I saw this on another site and found it deeply moving. I checked some of the details and it seems to check out.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Megan_McClung
In the summer of 2006,
when the sun would break over the water tower
on my morning runs at Camp Fallujah,
she would pass me,
with shimmering red hair
alternating its bounce
off the back of each shoulder blade.
Again one day she passed me, sort of
bruising my infantryman’s pride,
so not to be outrun,
I tried to catch her, but
the 90° degree 6:00 a.m. heat was
getting the best of me, and at her pace,
with my forced breathing giving me away,
she coolly glanced back
and casually picked up the pace.
I couldn’t let her beat me
and managed to hang on,
I got close enough to see,
the sweat soaking dark red
loose strands of her pony tail.
Then realizing I was serious,
she gave another quick look,
and a slightly clever grin,
and kicked it up again,
we approached the HQ
where I hoped she’d stop, but
I was spent and
crossed my own imaginary finish line,
…doubled over,
…hands on my knees.
I lifted my head just in time, to see
that red hair
glide around the corner,
never slowing down.
After the New Year,
I transferred to Camp Ramadi,
they call it Ramudi,
There’s no paved roads, no drainage,
it’s the FOB that time forgot,
little sun for staff here in winter,
nothing to do except work,
no time to run,
and anyway,
the mud is everywhere
so I wade to my shift
every day and kick mud off
my boots at the entrance to the TOC,
clicking the days away.
And each morning I pass
a memorial poster,
left in the hall by the previous unit.
Three killed back in December,
a mustached Captain,
a giant of a Soldier,
and a female Marine
with a big friendly smile.
Only a few people smile here,
so I make sure to smile
back at her every morning.
In March, the roads began to dry,
there was pavement underneath
the inches of packed mud,
not really dry enough to run, but
I want to go for it anyway,
tired of pushing digits,
tired of TOC life and no action,
tired of not having the road.
So one early evening,
I slam my laptop
Sneak off to my room,
lace up my shoes
and I’m off…
loving the freedom and breeze I create,
even if the road is greased in mud.
I pass Trooper Gate without dropping,
and continue by the MWR,
around the motor pool,
collecting strange looks
as I occasionally almost wipe out.
I make it to the south end of Camp
the sun is falling around the water tower,
glowing the hills of 5-Kilo and
our bastioned lined perimeter
In bright hues of orange and red.
I slip hard, almost go down and stop…
…doubled over
…hands on my knees
the sun is casting its colors of…crimson…
…bouncing off her shoulders,
… I remember that grin
…taunting me to keep up,
and how …she glided…away.
I sprint back, straight through the Camp
releasing months of idle energy
straining to keep my balance,
cutting through the softball field,
mud splattering up my back.
I weave through the chow hall parking lot
and the line outside the PX,
I dart past the TOC security guard,
And go down the hall,
straight to the poster,
stopping, huffing for air…examining
her dimples,
her eyes,
how she challenges the camera.
I lean close and see loose tufts of red hair
escaping her Marine cover.
I had always looked at the smile…
I never noticed, the
name at the bottom,
Marine Major Megan McClung, KIA 06 DEC 06.
I stagger out
Apologizing for the mess
and slosh back to my room.
Exausted,
crashing on my cot,
and my thoughts drift off into dreams,
…of training,
…of running hard,
…of catching up
…to her one day.
In the summer of 2006,
when the sun would break over the water tower
on my morning runs at Camp Fallujah,
she would pass me,
with shimmering red hair
alternating its bounce
off the back of each shoulder blade.
Again one day she passed me, sort of
bruising my infantryman’s pride,
so not to be outrun,
I tried to catch her, but
the 90° degree 6:00 a.m. heat was
getting the best of me, and at her pace,
with my forced breathing giving me away,
she coolly glanced back
and casually picked up the pace.
I couldn’t let her beat me
and managed to hang on,
I got close enough to see,
the sweat soaking dark red
loose strands of her pony tail.
Then realizing I was serious,
she gave another quick look,
and a slightly clever grin,
and kicked it up again,
we approached the HQ
where I hoped she’d stop, but
I was spent and
crossed my own imaginary finish line,
…doubled over,
…hands on my knees.
I lifted my head just in time, to see
that red hair
glide around the corner,
never slowing down.
After the New Year,
I transferred to Camp Ramadi,
they call it Ramudi,
There’s no paved roads, no drainage,
it’s the FOB that time forgot,
little sun for staff here in winter,
nothing to do except work,
no time to run,
and anyway,
the mud is everywhere
so I wade to my shift
every day and kick mud off
my boots at the entrance to the TOC,
clicking the days away.
And each morning I pass
a memorial poster,
left in the hall by the previous unit.
Three killed back in December,
a mustached Captain,
a giant of a Soldier,
and a female Marine
with a big friendly smile.
Only a few people smile here,
so I make sure to smile
back at her every morning.
