Two kinds of heros exist in this world. There are the kings and the knights, and there are the foot soldiers and peasants. The kings and the knights go down in history, for their story is sung by the Bards, written by the Poets, and spoken by the Jesters. They are valiant; leaders who have acquired an almost god-like status among their men and those that they protect. They are our legends, our leaders; they are those that do good in such vast quantity that it drowns out the latter of the two heros; the foot soldiers and peasants.
The foot soldiers and peasants are the smaller men, the men that are led by the kings and knights. They tend to follow the orders that they are given and do as they are told. But let us not forget, that these men are far from unimportant. Sure, not all people are destined to be heros. Not all people possess that quality or gift that some may call it, but there are foot soldiers, there are peasants that are heros. They may be one in a thousand, and there are still those few that deserve to be recognized.
Good is not determined by massive battles fought. Wars and massive rallies, speeches and lessons, preachings and great acts are all ways that good can combat evil, but is this truly good? True good comes from the little things, the little fights and the small acts that happen day by day, by the foot soldiers and peasants. If there wasn’t any good to be found in the smallest places, how could the kings and knights learn what good is, and learn to fight for it in the massive and monumental ways that they do? True good comes from those forgotten.
I am a sergeant in the United States Marine Corps. I have served four total tours in Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq and other places in the Middle-East. I have seen countless battles, killed many, many men, and have earned more awards and medals than I can count. You could consider me a king. However, I don’t like to view myself in that light. In the end I wish there weren’t any kings and peasants. I wish there were only heros.
Now I want to tell you a story, a story of a foot solider that saved the life of a king. I would not be here today if it were not for the bravery and sacrifice of this man. This is the legend of a man by the name of Charles Jenkins. Private Charles Jenkins.
Jenkins, or Jenky as the men so liked to call him, was a Private under my command in my squadron. He wasn’t the greatest Marine by any standards. Boot camp had all but completely destroyed him mentally. Don’t get me wrong he was still a good guy, he was just very timid and afraid of almost everything that came his way. I had to look after him constantly. The physical gains he had gotten from his service so far were minimal to none. He was a scrawny little fellow who was always struggling to keep up and was always messing around with his oversized gear. Despite being a very large liability, we were stuck with him, and so I made it my duty to look after the poor young man.
The other men picked on him quite often, always taking out any kind of anger they were having about our newest task or mission or whatever hellish thing we were about to undertake, on him. I let Jenkins fend for himself. I could only help him with so much. I also hoped that maybe someday, the berating would take its toll on him and he would finally snap, becoming the soldier that we needed him to be. That’s the way it was in the Marines. You had better be able to take hell and more, especially mentally, if you could even hope to survive.
My company and I were stationed in Dakhul, a small town in Iraq that was currently being used as a relay station for drones that would be sent on both scouting and bombing missions deeper in the country. We refueled, armed, and deployed the drones. We had the schedules, routes, and programming for every drone that would come through Dakhul for the next three months. All of this information was stored on a large computer database that was located in an abandoned church in the center of town.
In all of Dakhul, we were the only Americans. The closest we were to any true allies was a small army base sixty miles west of Dakhul. There were only thirteen of us, and I had us divided into Red, Green, and Blue Team, four men in each and then me. I mainly stayed at the church while I had the fireteams go out and make a routine sweep of the town. They would look for suspicious activity, checking houses and shops, and asking for updates from the local Islamic militia men that we had been using as undercover agents.
For the first few weeks, every day was the same. We would wake up, eat a quick breakfast and make our morning sweep of the town. Then, everyone came back to the church. Sometimes there were drones to deal with but other times all we had to do was play cards and chat. We took a break for lunch, and afterwards we finished any other jobs we had to do that day. I sent the teams out for an evening patrol, and when they came back, we would eat dinner, set watch schedules, and finally retire for the night. Sure it was boring, but if I had learned anything from my three previous tours in the Middle East, it was this. Boring is good!
Of course nothing good ever lasts, and it was August 29th, 2008 that I came the closest I ever have to being killed. I was saved by the most unlikely person imaginable, Private Charles Jenkins.
