It was the crack.
Sharp. Wet. Unmistakable.
It cut through the August heat at Fort Ridley like a rifle shot, snapping across the combatives mat and bouncing off the aluminum bleachers where half the base had gathered for Warrior Readiness Day. For one suspended second, nobody moved. Not the soldiers sitting shoulder to shoulder in PT uniforms. Not the families under the shade tents. Not the battalion staff standing near the announcer’s table. Not even the kids with face paint and snow cones from the morale booths fifty yards away.
Everyone just stared.
Sergeant First Class Dean Rourke dropped to one knee with his right arm bent at an angle arms were never meant to bend, his face gone white under the Georgia sun, his mouth open in a soundless shock before the pain finally reached him and turned into a howl.
And I was still standing over him.
Breathing hard.
