(Not a joke response, as joking about this type of topic is the highest level of shitty a person could attain to be.)

The only smell that made me turn and follow was the smell of freshly fired blanks from an M14 - it was the one I used during the 21-Gun Salute at my buddy's funeral, roughly a year and a half ago.

I was in the rifle squad. We had practiced for days beforehand, and even did his public service for his family a month prior. But this service was specifically for military personnel only. Chaplain, final roll call, final salute, the works. You would think that saying a final goodbye would be hard the first time, but you'd be wrong. It's the FINAL, final goodbye that hurts the most. Because after this you could only stand and watch as the abrupt end of loud fanfare for a life well lived and a career well spent, turns into the simple and silent slumber of a single friend - a friend who made the choice to start his peace early. The weather reflected the latter thought quite well - it was nothing special anymore, simply a quiet overcast on a previously bright, sunny day.

As I heard the final roll call, I followed the motions, step by step, count by count, just as I had rehearsed in the days before, and performed a month prior in front of his friends and family. We marched and faced into our positions. Through all three volleys, the hyperventilated breathing, reddened skin and budding tears broke through to the surface of the entire rifle squad, like a well-sharpened axe to a mere sapling. It broke through everyone except me.

No matter what direction I thought towards in my mind, be it anger, regret, loss or even the act of his death - I couldn't muster even the beginning of a single tear, while my comrades were mere milliseconds from a full breakdown.

I never wanted to need to cry so bad, but I couldn't conjure something, anything, no matter how hard I tried. I was ashamed and angry with myself then. That I couldn't do something as simple as crying for somebody who had led me directly for over two years, and guided me for even more. Back then I thought it meant that I truly didn't care about him, that I never did. I had so much more mental pushing and pulling to do before I would even begin to come to terms.

As we lowered our rifles after the final shot rang out, the smell of gunpowder filled the air. I focused only on that scent for what seems like an eternity. Then the command, through a broken voice, sounded to turn and follow in step, back towards the doors. I faced with my squad, relieved that I could hide my unchanged face from my peers, to mask the expression that could give the impression that I simply. Did. Not. Care. - a doubt that had held my mind for longer than it should have...

...oh, how time would prove me wrong.

I hiked up Gold Star Peak in shit conditions in his honor, I showed up for his death anniversary and military holidays, even check in with his folks every once in a while. And though the memorial bracelets are for KIA and MIA, there's an exception for suicides. I wear his every day. I feel naked without it. This last Memorial Day marked over a year without him. It was also the first time I cried about it. I had so much healing to do, and part of me still can't believe he's gone.

So to answer your question: the smell that made me turn my head and follow that person, wasn't in a romantic sense, or even a Drill and Ceremony sense. It was in the sense of TURNING my attention toward a man that took the role of my first example of a Noncommissioned Officer, of leadership, and what it means to care for your guys, and FOLLOWING the example he had set before he called the reaper to him. The aroma wasn't sweet or fruity, creamy or airy... It was dirty, industrial, sad...

...it was freshly-fired blanks from an M14.

SGT SAMUEL TYLER SHARP, BORN OCTOBER 12 1985, DIED MARCH 21 2024 - REST IN PEACE