COL Mike FitzGerald. USA, Ret

For fourteen years, everyone thought U.S. Air Force Technical Sergeant John Chapman died in the first two minutes on top of a freezing 10,000-foot mountain in Afghanistan. Then modern image technology unlocked the thermal camera footage recorded by a Predator drone circling high in the clouds on March 4, 2002. When Pentagon investigators watched the enhanced screen, hardened combat generals broke down in tears. Because the video proved that after everyone else had left the mountain peak, John Chapman woke up alone in the snow and fought an entire army by himself. That night on the peak of Takur Ghar, thirty-six-year-old Chapman, a father of two little girls from Connecticut, had charged uphill through thigh-deep snow alone to silence an enemy bunker and save his pinned-down team. Hit from a second bunker, he fell motionless. Believing he was dead, the surviving team was forced to retreat down the ridge. Chapman was not dead. The drone footage showed him regaining consciousness in the pitch-black snow, surrounded on three sides by enemy fighters, with nine separate wounds in his body. In total darkness, with no comrade beside him and nobody on earth watching except a silent camera in the sky, he refused to surrender. For more than an hour, he fought from inside the bunker, killing an enemy fighter in bare-handed close combat when they tried to rush him. Then, at dawn, Chapman heard the heavy thump of rotor blades in the mist. An American Chinook helicopter carrying twenty-three U.S. Army Rangers was flying straight toward the peak to rescue him, right into the sights of an enemy rocket launcher. Chapman knew that if he stayed safe inside the rock bunker, those twenty-three young Americans in the helicopter would be blown out of the sky. So on the thermal video, investigators watched John Chapman deliberately climb out of the bunker, stand up tall in the open snow, and fire into the enemy positions to draw every machine gun on the mountain onto his own chest. He died in the snow as the sun rose, shielding the incoming helicopter with his life. True bushido is what a warrior does when he thinks nobody will ever know his story. The sky was watching, John. And America will remember your name forever.

How many Americans know that for eight straight years after September 11, Japanese warships stood in 120-degree heat in the Indian Ocean to pump 135 million gallons of free fuel into the U.S. Navy? After the twin towers fell in 2001, American carrier strike groups raced to the Arabian Sea to strike terrorist strongholds in Afghanistan. Why could American warships not simply pull into Middle Eastern ports to refuel? Because just one year earlier, suicide bombers in a small boat had blown a forty-foot hole in the destroyer USS Cole in Yemen. Entering port meant risking ambush and losing days off the front line. Within weeks of 9/11, the Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force dispatched its fleet oilers, including JS Towada, JS Tokiwa, and JS Mashu, ten thousand miles from home. Sailing side by side with U.S. destroyers and cruisers at twelve knots across heavy ocean swells, Japanese sailors shot steel cables across the water and winched thick rubber fuel hoses into American tanks without spilling a single drop. From December 2001 to January 2010, Japanese crews completed 939 underway refueling operations. They delivered 510,000 kiloliters, roughly 135 million gallons of fuel, plus 11,000 tons of fresh water, entirely paid for by the Japanese taxpayer. On the final day of the mission in January 2010, American sailors lined the rails of their warship in the blazing sun, took off their caps, and saluted the Japanese crew as the hoses were uncoupled for the last time. True loyalty does not ask for a camera. It holds the line for eight years in the sun.