by Bill Brewer
“Don’t wait for them to ask. Tell them something stupid, like I was so upset that I ran away. Don’t let them know that you know where I am.”
“You think they’ll buy that?”
“I’ll write a note, and you can tell them you found it in the car. It’ll keep their anger on me. I’m also going to leave my phone in the car.”
“But I want to be able to talk to you.”
“I’ll get a new phone in Georgia, and we can text.”
“We can’t talk?”
“We’ll see, but I’ll text you as soon as I get a new phone.”
Parking the car in the lot of a convenience store, David scowled at the sight of the Bemidji bus station. In any other city, the station would only be considered a bus stop. Using the back of an envelope he found in the glove box, David wrote a note. He left his mom in the car to read what he’d written to his father and Jake as he walked toward the convenience store.
Dear Dad and Jake,
I’m so sorry for the way I’ve acted lately, and I apologize for the incident that led to Dad being shot. I know forgiveness is hard, but I ask you to search your hearts for some measure of understanding of how bad I feel about the way things have turned out. I’m going away. I don’t know where, but I won’t be seeing any of you again. Good-bye.
David
David picked up his ticket at the store, then came back to the car to find his mom crying.
“David, your note made me so sad. I can’t believe our family has disintegrated like this.”
“Mom, I just wrote the note to keep them from figuring out that I’m in the Army. I’ll see you again, and when I do, I’ll be a soldier in the US Army. Now give me a hug.” She leaned over and embraced him, but the finality of his note left her feeling like this goodbye was for a lot longer than either of them knew.
They didn’t have much longer to wait before the bus pulled up to the curb in front of them. Only two other passengers were waiting to board. After getting his duffel bag out of the trunk, David embraced his mother with all the strength of his love.
“I’m trying to be brave for you, David, but I’m gonna miss you.”
“Mom, you just did the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. You stepped in front of Jake, willing to take a bullet for me.”
Denise gasped as she averted her gaze to the ground, saying, “David, I did what any loving mother would do.”
“You did a lot more than that, and I will never forget it. You saved my life. You also did a great job raising me, and now it’s time to show the world who your son is.”
“I’m so proud of you, David. I love you so much.”
“I love only you, Mom, and I will carry that with me everywhere I go.”
Diegert saw the bus driver waving his arm. He kissed his mother on the forehead, slung the bag’s strap over his shoulder, and walked backward to the bus. Through the window, Diegert saw his mother still standing at the rear of the car as the bus pulled away and moved down the road.
5
Twenty-four weeks of training in Fort Benning Georgia earned David Diegert the rank of private first class. He distinguished himself by achieving expert marksmanship on the firing range with rifles and handguns, as well as mastery of Level IV in Modern Army Combatives. Diegert paid attention to his instructors and not only learned to become an effective and efficient fighter, but he also embodied the Army’s creed of selfless service and teamwork. Now stationed at Fort Hood, outside Austin, Texas, he was a soldier in the 1st Cavalry Division. An enlisted infantryman, whose skills and abilities were broad enough to fulfill many different roles in the Army’s vast network of needs.
Through texts with his mother, he learned that Tom did not see a doctor, and although the wound had healed, the slug remained in his hip. The limp in his gait was worse in the morning, but whenever he was in pain, he had David to blame. Surprisingly, Tom did not let Jake burn the note that David had written them; instead, he folded it carefully and kept it in a drawer. David wondered if it was sentiment or hope for vengeance that caused his father to keep it.
“Private David Diegert,” shouted Sergeant Jesse Rodriguez from the entrance of the barracks.
“Yes, Sergeant,” snapped Diegert as he jumped off his bunk and stood at attention.
“Get over here, Diegert. I’ve got something important for you.”
Diegert quickly hightailed it over to his sergeant, who led him through the barracks door.
“Captain Corcoran wants to see you. Head over to his office right now.”
Bursting with excitement, Diegert briskly walked to the captain’s office. He had applied for Ranger School and was hoping the captain was going to tell him that he’d been accepted. In the captain’s office, Diegert stood at attention.
“At ease, soldier,” said the dark-haired thirty-something captain. Looking up from a file on his desk, he continued, “David…Diegert, you’ve been here at Fort Hood for four weeks. How do you like Texas?”
“I like it, sir. I love the 1st Cavalry.”
“Good, that’s what you’re supposed to say, and I appreciate a man who knows his role.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know why I’ve called you here today?”
“No, sir.”
“Care to guess?”
“Well, sir, I did apply to Ranger School, and I’m hoping you’re going to tell me I’ve been selected.”
The captain stepped from behind his desk and paced over to Diegert.
“Private Diegert, I’m afraid that is not the case. You are being deployed to Afghanistan.”
What? When? Why? The questions raced through his brain, but he had learned not to give voice when receiving orders from an officer.
“You’re shipping out tonight, and it’s just you.”
“Just me? Why…?” The statement burst forth before Diegert could restrain it. “Sorry, sir.”
Captain Corcoran stepped closer to Diegert.
