The light was blinding. He never even heard the blast. The Marine Corps Humvee flipped over to the right, the driver's brains dripping down on to Gunny Stamp's face. The Gunny had shrapnel in the left side of his cheek, and his and the driver's blood mixed.

'Gunnery Sergeant Stamp? Can you hear me?'� Through a thin sliver of vision, Gunny Stamp reentered the world of consciousness. A man with a surgical mask hanging around his neck and weird glasses with little binoculars on them stood by his side.

'Gunny?'�

'Yeah---- Yeah, I'm here.'� He became aware of pain and tubes and bandages. 'Where the hell am I?'�

'You're at the Army hospital in Frankfurt.'� That told Gunny Stamp one thing for sure---he was badly wounded. The doctor continued, 'Gunny, I am going to tell you a couple of things you need to be aware of. They had to do an emergency amputation of your right arm at the elbow. It was severely crushed when your Humvee was blown up and overturned. Your forearm was evidently under the vehicle for some time.'�

Thoughts raced through the Gunny's head faster than the words could find their way to his mouth. 'What the fuck? I am a United States Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant. I got blown up by a fucking IED? I must be slipping. My right arm? WHAT? I didn't even get SHOT? I got crushed?'� The thoughts burned though his mind, realizing that he had not been wounded in face-to-face combat. Instead, some kid with a cell phone blew him up from a sidewalk café.

'Are you still with me, Gunny?'�

'Yes, Sir. Just letting it sink in.'�

'We will begin immediately processing you for medical retirement. I guess in a way, you're a lucky man. You're alive.'�

The words again never made it to his lips. 'Yeah, I'm one lucky bastard. Laying here in a hospital, my men still back there in that shithole they call Iraq, and my arm is the only part of me that is still there with them. Medical retirement? I don't fuckin' think so!'�

The doctor wrote something in the Gunny's chart and hung it on the end of the metal bed. He moved on to the next man on his list. Gunnery Sergeant Richard J. Stamp, USMC, lay in the bed, seething with anger. The anger exploded inside him much like the improvised explosive device that killed Corporal Redboy, the Native-American kid who was driving that day. He wanted to rip the tubes out of his good arm with his teeth and find the first plane back to Iraq. He wanted to kill anyone and everyone who might have been the sonofabitch that did this to him and killed Redboy. After a few days of recovery, the pain had lessened, the anger still simmered and the Gunny was formulating a plan on how he was going to stay in the Marine Corps with half an arm.

'How the hell am I going to shoot a rifle with half an arm? How can I pass the damned physical fitness test every quarter with only this stupid stump?'� he wondered. The Gunny joined the Marines right out of high school and it was his life. His father had been a career Army man and his grandfather also retired from military service after more than twenty years of service. He was a career Marine. He thought back to the day he graduated from boot camp and his DI called him 'Marine'� for the first time. That was the proudest day of his life. And now, he lay here on crisp white sheets in an Army hospital in Frankfurt, Germany with half an arm.

The doctor interrupted his troubled musings. 'Gunny, good news for you. We're releasing you tomorrow. You have orders to Marine Corps Headquarters at Eighth and Eye in D.C. to await your retirement papers. You will get more info there about the Veteran's Administration and getting your new prosthesis. Good luck to you. Take care of that dressing'�

Gunny Stamp lifted his left hand to his forehead in a mock salute. 'Thanks, Doc.'�

The reverse thrusters on the C-141 roared as the jet landed at Andrews Air Force Base. The Gunny stood up when the tail opened on the huge aircraft. He hefted his duffel bag, threw it over his left shoulder, and trudged down the ramp onto the tarmac. He boarded the waiting bus that was going to take him to Headquarters, Marine Corps.

'Welcome to Casual Company, Gunny. Can I take that bag for you?'� The Lance Corporal who met the bus was the epitome of customer service.

