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    A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul: More Stories to Open the Heart and Rekindle the Spirit
    A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul: More Stories to Open the Heart and Rekindle the Spirit
    A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul: More Stories to Open the Heart and Rekindle the Spirit
    Ebook391 pages4 hours

    A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul: More Stories to Open the Heart and Rekindle the Spirit

    By Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    This treasury is a tribute to life and humanity, with topics ranging the entire emotional and experiential gamut. The nature of the stories invites you to enjoy Chicken Soup in whatever way you find most comforting - by the spoonful, by the bowl, or the whole pot in one sitting.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherChicken Soup for the Soul
    Release dateSep 4, 2012
    ISBN9781453280089
    A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul: More Stories to Open the Heart and Rekindle the Spirit
    Author

    Jack Canfield

    Jack Canfield has sold more than 80 million books worldwide under the Chicken Soup for the Soul brand. He holds the Guinness Book World Record for having seven books simultaneously on the New York Times bestseller list.

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    Reviews for A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul

    3.5/5

    28 ratings4 reviews

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    • 5/5
      The good inspirational stories that began the series. Stories of despair then towards hope and onwards.
    • 4/5
      very good a must read
    • 5/5
      This book is one of the best books I've read. It has 101 stories of hope, love, and courage. It helps us think we can overcome anything and everything with determination and God's help. That all of us are useful here in the society, and that all of us can be someone else's hope and source of happiness. I love this book and hope that you guys can also find the love and courage that I found in this book.
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    Book preview

    A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul - Jack Canfield

    "My mom made chicken soup for me to give me strength and encouragement to feel better. It made me feel warm inside. I know now that it was both the soup and my mom’s love at work. And this is why A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul will inspire every reader. Inside these pages, you will find strength, encouragement and love."

    Jim Tunney

    professional speaker and former NFL referee

    Another great batch of soul soup!

    Jeff Bridges

    actor

    "The Chicken Soup for the Soul series encourages us to create the best possible world imaginable."

    LeVar Burton

    actor/producer

    "A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul is a book the whole family can enjoy. The stories will challenge you, change you or just make you laugh. Read it all at once or a little at a time. It won’t matter—it’s good any way you can get it."

    Porter Wagoner

    Grand Ole Opry

    "Time and time again Chicken Soup nourishes us with graceful accounts of the divine gift of love."

    James Redfield

    author of The Celestine Prophecy and The Celestine Vision

    "There’s always room for a little more Chicken Soup. On tour across America, I recently ‘ate’ my way through A 3rd and 4th Course of Chicken Soup. They kept my heart on track every step of the way. Thank you for the soul food."

    Kenny Loggins

    singer, songwriter and coauthor of The Unimaginable Life

    "The Chicken Soup series is so successful because every book gives us what we all want—happiness, hope, security, courage and inspiration. These books and stories touch our heart and bring out the very best of what it means to be a human being."

    Dennis Wholey

    host of the PBS series This is America

    and author of The Miracle of Change

    "The Chicken Soup for the Soul series will ignite your deepest passion for life in all its vibrant colors. The stories will touch your heart and fill your soul."

    Cathy Lee Crosby

    actress and author of Let the Magic Begin

    "Chicken Soup for the Soul is a phenomenal series!"

    Sidney Sheldon

    bestselling author

    With great respect for all you have done to make America great Again! Thank you!

    Dick DeVos

    president, Amway Corporation

    "The Chicken Soup for the Soul series has been outstanding and an emotional lift for millions of people around the world causing us all to laugh and cry. Mark and Jack have also discovered the universal principle of sharing financial blessings with others by donating a portion of sales to worthy charities. I know you will enjoy these wonderful stories."

    Barry Borthistle

    president, Enrich North America

    and International Ambassador

    A 5th Portion of

    CHICKEN SOUP

    FOR THE SOUL®

    More Stories to

    Open the Heart and

    Rekindle the Spirit

    Jack Canfield

    Mark Victor Hansen

    Backlist, LLC, a unit of

    Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC

    Cos Cob, CT

    www.chickensoup.com

    We tell ourselves stories in order to live.

