Lance Cpl. William H. Crouse IV

I knew him as Billy, a sleepy-eyed new student in my second period American Lit class during my short-lived career as a high school English teacher.

Billy and I bonded because he was from northern Indiana, just like me, and I knew what it was like to be the new kid in high school. I distinctly remember the look on his face when he found out I was from Indiana. It was that look that teachers talk about when they talk about "the light bulb coming on." Unfortunately, it wasn't because I actually taught him something. It was just the surprise of being from the same far away region of the country. It was enough to wake Billy from his slumber and get him to listen to me ramble about some boring ass Jonathan Edwards "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God," hell-is-real Puritan sermon bullshit. And that was enough for me.

I didn't last long in school. Billy did better. He was the big fullback on the football team that needs a big fullback. He graduated, became a Marine and recently died a hero while searching for bombs in fucked up Afghanistan.

It makes me angry. It's sad. It sucks.

Here's part of the story.

Rest in peace, Billy.