitude and his offer to return you to Bethesda for the remainder of your time.” Had this offer been made yesterday, I would have taken it and run. Back to air-conditioning and running water, to food made fresh and not out of a sealed pouch, a bathroom connected to plumbing and not a hole in the ground.

“Respectfully, Sir, I’d like to counter his offer.” Captain leaned back in his chair, its legs creaking in protest of his movement, disbelieving eyes squinted back at me.

“He can keep Bethesda, if he will open the door for me to attend SEAL training.”

Leaning forward on his desk, the salt and pepper color of his hair reminding me of his age and wisdom. “Lieutenant, do you have any idea what you’re asking? Do you know the amount of men, twice your size and a few years younger, who don’t make it much past the front gates?”

These young men he spoke of didn’t have the same open eyes I did, no longer shocked by the cruelty of men and how hard we worked to destroy one another.

Three months later, I found myself standing in a line of forty men, the average age twenty-three and rank no longer a factor, unless you were an instructor. Two-thirty in the morning with the frigid chill of the ocean surrounding me, I readied myself for the next drill. I hadn’t slept more than four hours in the nearly two days since I’d arrived, which for me and the conditions I left in Afghanistan, wasn’t unheard of. But for the man on my left, Aiden Sawyer, this was where his comfort zone ended and his fear began.

Aiden woke up one morning, bored with his desk job in Rota, Spain. His career counselor gave him a multitude of suggestions on to how to advance in his current position, none of which were new to him. As he got to his feet, about to leave, he noticed the photograph of an older gentleman on the desk. When he inquired as to whom the man was, the young sailor shared the story of her father’s time in the Special Forces, along with his untimely death when she was three. He figured since he joined the military for all the wrong reasons, he may as well continue the tradition and completed the paperwork for SEAL training.

He and I bonded quickly, both of us barely a step ahead of the demons licking our heels. Aiden, with his heart torn apart by a girl with a pretty smile and a forked tongue, diving head first into one of the most dangerous jobs on the planet. With one incredible fear hanging over his head: his aversion to being under water.

At first, I laughed when he swore under his breath as they pulled us from the piece of cardboard they called beds, running us down the beach and into the putrid smell of low tide approaching, face down in the wet sand with our arms above our heads. One by one they made us stand, keeping our arms overhead. I side glanced at my new friend, his face full of determination as the instructor orders him to charge into the surf and retrieve the small boat waiting out there in the darkness.

I don’t have time to think about the pain starting in my shoulders as I’m shoved in the same direction, my feet moving as fast as I can in the restricting sand. Lightning off in the distance lights up the sky enough so I can see Aiden struggling, and the outline of the boat we are tasked with finding. It’s pitch black out here, and I have to wait for the next flash of lightening to get a better visual. I keep swimming, my adrenalin negating the chill of the water as Mother Nature cuts me a break and lights up the sky as if it's high noon instead of the middle of the night.

Aiden has almost made it to the edge of the boat, but I can tell he is struggling. Digging deep into the last of my reserves, I make it to his side as we both reach for the cording along the perimeter of the boat. His breathing is labored, and he could either be exhausted or about to go into shock. It’s just the two of us out here; no one to report back if this is panic setting in. I won’t let him fail or be the first in our group to ring the bell.

“Sawyer, you okay?”

His eyes are fixed on the side of the boat, fingers wrapped in a death grip around the cording. His bottom lip is trembling from the cold, and I need to get him to pull himself out of this.

“Hey!” I shout at him, praying we are far enough out the instructors won’t be able to hear me.

“Don’t you let the bitch win, you hear me?” As we stood in line to eat yesterday, I told him of my family and the reason I was here—minus the big favor a man with a powerful pen made good on—the need to do some good in this world and not feel defeated all the time. He razzed me about doing my time at Bethesda, switching to plastic surgery and looking at beautiful, naked women all day.

I fired back at him, wanting to know why he gave up a tour in Spain to be surrounded by a bunch of sweaty men and horrible food. His eyes lowered to his tray as he told me of his high school sweetheart who used him for the notoriety he gave her as an All-American running back for his State. He went to work, saved a little money and bought her an engagement ring. While hanging out with one of his buddies one night, they came across a web page advertising naked girls who wanted to chat with lonely men. His girlfriend was the model they used to separate men from their hard-earned money. When he confronted her, she justified her actions by comparing the web to a dirty bar full of men. He wasn’t amused and returned the engagement ring he had purchased earlier in the day. Wanting to get far away from her, and the pitiful looks in his hometown, he joined the military. When the ex-girlfriend heard he was going to Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL (BUD/S) training, she spread it around town he wouldn’t last a week.

While the women in my life didn’t complicate things like his, I labeled all my demons female and we entered into a pact, vowing to remind each other to never let the bitch win. A wave of water crashes around us at the same time Aidan's fight or flight instinct kicks in, sending me a nod of his head as he pulls himself into the boat. By the time the sun came up, four men had tagged out, ringing the bell three times before walking out the front gate. Two more would ring out before the sun set behind the buildings and I collapsed onto the cardboard mattress I’d been assigned.

