As I walk through this sea of white tombstones, there is only one spot in particular that I am searching for. After walking for hours I find it. The stone reads "John S. Jameson 1990-2008" Exactly eight years ago today you were killed in action in Iraq, caught by bullets I was too slow to catch. I blame myself everyday for what happened to you. You were only 18, too young, just a kid. I remember the day like it was yesterday, the memory as virulent as it was when I first received it. We were hiking through the desert of Iraq, in the middle of nowhere, when we came across an abandoned town. We called it into base and they gave us the go-ahead to check it out. We marched into the town, checking every inch of the place. You and I came across a broken down house that was in tatters. We breached the front door and walked through the entrance, clearing the house. We both ended up at a single, closed door. We gave eachother a nod, not saying a word. We stacked up behind the door with you at the front and me holding up the rear. You gave the signal and kicked the door open. That's when all hell broke loose. Bullets started flying everywhere. You rolled into the room and came up on one knee, firing off a few rounds as our brains kicked into battle mode. From where I was I counted ten, maybe eleven terrorists, all sporting assault class, automatic weapons. I took down the first three in one swift movement. You, covering me as I made my dash into the room, took down at least three or four more with a few volleys from your own weapon of choice. As the Iraqis retreated, we advanced, taking more and more ground. The 5 that were left took up a position at the end of the hall. We picked off two more from our location. Seeing that most of them were gone, we moved forward. As we came around the corner, one of the final three lunged at us with a knife in a desperate attempt to take our lives. One that failed. We spread out into separate rooms, checking every nook and cranny for the last two. I found one that I took out with a swift  movement of my sidearm. That's when I heard the shots. I turned around and there was the last one, standing over you with a bloodthirsty grin on his face. I released a bloodcurdling scream as I realized what had happened. I took the last one down with a single bullet as I ran to your side, your blood staining my khaki combat boots. I picked you up and ran out of the house, screaming for my unit to call in a helicopter, even though I knew it was too late. I tried everything I could to save you. I wasn't' going to leave your side until help arrived. But it was all for nothing. You were pronounced dead on site when the copter finally got here. The world set into a spin. I recalled all of our memories even though there were so few. Us getting assigned to the same bunk for the hell weeks. Learning how to shoot a rifle, learning how to kill. All of it was gone. Struck down by a single terrorist. It still stings to think about. It was hard at first but I've come to accept it. I've come here every year since the day you were set into the ground. I'll never forget you John. I'll never forget my brother.