“We’re the rear detachment for our company in Afghanistan. One of our squads suffered a loss, and through the individual replacement program you are being sent to backfill the open position.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stepping out of Diegert’s personal space, the captain continued. “You’ll be joining a squad from the 1st Cavalry. Fellow soldiers who’ve trained here at Fort Hood just like you. You are the only one going, but don’t make it sound like we’re abandoning you like a lost puppy. Get your shit together and report to transport at 1600.”
“Yes, sir.”
He sent a text to his mother, letting her know he was being deployed to Afghanistan.
Thirty-six hours later, the hot, dry environment of central Texas seemed like an oasis compared to the even hotter, drier, dustier conditions at Kandahar International Airport in Afghanistan. The heat was oppressive, and the fine sand in the air started to clog David’s nose with silica snot.
6
Private First Class David Diegert reported to his support squad in Afghanistan, where he was immediately treated like the Fucking New Guy and given the shittiest jobs of this unique MOS. Led by Lieutenant Alvin Prescott, this group of enlisted general service soldiers supported the operations of a Special Forces unit referred to as the Syringes.
Opium is to Afghanistan as corn is to Iowa. Right away Diegert became aware of the squad’s role in the effort to sustain the progress that had been made in Afghanistan. The squad ran ten tons of opium a month. They moved it onto base, packed it in mislabeled crates, and smuggled it to the United States on return flights of supply planes privately contracted by the Department of Defense. The organization went right up the chain of command, although none of the activities would ever appear in an official report. Little green men like Diegert and the rest of the enlisted just followed orders. Hush money kept their mouths shut, while all the cargo was being transferred to private contractors. The flights didn’t return to military bases but to corporate fulfillment centers where the illicit contraband found its way to
market.
The Special Forces guys, in spite of all their combat capacity, realized you couldn’t build peace if you keep shooting people. So they’d set up the opium network to appease the local tribal leaders. The opium gets to market, the locals get paid, and the Syringes make money as the middlemen. The Afghans who are helped become allies. The illicit trade keeps the peace, which was the primary objective of the entire mission. The rise of heroin on American streets should surprise no one.
For Diegert, the whole thing was such a disappointment. All the training in the Army focused on the mission as defined by combat objectives and enemies overtaken. This was illegal bullshit, appeasing the enemy rather than defeating them. He hated his role as drug mule supplying opium to the US, which would end up as heroin being sold by dealers like his brother Jake! As Diegert contemplated this dissonance of purpose, he heard his name.
“Hey, Diegert,” shouted Lieutenant Alvin Prescott.
Diegert stopped packing a crate with burlap bags of fresh opium to see his jerk of a superior officer standing by the entrance of the hangar in which they processed the Afghan’s most important export. Prescott motioned for Diegert to come over to him.
“Yes, sir?”
“I just got done inspecting your weapon.”
“I’m not due for inspection for two more days.”
“Shut up, I can inspect anything at any time, and your weapon was insufficiently cleaned and lubricated.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Stepping forward and looking up at Diegert, Prescott emphasized his point.
“Don’t you get insolent with me or the shit you’re in will just get deeper. I’m fining you three thousand dollars.”
Diegert couldn’t believe his ears. This little idiotic officer was using his power to make up for his shortcomings as a person. His latest gambit was to extract outrageous fines from his soldiers’ drug hush money for infractions of military protocol. Mixing the “business” and the military was totally wrong, but his greed knew no bounds. Several guys had paid the fines, and this had emboldened their hollow leader to expand his extortions.
“You can’t do that,” replied Diegert.
“You want to make it five thousand? I know exactly how much money you’ve got, and if you can’t meet minimum “Army Strong” standards, then a monetary sanction will get your attention.”
Diegert stuck his finger into Prescott’s thin chest, saying, “You can’t mix the business with the Army.”
Slapping Diegert’s hand aside, Prescott launched into a tirade. “You do not speak to me like that, and how dare you touch me? I’ll have you in the stockade so fast you’d think one of those sandstorms sucked you into your cell. I’m your superior officer, and you will submit to my orders and abide by my discipline.”
Diegert’s boiling temper was not extinguished by Prescott’s salivary spray. He pushed Prescott’s chest with both hands, forcing the surprised lieutenant to stumble. Diegert grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and punched him twice in the face as he swung the lieutenant’s body and tossed him to the ground. Prescott’s torso skidded to a stop in the sand, and he struggled to rise.
“Hey, you can’t…” Diegert didn’t wait for the rest of the statement before he front kicked him in the chest, sprawling him onto his back. Grabbing him again by his shirt, Diegert hauled him up off the ground. Prescott swung his fist, striking Diegert in the head with such little force it stunned Diegert how weak this man was. Diegert spun Prescott around, kicked his legs out from under him, and slammed his face into the sandy ground. A group of soldiers started to gather.
Diegert brought his face down to Prescott’s and growled, “You are a prick, and I will not take your shit.”
Standing up and walking away, Diegert was tackled by four MPs, who cuffed him and took him immediately to the stockade. Prescott stood up and brushed himself off while limping to medical. None of the soldiers under his command stepped up to help him.