I awoke that morning just like I had for the past month, stiff as a board and ornery as ever. I went out to find that our fine Columbian coffee had already been brewed and sweet, sweet MRE’s were ready for the taking. I mean that in total sarcasm of course. The men were talking casually, some throwing on their gear for the day, others cleaning their weapons, and some putting off any kind of work for as long as they could. I scolded the lazy bunch as I had so many times before, grabbed myself a coffee and a meal and prepared for the long, hot, dry day ahead.
It was before dawn that I sent out the fireteams. We had several drones that were coming from and going to inner Iraq. It was probably the largest amount of valuable data we had yet handled. I wanted to make sure we had plenty of time to work.
They returned with the usual, “Nothing new, sir.”
We slaved hard that morning, there was more information than I had thought and the drones were completely out of fuel. It would take us until evening to even hope to send them on their respective ways.
Around noon, it was time for a break. We all went to the old priest’s room, where we slept and ate and stored our provisions. It was just another day, we sat and ate, and laughed and groaned about the heat.
The sound of gunfire and shattering glass merely above our heads stole our mirth away in an instant. Bullets shot into the wall, slamming into the adobe wall that lead to the chapel with little puffs of sand. All of us got down on our stomachs, and waited for the chaos to stop. After only a few moments, all was silent again.
I waited. One minute, two minutes, three minutes slipped by. Finally, I signaled for all the men to begin slowly and quietly gathering up their arms, and preparing minor defenses.
Meanwhile, I slid up the wall that had once held the stained glass windows and peaked my head out of the corner. From this position in the church, you could see the town square, which was centered around a large clay fountain. Stationed out there were two trucks, each with mounted machine guns, and a dozen men around each. They were dead silent and all had their guns pointed at the church.
I froze. How had they managed to get out there without us hearing them? How had they found us so unexpectedly and now mustered such a force so very quickly? These questions and more raced through my head in an instant.
I heard one of them yelling and pointing frantically at the window I was peering through. All of them c***ed their guns and pointed them in my general vicinity. The machine guns swiveled on their mounts and began spitting bullets as soon as they got their sights on the window.
I pushed off of the wall as fast as I could, rolling over and behind a duffle bag of MRE’s. I struggled desperately to get it up to shield me.
“Take cover!”, I roared to my men over the sound of gunfire.
This barrage lasted much longer than the first one had, because they knew that at least some of us were definitely in the room.
All but one of us managed to get down on the floor. Rodriquez, a very strong and valuable member to Red Team from Mexico caught a bullet in the shoulder that sent him stumbling back into the wall. He grunted in pain and looked down at his wound, forgetting that he needed to take cover as fast as possible. Faster than he could register, one of the machine guns got a bead on him and he was cut down by a barrage of bullets. Blood mixed with the dust in the air, and the room was bathed in a pink hue.
After a few more minutes of gunfire, they finally stopped. I started to hear a man speak through a megaphone, but I would have none of it. We were under attack!
Before I had even finished my signal, the four men from Blue Team were at the windows and opening fire onto the band of Islamic, radical fighters that resided outside. Where the Islamic fighters had just sent bullets flying our way in a hope that they may hit us, our shots were timed and precise. Three round bursts from four different guns cut into their ranks, enemy after enemy going down.
In no more than a few seconds, the radicals had been reduced to half their number. Both of the machine gun turrets were now without an operator, and those that were still alive were taking cover behind the doors of their trucks or behind the large, stone fountain.
I signaled to Green Team, telling them to get out of this room and exit the church out the back way. They could then loop back around and hopefully flank the enemy. Meanwhile, we would draw their attention and their fire.
As for the three remaining members of Red Team, they were to take care of Rodriguez’s body and then climb to the top of the tower that was erected out of the chapel of the church. From here they could offer some very good cover fire and had a vantage point on almost the entire town.
I did however, keep Jenkins (a member of Green Team) with me. I could already see that he was showing signs of panic. He was more likely to be a liability, than any kind of assistance to my other Marines.