    Joan Didion

    With love and appreciation we dedicate this book to the more than 20 million people who have purchased, read and shared the fourteen Chicken Soup for the Soul books with their families, friends, business partners, employees, students and congregations, and to the over five thousand readers who have sent us stories, poems, cartoons and quotes for possible inclusion in A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul. Although we couldn’t use everything you sent in, we were deeply touched by your heartfelt intention to share yourselves and your stories with us and our readers. Love to you!

    SHOE                              JEFF MACNELLY

    9780757397172_0007_001

    SHOE ©1996 Jeff MacNelly. Reprinted with permission of Tribune Media Services, Inc. All rights reserved.

    Contents

    Introduction

    From a Previous Reader

    1. ON LOVE

    The Seed Jar  Dee Berry

    Mr. Gillespie  Angela Sturgill

    Night Watch  Roy Popkin

    Turn Back  Tom Clancy

    The Little Red Wagon  Bonita L. Anticola

    John  Terry O’Neal

    Does God Care About Lost Dogs?  Marion Bond West

    Rufus  Carmen Rutlen

    One Wing and a Prayer  Penny Porter

    Nonny  Eva Unga

    The Light Was On  James C. Brown, M.D.

    Scarecrow  Penny Porter

    Best Friends Forever  Louise Ladd

    The Giving Trees  Kathleen Dixon

    An Elf’s Tale  Tyree Dillingham

    The Beloved  James C. Brown, M.D.

    Ben and Virginia   Gwyn Williams

    Don’t Hope, Friend . . . Decide!  Michael Hargrove

    Love That Lasts  Annette Paxman Bowen

    The Beauty of Love  Anonymous

    The Decade Diary: A Love Story  Henry Matthew Ward

    A Gift-Wrapped Memory  Dorothy DuNard

    A Tribute to Gramps  Dana O’Connor and Melissa Levin

    The Canarsie Rose  Mike Lipstock

    2. ON PARENTS AND PARENTING

    The Pitcher  Beth Mullally

    Hall of Fame Dad  Ben Fanton

    The Puzzle  Jerry Gale

    My Dad’s Hands  David Kettler

    One Small Stone, Unforgotten  Marsha Arons

    Sending Kids Off to School  Susan Union

    Let’s Go Bug Hunting More Often  Barbara Chesser, Ph.D.

    A Mother’s Day Review  Paula (Bachleda) Koskey

    What I Want  Edgar Guest

    My Dad  Brenda Gallardo

    Father’s Day  Sherry Miller

    A Lesson from My Son  Kathleen Beaulieu

    Blessed Are the Pure in Heart  Gwen Belson Taylor

    Slender Thread  Karen Cogan

    Neither Have I  Rochelle M. Pennington

    The Thing About Goldfish  Marsha Arons

    3. ON TEACHING AND LEARNING

    Drop Earrings  Nancy Sullivan Geng

    Thank You for Changing My Life  Randy Loyd Mills

    When Children Learn  David L. Weatherford

    Academic Excellence Begins with a ’51 Studebaker  Terry A. Savoie

    The Second Mile  John F. Flanagan Jr.

    Do You Disciple?  Christine Pisera Naman

    It’s a House . . . It’s a Cow . . . It’s Ms. Burk!  April Burk

    What Color Are You?  Melissa D. Strong Eastham

    4. ON DEATH AND DYING

    To Those I Love  Anonymous

    Tommy’s Shoes  Samuel P. Clark

    Broken Days  Mary Beth Danielson

    Every Loss Is a Mini-Death  Carol O’Connor

    The Funeral  Marsha Arons

    Karen, Do You Know Him?  James C. Brown, M.D.

    The Horizon   Anonymous

    Keeping the Connection  Patricia Chasse

    Love Letters  Kevin Lumsdon

    Crying’s Okay  Kirk Hill

    A Blanket for a Friend  Colleen Keefe and Shauna Dickey

    When No Words Seem Appropriate  Written by a pediatric nurse, submitted to Ann Landers

    The Rose with No Thorns  Eva Harding

    The Butterfly Gift  Wayne Cotton

    5. A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE

    Action Hero  Rulon Openshaw

    Who Was That Masked Man?  Robert R. Thomas

    In a Cathedral of Fence Posts and Harleys  Reverend Neil Parker

    Department Store Angel  Priscilla Stenger

    Hey Nurse . . . Thanks  Jacqueline Zabresky, R.N.

