by Joe Gribble
Hometown Heroes
A Novel By
Joe Gribble
Copyright 2013 Joe Gribble
The American’s Creed
I believe in the United States of America, as a government of the people, by the people, for the people, whose just powers are derived from the consent of the governed; a democracy in a republic; a sovereign Nation of many sovereign States; a perfect union, one and inseparable; established upon those principles of freedom, equality, justice, and humanity for which American patriots sacrificed their lives and fortunes.
I therefore believe it is my duty to my country to love it, to support its Constitution, to obey its laws, to respect its flag, and to defend it against all enemies.
The Creed was written by William Tyler Page and was adopted by the U.S. House of Representatives on April 3, 1918.
I am an American.
Preface
Two events moved me to write this story. The first event occurred in the summer of 2011. That summer I was visiting the emergency room at the Wright Patterson Air Force Base Medical Center (I had dropped a steel beam on my foot and wasn’t sure if I had broken anything, but that’s another story). While I was in the waiting room, a man came in and walked up to the reception counter, not 10 feet from where I sat. He pulled a pistol from the waistband of his shorts and pointed it at his head. A USAF staff sergeant had just come into the area behind the otherwise empty reception desk. He was shocked and tried to get the man to calm down. The man with the gun told the staff sergeant, “I have PTSD and can’t take it anymore.” Then the man with the gun pulled the trigger.
Fortunately, I think self-preservation kicked in at the last second and his hand wavered. The bullet missed his head by a fraction of an inch, and he was eventually talked out of committing suicide. I found out later that this wasn’t some kid just back from Iraq or Afghanistan—this was a senior soldier whose demons still haunted him.
I believe many Americans don't understand how prevalent injuries are among our returning warriors—both obvious injuries and ”hidden” injuries such as traumatic brain injury (TBI) and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) —or how devastating both the obvious and hidden injuries can be.
The second event that motivated me to write this story was a celebration we hold at the Dayton Dragons baseball field (Fifth Third Field). The Dragons are a Cincinnati Reds farm team, and the company I work for sponsors a pair of events, in coordination with the Dragons, to honor our military. During the game we welcome airmen returning from overseas, facilitate a video greeting from a deployed warrior to his family, and stand proud as a group of youngsters take their oath of enlistment. This, to me, is a very moving experience as the local community honors our heroes.
I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you are like me, and you get choked up when you hear the National Anthem or watch Old Glory pass by in a parade, I think you’ll love it.
I’m donating fifty percent of my revenue from this book to military-friendly charities. You can help me decide which charities to support. See how at the end of the book. I look forward to your input.
Joe G.
Acknowledgement
This story is dedicated to all those who have gone before, and to all who will follow, in the defense of freedom and liberty.
We can never sufficiently repay those honorable men and women who sacrifice for the rest of us. They give their time, their sweat, and their blood. We owe them a great deal, and we must never forget.
My sincere thanks to Cindy Dodson and Johanna Gribble for their superb editing of this book. Any remaining errors you find are a result of me ignoring their suggested corrections.
Finally, thanks to my initial sponsors who were kind enough to evaluate the story and think it worthy of their endorsements, and for identifying worthy, military friendly charities to support with the revenue from the sales:
Sparrow Six-Five (Facebook) supports National Veterans Homeless Support (www.nvhs.us)
US Military (Facebook Group) supports Wounded Warrior Project (www.woundedwarriorproject.org)
Dysfunctional Veterans (Facebook) supports The Warrior Connection (www.warriorconnection.org)
Michael Schlitz (Through Burnt Eyes – Facebook) supports The Gary Sinise Foundation (www.garysinisefoundation.org)
FreedomToActFilms supports Fisher House (www.fisherhouse.org)
For a current summary of how much we’ve donated to these and other charities, please visit https://www.freedomtoactfilms.com or the Hometown Heroes Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/H2NovelCharity
HOMETOWN HEROES
A novel by
Joe Gribble
Forward Operating Base Victory—Afghanistan
A makeshift baseball field lies in the protected, secluded outskirts of the operational military base. A pair of pickup teams, each composed of both American military and Afghan trainees, play for bragging rights. The teams are very nontraditional in their uniforms. They wear piece-parts of their military uniforms, with various jerseys and ball caps of their favorite teams added to their dress. They’re pitted against each other in America’s favorite pastime.
The light breeze doesn’t cool in the least. It only serves to stir up the fine sand in the infield. There’s no grass to slow the onslaught of the gritty wind, and the powdery sand slips into every skin crevice where it mixes with sweat to become an abrasive nuisance.
U.S. Air Force Staff Sergeant Bob Williams, early twenties, sits on the bench, watching the action out on the field. He pounds his fist into his glove, impatiently waiting for his own turn on the pitcher’s mound.
Ignoring the oppressive heat, the opposing pitcher wipes his face with a uniform sleeve, rubbing the sandpapery sweat across his brow and pushing the perspiration away from his eyes. He takes his signal from the catcher and nods. Glancing down, he kicks the flattened truck tire tread that serves as the traditional “rubber” marking the pitcher’s mound. He grinds his combat boot down onto the rubber and leans forward. The pitcher glances over at third base where a base runner takes a few steps toward home. The pitcher then turns his attention to home plate, staring down the batter.
The batter, an Afghan soldier, taps his bat against the metal plate that serves as home base, then glances back at his teammates. They yell support from beyond a tall chain-link fence, its top lined with barbed wire. As they shout encouragement, the Afghan batter flashes a broad grin. He takes a couple of practice swings, locks his bat over his left shoulder, then faces the pitcher and waits.
The pitcher smiles, then winds up and unloads. The curve ball starts outside but breaks swiftly inward toward the batter.
The batter waits until the last moment to begin his swing. He connects at a less than optimal angle with a dull thud, and the ball bounces across the barren infield toward the shortstop.
The runner on third base races for home, digging through the rock-littered sand.
The shortstop takes two quick steps forward and drops his glove to the ground. He scoops up the ball and throws hard to the catcher.
The race is close. The runner dives for the metal plate as the catcher grabs the ball and swings down. The runner slides face first into the loose sand. The catcher tags the runner as he reaches for the plate.
As the sand and dust settle, both runner and catcher look up at the umpire.
The umpire dramatically waves his fist outward, thumb extended for all to see. “He’s out!”
The dejected runner slams his fist into the ground before climbing back to his feet and rambling back toward his team’s bench.
The catcher pumps his fist into the air and holds three fingers up, yelling, “That’s three.” He waves for his team to come in and trots toward his own team’s bench. The r
est of the team runs in, wiping away sweat and congratulating each other for an inning well played.
The umpire uses a small brush to wipe the dirt off of home plate. He straightens back up, pushing his dangling rifle back over his shoulder.
Bob comes off the bench and heads for the field, grabbing a baseball off the ground. He wears a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap with his combat uniform.
Staff Sergeant Johnny Gamble follows Bob out. He also wears a Reds cap, and a full set of catcher’s equipment covers his uniform. Johnny slaps Bob on the back. “Three up, three down, brother—let's do this!”
“No sweat,” Bob replies.
They split up, Johnny heading for home plate and Bob for the pitcher’s mound.
Johnny squats behind the plate and waves at Bob as the rest of the team heads for the field.
At the mound, Bob steps on the flattened tire tread. He digs his combat boot into the rubber and throws a couple of easy, warm-up pitches to Johnny. He finally goes into