From out in the town square, the megaphone sounded again. This time, I decided that I would hear them out. We had traded an eye for an eye after all.
“Americans,” bleated the heavily accented voice. “We are aware that you are keeping some very valuable information hidden inside that church. We ask that you surrender, giving yourselves unarmed, and the drones schedules over to us undamaged. We will take you to the city of Aklam where you will be kept as prisoners until further notice. If you do not comply in the next thirty seconds, we will be forced to eliminate you and take the information by force.” After this, he began his countdown.
“Sir,” Jenkins whispered. “Sir, what are we gonna do?”
I thought for a few moments. There were only around six or eight of them left. We outnumbered them two to one. They had also announced themselves as a hostile force, so under the military law, we could retaliate with force.
“Ten…Nine…Eight…” the voice droned on, ever calm.
“Light ‘em up boys,” I ordered.
Again, all four heads of Blue Team popped up from the windows and began laying waste upon the ranks of the radicals. They had managed to get both machine guns up and running. In the split second of surprise, Blue Team only managed to kill one of the men operating the two turrets. The second machinegun roared to life, heavy, 60 caliber bullets penetrating the soft adobe wall of the church.
Blue Team stood at the windows still, undaunted, focusing on killing the turret operator before he could kill them. A loud crack was heard from above us and the man behind the machine gun fell dead. Our sniper, Tom Landren from Red Team, had made it to his perch in the tower. As I watched and heard this firefight unfold, I managed a grim smile.
Blue Team finished their work with the rest of the men in and about the trucks, and soon enough all was silent about the town square. I listened for a few minutes, and after it was confirmed that no man outside was alive, I stood up fully.
“Blue Team move out,” I said. I clicked on my radio, “Red Team, you have over watch.”
“Roger that, Sarge,” came a crackling voice over the radio.
Blue Team, Jenkins and I all clambered out of the windows and out onto the desolate, dusty street. There were no more radicals, no civilians to be seen or heard. It was quiet.
I signaled my men to move along and sweep the trucks and bodies of the men. Jenkins and I stood back a way, combing the streets with our eyes, searching for anything that seemed awry.
“Green Team, report,” I called into my radio.
“Sir,” Fredrick answered. “We’ve got four trucks, two armored vans, and a tank moving in from the East. Trucks have mounted machine guns, carrying about six men each. Vans, no confirmed carrying capacity. The tank seems to be an incredibly old model, she’s gonna pack one big punch though.”
My blood ran cold and a shiver went up my spine. That was just a confirmation on a dozen foot soldiers, all well-armed with heavy artillery. “ETA,” I demanded.
“Three minutes, five to get to the center of town,” Fredrick answered.
“Get back here and position yourself for an ambush on the town square. I need you now Fredrick!”
“Roger that sir.”
There was a sudden explosion in front of me and I was sent flying many yards back and landed on the hard cobblestone street. After I had landed, all of my senses were all but lost to me. The entire front of my body was burning and singed. A warm liquid flowed from my ringing ears and when I reached up to feel them, I realized they were bleeding. My head was swimming and I could not get a grip on reality.
A trio of Jenkins lay at my side, unconscious. A very intense light was burning back where the trucks had once been. I was trying desperately to get a grip on the situation and see what had happened. The warning Frederick had given just a few minutes back. I had two minutes, three at best to get myself pulled together and prepare for a battle like no other.
My radio crackled to life, and I could hear Landren, the man up in the tower calling to me. “Sir, you need to get back inside the church now! Enemy is making the final turn that will lead them to the town square!”
“What happened?” I grunted as I began to rise to my feet, gripping my assault rifle.
“There must have been a car bomb,” Landren said frantically. “Maybe that was their purpose all along. Sir, Blue Team is completely gone.”
It hadn’t really registered until that moment, but I fully understood what had happened now. One of the cars must have been equipped with explosives and in the sweep, had been triggered by Blue Team. If I had been as far away and still suffered so badly, there was no hope for any of the Marines that were close to the trucks. Just like that, we had lost four more members of our squadron. Now we were outnumbered at least four to one. 