'No, thanks. I'll carry it. Just check me in. Do they have a gym around here?'�

'Sure, Gunny, really nice one, too. Henderson Hall has the Smith Gym. Outstanding! Anyone can direct you to it.'�

'Thanks.'� Gunny Stamp lifted the duffle over his shoulder and proceeded to his room. He threw the bag down on the tightly made rack and undid the snap. Grasping the bag at the bottom, he dumped the contents on the rack. He took his workout shorts, shirt and shoes and put them on. His shoes were the Velcro strap variety. He had not yet figured out how to tie shoes with only one arm. He pulled the door to as he began his jog to Smith Gymnasium.

The young Marines working out in the gym took immediate note when the Gunny walked in. It wasn't that strange to see an amputee in the gym, but it was a little unsettling to see one that still had bandages. A couple of the ones closest to him gave him a quick nod but said nothing. The Gunny began his workout.

Monday morning, the Gunny checked in with the company first sergeant. 'Morning Top. Gunnery Sergeant Richard Stamp, reporting as ordered.'� He handed the Top a copy of his orders.

'Sit.'� He held his open hand toward a metal chair. 'Glad to have you here, Gunny Stamp. We don't intend to work you too hard. Just keep ya busy until those papers come through.'�

'Well, Top, you can find me a job, because I ain't goin' nowhere. If I have to request mast to the frikkin' Commandant, I am not leaving the Corps until the Big Man tells me I'm outta here. I am not letting a little mosquito bite like this put me out of action. My men are still over there getting their asses kicked and they need me.'�

'Very impressive gung ho spirit, Gunny, but I don't think it's going to work. We've had a lot of banged up boys come through here in the last few months and no one has remained on duty as of today.'�

'Good, I'll start the request mast procedure now, if that's the case. You got one of the forms?'�

First Sergeant Seeley shook his head and reached in a file cabinet to the right of his chair. He held the form out to Gunny Stamp. 'Gunny, I hate doing this to you, but I need someone to take charge of the misfit platoon. They're basically a bunch of bed-wetters and mama's boys that can't hack the idea of going to war. We just keep 'em busy picking up cigarette butts and raking leaves until we can muster them out.'�

Gunny Stamp suddenly felt like the Chief Misfit. It hit him square between the running lights that they were mustering him out, too. 'That is NOT gonna happen,'� he thought, almost out loud. He found his new office and got settled in. 'Private Wilson, CENTER!'� Private Jon Wilson, a lanky young man with no reason to shave stood at the center of the door. 'Secure the hatch and stand at ease.'� The Marine stood in front of the desk with his hands clasped behind him, feet shoulder width apart.

'What can I do for you, Gunny?'�

''�I have business to tend to. Can you keep this bunch of monkeys busy and keep my ass out of trouble until secure time?'�

'No problem, Guns. I'll handle it.'�

The private executed a perfect about face and Gunny Stamp wondered what it was about him that made him a reject for military service. Outside the office, he heard the private tell the others who were sitting around on the portico, 'All right you guys, fall in. Gunny Stump wants us to police up the butts on the parade deck.'�

'So, Gunny Stump, is it?'� he chuckled. 'What the fuck. I'd call myself the same thing if I was any other Marine.'� It was perfect.

He began filling out the form in front of him. From: Gunnery Sergeant Richard J. Stamp. To: Commanding Officer, Henderson Hall, HQMC. 'I respectfully request that I be allowed to remain on active duty with the United States Marine Corps and to return to my unit in Iraq at the earliest possible date. I am being issued a prosthetic device that will allow me to perform most of the duties of a regular Marine. He signed his name, dated the form and took it back to the First Sergeant.

'Here ya go, Top. I would be in your debt if you could expedite delivery of this, please. If anyone is looking for me, I'll be at Smith Gym.'�

By now, no one paid attention to Gunny Stamp when he entered the gym. He did his stretches and began to work on pull-ups. He stood on the metal peg welded to the bottom of the upright and grabbed the bar with his left hand. He lifted himself from the peg, swung out and promptly slipped off the bar, landing with a thud. He re-mounted the bar and pushed his body outward before lifting himself. This time it worked. He strained and lifted himself up slightly, but he could not get his chin over the bar. He decided to try some push-ups. These were easier. Of course, he had been the camp one-arm push-up champ at Camp Smedley D. Butler while he was in Okinawa. The other Marines were starting to watch now.

