Story this Wednesday-A forgotten Hero!

 Story this Wednesday-A forgotten Hero!

20 bikers refused to leave a dying veteran's hospital room No. 314 of unnamed VA hospital, even when security threatened to arrest them all. Old Jim had been dying alone for three weeks, no visitors, no family, just a forgotten Marine, in a VA hospital bed, counting his last breaths.major battle in which the United States Marine Corps (USMC) and United States Navy (USN) landed on and eventually captured the island of Iwo Jima) 

was going to die without a single person holding his hand, something extraordinary happened, that had the entire hospital staff in tears.

The bikers came from five different states, some riding through the night, others taking time off work they couldn't afford to lose, all because of a promise they'd made, to never let a veteran die alone.

"Sir, visiting hours are over," the security guard said for the third time, his hand resting on his radio. "I'm going to have to call the police if you don't leave."

Big Mike, President of the Veterans Motorcycle Alliance didn't even look up from where he sat holding Jim's frail hand. He gently stroked the old man’s paper-thin skin. "Then call them," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble. "We're not leaving him."

The truth was, none of them even knew Jim personally. 

He was just another forgotten hero, dying in room 314. But when Katie, the night nurse, had posted that message "Please, someone, anyone. This man survived Iwo Jima and he's dying alone. He keeps asking if anyone's coming. I don't know what to tell him." the motorcycle community responded like Jim was their own grandfather.

What happened over the next 72 hours, would change how that hospital treated dying veterans forever and it started with a promise made by men in leather, who understood, that brotherhood doesn't end, when the uniform comes off.

The security guard made the call. Ten minutes later, two police officers appeared in the doorway, their expressions stern. The small hospital room was crowded and hot, filled with the scent of leather and antiseptic. Big Mike finally looked up, his eyes weary but unflinching.

"Folks, you've been asked to leave," the older officer began, his voice firm. "This is a hospital."

"He's a Marine," a biker in the corner named 'Stitch', replied, his voice thick with emotion. "He's one of us."

The officer’s eyes scanned the room, taking in the scene. He saw the worn patches on their vests: 'Vietnam Vet,' 'Desert Storm,' 'OEF.' He saw the gentle way one biker was adjusting Jim's pillow. He saw the quiet reverence. His gaze finally rested on a small Marine Corps insignia, tattooed on Big Mike's forearm. The officer’s posture softened almost imperceptibly.

"What's his name?" the officer asked, his tone shifting from authoritative to respectful.

"Jim," Nurse Katie whispered from the corner, where she stood watching, tears in her eyes. "He has no one."

The officer nodded slowly. He turned to his partner. "Radio the Chief. Tell him the situation." Then he looked at the security guard. "These men aren't causing any trouble. They're paying their respects. We'll stand by."

Word spread through the hospital. The Director, a man more concerned with budgets and regulations, than with bedside manners, came storming up to the floor, ready to read the riot act. He was met at the nurse's station by the police officer.

"You can't have a gang of bikers taking over a patient's room!" the Director hissed.

"They're not a gang, Sir," the officer said calmly. "They're a guard of honour. And frankly, if you try to throw them out now, you'll have a PR nightmare on your hands. That nurse's post has been shared over fifty thousand times. The local news is already on its way."

Defeated, the Director backed down. And with that, the siege turned into a vigil. The hospital staff, who had been nervous at first, began to see the bikers for who they were. They brought in extra chairs. Someone started a pot of coffee down the hall. Other nurses, hearing the story, came to offer their help on their breaks.

For three days, the bikers of the Veterans Motorcycle Alliance kept their watch. They took turns in shifts, ensuring Jim's hand was always held. They spoke to him in low, comforting voices, telling him stories of the road, of their own service, of brothers lost and found. They hummed old wartime tunes. They read him psalms from a small, worn Bible one of them carried in his saddlebag. They filled that sterile, lonely room with a warmth and a life, it hadn't known.

On the third evening, something changed. Jim, who had been mostly unresponsive, stirred. His eyelids fluttered open. His gaze was cloudy, but he seemed to see the circle of weathered faces around his bed. His chest rose and fell in a long, slow breath. A single tear traced a path down his wrinkled cheek. He squeezed Big Mike's hand, a faint, final pressure. And then, he was gone. He had not died alone. He had died a Marine, flanked by his brothers.

There was no wailing, no grand display of grief. Just a heavy, reverent silence. The bikers stood for a long moment, each lost in his own thoughts. Big Mike gently placed Jim's hand on his chest, leaned over, and whispered, "Rest easy, brother. Your watch is over."

They didn't just leave after that. They pooled their money and arranged for Jim’s funeral. They learned he had no savings, no plot, nothing. So they gave him a hero's send-off. A procession of over a hundred motorcycles, escorted the hearse to the local veterans' cemetery, their engines a thunderous, final salute.

A month later, Nurse Katie was walking past room 314. She stopped. The door was open, and inside, another elderly veteran, lay in the dim light. And sitting in the chair beside him, holding his hand, was a man in a leather vest with a 'Veterans Motorcycle Alliance' patch on the back.The Hospital Director, moved by the quiet dignity of Jim’s final days, had created a new program: the 'Final Honor Guard.He had officially partnered with Big Mike's organization. Now, whenever a veteran was dying alone, a call was made. And the bikers always answered.

The roar of their engines in the hospital parking lot was no longer a sound of rebellion. It was the sound of a promise. It was the sound of compassion. It was the sound of heroes coming for their own.

A Nation's flag  does not fly because the wind moves it.It flies 

with last breath of each soldier who died protecting it. 

Let this story reach more hearts.

 "Kuch yaad unhei.n bhi kar lo,jo laut ke ghar na aayeay"

And remember each great soldier,Who did not return 

home ever. 

                                ( 1940-20?? )

 ---Searched,compiled and illustrated by Tejinder Kamboj