As my vision cleared, I looked to the burning trucks, the blackened sand, and the charred bodies of my men. It is a sight I will never forget.
My grief was short lived however, as the demand to fight back and retaliate was forced upon me. As the first of the vans rolled in, a man riding on the side of it stuck his rifle into his hip and began firing wildly at me. I dove and landed next to Jenkins, and was thankfully saved again by trusty Landren. The man fell off of the van and slammed heavily into the street, sending up a spray of dust.
“Jenkins,” I called desperately, giving him a few slaps about the face and shaking him. “Jenkins we need to go now!”
He groaned and was beginning to come to, but it wasn’t going to be fast enough. I slung the small man over my shoulders and sent him through the broken window and into the priest’s private room.
I followed right after, leaping through the window frame and landing on top of poor Jenkins. That was enough to wake him up! A hail of bullets was flying above us both.
“Sir,” Jenkins cried. “Sir, we’re under attack! They’re right outside! I think Blue Team is— “
I slapped him hard across the face and forced him to look me in the eyes. “Now you listen and you listen good,” I growled. “I don’t have time for any of this petty, cowardice right now ok? Now you’re going to go into the chapel and start destroying every last bit of information in there, ok? We’re gonna lose this fight, but we can’t lose that information too. If they gain access to it, they’ll be one step ahead of us for the next few months of this war. You joined the Marines to be great didn’t you? This is your chance to prove that you are!”
“Sir, yes sir,” Jenkin’s voice quivered slightly, but his face was full of grim resolve. He bolted off into the chapel and began getting to work.
“Green Team come in,” I said into my radio. “Green Team what’s your status?”
“Currently getting into position sir,” Fredrick’s voice responded. “What’s the status on Blue Team, sir?”
I let the dead air over the radio answer that question. “Just pay them back in full,” I ordered.
“Roger that.”
From the sounds outside, the enemy force was getting dug in, they were out by the fountain and wreckage of the two previous trucks. It sounded as though some infantry was marching their way towards the anteroom, the buffer chamber between the priest’s room and the chapel. They were on their way to Jenkins! I could not let them get to him.
I immediately dropped into a crouch and made my way toward the doorframe. Around the corner and through the cracked wooden door of the anteroom I could hear the men preparing to seize the church.
Leaning around the corner, I looked down my iron sights and put the bead right where I thought the first head would most likely pop up. There was one bang on the door, two bangs, and on the third, sure enough, a man’s head came into my iron sights.
A quick squeeze of the trigger and the man dropped to the floor. Two more followed closely in his wake, but I remained calm. I snapped my wrist to my left, and fired two bursts. This man too, was cut down. Finally, I charged out from my low vantage point, exploding up and into the final opponent. The butt of my rifle connected solidly with his chin, and as he stumbled back I fired into his chest. He let out a shout and then went silent.
There were more coming, and they were coming very quickly. I fell back around my corner. Once again I laid in wait, my sights fixated on the door. A man came through and was again put down, swiftly and precisely.
The others halted and began shouting things in a language that I did not understand. I was pretty well versed in Arabic, but they spoke something even I didn’t know. It was many moments of shouting, and finally all went silent.
Then, a grenade came through the opened door. It bounced up and down on the sandy, stone floor, and came to rest right in the middle of the anteroom. I threw myself backwards, shielding my eyes and face. The explosion was luckily suppressed by the adobe wall, but it still sent intense heat my way and shards of shrapnel into me. For the second time that day, my face was burned. To make matters worse, I now had a few small shards of super-heated metal, burning inside of me.
I let out a scream in pain, clenching my teeth in anger and denial. I cannot begin to describe the level of torture that the shrapnel caused me.
It wasn’t but a moment or two after the explosion that a form swept into the room. Through the dust and debris, and with me on the floor among the rubble I don’t think he saw me. I sure saw him. I sent several bursts into him, and after a few twitches, he fell to the floor.
