My brother died in Iraq.  I was at soccer practice working on corner kicks when Dad called me off the field.

     "Doug, we need to go," he said, his face grooved with grief.  "Your brother Darren has been killed in Iraq."

     I'll never forget it.  It was the worst day of my life.

     When we arrived home, Mom and Dad asked me to sit at the kitchen table with them.  Dad held two letters in his hand and on the table was a open small box containing two military medals.

Dad's letter told us that Darren was posthumously awarded the Silver Star and Purple Heart Medals.

     When I asked what these medals were for Dad read from the letter; "The Silver Star is awarded for gallantry in action against an enemy of the United States."

     "Darren was a hero," Dad added.

     "The Purple Heart is awarded to those being wounded or killed in any action against an enemy of the United States or as a result of an act of any such enemy or opposing forces."

     Dad hadn't opened the second letter.  It was addressed to me, from someone I didn't know.  A friend of Darren's named Joe.  Dad gave me the letter and that is when I discovered how Darren died.

     One week after that horrible day, I squinted through the sun across the street and saw Timmy sitting on his front porch playing with his toy soldiers.  Timmy is six years old and lives across the street.  I walked over and as I often did, and sat down on the top step to watch him play.

     I always liked Timmy.  Maybe because I don't have a younger brother of my own.  My brother Darren was twenty years old, six years older than me, when my life changed forever.

     Timmy had set up his toy soldiers on the step.  Oneside was green, one side desert camouflage.  They were facing each other, ready for war.  Only two inches tall, but menacing, almost as if I were God looking down and frowning at what was about to happen.  Of course if I was God there wouldn't be any need for soldiers.

     "Hey Doug," Timmy shouted.  "Watch this."

     Timmy pointed his finger at a grenade in a green soldiers hand.

     "Boom!"

     Using his finger as the bomb, Timmy knocks down two camouflage soldiers.  It seemed so easy and harmless, but I knew that Darren saw the real thing.  Joe told me in the letter I kept in my pocket.

     "The air was a blanket of dust and smelled of hot metal," Joe wrote.  "As Darren and I dove for cover behind a low cement wall, machine gun fire sprayed bullets all around us.  Our camouflage uniforms were dusty, sweaty and stained with blood.  This was the town of Ramadi, Iraq but Darren used to say it felt more like hell.  As U.S. Marines in this town we were ripe targets for insurgent assaults.  We accepted this responsibility but getting shot at everyday was no fun."

     Now I reached over, picked up one of Timmy's fallen soldiers, and looked him straight in the eye. 

Although made of plastic, I could see a personality in his face.  Sad but stern.  Like my big brother.  I placed him on his feet.  Alive and ready to fight another day despite the constant threat of Timmy's finger bombs.

     Sad but stern.  That was Darren all right.  I remember Darren being so thrilled and proud the day he was accepted into the U.S. Marine Corps.  The day he left for Iraq was different.  It was a hard day.  We hugged and said our 'goodbyes' and our 'see you soons'.  Tears were shed.

     "I don't get it, Darren.  Why are you going to Iraq."

     "I feel I have to do it.  That's what I signed up for."  Darren added, "Dougie don't worry.  I'll be back before you know it."

     Now Timmy tapped my shoulder. Brushing his long brown hair out of his eyes he looked at me, squinting his blue eyes.

     "Is anything wrong, Doug?"

     "Sorry Timmy, I just zoned out thinking about Darren."

     Timmy's eyebrows seemed to have joined above his nose and he was frowning.  This was a very serious look, especially for good natured Timmy.

     "I don't have a big brother." Timmy said sadly.

     "I know Timmy," I nodded.

     Timmy was lucky.  It was tough being a little brother.  Darren had set high standards. It's what made him a great soccer player and I guess also a great soldier.  I pulled the crumpled letter out of my pocket and read Joe's words once again.

     "Darren winced and I saw blood pour down his neck from a wound over his left ear.  He looked down and noticed that a piece of scrapnel had embedded itself into the back of his hand.  Despite the pain he kept his finger on the trigger of his grenade launcher.  No time to quit now, we said to each other.  We nodded and rose to our knees.  Darren placed his weapon on the cement barrier.  Show time!"

     I stopped reading.  Getting shot at was no fun.  Like being goalie.  I hated being in goal.  Actually I had a hard time playing soccer at all.  At Thursday's practice, coach Sam suggested I play goal for awhile as it was obvious I was not playing my best or running my hardest.  It was difficult to concentrate on a game after what happened to Darren.  I picked up the letter again.

     "After thirty minutes of hell, we dragged Darren to safety.  We tended to his injuries as best we could and wiped his forehead of sweat and blood.

     Darren spoke softly through the pain.  He asked me to write you this letter and then just before he closed his eyes he spoke again."

     "God, please take care of my little brother."

     Now Timmy looked down at his toy soldiers and then glanced up at me with the corner of his eye as he was gathering them up and placing them in his green plastic container.

     "Do my soldiers make you think of Darren?"
 
     "No, not really Timmy," I lied.

     As I helped Timmy gather his soldiers I noticed I still had Timmy's fallen camouflage soldier clutched in my hand. 