Captain Dylan Reeves from the Judge Advocate General’s Corp was assigned to serve as Diegert’s lawyer. He conducted the requisite defendant interview in Diegert’s stockade cell.
“So, reading this report doesn’t reveal much for me to use in your defense. You wanna tell me why you beat the shit out of your commanding officer?”
Diegert looked at the clean-cut captain, but the tone of the question made him feel like he was not talking to someone who was on his side. Diegert knew that ratting on the opium operation was not an option. If he spoke against them, the Syringes would see to it that he was KIA in a couple of days. That’s what happened to Emmitt Stilchus, the guy he replaced. The official report listed his death as the result of an improvised explosive device, which was true, but the Syringes set up that IED when Stilchus stupidly told everyone he was going to blow the whistle if he didn’t get more money.
“The situation between Lieutenant Prescott and me was a personal issue.”
“Were you and your superior officer having an inappropriate sexual relationship?”
“No!” replied Diegert, bristling at the accusation within the question.
“If you’re not going to tell me about the incident, then how about you tell me a little bit about yourself.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I know you’re from Broward County in the northern part of Minnesota, you have a black belt in karate, you were a state champion wrestler, and you’ve earned skill level four in Modern Army Combatives. You’re assigned to the 1st Cavalry Division out of Fort Hood, and back in high school you were referred to as ‘Tonto.’”
Diegert’s annoyed expression suddenly turned more agitated at the use of his hated nickname.
“Back in the day, you didn’t like that name, did ya? Now you’d beat up anybody who called you that, wouldn’t ya?”
Diegert felt the pain of his heritage once again tearing at his heart. His mother’s mix of white and Native American blood made her an outcast of both the white and Ojibwa cultures of northern Minnesota. Even though his mother had married a white man, making Diegert only a quarter native, he was still referred to as an Ojib-white by the kids in school. They constantly taunted him, reminding him to stay in his place.
Reeves continued. “It’s amazing what you can find out about someone with a Web search. How about you tell me a little bit more about your family? What was your father like?”
Diegert’s contempt was hard to hide as he recalled the fool who was his father. Tom Diegert was short, fat, bald, perpetually dirty, and regularly drunk. He ran a tow-truck business in a rural area where everyone had four-wheel drives. He treated his wife like shit, making worse their mismatched marriage. She was taller than he, lean with long black hair and an exotic face. To Tom Diegert, she was the squaw he married so she wouldn’t be homeless in the dead of winter. Tom Diegert had been in the Army as a young man, and even though he hadn’t done shit with the rest of his life, he was proud of his military service. For Diegert to tell his father that he’d been dishonorably discharged was really going to suck, especially since Tom didn’t even know he was in the Army.
“My father is a proud military veteran; he’ll be angry with me if I’m dishonorably discharged.”
“I could see that being uncomfortable. What branch of the service was he in?”
“The Army.”
“Where was he stationed?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was his rank?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“So did you and your dad discuss your commitment to serve?”
“No.”
Reeves sat quietly, waiting for more information, which Diegert did not provide.
“How about your mom?”
Diegert’s mother was the person he admired most in the world—the one person he truly loved. She was hardworking, dedicated, and thoughtful. She had issues with fear and lack of self-confidence, remnants of growing up in foster homes after her own mother committed suicide when Denise was t
welve. Despite her difficulties, she showed David a mother’s love and made sure the house was a comfortable sanctuary for her second son.
“My mom is a beautiful, loving woman who always puts others before herself.”
“Sounds lovely. Was the marriage between her and your Father a happy one?”
“Not really.”
Again, Reeves let the silence linger, but Diegert added nothing.
“You know the process of getting to know someone benefits from explanations that are longer than just two words.”
“Oh really?” was Diegert’s only reply.
Reeves grew impatient. “Any brothers or sisters?”
His brother, Jake, was just like his father, short, loud, and focused on himself. He played football, which his dad loved, followed, and supported. He, too, was a half-breed but crossed the line and hung with the cool kids by being their drug dealer. At first, he’d sold stolen beer, then pot and pills, and then heroin and crystal meth. He made sure David’s life remained miserable. Often when Diegert was working at his job at the mini-mart, Jake and his friends would smash jars and make a mess in an aisle just so they could laugh at him while he cleaned it up.
“My brother, Jake, is a jerk. I don’t talk to him very often.”
“Sibling rivalry?”
“He doesn’t have anything I desire.”
“How about growing up was he someone you could trust and confide in?”
“Definitely not.”
“I see. Why did you join the Army?’
“For the college benefits. I want to do my active duty, get out, and go to school on the GI Bill.”
“Wouldn’t a student loan be a better idea?”
Diegert tilted his head back and cast an unappreciative look upon his lawyer.
“Anyway—I don’t see a sense of patriotism in you, a desire to serve your country, or the motivation to fulfill a family tradition. The Army is simply a means to an end for you, and I think you’re now finding that the role of a soldier requires a lot more work and sacrifice than any semester in college. What do you want to study in school?”