There were more shouts and more men were filling the anteroom. I tried to stay calm, trying to keep my breathing as level as possible and just sending burst after burst into every form that I saw floating around in the dust.
From the left side of the anteroom, there came a continuous sound of gunfire. It was the sound of a M-16 on fully automatic. A member from Red Team had come from the tower to my aid.
The remaining Islamic radicals that were in the room were quickly cut down, and despite the sounds of battle outside (my guess could only be that Green Team was working their magic) all was silent inside the church.
Johnson came from the dust and debris, a smile from ear to ear spread across his face.
“You seem to be in a bit of pain there sir,” the young man quipped.
“Shut up,” I snarled. Despite being in such pain and the inappropriate timing of the sarcastic remark I was unbelievably happy to see the young comic of our squadron. “Help me out here, son.”
“Dear God,” Johnson gasped as he looked at my torn body. “A bit of pain may have been an understatement, sir. You look like you’ve been to hell and back!”
Suddenly, there was a loud bang right above my head and the young man was sent flying back. The gunshot was followed by a loud war cry, and a man above me tried to bring the butt of his shotgun down on my head. I rolled out of the way in the nick of time, and in the same movement, brought my pistol from its holster.
One shot, two shot, three, four, five, and the radical crumpled to the floor. He must have snuck around and slipped in through the broken windows.
I looked back over to the direction that Johnson had been sent flying and saw him in a pool of his own blood on the floor. By some miracle he was still alive. I rushed over to him, falling to my knees and cradling his head in my lap. His face was already drained of color, his lips a hue of blue and his foggy eyes stared off into the distance.
“Well,” he whispered as his body quivered a bit. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t have been complaining about boredom huh, sir?” He gave a small chuckle that ended in a few coughs that brought blood to his mouth. Still, he laughed through his obvious pain, and that was the last sound that passed through the young comedian’s lips.
A tear rolled down my cheek, but a smile was on my lips. I had always admired Johnson. Yet another moment of grief was stolen from me that day by the sound of Islamic warriors shouting outside. There was still gunfire out in the streets, which had to mean that Green team was still fighting strong. There was another sound out in the town square that I hadn’t yet heard. It was the sound of treads running over gravel and sand. It was the sound of a moving tank.
I gently set down Johnson and rushed to the windows that looked out into the square. Many Islamic men ran around firing into the various houses and alleyways, trying desperately to find my soldiers. The tank however, was aiming at the church. No, not the church. It was beginning to aim at the churche’s tower.
Landren, my mind shouted. I grabbed at my radio and shouted into it for the sniper to evacuate the tower immediately. There was only static. Out in the town square I saw another man fall as the sound of a sniper rifle cracked overhead. He was still alive; he just wasn’t answering the radio!
I sprinted as fast as my wounded body could carry me, rounding the anteroom and going into the small chamber that held the ladder up to the top of the tower.
“Landren,” I cried. “Landren get down from there immediately!” I could hear shot after shot as he continued to rain devastation down upon the ranks of the enemy. He was just deaf to my cries that were going to save his life.
A booming of a cannon sounded and the middle section of the tower was blown away. I remember the next few moments so very vividly, for it seemed as though time was moving in slow motion. Flames and rubble shot down at me from the tunnel that had once been the tower. I backed peddled as quickly as I could, falling into the anteroom and seeing the chapel to my right. A beam from the ceiling of the anteroom fell in front of me, just as I was beginning to jump into the chapel. Only half of my body made it to the safety of the chapel, while my legs remained in the anteroom. I couldn’t do anything as the rubble and flames fell atop me. I knew only intense pain, and then only complete blackness.
My unconsciousness had only lasted a few moments, and I awoke to a burning, smoke-filled and almost completely destroyed church. In front of me stood a wild and rage filled Marine. His back was to me, and he was so covered in black and grime that it was impossible to tell who he was. He held a shotgun in his right hand, and brandished a small pistol in his left.