During combat training five weeks later, I landed wrong on the side of my ankle, screaming like a bitch with the pain. The guy who had flipped me, a kid from New York City named Vinnie, had remained undefeated all week with his quick reflexes despite his mammoth size. I wanted to give up, go back to the desert and never complain about the conditions again. But Aiden got down on his hands and knees, his face right next to mine and repeated the words I had said to him. It worked and I was able to get to my feet, using my good leg and flipped Vinnie over, winning the match. Sadly, Vinnie rang the bell three weeks later, returning to his old unit where he was medically discharged a year later.

Ten days before graduation, an event in name only for so many, I assumed the intensity of our training would decrease and become more administrative. I was proven wrong when the lights came on in the middle of the night and all hell broke loose, as we were shoved down the hall and into the mess hall.

Several square boxes, which looked as if they fell off the back of a Guns N’ Roses concert stage, sat in puddles of water. Where I had enjoyed dinner from a pouch, razzing Aiden about the real reason his girl chose porn over him, now rested a piece of plywood with straps and jagged-edges covering most of the visible wood.

Before I could digest anymore of my surroundings, an arm reached out pulling me off to the side and into one of the roadie boxes. Ordering me to get on my knees and lie down in the bottom, slamming the top closed as I complied. Where the majority of SEAL training is physical, it is also a test of your mental capacities. The worst possible situation for one person can be a walk in the park for another. Stuffed in a dark box was an invitation for me to fall back asleep and the breaking point for one of the other remaining men.

Two days and a hot shower later, Aiden and I shared what we had witnessed. He watched as the latest man to ring out, who had bragged of how he lived in the water during his off time, surrendered when it was rained down on him while strapped to the board. Aiden thanked me for the advice I had given him, explaining how the mind is a powerful thing, and to try repeating to himself this wasn’t real.

On the final night of training, Aiden received word his father had been taken to the hospital by ambulance. He was allowed a one-minute phone call, as well as the opportunity to ring the bell and return when the next class started. His father refused to hear anything about him leaving California and made him swear to finish what he started.

Nine days later, I stood beside my friend as he said his last goodbyes to his father. We hadn’t hesitated as we jumped in a rental car the second graduation was over, driving through the night to be by his father’s side as he lost his battle to cancer, something he had hidden from him for years.

Later in the evening, I dragged him off to a local bar, one he and his friends had frequented. We would be leaving in the morning, boarding a plane for Honduras and our first official mission. As we enter the bar a number of heads turn in our direction, including the girl he once loved. She was working behind the bar, and as I took in the sight of her, I prayed time had not been her friend. Her short, straw-like hair stuck out in every direction, with skin looking more like chewed up leather than skin, highlighted by bright pink lips. The second she recognizes him, she is around the edge of the bar and headed in his direction. Spending the past six months with Aiden, I can tell when he is disgusted by something, and right now that something is wearing cut-offs and a halter-top, the lack of self-control hanging over the edge of her pants like an apron. Using his ninja skills, he stepped around her and slid into the seat of a booth.

A part of me wanted to feel sorry for her, but I knew the history between them, and the amount of time since they last saw one another hadn’t softened his hatred for her. If anything, it had reassured him he had made the right choice in leaving her behind.

Photos on the wall confirmed the stories he told me of his time as a youth. His old football jersey was framed beside the newspaper article announcing a hometown boy who had been selected to become one of the elite. The owner came over shortly after we settled in. His former coach who helped him every step of the way in getting the All-American title, as his family was too poor to afford the fees which went along with any sports team.

Vernon Holt, or Coach as he preferred, purchased this bar the year after Aiden left for the military. Coach freely offered a plethora of embarrassing stories featuring Aiden as the ringleader, including one involving his youngest daughter, Jordan.

At first, I assumed this would involve a backseat and being caught in a compromising position. The truth was a rescue from a burning car, a frightened eleven-year-old and a drunken mother who perished. The mood at the table turned somber until Coach mentioned Jordan was growing into a fine young lady, working for his sister over at the diner on the weekends.

The next morning, Aiden pulled into the parking lot of the diner, which was buzzing with activity. Coach had spread the word around we were pulling out this morning. The townsfolk stood and applauded as we took a seat at the counter. A dark haired, fresh-faced girl came shyly over to pour each of us coffee. Aiden introduced the young lady as Jordan, although I could have sworn something flashed between them as they shared a look.

If I had to guess, I would put her in her late teens or early twenties, based on the way she carried herself and how her gray, nearly violet, eyes stood out against the sun kissed tones in her skin. With her hair in matching braids on each side of her head, she was the poster child for what I would coin a ‘country girl’. Once our meal was ready, Jordan placed the plates before us, and then disappeared into the back. We didn’t see her again before we left.

I will never forget the first mission we did as trained SEALs, suiting up on the deck of an Aircraft carrier, sitting in a room with the President of the United States on a monitor, calling us by name and wishing us luck. Dropping out of a C-160 and parachuting to the tropical terrain below, feeling the incredible force of adrenalin as the ground rushed toward me.

None of the scenarios we practiced ever prepared me to have mosquitos attacking my neck, my need to remain still preventing me from killing them before they sunk their teeth into my skin, leaving behind the relentless itching I endured for days later. Balancing my feelings for the man I had to kill as we breached the security of the compound, against my years of training to save lives. I learned to trade the victory of rescuing the captive as justification for taking a life. Celebrating each completed mission with a cheap beer and an attempt to forget the envelope I kept in my shirt pocket, and the promise I made to find the owner.