    The Little Black Box  Deborah Roberto McDonald

    Dinner Out  Duke Raymond

    Home vs. Visitors  S. Turkaly

    The Power of a Promise  Dianne Demarcke

    The Crooked SmileJames C. Brown, M.D.

    The Most Beautiful FlowerCheryl L. Costello-Forshey

    6. OVERCOMING OBSTACLES

    Rodeo Joe  James C. Brown, M.D.

    No Excuses Good Enough  Sharon Whitley

    Consider This  Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen

    The Miracle of Love  Tim Jordan, M.D.

    Medically Impossible  John M. Briley Jr., M.D.

    One Step at a Time  Jerry Sullivan

    A Mother’s Search  Sharon Whitley

    The Purpose  Diana Chapman

    Soccer Balls and Violins  James C. Brown, M.D.

    A Father’s Calling  Sharon Whitley

    A Turning Point  Adeline Perkins

    A Match Made in Heaven  James C. Brown, M.D.

    Puppy Love   Mark Malott as told to Diana Chapman

    Giant in the Crowd  Jack Schlatter

    7. ECLECTIC WISDOM

    The Best Time of My Life  Joe Kemp

    Josh and His Jag  Josh

    Grass  John Doll

    A Good Heart to Lean On  Augustus J. Bullock

    The Golden Rule  Various Authors

    The Train Ride  David Murcott

    True Forgiveness  Jerry Harpt

    Spelling Bee  God’s Little Devotional Book for Students

    Grandpa’s Little Girl  Darlene Harrison

    Lessons You Learned  Marlene Gerba

    Who Is Jack Canfield?

    Who Is Mark Victor Hansen?

    Contributors

    Permissions

    Introduction

    Without the stories we are nothing.

    Bryce Courtney

    From our hearts to yours, we are delighted to offer you A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul. This book contains 101 more stories that we know will inspire and motivate you to love more fully and unconditionally, live with more passion and compassion, and pursue your heartfelt dreams with more conviction, action and perseverance. We believe that this book will sustain you in times of challenge, frustration and failure, and comfort you in times of confusion, pain and loss. We hope it will truly become a lifelong companion, offering continual insight and wisdom in many areas of your life.

    How to Read This Book

    We have been blessed with readers from all over the world who have given us feedback. Some read our books from cover to cover; others pick out a particular chapter that interests them. Some simply can’t put our books down from beginning to end, going through a big box of tissues en route. We’ve been particularly touched by those readers who have reconnected to loved ones or old friends as a result of being inspired by one of the stories.

    Many times we have been approached by readers—at a speech or public appearance—who told us how one or more stories were of inestimable value during a period of trial and testing, such as the death of a loved one or a serious illness. We are grateful for having had the opportunity to be of help to so many in this way. Some have told us they keep their Chicken Soup book at bedside, reading one story each night, often rereading favorites. Many use these books as a family gathering experience, reading a story aloud with parents and children gathered together in the evening.

    You may choose the path of readers who have gone before you, or simply enjoy reading this book with no particular pattern in mind, letting each story guide your thoughts in new directions. Find the path that’s best for you, and most of all, enjoy!

    From a Previous Reader

    [EDITORS’ NOTE: We received the following poem from Karen Taylor, who wrote this after she finished reading A 3rd Serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul.]

    CHICKEN SOUP

    A wintry day once found me

    home in bed and feeling bad . . .

    sneezing, wheezing, coughing

    with the worst cold I’d yet had.

    I heard my mother’s footsteps

    and tried to fake a sleep

    so she wouldn’t try to feed me

    when I didn’t want to eat.

    "I was going to fix some ice cream,

    but couldn’t find the scoop.

    So I guess you’ll have to settle

    for a bowl of chicken soup."

    I sat up. She fluffed the pillows,

    put her cool hand on my brow . . .

    then set the tray upon my lap.

    You eat this all up now.

    Though my joints were stiff and

    achy and my body felt like wood,

    I have to say that chicken soup

    sure tasted mighty good.

