I had no choice, or I would never have done it.

Alka-Seltzer heartburn and pain reliever is the only thing that works when my belly gets to heating up and my eyes have caused me to have a headache you wouldn’t believe. I was out. I borrowed enough to get a box, and set out on foot.

It wasn’t so bad. The day had turned nice, but that sun! It hurts far worse than artificial light, and I don’t know how to explain that.

I pay a price for my remaining vision. My eyes hurt, and it’s inside, not just strain. I don’t know, it hit me from behind and got worse fast, and it was scary. But I have to accept that I may be permanently blind before my appointment in May.

And with everything else going on with my body, I could repeat that the world is unfair. I could feel sorry for myself.  I could cry about it.

But God knows what my limit is, and he has my back. The worse I get, the more I seem to be able to take. I don’t want to die, but I don’t fear death. I’ve always feared living more than dying.

But really neat, wonderful things happened. Things I couldn’t have anticipated. Things I wasn’t in an emotional state to be receptive of, because I was scared, upset, and I hate being scared. Mostly because being scared sucks. It just does.

The first wow thing that happened was, I made it into the store, and by memory and by sound and touch, I made it to the drug section. Except that I lost my bearings and stood still, hoping to hear someone close.

There, in an aisle in front of me: an item placed in a cart. A gentle placement. A man, probably a senior. “Sir?”

“Yes?”

Yes, a man, a quality of some age in his voice. Nailed it.

I asked to be pointed towards the digestive medicine aisle. He found it. I was off by two aisles. Not too good, Mike.

I thanked him. I knew where what I wanted was, that is, unless they had moved it. Harris Teeter likes to fuck with its customers by moving shit around. They’ve done it often. But I found it, took it towards the checkout registers. Now to listen for one ringing up items. That one.

It was kind of nice, having that behind me.

Outside, I let the stick in front tapping until I could touch one of the brick columns. Got it. I was passing my old bench, the one I enjoyed drinking coffee while using. I can’t do it anymore.

And Starbucks started making shitty coffee, so I don’t really buy there anymore.

But a voice from that bench asked, “Need help, sir?”

Voice directed at me; I had to answer such a kind offer. “No, sir, I’m good. Thank you.”

He explained that he would be happy to, because he understood. In Afghanistan, he had been in a sandbag hole with a .50 caliber M-2 when the enemy shelling began walking too close. Someone was spotting for the field artillery or mortar crews. He remembers the close hit that forced him to run, and he remembers the hit that took out a knee. He clearly recalls that the pain wasn’t immediate because of his dedication to his men. They were in trouble and enemy fire had killed the platoon sergeant, leaving him in charge.

Carrying the M-2 with a belt in it from a mount in a fixed position is no easy feat under fire, and he did it because he was trained to protect his men. But how he managed to actually fire the massive weapon on the move, he doesn’t really know. There have been documented cases, though, of people doing extraordinary things in circumstances of life and death. In the heat of the moment, they’ve lifted cars off pinned victims, pushed heavy equipment aside, and more.

Sergeant Tim, U.S.M.C. got an Honorable Discharge from the Marines, and has lived the time since with shells exploding in his dreams. He has children, and now grandchildren. He’s disabled and can barely walk, and is going blind. He’s nearly there.

As I stood listening to his story, which came pouring out like a flood of water, he impressed me with his strength. He is not bitter. He did his duty and is proud of it. He saved his men. I have no doubt that they still tell the story to this day, a sergeant firing a ma deuce on the move? “It’s impossible,” they’d say.

He lives it every night in his dreams.

Homeless veterans are taught very quickly that they don’t matter. That they were put into a queue for a meat grinder, and if they survived, fine. But Uncle Sam told them that it was nothing special and they were on their own.

Sergeant Tim is a survivor. He lives somewhere in the forests of Maryland, where he’s made peace with the deer, and because he feeds them, they sleep just beyond the front of his tent. Nature has a way of putting things right: even if his country doesn’t love him, he loves it. And if he ever feels lonely, that herd is always there. They love him, and he has his grandchildren, and they love him.

And now, I love him too. And I wish you could love him. Sergeant Tim and the uncountable others who sacrificed their mental and physical health for a lost cause in a country that the United States so shamefully abandoned, and never should have been sent to in the first place.

Our active service and military veterans get treated like expendable carcasses. They get fed and housed until their time is up, and they always have plenty of ammo, at least until the firefights begin and support units run by clerk-sergeants begin to hold back or runners are too chickenshit to get it to them.

I’ve never understood that. I know what it is, and I may even know why it happens, but there’s no way to comprehend such flagrant disregard for men under fire. While they were out there in the sand and rocks, all they could depend on was each other.

And the courage of leaders like Sergeant Tim.

I heard his voice. I knew he was black, had a tough time growing up, but behind the calloused vocal cords was something else, and I was privileged to be able to hear it since I couldn’t see him.

A refined finish. College? A degree for sure, because men like Sergeant Tim never quit once their mind is set on a goal.

And if Uncle Sam doesn’t remember him, he thinks that’s just how things go. He has friends who let him come and take showers and who are happy to help with his laundry. They cook the food he buys and welcome him to stay as long as he needs to.

But he never stays. That, to him, is taking things too far, imposing too much. That is a semper fidelis Marine.

For now, he seems happy. He wants to be left alone, not crowded, not rushed, not responsible for anything but his needs.

And even if he isn’t happy, he is, at last, at peace, and peace is everything.

I’m honored to have met Sergeant Tim and to have heard his story. I’m honored but humbled by his sad, yet heroic story.

For now, I doubt I will be hearing his voice again soon. I’m not brave enough to keep going up there like that. It’s terrifying.

But a true winner never quits. You can just ask Sergeant Tim if you need proof. He’s been given a life sentence from the hostile sands of Afghanistan, courtesy of a thankless country. He hasn’t quit yet.

And if you happen to wake up in the small hours of the dark to use your latrine, or get a glass of water, please say a prayer for Sergeant Tim and the men and women he served with.

Because those are the hours that they are hearing shells and rockets and gunfire, metal being torn and bent, wounded friends screaming. They hear and see it every night even though they’ve been home for a while now. Those dreams never stop. Maybe a prayer will help, who knows? With a bit of faith, anything is possible. I’m sure he would appreciate a night off from the firefight.

After I left his company, I began to pick and tap my way home. There was one more wonderful surprise waiting ahead. As a forceful west wind kicked up, letting me know which way to go, I got closer to the footpath and there it was, big as life. Flowers. I couldn’t see them. That’s sad, isn’t it?

Not really. For the first time in decades, I smelled them. I had forgotten that scent, that sense. And it’s beautiful!

I’m blessed.

Thank you and God bless you to our veterans and active service men and women.

And God bless Sergeant Tim.