As the day for Last Bullet’s premiere neared, my mind was on clerical tasks—do we have a projector and screen? Is the poster ready? Am I packed?—the list was immense. Riding up the snow-hassled highway, I thought back to the beginning of the project. Jason had called me and asked what I thought of writing a story about two soldiers confronting an intense life or death situation. Well, there is nothing more threatening than war. So, I began thinking of an outline and within a few days, a loose script was in hand. As I started revising, I thought about my uncles who fought in WWII and about my friend and my cousin who made it through Vietnam and even the soldiers I meet in the airport as they leave families behind on their way back to our current conflicts. And I wanted to make sure my words told a story they would think represented a soldier’s courage in the most difficult of circumstances. They were my filter.

When filming began, and during the weeks leading up to that Friday in October, my focus once again became immediate and task-oriented. And it remained that way until an hour or so before the movie was to be shown for the first time to total strangers. I was walking out to my car when I saw a man in his 60s get out of his truck. He was tall with a rugged face and a calm aura. He wore a baseball cap with the words Vietnam Veteran stitched on the side. Suddenly, the story, the revising, the filming at night, everything involved, changed. Here I had been trying to create a story about something this man lived through and I didn’t know how to react. All I could do was thank him for coming to the screening.

In all, maybe 6 veterans showed up, mixed in with their families and other supporters.  Before we began, the veterans were polite and gracious but their actions were reserved. We thanked everyone for coming and said we welcomed any comments or questions after the screening. The lights were turned down and the movie began. To be honest, my mind was numb as I watched the images of two young men dealing with something people shouldn’t have to. I relived moments from the six months of writing and production. And then it was over. The credits began to scroll down the screen and I waited for anything, a sound, a whisper. But there was total silence. Diane asked if she should turn on the lights and I said yes. When she did, a flood of emotion burst forth—cheers, and whistle or two, and applause.  I stumbled my way to the front and Jason and I were humbled by the comments.
“It was the most realistic portrayal of that world since We Were Soldiers,” one man said.
“I was worried about Matt,” said another.

Then Manny, the local commander, spoke. “We were called baby killers, we were spit on, no one thanked us for anything we did.” He voice broke as he continued, “We were young kids but we did our duty for our country. And for each other. Matt and Shane are us.”
Manny said he would do whatever he could to help promote our film. But he, and the other veterans, had already done more for us than they could ever imagine. To hear their voices acknowledge our work is a feeling I will never forget.
This project became more than I ever expected. When Jimmy came up to me with misty eyes and struggled to say, “Matt got to go home”, words cannot explain the emotion I felt. I answered, “Yes, he did.” It was a simple moment. And stunningly powerful.
I thank him and all the guys who came out on a cold winter night to share that moment. And to their friends who couldn’t.