Gunny Stamp had Private Wilson well trained by now. He could spend most of his day doing pull-ups, push-ups and jogging. He was jogging by the First Sergeant's office eight days after submitting his request mast form. 'YO! Gunny.'�

'What's up, Top?'�

'You see the Colonel tomorrow morning at zero nine hundred sharp. Winter service A uniform.'�

'Thanks.'� He held up his left hand and showed the Top crossed fingers.

The time was 0900. Gunnery Sergeant Richard Stamp stood in the Colonel's reception office. A very attractive WM sergeant sat at the desk. 'Gunny, the Colonel is ready to see you now.'�

With his green wool uniform looking as immaculate as it ever had, except for the pinned up right sleeve, the Gunny turned the polished brass doorknob. He marched within two paces of the Colonel's desk and barked, 'Gunnery Sergeant Stamp reporting as ordered, SIR!'�

'At ease, Gunny. Please take a seat. I have reviewed your case. I see nothing here that shows me that you have the qualifications to return to combat. Mere desire, while admirable, is not going to give you the edge in a firefight. I think you would be more of a liability than an asset. You are severely disabled and better suited for life as a civilian. I hope you agree. Gunny, it is with a heavy heart that I am denying your request. Any questions?'�

'Yes, Sir. Just one. May I present my case to the CG? I have a few things I am working on to make myself more qualified, and the extra time will allow me to work on those things.'�

'Of course, you can, Gunnery Sergeant. You can request mast all the way to CMC if that is what you wish, as long as you do it within the chain of command. The Top will assist you with that. Dismssed.'�

The Gunny took two steps back, completed an about face and marched out the door. He went directly to the First Sergeant's office and got another request mast form. This time, he did not tarry. He completed the form in ink right on the Top's desk and handed it back to him.

'You're serious about this shit, aren't you?'�

'Serious as a heart attack, Top, serious as a heart attack.'�

Gunny Stamp continued his daily workouts and became more proficient at the one-armed pull-ups and push-ups. He drew an M-16 from the range master and learned how to load and cock the rifle with his left hand. He learned how to do a one-armed disassembly and cleaning of the rifle. He went to the range and qualified with the weapon and scored high sharpshooter.

The Gunny went down to Quantico and practiced sword drill with the Staff NCO academy classes. He ran the five-mile Big Mother Hill Trail with a captain they called The Zipper and was able to hold his own. The Staff Sergeant in charge of the hand grenade range let him throw a few grenades, pulling the pin John Wayne style with his teeth. He was convinced there was nothing he could not do. He was ready to talk to the Commanding General.

The date for the request mast with the CG came and went with similar results. His request was denied, even though he was able to demonstrate to the general that he could pass the firearms qualifications and the PFT. The next step in the request mast procedure was the Commandant.

Gunny Stamp kept on pushing up, pulling up and jogging. At 0600, you could find him jogging around the parade deck singing, 'I want to be a recon ranger, I want to live a life of danger'�.'� Or 'I had a girl who lived on the hill. She won't do it, but her sister will'�.'� His red shorts and yellow shirt and Velcro strap running shoes were now a familiar sight.

On the morning of his appointment with the Commandant, he decided this was his last, best shot. He made a decision to not pin the arm up on his green coat so as to appear as close to 'qualified'� as possible. His brass gleamed and he could see his reflection in the toes of his black oxfords. He wore his barracks cover, which had a high gloss on the brim. His medals were perfectly aligned. He was ready.

He marched down the sidewalk toward the ivy-covered walls of Eighth and Eye, the venerable old building that was the Sanctum Sanctorum of the Marine Corps. When he stood on the scarlet carpet of the Commandant's office, he would find his fate'Marine or civilian. Only one result would be satisfactory. A million things ran through his mind as he marched onward.

The Gunny brushed past a man walking in the other direction. A shrill voice came from behind him. 'Gunnery Sergeant!'�

He came back to reality and, annoyed, turned around to see who was calling him.

