text: March 2021- The MC just finished summarizing the operation, calling it "The most successful infantry op of the 21st century" I'm the only man in the ballroom not wearing the Army Service Uniform. It's a small gathering, just a platoon, a small platoon of thrity men or so. The only reason why I was here is because of my job. I'm the MI liason for the CIA, providing key information to SF and Infantry units. I provided the information on this op, and I know now that I'll live to forget it. There was a silence, then a young corporal stood up and spoke. "To Lieutenant Morton! For his leadership got the job done, and kept us alive! To John!" The audience followed suit. "To John!" I raised my glass half-heartedly, knowing that I have ruined that man's life forever. The festivities began, and I stood up. I walked towards the officer's table. He was surrounded by his family, and the family of his late Platoon Sergeant. It's been almost fifteen years since I've seen John. He was my best friend through Junior high and high school years. I haven't spoken with him since we left for college. I got medically declined my third year of ROTC in college. He was commissioned top of his class at West Point, class of 2019. So I got a job at the CIA, serving and working as close to the army as I could, working as a mission spook. In a way, we were doing the same job, except I made two hundred thousand dollars a year versus his fifty-three. I tapped his shoulder. "John? John Morton?" I asked in confirmation of his name. "Yes" He replied. John didn't look like he was in his twenties at all. He had a long, jagged scar across his face, and mutliple pale patches of skin on his right hand, making the skin grafts noticable. His left hand, there was no left hand. A metal plastic prosthetic replaced his missing flesh. "Who are you?" He asked, looking at my face intently, like I looked familiar. "I'm Matthew Magee, the spook." Smiling afterwards. John excused himself from the table and walked with me to an empty table. "Matt! Damn! It's been years since we've talked. What's going on?" The man who had once been my best friend in school at been shot at, blasted at, and gave his right hand for his country, yet he was still lively and friendly as he was in school. My eyes watered as we talked about our lives. The family, the army life, spook life, and eventually the mission that we had just taken part of. There was a brief pause in the conversation. He then spoke. "Thanks for the info you gave us. You got most of us out of there alive--" A tear rolled down my eye. He stopped talking and asked me what was wrong. I pointed to his prosthetic. I blinked back my tears and cleared my throat. "John, the mines...." I paused. "I knew about them. I tried to tell your Platoon Sergeant, but I was cut off by radio security procedures. Then the mines went off." He put his left hand on my shoulder. He and shared tears that only combat veterans can share. Serving the country, the guilt of alternative service.