In March, the roads began to dry,
there was pavement underneath
the inches of packed mud,
not really dry enough to run, but
I want to go for it anyway,
tired of pushing digits,
tired of TOC life and no action,
tired of not having the road.
So one early evening,
I slam my laptop
Sneak off to my room,
lace up my shoes
and I’m off…
loving the freedom and breeze I create,
even if the road is greased in mud.
I pass Trooper Gate without dropping,
and continue by the MWR,
around the motor pool,
collecting strange looks
as I occasionally almost wipe out.
I make it to the south end of Camp
the sun is falling around the water tower,
glowing the hills of 5-Kilo and
our bastioned lined perimeter
In bright hues of orange and red.
I slip hard, almost go down and stop…
…doubled over
…hands on my knees
the sun is casting its colors of…crimson…
…bouncing off her shoulders,
… I remember that grin
…taunting me to keep up,
and how …she glided…away.
I sprint back, straight through the Camp
releasing months of idle energy
straining to keep my balance,
cutting through the softball field,
mud splattering up my back.
I weave through the chow hall parking lot
and the line outside the PX,
I dart past the TOC security guard,
And go down the hall,
straight to the poster,
stopping, huffing for air…examining
her dimples,
her eyes,
how she challenges the camera.
I lean close and see loose tufts of red hair
escaping her Marine cover.
I had always looked at the smile…
I never noticed, the
name at the bottom,
Marine Major Megan McClung, KIA 06 DEC 06.
I stagger out
Apologizing for the mess
and slosh back to my room.
Exausted,
crashing on my cot,
and my thoughts drift off into dreams,
…of training,
…of running hard,
…of catching up
…to her one day.
In Memoriam, Major Megan Malia McClung, Killed in Action on the 6th of December, 2006 in Ramadi, in the Al Anbar Provine of Iraq. She was an avid runner, tri-athlete, and organizer of the Marine Corps Marathon Forward in Iraq. I never met Maj McClung, but the poster still hung after we took over Camp Ramadi in January 2007. She was beautiful in the picture. As we were changing over with the departing unit, it was clear that she was indeed the type of personality that electrified a room. If we all leave memories like hers, our lives will have been a success. “Be Bold, Be Brief, Be Gone” is inscribed on her grave marker at Arlington National Cemetery which can be viewed online at: http://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/mmmcclung.htm. A video Tribute to Megan can be viewed at: http://hotair.com/archives/2006/12/1...megan-mcclung/.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Megan_McClung
In the summer of 2006,
when the sun would break over the water tower
on my morning runs at Camp Fallujah,
she would pass me,
with shimmering red hair
alternating its bounce
off the back of each shoulder blade.
Again one day she passed me, sort of
bruising my infantryman’s pride,
so not to be outrun,
I tried to catch her, but
the 90° degree 6:00 a.m. heat was
getting the best of me, and at her pace,
with my forced breathing giving me away,
she coolly glanced back
and casually picked up the pace.
I couldn’t let her beat me
and managed to hang on,
I got close enough to see,
the sweat soaking dark red
loose strands of her pony tail.
Then realizing I was serious,
she gave another quick look,
and a slightly clever grin,
and kicked it up again,
we approached the HQ
where I hoped she’d stop, but
I was spent and
crossed my own imaginary finish line,
…doubled over,
…hands on my knees.
I lifted my head just in time, to see
that red hair
glide around the corner,
never slowing down.
After the New Year,
I transferred to Camp Ramadi,
they call it Ramudi,
There’s no paved roads, no drainage,
it’s the FOB that time forgot,
little sun for staff here in winter,
nothing to do except work,
no time to run,
and anyway,
the mud is everywhere
so I wade to my shift
every day and kick mud off
my boots at the entrance to the TOC,
clicking the days away.
And each morning I pass
a memorial poster,
left in the hall by the previous unit.
Three killed back in December,
a mustached Captain,
a giant of a Soldier,
and a female Marine
with a big friendly smile.
Only a few people smile here,
so I make sure to smile
back at her every morning.
In March, the roads began to dry,
there was pavement underneath
the inches of packed mud,
not really dry enough to run, but
I want to go for it anyway,
tired of pushing digits,
tired of TOC life and no action,
tired of not having the road.
So one early evening,
I slam my laptop
Sneak off to my room,
lace up my shoes
and I’m off…
loving the freedom and breeze I create,
even if the road is greased in mud.
I pass Trooper Gate without dropping,
and continue by the MWR,
around the motor pool,
collecting strange looks
as I occasionally almost wipe out.
I make it to the south end of Camp
the sun is falling around the water tower,
glowing the hills of 5-Kilo and
our bastioned lined perimeter
In bright hues of orange and red.
I slip hard, almost go down and stop…
…doubled over
…hands on my knees
the sun is casting its colors of…crimson…
…bouncing off her shoulders,
… I remember that grin
…taunting me to keep up,
and how …she glided…away.
