I am standing next to a Marine that just lost his friends, we are still in a kill zone, he doesn't even acknowledge this fact, it does not even register in his sorrow, his head is low, he is almost crying, I can hear that sadness in his voice, he is barely audible, he doesn't even know me but he needs to talk to someone, "Those were my friends that just died," is all he can choke out.

Just across the way we take extra care and effort to retrieve those that have given everything.

I am often, now, seeing guys around here one week, and the next week, just doing their thing. Very young guys. 19, 20 years of age. Bright, fresh, vigorous--they are out to save the world!

They are US Soldiers!, they are US Marines!!

They are, now, no longer with us.

There will be more services to remember and honor these heroes, just as I have been to so many, already, since 9.11.2001.

I will always remember one friend that I served with here, a really good guy, a fine Marine.

I had long conversations with him, about home, about his family. There weren't a lot of Americans around to begin with so whenever we met, we kinda just enjoyed the time to relax, let our guards down, be normal guys in a not so normal situation, about the same age, the same rank, so we could relax. Nothing to prove with each other, just friends. Sometimes we met on a daily basis, to discuss business, to discuss pleasure. To eat dinner, by ourselves or with the Iraqi officers. Sat in long boring meetings, laughed about it afterwards, had arguments about things that all seem so silly now.

As the military is often busy, he moved on to go about the things we do in a war zone, and so I didn't get to see him as much.

I will remember the last time that I saw him. We were playing Spades, like we often do at night, when the time at hand is slow, and soldiers don't have missions to run down desolate highways in the middle of Iraq at night.

He opened the dooor, walks in, I'm the first person he sees as I sit in the chair at our card table, closest to the door, I see the happy recognition in his face, he starts a little, gets a broad smile on his face. Laughs a little.

"I've never seen your hair THAT long before! Ha ha"

Me "Yeah, I tell my friends back home it is Air Force long. I've had it longer, you just haven't been around."

We talk awhile, make idle chit chat, just two guys that have our own parts to play in this war that the United States sent us to, in a dirty place where people detest us, and with such foreign sounding names "al Anbar" "Quaim" "Basra" "Baquba".

He gets ready to leave, straps on 40 pounds of gear, tightens his chin strap, gathers his weapons. He turns to leave, opens the door. I stop him before he goes, turn him around by grabbing the armored flak vest at his shoulder {Hey don't leave, ok, it's been awhile! Grab a coffee or something.} shake his hand, I don't say what I'm thinking, instead I say "Take care, ok, I'll see you soon."

But I won't see him soon, he died shortly after that. I heard it, on the radio. Heard the whole thing. Another casualty in the war in Iraq. He will leave behind a weeping young wife and children that will never fully know their father. What you will know about him is purely statistical, a name, and a rank, an age, the place he died, and maybe a short excerpt on what he was doing.

The part that will never be seen by you is all of the good and right that he brought with him, where he went, with what he did.