Hens and Heroes

I was wounded in battle the other day.

Unlike so many veterans, servicemembers and families we honor, my wound is barely skin-deep.

Unlike so many World War I veterans who paved the way for the first Veterans Day, I’ll survive.

For the last few weeks, I have been watching a little white hen set on a nest of straw in the barn.

One morning, she clucked and herded three yellow chicks and three black chicks over to the feeding area.

Chicks are cute and fuzzy no matter the time of year, but a late fall hatch will face the mighty, frigid enemy of vulnerable babies.

Our warm, dry weather must have tricked the hen’s instincts, but a recent day of 40-degree soaking rain foreshadowed the changing season.

Watching a hen manage six chicks can be nerve-wracking. They don’t follow in a row like ducklings or goslings. They scatter and chirp and peck in random directions. The hen seems to ignore them completely.

I know better than to be lulled into security by her seemingly inattentiveness, though.

Her walnut-sized brain has one job: Protect her chicks.

A couple of days after the chicks appeared, they were wandering along the board fence that is the south side of the barn.

Suddenly, panicked chick-cheeps exploded the tranquility of the barn.

One yellow chick was left outside the board fence.

All the others had disappeared inside.

I softly picked up the deserted chick, cradled its fuzziness for a second, then set it inside the board fence, hoping it had a slim chance of finding its family.

A furious beak attached to flailing white feathers came from nowhere, pecking and beating at the danger to her baby.

I dropped the chick and retreated, white rage chasing me, my screams only adding to the battlefield chaos.

Drops of my own blood trailed after me.

Finally out of range, I dabbed at my oozing hand.

The next time I went to the barn, the white hen stink–eyed me.

I kept my distance from her potent weaponry, only coming close enough to count to six.

The next morning, I counted only five.

One yellow chick – possibly my rescue baby– lay on its side, eyes half closed.

The laws of the season had meted natural justice.

I picked it up to take it away.

It wiggled.

Shocked and wary, I glanced around for the white hen before tucking the chick inside my shirt, the warmest spot I could think of in the moment.

The hen glanced at her five darting babies, ignoring me.

I finished my chores while the chick peeped and wiggled inside my shirt.

Back at the house, I found a box, filled an old sock with some oatmeal and warmed it in the microwave. I cut the bottom out of a pop bottle for a water trough, then pulled the chick from my shirt.

Its head flopped, its eyes glazed.

Gravity had choked the baby.

The hen still stink-eyes me every time she sees me, ready to go to battle again if necessary.

She fights valiantly against natural laws and predators to keep her babies safe.

That fierce white hen reminds me of the men and women who have fought – and still fight -- valiantly, often against the odds, to protect and defend us, the vulnerable chirping chicks back home.

They use every weapon available.

They focus on one, singular job.

They give everything they have, mentally and physically.

We, the randomly scattered, disorganized chicks of our nation, need to line up on November 11 to honor the men, women and families who serve or have served our country as if our lives depend on them.

Because they do.

Veterans, we appreciate you.