    Now that I’ve grown older,

    there’s a different sort of pain.

    When I’m tired and discouraged

    and the loss outweighs the gain,

    I curl up on the sofa

    with a book and not a bowl

    and enjoy another helping

    of Chicken Soup for the Soul.

    Karen Taylor

    1

    ON LOVE

    The greatest disease is not TB or leprosy; it is being unwanted, unloved, and uncared for.

    We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair and hopelessness is love. There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread, but there are many more dying for a little love.

    Mother Teresa

    The Seed Jar

    Look around for a place to sow a few seeds.

    Henry Van Dyke

    Being the youngest of four girls, I usually saw to Grandma Lou’s needs at family gatherings. Lucinda Mae Hamish—Grandma Lou for short—was a tall twig of a woman, with a long gray braid and sharp features. She was the undisputed Master Gardener in our family, for she had come of age in the Depression, where she learned to use every old thing twice. And when it was worn out, she’d use it again—in her garden.

    When Grandma Lou visited, she brought packets of her own seeds, folded in scraps of envelopes and labeled with instructions. Her handwriting was precise and square. She gave each of us a particular plant; usually tomatoes and carrots and marigolds for my sisters—foolproof sorts of seeds, for my sisters were impatient and neglectful gardeners. But for me, she saved the more fragile varieties.

    At the time of my next oldest sister’s wedding, Grandma Lou was eighty-four and living alone, still weeding her large beds herself. And as she had for my older sisters’ weddings, Grandma Lou gave Jenny a Mason jar layered with seeds from her garden.

    Round and round the colorful spiral of seeds curled in the fat-mouthed jar. Heavy beans in rich, deep earth tones held the bottom steady. Next came corn kernels, polished in cheesecloth until they gleamed like gold. Flat seeds of cucumber, squash and watermelon filled the upper reaches, interspersed with the feathery dots of marigolds. At the very top, separated with cheesecloth, were the finer herb seeds of mint and basil. The jar was crowned with a gleaming brass lid and a cheerful ribbon. There was a lifetime supply of seeds pressed into the jar; a whole garden’s worth of food for the new couple.

    Two years later, Grandma Lou suffered a stroke, which forced her into an assisted-living apartment. And though she was unable to attend my own wedding that year, I was delighted to see a Mason jar among the brightly wrapped gifts at my reception.

    But unlike its predecessors, my jar held no graceful pattern of seeds. Instead, it was a haphazard blend, as if all the seeds had been dumped into a pillowcase and then poured into the jar. Even the lid seemed like an afterthought, for it was rusty and well used. But considering Grandma Lou’s state of health, I felt blessed that she remembered the gentle tradition at all.

    My groom, Mark, found work in the city, and we moved into a small apartment. A garden was all but impossible, so I consoled myself by placing the seed jar in our living room. There it stood as a promise to return to the garden.

    Grandma Lou died the year our twins were born. By the time our sons were toddlers, I had moved the seed jar to the top of the refrigerator, where their curious little hands couldn’t tip over my treasure.

    Eventually we moved to a house, but there still wasn’t enough sun in our yard to plant a proper garden. Struggling yet courageous fescue grass vied for what little space there was between the dandelions, and it was all I could do to keep it mowed and occasionally watered.

    The boys grew up overnight, much like the weeds I continuously pulled. Soon they were out on their own, and Mark was looking at retirement. We spent our quiet evenings planning for a little place in the country, where Mark could fish and I could have a proper garden.

    A year later, Mark was hit by a drunk driver, paralyzing him from the neck down. Our savings went to physical therapy, and Mark gained some weak mobility in his arms and hands. But the simple day-to-day necessities still required a nurse.

    Between the hospital visits and the financial worries, I was exhausted. Soon Mark would be released to my care, and at half his size, I knew I wouldn’t even be able to lift him into our bed. I didn’t know what I would do. We couldn’t afford a day nurse, let alone full-time help, and assisted-care apartments were way out of our range.

    Left to myself, I was so tired I wouldn’t even bother to eat. But Jenny, my sister who lived nearby, visited me daily, forcing me to take a few bites of this or that. One night she arrived with a pan of lasagna, and she chatted cheerfully as we set our places. When she asked about Mark, I broke down in tears, explaining how he’d be home soon and how tight our money was running. She offered her own modest savings—even offered to move in and help take care of him—but I knew Mark’s pride wouldn’t allow it.