I sprint back, straight through the Camp
releasing months of idle energy
straining to keep my balance,
cutting through the softball field,
mud splattering up my back.
I weave through the chow hall parking lot
and the line outside the PX,
I dart past the TOC security guard,
And go down the hall,
straight to the poster,
stopping, huffing for air…examining
her dimples,
her eyes,
how she challenges the camera.
I lean close and see loose tufts of red hair
escaping her Marine cover.
I had always looked at the smile…
I never noticed, the
name at the bottom,
Marine Major Megan McClung, KIA 06 DEC 06.
I stagger out
Apologizing for the mess
and slosh back to my room.
Exausted,
crashing on my cot,
and my thoughts drift off into dreams,
…of training,
…of running hard,
…of catching up
…to her one day.
In the summer of 2006,
when the sun would break over the water tower
on my morning runs at Camp Fallujah,
she would pass me,
with shimmering red hair
alternating its bounce
off the back of each shoulder blade.
Again one day she passed me, sort of
bruising my infantryman’s pride,
so not to be outrun,
I tried to catch her, but
the 90° degree 6:00 a.m. heat was
getting the best of me, and at her pace,
with my forced breathing giving me away,
she coolly glanced back
and casually picked up the pace.
I couldn’t let her beat me
and managed to hang on,
I got close enough to see,
the sweat soaking dark red
loose strands of her pony tail.
Then realizing I was serious,
she gave another quick look,
and a slightly clever grin,
and kicked it up again,
we approached the HQ
where I hoped she’d stop, but
I was spent and
crossed my own imaginary finish line,
…doubled over,
…hands on my knees.
I lifted my head just in time, to see
that red hair
glide around the corner,
never slowing down.
After the New Year,
I transferred to Camp Ramadi,
they call it Ramudi,
There’s no paved roads, no drainage,
it’s the FOB that time forgot,
little sun for staff here in winter,
nothing to do except work,
no time to run,
and anyway,
the mud is everywhere
so I wade to my shift
every day and kick mud off
my boots at the entrance to the TOC,
clicking the days away.
And each morning I pass
a memorial poster,
left in the hall by the previous unit.
Three killed back in December,
a mustached Captain,
a giant of a Soldier,
and a female Marine
with a big friendly smile.
Only a few people smile here,
so I make sure to smile
back at her every morning.
In March, the roads began to dry,
there was pavement underneath
the inches of packed mud,
not really dry enough to run, but
I want to go for it anyway,
tired of pushing digits,
tired of TOC life and no action,
tired of not having the road.
So one early evening,
I slam my laptop
Sneak off to my room,
lace up my shoes
and I’m off…
loving the freedom and breeze I create,
even if the road is greased in mud.
I pass Trooper Gate without dropping,
and continue by the MWR,
around the motor pool,
collecting strange looks
as I occasionally almost wipe out.
I make it to the south end of Camp
the sun is falling around the water tower,
glowing the hills of 5-Kilo and
our bastioned lined perimeter
In bright hues of orange and red.
I slip hard, almost go down and stop…
…doubled over
…hands on my knees
the sun is casting its colors of…crimson…
…bouncing off her shoulders,
… I remember that grin
…taunting me to keep up,
and how …she glided…away.
I sprint back, straight through the Camp
releasing months of idle energy
straining to keep my balance,
cutting through the softball field,
mud splattering up my back.
I weave through the chow hall parking lot
and the line outside the PX,
I dart past the TOC security guard,
And go down the hall,
straight to the poster,
stopping, huffing for air…examining
her dimples,
her eyes,
how she challenges the camera.
I lean close and see loose tufts of red hair
escaping her Marine cover.
I had always looked at the smile…
I never noticed, the
name at the bottom,
Marine Major Megan McClung, KIA 06 DEC 06.
I stagger out
Apologizing for the mess
and slosh back to my room.
Exausted,
crashing on my cot,
and my thoughts drift off into dreams,
…of training,
…of running hard,
…of catching up
…to her one day.
In Memoriam, Major Megan Malia McClung, Killed in Action on the 6th of December, 2006 in Ramadi, in the Al Anbar Provine of Iraq. She was an avid runner, tri-athlete, and organizer of the Marine Corps Marathon Forward in Iraq. I never met Maj McClung, but the poster still hung after we took over Camp Ramadi in January 2007. She was beautiful in the picture. As we were changing over with the departing unit, it was clear that she was indeed the type of personality that electrified a room. If we all leave memories like hers, our lives will have been a success. “Be Bold, Be Brief, Be Gone” is inscribed on her grave marker at Arlington National Cemetery which can be viewed online at: http://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/mmmcclung.htm. A video Tribute to Megan can be viewed at: http://hotair.com/archives/2006/12/1...megan-mcclung/.
