~semper fi~ war had always been in sam's blood.

his father had fought in the vietnam war, his grandfather in world war two. hell, even his sister was in the air force academy. granted, she was only there for the full ride, but all the same. war was in his blood, yes (just as it was in the blood of every fitzgerald since 1941) so it came as no surprise to anyone when he graduated from high school and went straight to the marine corps. recklessness: that was kind of in his blood, too. that, and a strange affinity for martyrdom. as a kid he'd read countless books on war and revolution (his family was happy with the war part; the revolution not so much.) either way, sacrifice seemed to become a key word in his vocabulary. sacrifice. that was what had gotten him into this whole mess, wasn't it? ( dammit, sergeant! what the hell are you doing?!) robespierre, rizalrevolution. (that boy's a strange one. nothing good'll ever come out of this...obsession, i tell you.) so every teacher that he'd ever had said of him. but his grandfather (the one who'd beaten the nazis) was adamant that his future would be bright. and was it? in some ways. dammit, sergeant! what the hell are you doing?! major woods barked weakly. woods had always been barking out orders, even now, on his deathbed. the world was golden, it seemed, gold and black, as the sands of afghanistan whirled through the air, gunpowder assaulting it all. shouting of soldiers and screaming of civilians pierced this strange golden world and sam knelt in the dead center of it. get out now, barked major woods, and this time he coughed. blood, the red crystal drop bright against the sandy earth. i'm not leaving you, sir, answered sam, and he did his best to hoist woods up into a relatively painless position, fireman style. regardless of sam's efforts, woods screamed bloody murder, and sam had no choice but to drop him, pushing him behind a pile of rubble for cover. the sight that met his eyes was gruesomewoods's combat gear was nearly torn apart from the force of the explosions, and copious amounts of blood stained his clothes. that's impossible. kevlar is supposed to beto be invincible, sam thought. he didn't realize he had spoken aloud until major woods replied, nothing's invincible. everything is breakable, everything sinks. even me, even you. he coughed again. two taliban insurgents stood about thirty feet away. ak-47s gleamed in their hands, and for the first time in the war sam felt fear. but, as he discovered, fear doesn't paralyze. it mobilizes. major woods. a helicopter is on its way. on the count of three, sir, i need you to climb on my back and we'll make a run for the medivac. i'll cover you. got it, sir?

woods wheezed. sergeant, there's no way we're both getting out alive. so don't be a martyr, okay? a martyr. sam had dreamt of martyrs his whole life. no. semper fi, remember? i'm not leaving you we're going. one. here it was; the moment his childhood had wanted so desperately. two. the chance at immortality: fitzgerald's last stand. three. they ran, and the world exploded in blood and fire. bitter. that is how he is now: sergeant sam fitzgerald, nineteen years olda bitter old man. maybe it's a clich, but war does age you. war had left him herewith a pointless medal, an honorable discharge and a missing leg, sitting on a sandy beach in south carolina. (the world was golden.) oh, how he hates beaches. he remembers one final thing from the war, a story he will one day tell to his starry-eyed daughter and later, grandson. in that golden world, as he lay with one leg blown off and the other just holding on, major woods also laid, a mere ten feet away. woods blinkedthe only sign he gave of being aliveand blood pooled from his mouth. semper fi, sam, woods had struggled out. semper fi, erik, replied sam hoarsely. then both closed their eyes and found peace, in sleep of two very different kinds.