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So, the other day my wife and I were watching, "The Good Doctor."  The initial plot (for the episode) was about two girls who didn't know one another.  One had to have major facial reconstruction and the other was brain dead.  The doctors in the scene decided that a complete face transplant would work for the living girl and they subsequently asked the mother of the brain dead child if she would consent to organ donation.  At first, she declined then a chance meeting of the mother and the living child changed her mind.  Fast forward... they walk the brain dead child toward the operating room first.  As they wheel the bed through the corridor there were two long rows of doctors, nurses, medical and admin staff showing a sign of respect.  The mother, covered in tears, is wondering what was happening.  A doctor leaned in and said this is called, "The Walk of Honor." The overwhelming respect seem to get to me and remind me of a time when I was deployed during "Operations Iraqi Freedom."

It was in that moment that I was reminded of a time of an "HR" mission (Human remains).  I had to escort a deceased marine out of the AOR or Area of Responsibility to eventually make it home to his final resting place.  While my leg of the trip only extended to the rear echelon I was humbled to send a brother home.   This is basically the front and rear lines of a combat zone.  On a military aircraft, its so loud, you either have to scream of the better choice, use a headset with a mic to talk to one another.  The entire flight, you could hear a pin drop.  Nothing but the crew and an additional Marine on the plane.  It turns out the Marine was his best friend.  He would see him all the way home.  The aircrew were trying to stay focused on scanning the skies for  incoming fire or missile/rocket attacks while flying through the combat zone.  We would still keep peering over at this galvanized reinforced aluminum container.  While the top was covered in a pristine Red, White, and Blue American flag a small portion of the container was marred with scuff and scratches (giving it the appearance that this travel casket was used quite a bit).  The all cotton flag was neatly draped and folded with exact right angular military creases. The flag seemed to be molded to the frame of the box.  The colors of Ole Glory seemed to over shadow the gray insulated walls of the aircraft.  It was as if there was a visible aroha throughout the cargo bay the AC (aircraft). Once in a safer country, the casket was transferred off the aircraft.  Just before, all aircrew, aircraft mechanics, Staff, Upper Echelon Base Leadership, and subsequent personnel in the area were lined up behind the bay door of the C-130 aircraft.  all in total, about 100 people.  Drenched in sweat, standing at attention and saluting as the casket slowly  passed us I couldn't help the tears from falling.  In 120 degree heat, there was no way I could conceal my sorrows.  I kept asking myself, why?  I didn't know this person.  All the while I was humbled by the experience.  afterward, I realized what my tears of sorrow for him, his family, his loved ones, and his fellow combatants were.  He was a brother, jokingly a, "Brother from Another Mother" but none the less, (serious this time) a Brother!  Someone who was willing to give his life for others.  "Defend against all enemies, foreign and domestic." Wiping my face as if I didn't want anyone to notice, I saw others doing the manly hide and wiping tears also.  The rest of the day we tried to get back to a relaxed atmosphere but to no avail we just couldn't.  After a grueling 18 hour day we went and had a drink with little or no talking then calling it a night.  It was in the memories and the show that Danielle Allen's words of freedom and equality spoke to me.

It was as if I was fighting a tyranny just as our forefathers had done over two-hundred years ago.  I felt a moment of pride sitting on my couch knowing I was a part of something.  Helping someone to live a better life and facilitate their oppression.

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