The sniper fired. It was a clean shot, if there is such a thing. And down for good fell another U.S. soldier.
His name was Sergeant James Dean, but everyone called him Jamie. He was the farm boy who fished, hunted and tossed a horseshoe like nobody else. He was the guy at the end of Toots Bar, nursing a Bud and talking NASCAR. He was the driver of that blue Silverado at the red light, his hands on the wheel, his mind on combat horrors that made him moody, angry, withdrawn.
Now here he was, another U.S. soldier, dead. Only Dean was killed at the front door of his childhood home, the day after Christmas and three weeks before his redeployment, shot by a sniper representing the government for whom he had already risked his life in Afghanistan. His wife and parents received the news not by a knock on the door, but by gunfire in the neighbourhood.
“IF THEY HAD just left him alone,” says his wife, Muriel. . .