It was only after I peeled my eyes from him that I realized the room was also filled with Islamic radicals. They taunted him, describing how they would take him prisoner and all the horrible things that they would do to him. They insulted him, his family, his country. Everything he held most dear and sacred was nothing but weapons to them. As this was going on, I realized that this Marine was also in front of several computers that were all in the midst of a total hard drive wipe. They were getting rid of all of their information. He was protecting me, and the information regarding the drones. He was going to sacrifice himself for his kin and country.
The Marine let out a howl of rage, and dropped into a crouch. He fired his shotgun at the nearest group of opponents, killing one on impact and sending the others scattering for cover, wounded. At the same time his left hand shot out and arced across the room, firing bullet after bullet to give himself cover fire. Soon the pistol began to click, to signify he had no remaining ammunition in the clip. He dropped it, grabbed his shotgun in both hands and charged right down the center of the chapel. He fired left and right, blowing away his enemies but managing somehow to not get hit himself.
At the very end of the large room, a massive radical popped up from behind a pew and brought his assault rifle to bear. The Marine and the Islam exchanged hateful screams and fired at each other. At the end of his charge, the Marine remained standing, but the Islam had fallen dead.
The Marine turned around and began stalking his way back towards me. Once he had reached the altar, the final remaining Islam warrior popped out from behind cover. He tackled the Marine to the floor, and began beating him without remorse.
Punches, kicks, scratches, even bites found their way into that battle. At first, the Marine seemed helpless. He just laid there, accepting blow after blow, doing nothing more than covering his face. Finally, the Islam let up. This was only because he was reaching around to his lower back to grab a large machete.
Once he had pulled the weapon free from its sheath, he let out a cry in the language that I did not understand. Most likely, a battle prayer that these radicals seemed so fond of. He plunged the machete down, aiming directly for the heart of my soldier. I screamed in denial, trying to desperately free myself from the pile of rubble that was keeping me held down. It was no use. The solider would die.
At the last moment, the Marine’s hand shot up and grabbed the wrist of the Islamic warrior. At the same time, he curled his left leg up to grab at the small combat knife he kept there. While holding back the machete, he brought his knife up and into the Islam’s neck. The radical’s eyes bulged in both pain and disbelief. He would have cried out if he had been able to find any air from his slit throat.
The Marine grunted, heaving the dying man off of him, and sending him rolling down the stairs of the altar. He got up and continued to walk over to me. Fatigue was evident in his walk, as he now had a distinct limp, and his shoulders were slumped.  The room was clean, and all was safe.
When he reached me, he fell to his knees and wiped the grime from his face. It was Jenkins. Private Charles Jenkins had single handedly saved my life, saved the United States drone plans, and killed a force of men that outmatched him in skill and number.
“Jenkins,” I grunted. “You, you did it.” It was at this moment that I realized that he was bleeding out very quickly from numerous bullet holes that littered his body.
Without a word, he smiled and ripped his dog tags from his neck. He grabbed my hand and placed them in my weak grasp. “Green Team will be here soon, sir,” he said in a completely calm voice. With that, slumped down and fell to floor of the altar. He let out a last few labored breaths, and then exhaled his last.
The story really ends there. Sure enough, Green Team had somehow managed to kill off the remaining Islamic fighters and came to my aid. We evacuated the town the next morning, after all the data had been completely erased. Then we drove sixty-miles to the nearest military base. From there, we were debriefed and treated for all physical, mental, and emotional trauma we may have experienced. I was sent home shortly after that, back to the States, and was given a great ceremony as a returning veteran. Yes, all that was great but at the same time it really wasn’t. Never again would I return for another tour in the Middle East. I retired, but I still lie awake at night, thinking of the men that I lost on that mission.
I still think of those that deserved to have such a ceremony and the warm welcome home. I thought of Fredrick, Landren, and Johnson. I thought of Charles Jenkins the true heros that gave the ultimate sacrifice. They were the reason I was where I was today. Without them, I would be dead. So I think of it, my duty to share to the world their story. I want you to remember the peasants and the foot soldiers. I want you to remember those forgotten.