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Since the sample thread didn't have anon....

Post by Anonymous User » Sat Oct 20, 2012 10:58 am

This ps has helped me. It is also a very risky ps. I hope it helps you in some way as well.

The sound of an exploding landmine—like two wooden blocks slamming together— ripped through the air, followed by the inevitable screams. Life is stripped away from those closest to the mine while, those who are lucky enough to remain alive face a different struggle: the inner battle of how they are to respond to what just happened. Such moments tell you much about a person. The brave are separated from the less brave, the heroic from the average. I had a chance to be a hero, a chance to be brave. Yet, I was neither. For that, I owe.

It was the second day of my first deployment in Afghanistan. Exaggerated bravado, the façade of machismo, served as my smoke screen, under which I strove to conceal my fear from my comrades, even myself. I was an Army Ranger, fear was not supposed to bother me. Yet, little did I know of fear’s crippling effects. I was standing near the tent in which I slept, demonstrating my fearlessness for my friends, when wood blocks cracked, shattering the peace of the night. The explosion sounded like someone hit a garbage can with a baseball bat. Then there were the screams. It was not until I got to the source of the explosion that I learned that the screams were made by a little boy. I did nothing to help him. For that, I owe.

I had never heard screams like that before. They were almost inhuman, animalistic, slicing through the air like a bullet through water. They could not communicate anything other than suffering. They were seeking an end to the pain, seeking help from anybody who could provide it. I could have provided that help, but I did not. For that, I owe.

The boy had tried to get a bottle of water by working his way through a minefield that had been set up back in the Soviet-Afghani conflict. Yet, the boy did not even want the water; he could have gotten some from the river nearby. He simply wanted the bottle to hold some of his trinkets. His family stood on one side of the minefield, all too knowing about the dangers lurking in the minefield. I stood on the other side, rendered impotent by my fear. Neither the boy’s family nor I made a move to help him. We watched him die together. For that, I owe.

Upon leaving active duty military service, I returned home to South Dakota. I met my wonderful wife and we had two children together. I did well in school. Everything went well for me. People called me a hero for my time in the military. I was a hero who would not help a dying boy. I reaped the benefits of my time in the military, but could not help a little boy who needed me. For that, I owe.

Service to others was greatly encouraged throughout my undergraduate and legal studies. Helping people is noble, it is just. However, service is more than that to me. It embodies a personal commitment. It is not something I should do, it is something I must do. I had a chance to save a young boy, and I was a coward. My cowardice did not simply hurt his feelings. It did not alienate him. My cowardice allowed him to die, in agony and alone. For that, I owe.

I will spend the rest of my life serving others, certainly neither because I am a noble person, nor because I have an over-developed sense of justice. Not even because it is simply the right thing to do. I do it because I owe. I owe it to an eight-year-old Afghani boy who never got the chance to put his trinkets in the water bottle he sacrificed his life for. I demand of myself that I sacrifice for those in need. I owe it to that little boy. I owe.

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