     "Doug, you keep that one," Timmy said.  I didn'tunderstand why at the time but accepted it and placed it into my pocket as I headed home.  I shivered as a cold breeze passed through me.

     There was a picture of Darren in our school's trophy case for several years.  Smiling and holding a soccer ball, Darren looked fantastic in the familiar school colors of purple and gold.  Underneath his name are some of his statistics, including the fact that he scored a school record of eighteen goals in his last year of high school.

     The picture was also displayed on a table in the funeral chapel beside a picture of Darren in his military uniform.  Timmy's soldier was in my pocket.  I didn't really know why, but everytime I changed clothes I made sure the soldier made it into my pocket again.  It just made me feel better having it there.

It seemed like the whole town was crowding the chapel and there was lots crying and hugging going on.  After the service my parents shook hands with everyone as they filed out of the chapel.  They looked very sad and tired. 

     I don't understand death.  Why do good people die and others live.  Who decides this?  God?

     One year earlier everything was still good.  Back then the most stressful thing in my life was trying to land a spot on the soccer team.

     "Come on Doug, you can do this," Darren had shouted.

     The tryouts for the soccer team were not going well.  I was dead tired.  The sun was scorching hot and I was sweating up an ocean doing these drills.  Darren was helping coach the team while he waited for word from the Marines about his application.  Talk about pressure, everyone expected me to be as good as he was.

     Coach Sam's office was adorned with various team pictures and trophies, as I would imagine most coaches offices are.  He sat leaning forward with his elbows on the desk.  Darren was standing behind the coach leaning on the wall with his arms folded.

     "You know Doug people used to say my record of seventeen goals would never be broken."  Coach Sam then pointed his thumb over his left shoulder and said, "Until this guy came along."

     "You have just as much skill as Darren had," Sam continued, "but not the confidence, but maybe I'm wrong".

     I sat there quietly thinking not to panic, that I could always try out for the team again next year.  After a short pause that felt much longer coach Sam had more to say.

     "I wasn't sure if you were ready to play for me, but Darren convinced me otherwise."

     Darren then moved towards the desk and held out his hand.

     "Welcome to the team Doug.  It's true, I put in a good word for you but I know you are good enough to do this," Darren said as we shook hands.

     With a wink he added, "Don't blow this kid."

     I had a good season last year but now everything had changed.  Darren was gone and I couldn't stop thinking about him.  I actually named my toy soldier Darren and carried him everywhere with me.  I lay in bed at night just thinking instead of sleeping and that night was no exception.  The worst part of all was that I was losing interest in soccer.  I started playing in the backyard with Darren as soon as I learned to walk and now without Darren I had lost the will to play.  I called the coach and told him I couldn't play anymore.  I was so angry at Darren.  He lied.  He said everything would be okay.

     "It will be okay, Doug."

     The voice was muffled but definitely a voice.  Darren's voice.  Where was it coming from.  My pocket?  Okay I kind of thought I was losing it before, but now I knew for sure.

     "You can't quit Doug, this is too important to you."

     I pulled my toy soldier out of my pocket.  It/Darren was speaking to me.  I could actually see the twitch of the plastic mouth smirking just like Darren always did.

     "Don't quit Doug.  I need you to play.  Your happiness and my salvation depend on it.  Come on kid, you can do it."

     "Darren?  What the heck?"

     The toy soldier said no more that night or ever again.  But he had said enough.  I knew what I had to do.

     The green grass of the soccer field was soaking up the sun.  It was the last game of the season and a playoff spot was on the line.  The crowd was quiet but eagerly anticipating the last five minutes of the game. 

The score was tied 1-1.

     I rubbed the black band on my left arm for luck.  This had become a habit towards the end of the season, right after my toy soldier set me straight and I rejoined the team.  I wiped the sweat off the palms of my purple jersey and looked towards our bench. 

     Did no one else see him?  A soldier stood behind our bench in desert camouflage with his grenade launcher drawn.  Darren?  I felt for my pocket.  My toy soldier had disappeared.

     The game restarted and my opponents were all around me defending me like a blanket.  The ball flew out of bounds and we had one last chance.  Corner kick.

     I looked at Darren in the crowd.  He nodded his head.  Show time!  Just like he always said when the pressure was on.

     The crossing pass was coming towards me.  I dove for the ball feet first.  I struck the ball with my foot while still in mid air.  Contact!  The ball headed for the top left corner of the net.  The goaltender stretched as far as he could.  The ball glanced off his fingertips and slightly changed direction.  The twine of the net came alive.  Goal!

     My teammates streamed on to the field.  Oddly, there was a smell of hot metal in the air.  Despite the wild scene I searched the crowd for Darren.  His dirty face also had tears streaking down his cheeks.  He was smiling.  He pointed his smoking grenade launcher to the sky.  At that moment he faded away.  Darren was gone.  At peace.  The toy soldier did not return when Darren disappeared.  I had moved on.

     Darren's body is in his grave at the cemetery.  But his spirit is with me every day.  Watching over me. 

Just like he always was.  Just like he always will.