    I stared down at my plate, my appetite all but gone. In the quiet that fell between us, despair settled down to dinner like an old friend. Finally I pulled myself together and asked her to help me with the dishes. Jenny nodded and rose to put the leftover lasagna away. As the refrigerator door flopped to a close, the seed jar on top rattled against the wall. Jenny turned at the sound. What’s this? she asked, and reached for the jar.

    Looking up from the sink, I said, Oh, that’s just Grandma Lou’s seed jar. We each got one for a wedding present, remember? Jenny looked at me, then studied the jar.

    You mean you never opened it? she asked.

    Never had a patch of soil good enough for a garden, I guess.

    Jenny tucked the jar in one arm and grabbed my sudsy hand in her other. Come on! she said excitedly.

    Half dragging me, she went back to the dinner table. It took three tries, but she finally got the lid loose and overturned the jar upon the table. Seeds went bouncing everywhere! What are you doing?! I cried, scrambling to catch them. A pile of faded brown and tan seeds slid out around an old, yellow envelope. Jenny plucked it from the pile and handed it to me.

    Open it, she said, with a smile. Inside I found five stock certificates, each for one hundred shares. Reading the company names, our eyes widened in recognition. Do you have any idea what these are worth by now? she asked.

    I gathered a handful of seeds to my lips and said a silent prayer of thanks to Grandma Lou. She had been tending a garden for me all these years and had pressed a lifetime supply of love into that old Mason jar.

    Dee Berry

    Mr. Gillespie

    When I was in seventh grade, I was a candy striper at a local hospital in my town. I volunteered about thirty to forty hours a week during the summer. Most of the time I spent there was with Mr. Gillespie. He never had any visitors, and nobody seemed to care about his condition. I spent many days there holding his hand and talking to him, helping with anything that needed to be done. He became a close friend of mine, even though he responded with only an occasional squeeze of my hand. Mr. Gillespie was in a coma.

    I left for a week to vacation with my parents, and when I came back, Mr. Gillespie was gone. I didn’t have the nerve to ask any of the nurses where he was, for fear they might tell me he had died. So with many questions unanswered, I continued to volunteer there through my eighth-grade year.

    Several years later, when I was a junior in high school, I was at the gas station when I noticed a familiar face. When I realized who it was, my eyes filled with tears. He was alive! I got up the nerve to ask him if his name was Mr. Gillespie, and if he had been in a coma about five years ago. With an uncertain look on his face, he replied yes. I explained how I knew, and that I had spent many hours talking with him in the hospital. His eyes welled up with tears, and he gave me the warmest hug I had ever received.

    He began to tell me how, as he lay there comatose, he could hear me talking to him and could feel me holding his hand the whole time. He thought it was an angel, not a person, who was there with him. Mr. Gillespie firmly believed that it was my voice and touch that had kept him alive.

    Then he told me about his life and what happened to him to put him in the coma. We both cried for a while and exchanged a hug, said our good-byes and went our separate ways.

    Although I haven’t seen him since, he fills my heart with joy every day. I know that I made a difference between his life and his death. More important, he has made a tremendous difference in my life. I will never forget him and what he did for me: he made me an angel.

    Angela Sturgill

    Night Watch

    Not he who has much is rich, but he who gives much.

    Erich Fromm

    Your son is here, the nurse said to the old man. She had to repeat the words several times before the man’s eyes opened. He was heavily sedated and only partially conscious after a massive heart attack he had suffered the night before. He could see the dim outline of a young man in a Marine Corps uniform, standing alongside his bed.

    The old man reached out his hand. The Marine wrapped his toughened fingers around the old man’s limp hand and squeezed gently. The nurse brought a chair, and the tired serviceman sat down at the bedside.

    All through the night, the young Marine sat in the poorly lighted ward, holding the oldman’s hand and offering words of encouragement. The dyingman said nothing, but kept a feeble grip on the young man’s hand. Oblivious to the noise of the oxygen tank, the moans of the other patients, and the bustle of the night staff coming in and out of the ward, the Marine remained at the oldman’s side.

