The best way to not feel hopeless is to get up and do something.
~President Barack Obama
It’s a cold October day in Toronto. I should be anxious and even a bit afraid, but I’m neither. I secure the pockets of my pack. I strap the 30 pounds to my back. I have extra layers to fight the cold.
I’m running in a weighted one-man half marathon, a fundraiser. I have the route mapped out. Two friends on bicycles stand ready to follow me for safety.
No need for pomp or ceremony. I face forward and step off.
Lake Ontario’s shore is an indifferent shade of grey. The sidewalk is dirty slush. I can see my breath. I have no training for this kind of run. I’m banking on years of Army time to carry me through the pain. It’s supposed to hurt. The feeling of hurt gives meaning. My only job is to finish this run.
I let my mind drift back.
* * *
The burning sun pushes heavily against my skin. I’m grunting under the weight of armour and weapons, struggling to keep up with the soldier ahead of me. I eat the dry dust of the grape rows and mud walls of Kandahar.
Bullets zip wildly over us. My body drops like a sack of potatoes before I tell it to. I swallow dirt, which tastes like granules of metal. Soldiers move and yell. I don’t know what they’re saying over the gunfire, but I see them forming into a firing line. I’m supposed to be there. It takes great effort to get off the ground and move. My God, here we go.
* * *
The first sign of drama brings me back to the here and now.
The load in my pack starts to shift. I feel the ends of a dumbbell and other items dancing across my back. Uh-oh. They’re not strapped in tightly enough. Stupid. Now the loose objects will wobble against whatever little momentum I have. Each kilometre will only exacerbate the issue and will develop into abrasions and chafes. Stupid. Shut up and deal with it. Muscle through with aggression.
My mind goes to another time and place again.
* * *
The battle dwindles into a silent lull. The enemy disappears like a ghost. Smoke rises in the distance from our wanton release of destruction. All is quiet save for the distant thrumming of a helicopter. Adrenaline fades. My body relaxes. A cool breeze kisses my face. I begin to feel the notches and ridges of my rifle.
Poof!
Someone pops a smoke grenade. A flowery red plume forms into a rising spire. Radio chatter. The Medevac homes in. Hand signals. We hold our ground. This is a vulnerable moment. Helicopters are prime targets for any insurgent bravo to shoot at. The distant, mechanical thrumming grows louder. We have a new job. Defend the helicopter.
Chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga!
Spinning blades and turbines dominate the environment. Dust forces me to cover my face. I sneak a peek between fingers at the powerful machine. A Blackhawk. American. Red cross on the fuselage. Thank God for allies. I watch as a helmeted crewman slides the door open.
* * *
My mindless run in the cold is rudely interrupted.
An inattentive driver pulls in front of me as I trot across an intersection. I see him cross the line without checking the sidewalks. Silver-coloured sedan. Immediately, I’m angry. I slap the trunk of his car. Hard. I move around and carry on with the run. I hear him yelling. I don’t look back. I don’t care. Finish this run.
Defend the helicopter.
* * *
My rifle sits on the lip of a berm like a tamed animal. I dig the butt into my shoulder. I bury my chin into the stock. Now is the time for grit.
Fellow soldiers are hunched over a stretcher and struggle toward the roaring machine against a blast of wind. They’re carrying a wounded man. It’s Kenny, my God. The rotor wash blows his trauma blanket away, revealing a pile of humanity. His mangled body is so charred and broken that it’s impossible for me to tell if what I’m seeing is real. I want to crush the rifle with my hands.
I see a sign of life. Kenny uses a hand to pull back on the blanket. It’s his final act as a soldier in combat, covering his wounds from the world and finding some dignity in the grape rows and mud walls of Kandahar.
* * *
My run devolves into a weak shuffle.
So pathetic. I’m disgusted with myself. My calves cramp badly like someone is punching the meaty parts of the muscles. Violent twitches shoot up and down the legs. I should be wearing boots with ankle support, but I opted for running shoes, and now my legs are giving up. The slush from the pavement is inside my socks. My feet are frozen. A reservoir of tears rises up behind my eyes.
“Are you okay?” asks one of my safety cyclists.
“I’m good.”
I’m lying.
I keep going. It’s damned painful, but I keep going. I have to finish this stupidity.
I drift into a quieter place.
* * *
Surrounded by his family and friends, Kenny sits on a hospital bed and receives me as a visitor. The sheets are white. The walls are white. His bandages over his stumps are white. Sterile. Clean. Safe from bombs and bullets but not permanent disability. Kenny is visibly missing two legs above the knees.
He’s a Canadian soldier of Kandahar. That’s how he defines himself to me, beating his chest. A Canadian soldier of Kandahar. He talks. I listen. I dare not utter a word. This isn’t about me. This is about him. This visit is the last time I see him.
* * *
The final steps at the end of my run are a sluggish shuffle of wet shoes barely clearing the ground.
I drop my pack and take a look behind me. It’s done.
“It’s his journey now,” says a fellow veteran about Kenny.
I sigh. “Yes, it is.”
The thought of Kenny’s journey is painful, and there’s nothing I can do for him other than raise money for his second life and tell people about his last walk in the grape rows and mud walls of Kandahar.
Anonymously, I send the funds I raised to his regiment. Kenny doesn’t need to know our names anymore. He needs to live. After all, life is the daily opportunity to express the best of ourselves. We have our lives. Most of us have our limbs. We’re supposed to be appreciative and move on. But I’ll never, ever close the door of memories with our dead and wounded on the other side.
Lest we forget.
— James Barrera —