Hero, They Said

On one of those gray, rainy days, we were sent marching to the range. We carried pounds of equipment on our backs - and the weight of our own depression, which was probably the heaviest of all.

It was Sunday. Or maybe Monday. Either way, it was the beginning of the week. The next weekend felt farther away than the distance to the moon. What am I even talking about - the next weekend? Even the night, even sleep, felt unreachable at this point. Saturday, when we had been home, was too close, and the memory of it hurt. I always ended those passes with the same feeling: it wasn’t enough. There was never enough time to do everything I had planned. The break was too short, and before I knew it, I had to return to the squad.

By this point in basic training, Johnny had already developed stress fractures - or maybe it was something else with his legs. I wasn’t entirely sure. Because of that, he couldn’t carry much weight for most of training, and most of the time he wasn’t even allowed to wear his webbing.

That morning, he must not have been feeling well. He didn’t wake up and missed the morning roll call.

This time, formation was short – we stood there for a minute in the fine rain, waiting for the commanders to arrive. One of them showed up, and asked the platoon guide,

“Everyone here?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” the platoon guide answered.

The squad leader ordered us to form into two columns and march to the range.

We moved out quickly.

Each of us was immersed in his own depression. It’s strange - I can almost remember this scene in black and white. I don’t recall a single other color. And even if there was one, my mind must have filed it away as just another shade of gray. The sky, the uniform, the mud – everything blurred into the same dull gray.

We were almost halfway to the range when, suddenly – through the rhythm of our boots and the rain - we heard footsteps that weren’t ours. Different. Stranger. The last soldier in the column glanced back - and froze. Johnny was there, limping toward us in a strange, twisted run, pushing his leg as far as it would go. The rest of us noticed within seconds, and the thought that crossed my mind –I’m sure it crossed everyone else’s too – was:

Let him make it before the commander turns. Before anyone notices. If he makes it, he can slip into the middle of the column, and no one will notice. If not – we’re doomed.

And just as that thought ended, the commander – marching at the front of the column – turned back, catching Johnny as he falling in.

The commander brought us to an abrupt halt. He strode through the ranks, straight to Johnny.

“What are you doing out of the line?” he asked, his voice ice-cold.

Johnny froze, confused. What could he possibly say? That he had just stepped aside to take a piss? He tried to speak, but the commander cut him off and snapped, “You roll call this morning, were you?”

Johnny couldn’t lie. He swallowed and said, “Sir, no, sir, I overslept.”

The commander’s eyes moved across us, one by one.

“None of you noticed he was missing?”

We didn’t answer. We truly hadn’t noticed. Who cared? Each of us was lost in his own depression, his own desperation. No one was counting heads during roll call.

The commander pressed his lips together, then told Johnny simply, “Get in line.” And he kept marching.

We knew we were going to pay for it. No doubt about that. Something bad was coming.

We arrived at the firing range. We formed up, and the commander took his place in front of us.

“Are you not ashamed? You left your friend behind at camp,” he yelled. “What if this were the field - combat? Would you leave him there alone? Walk away while he was still out there?”

We were ashamed. But there was nothing we could do about it. The punishment was on its way.

“Thirty seconds. Stretcher out and Johnny is on it,” he ordered. “The rest of you – grab everything – ammo, water. I don’t want to see a single thing left on the ground! Move!”

We moved fast, forming two columns behind the stretcher at the front. I carried two ammo cans - heavy and soaked. I could barely keep them from slipping out of my hands.

We started marching. Johnny’s punishment was to call the cadence – Left, left, left-right-left. Not too fast. Not too slow. Like a funeral march. We circled the range and returned to the starting point.

The commander halted us and ordered, “Ten seconds to rotate. Nothing touches the ground.”

Udi, one of the rear stretcher carriers, looked like he was about to collapse. I could feel it - one more step with those damn ammo cans and I was done. I ran to him, shoved the cans into his hands and ducked under the stretcher. He gave me a thankful smile. It wouldn’t last. Soon enough, he’d realize what those cans did to you – how they dragged you down, step after step.

We marched another lap. The mud was slick under our boots, rain falling without pause. I focused on the weight pressing down on me. We finished the lap. Ten seconds to switch again. Someone tapped my shoulder and took my place. I moved forward and took over at the front of the stretcher.

Another lap. Ten seconds.

No one came to take my place under the stretcher. I glanced back – the options weren’t any better. The ammo cans - I knew what a burden they were. A machine gun. A mortar. Sandbags, soaked and caked with mud. Water jerry cans dripping. Compared to all that, the stretcher felt like heaven.

I faced forward and kept marching.

Another lap. Ten seconds.

Johnny leaned toward me from the stretcher and whispered, “Don’t you want to switch? How long can you keep this up?”

“I’m fine,” I told him.

We made another lap. And another.

At some point, something shifted. I began to feel good. I felt strong. My body obeyed me now, working like a machine – hard, precise, unstoppable. I felt I could go on like that forever.

During one of the laps, Johnny leaned toward me again and said, “Listen, man, you’ve got to switch…”

“Shut up. Don’t worry about me,” I snapped. “I could carry this whole thing on my own if I wanted to.”

Another lap. And another.

At some point, we stopped. The commander finally ordered us to put everything down and drink water. Before we broke ranks, he called me out, in front of everyone. “I saw you pushing yourself for your friends. That’s what I expect to see. In combat, that earns you a medal.”

I felt a surge of pride. The guys patted me on the back. Johnny limped beside me and said, “You’re a hero, no question. How did you carry that for so long without switching?”

I smiled. What could I tell him? That the stretcher was the easy option? That I hadn’t done it for anyone but myself – only to avoid carrying something worse?

So I said nothing.

He patted me again and said, “Hero.”

I don’t know why, but after that, my depression was gone.