    Every now and then, when she stopped by to check on her patients, the nurse heard the young Marine whisper a few comforting words to the old man. Several times in the course of that long night, she returned and suggested that the Marine leave to rest for a while. But every time, the young man refused.

    Near dawn the old man died. The Marine placed the old man’s lifeless hand on the bed and left to find the nurse. While the nurse took the old man away and attended to the necessary duties, the young man waited. When the nurse returned, she began to offer words of sympathy, but the Marine interrupted her.

    Who was that man? he asked.

    Startled, the nurse replied, He was your father.

    No, he wasn’t, the young man said. I’ve never seen him before in my life.

    Then why didn’t you say something when I took you to him?

    I knew there had been a mistake by the people who sent me home on an emergency furlough. What happened was, there were two of us with the same name, from the same town and we had similar serial numbers. They sent me by mistake, the young man explained. But I also knew he needed his son, and his son wasn’t there. I could tell he was too sick to know whether I was his son or not. When I realized how much he needed to have someone there, I just decided to stay.

    Roy Popkin

    Turn Back

    Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.

    Anäis Nin

    How do you talk about the death of a little boy? In April of 1990, I received a piece of fan mail. There was a little boy from Long Island who was a patient at Memorial Cancer Center in New York, his name was Kyle, and at the time he was six. His grandfather, I learned, had read one of my books to the little guy, and Kyle enjoyed it. There was more to the letter, some sub-textual things, and this one grabbed me rather hard. It gave me an address, from which I got a phone number. So I called, and asked what I might do for Kyle. At the time I had a box full of poster-size aircraft photos—gifts from McDonnell–Douglas, the defense contractor—and since little boys usually like pictures of fighter planes, I sent a bunch.

    Chemotherapy, a form of treatment as thoroughly vile as it is vitally necessary, typically causes a child’s hair to fall out. This does give the excuse to wear hats, however, and I sent a few of those as well.

    Kyle suffered from Ewing’s sarcoma, a fast-growing cancer that afflicts young people, starting in a bone and moving, in time, to the lungs. There are no good forms of cancer, and this sort is worse than most. I’d later learn that Kyle’s personal version of cancer was mobile, virulent and unusually resistant to medical science. The odds never looked good, but this little guy was a fighter. He was also unusually bright, possessed of an active, questioning mind. It’s a fact that children stricken with serious disease are kicked way up the learning curve. They somehow become adults very quickly, though they never quite lose a child’s innocence. The result of this is both immensely sad and wonderfully charming. In any case, keeping the little guy entertained and distracted became a major diversion for me. It was like a little flag on the Rolodex. Whenever I happened to visit a new place I wondered if Kyle would like a souvenir, which would necessitate a letter explaining where I’d picked up the new gewgaw. Even so, sooner or later you run out of fresh ideas.

    At that point I started calling in markers. It has been my privilege to make numerous friends in the U.S. Military. These men and women have daily access to the most intricate bits of hardware known to civilized man, and kids invariably find them as interesting as I do.

    The first such unit I pinged was the 37th Tactical Fighter Wing, the people who own and operate the F-117A stealth fighter. Little prompting was needed. People in uniform live by the warrior’s code. Rule No. 1: The first duty of the strong is to protect the weak. Our people understand that. The first packet of material was followed by letters of encouragement even after the 37th deployed to fight in the Persian Gulf War.

    Kyle got one of the first videos of my movie—The Hunt for Red October—and just about memorized it. He wanted to see the USS Dallas, the submarine depicted in the story. It couldn’t be just any submarine—it had to be Dallas, but it was away on deployment, the Pentagon told me.

    On the Friday before the shooting started in the Persian Gulf, a little light bulb went off in my head, the one you get that says, Why don’t you call. And so I phoned up to Long Island, and learned that Kyle had just spent his first day in school in a year and a half.

    Ewing’s was gone, his parents told me. It was over. The little guy had lucked out and slain his particular dragon. That was some feeling. I got the word out as quickly as I could, especially to the 37th TFW in Saudi Arabia, and then I got back to work on my new book, secure in the knowledge that the good guys had won a small but important battle. Getting up to see Kyle became a matter

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