'Gunnery Sergeant. Is it ALL officers that you do not salute or is it just second lieutenants?'�

Steam filled Gunny Stamp's head. The second lieutenant looked like a pimple faced kid. He raised the stump of his right arm in a perfect salute, minus, of course, the rest of his arm. The empty sleeve swung wildly in the wind. 'There's your fucking salute, Lieutenant. Ready, Two.'� And he snapped his arm back to his side. Having saluted the now dumfounded officer, he turned about and continued marching. As he marched away, he realized what he had just done. His feet came together as if he were coming to the position of attention. He turned about and ran back up to the stunned lieutenant, who was still standing there like a chided school boy.

He snapped a textbook left-handed salute and held it. 'Sir, the Gunnery Sergeant asks your pardon, Sir.'�

The lieutenant returned the salute and they both snapped their respective hands to their sides. The lieutenant stuck his hand out and proffered an apology first. 'Sorry, Gunny, I didn't notice. I imagine you have a lot on your plate right now.'�

'Yes, Sir. I'm on my way to talk to CMC about this right now. By your leave, Sir.'� And he left hand saluted the officer again. They both went on their way, both feeling a little smaller for the experience.

The massive doors of the Commandant's office were designed to impress, and they were doing just that. Gunnery Sergeant Stamp stood in front of them with reverence. The Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps was by his side. Sergeant Major Elmer Morales, a Marine's Marine, standing there looking like a recruiting poster told Gunny Stamp, 'I think the Commandant has some good news for you, but I'll let him fill you in. Proceed.'�

The massive doors yielded and Gunny Stamp and the Sergeant Major strode into the office. The Woman Marine Gunnery Sergeant at the desk just pointed her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the Commandant like she was saying, 'Go on in. You know where he is.'�

The Sergeant Major did not wait for Gunny Stamp to report. 'Commandant, I would like to present top you Gunnery Sergeant Richard Stamp.'�

'Gunnery Sergeant Stamp, on behalf of the President of the United States, I would like to present to you the Purple Heart medal for wounds received in combat.'�

The Gunny's heart slumped. He felt his knees weaken. 'Was this the good news?'� He hoped not, but it looked like perhaps it was.

The Commandant turned and took his seat behind the massive dark wood desk. He shuffled through a few papers, looked up the Gunny and said, 'Is this what you came here for?'� He passed the papers to the Gunny.

'GySgt Stamp, Richard J.; Return to unit FORDU immediately.'� This was it; his orders to go back to Iraq.

Gunny, I have big windows here overlooking the parade deck and I see lots of things. People have related to me the effort you have put into bringing yourself back to health, and frankly, I am more than impressed. Your orders become effective upon being fitted for your new prosthetic device and learning how to use it. It will require a doctor's OK. You are a true American hero. My initial reaction to your request was to deny it, but upon examination of all the evidence, you have the Marine Corps' blessing. Go back to your men and bring them home safely. Dismissed.'�

The return flight to Iraq was on a commercial airliner with real seats and real stewardesses. The only difference was everyone on the plane had guns. A heavily armored vehicle and several other military trucks were waiting as the Gunny deplaned. He recognized his platoon sergeant and waved. Gunny Stamp showed off his new arm to his buddies and they drove off to their encampment.

Three days later, while on patrol, Gunny Stamp's unit received a report regarding a possible IED manufacturing plant in their area of responsibility. They surrounded the building and Gunny Stamp and two other Marines with machine guns kicked in the doors of the house. There were four men inside with a variety of missiles and other explosives in various stages of disassembly. Gunny Stamp said, 'I've been looking for you bastards.'� With that his left index finger found the trigger of his M-4 machine gun and it belched fire in the direction of the jihadists. The other two Marines emptied their clips. The bearded men jerked with each lead slug that hit them and fell, dying and gushing blood to the floor. One of the men gurgled the phrase 'Allah u akbar'� and pulled a round ring clipped to his shalwar kameez. Gunny Stamp saw him reach and shoved the two Marines out of the doorway, but the blast enveloped the Gunny completely. Heavy ball bearings and nails ripped his skin and pierced his throat and lungs.

'MEDIC! MEDIC!'� the shouts went out. The Marines in the Gunny's unit tried to stop the blood, but there was too much blood, too many holes. Life seeped from the Gunny and he smiled at his men.

'Thanks Boys. I get to die a Marine Warrior's death. Thank......'� and his body rested.

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