American Sniper - Boekje Pienter

100/439
One day we were sent to a house where we had heard there might
be U.S. prisoners. We didn’t find anyone in the building. But in the
basement, there were obvious signs that the dirt had been disturbed.
So we set up lights and started digging.
It wasn’t long before I saw a pants leg, then a body, freshly buried.
An American soldier. Army.
Next to him was another. Then another man, this one wearing
Marine camis.
My brother had joined the Marines a little before 9/11. I hadn’t
heard from him, and I thought that he had deployed to Iraq.
For some reason, as I helped pull the dead body up, I was sure it
was my brother.
It wasn’t. I said a silent prayer and we kept digging.
Another body, another Marine. I bent over and forced myself to
look.
Not him.
But now, with each man we pulled out of that grave—and there
were a bunch—I was more and more convinced I was going to see my
brother. My stomach tightened. I kept digging. I wanted to puke.
Finally, we were done. He wasn’t there.
I felt a moment of relief, even elation—none of them were my
brother. Then I felt tremendous sadness for the murdered young men
whose bodies we had pulled out.
When I finally heard from my brother, I found out that even though
he was in Iraq, he hadn’t been anywhere near where I’d seen those
bodies. He’d had his own scares and hard times, I’m sure, but hearing
his voice just made me feel a lot better.