by Joe Gribble
stunning scene. “Yeah. Real pretty. Let’s mount up.”
“At least we have rear guard. Safest place to be,” Johnny says as he pulls his M-4 off his back and pushes it into the cab of the Hummer before climbing in to ride shotgun.
“Ain’t nowhere safe once we get outside the wire,” Bob says. “Keep your eyes open.”
---
Military Convoy—Afghanistan
Bob maneuvers their Humvee along the pothole-infested dirt path mistakenly marked as a road on their maps. Even this close to Kabul, the country is in a shambles. Johnny keeps watch from his position riding shotgun, his eyes scanning from right to left, his M-4 at the ready.
Ahead, a small convoy of cargo trucks led by another Humvee meanders into a small village of earthen structures. It’s almost like a ghost town. There are no villagers out, just a scrawny dog rummaging through piles of garbage along the road.
“I’m starting to hate rear guard,” Johnny says, shifting to try and get a more comfortable position in the cramped vehicle.
Bob, spinning his baseball in his right hand while he steers with the left, slows as the truck in front of them steers around a deep hole.
“One more month. Just keep your mind on that,” Bob says as he rolls the baseball over his hand and catches it again. “Home in a month gives us two months to practice, then tryouts and spring training.”
“You’re assuming we make the cut,” Johnny says.
“We will. I haven’t thrown harder in my whole life. And you’re decent behind the plate,” Bob says.
The tires on the truck in front of them churn out a cloud of sand. The sand whips in through Johnny’s partially open window. He rolls it up and pulls the green cloth, his “move-out rag,” up from around his neck to cover his mouth and nose. “Damn sand. I can’t wait to get out of this horrid desert.” He glances over at Bob. “What if they only take one of us?”
Bob glances over at his friend. “Not gonna happen. We’ve been a team since little league. That’s not gonna change now.”
The convoy slows even more ahead of them. Bob tosses the ball up in the air, catches it. Spins it.
“Put that damn ball down and grab your rifle,” Johnny says. “No telling what kind of crap we’re going to get into here.”
Johnny looks over at his friend. “Unless you're planning to get out and play catch with the locals.”
“Might not be a bad idea. Everybody loves baseball,” Bob replies.
Johnny points at a figure standing on top of a building ahead on the right, wrapped in dark cloth, wearing a black keffiyeh (headdress) and sunglasses. “I don't think that guy wants to play baseball.” Johnny grabs the radio’s microphone to alert the convoy. “Heads up. I have a possible spotter on top...”
Without warning, an explosion rips into the lead truck, tossing the massive vehicle into the air like a toy. A fireball erupts, a plume of black smoke racing for the sky. The concussion reaches back and pelts their Humvee, rocking it.
“Goddamn it.” Johnny drops the microphone and struggles to get his window down. He fires a burst at the spotter.
The truck in front of them starts backing up, racing at them on a collision course.
“Shit.” Bob drops the baseball and hits the brakes. He reaches for the shifter, grinding the gears loudly as he forces it into reverse. “Shit!”
The concussion from the second explosion is deafening. Flames lick the inside of the Humvee through Johnny’s open window. The vehicle leaps up, flipping over onto its side, then crashing down with a sickening rending of metal and flesh.
---
Bob can’t tell how long he’s been semi-aware. His eyes are shut. He tries to open them, but they burn too much and he closes them again, tightly. He can’t really hear anything either, except for an incessant ringing that masks any noise coming from the world around him. He struggles to move, but none of his limbs want to cooperate. He just lays there in a coma-like state. At least he can tell he’s still breathing.
Then the pain hits. Unbearable pain from every inch of his being, like someone just finished beating him all over with a hammer. Bob pushes through the pain and struggles to open his eyes. They burn, and it is still dark. He blinks but can’t see much of anything—a hazy black cloud shrouds the world around him. A few shapes move here and there, but nothing he could even start to recognize. After a few minutes, light starts to seep in and a blob begins to come into semi-focus. A face. Looking down at him. Wearing a helmet. American. A medic? The face’s lips are moving, but all Bob can hear is the ringing.
The medic reaches down for him. The jostling sends even more pain through his damaged body. He tries to scream, to tell them to stop, but no words come out. More hands come into view, lifting him up, pulling him out of the shredded Humvee. Once outside, the recovery team puts him on a litter and carries him away.
Bob squints to open his eyes again, and sees the pulsating shadow of rotor blades cutting the air overhead. Once again, he tries to speak, but the words refuse to come.
The medics carry him to the chopper and load him aboard. Two medics jump in and help slide him across the metal decking.
The pain of sliding across the metal plates is excruciating. He shuts his eyes, forcing the pain into a corner of his mind. One of the medics works on his left arm. He feels a needle pierce a vein in his forearm. Just as the pain begins to creep back, everything goes black.
---
Bob starts to regain his senses. He isn’t sure exactly where he is, but he can tell he is no longer in the helicopter. The pain has subsided, mostly a dull ache covering the entire right side of his body. The ringing in his ears hasn’t subsided, though. It is louder than before, and higher pitched. He opens his eyes and tries to look around. Things come into a very fuzzy focus. He sees an IV bag hanging high over him. He watches a battle nurse insert a syringe into the tubing.
A medic’s face floats slowly over him. The medic is speaking, but his voice is tinny.
“You're going to be all right, brother,” Bob hears the medic say. “We're taking you into surgery. Hang in there.”
Bob senses motion, notices the lights from the ceiling passing over him. He watches as the nurse pushes the syringe plunger home. The blackness returns almost immediately.
---
A jostling motion nudges Bob awake again. Still the ringing in his ears. Not worse, but not better. It’s dark, but he can tell he is in a vehicle. Moving. He forces his eyes open again and stares up through a drug-induced fog. In the hazy overhead light he can make out a pair of medics hovering over him, monitoring his vitals. IV bags hanging from the roof feed his left arm. He tries to move, but can’t. Either the drugs or the safety straps have him pinned in place. Just as well, his whole right side still throbs in pain.
The vehicle stops abruptly and Bob can tell his feet are at the rear of the vehicle. Through the ringing in his ears, he hears the friendly thumping noise of a helicopter idling outside. Through the windows in the rear doors he can see the sun peeking above the horizon. Sunrise, or sunset? He isn’t sure.
The back doors of the ambulance fly open. Bright maintenance lights illuminate the helo waiting on the nearby pad. Shadows of warriors pass randomly, blocking the lights. The gurney moves as they pull him out of the ambulance. The medics accompany him, one holding the IV bags high. Wheels drop from the bottom of the gurney, and the rough ride across the helo pad begins.
The gurney stops abruptly, and a new face appears over him. It’s the young Afghani Bob had pitched to the day before, and his father, an Afghan soldier. The Afghan teen is smiling, holding out Bob’s baseball glove. Through the pain and the ringing in his ears, Bob can feel a smile spread across his own face. He tries to reach up to take the glove from the teenager, but that triggers an onslaught of pain.
That’s when Bob notices the teen’s eyes go wide and his smile fades. The boy sets the glove down on the stretcher near Bob, then quickly turns his head away. The teen’s father puts an arm around his son's should
er, then turns away as well.
---
Landstuhl Regional Medical Center - Germany
Bob stirs. He feels like he’s been out for days. His whole body is stiff as a board. At least the ringing in his ears is down to a bearable level. He blinks several times, trying to open his eyes. His vision is much better than before.
He’s in a hospital room. A television plays quietly in the far left corner, up near the ceiling. An IV feeds his left arm. Beyond the IV, on a side table, he spots his ball glove and smiles through the pain. Bob twists to his left, bringing his right shoulder up. As he tries to reach for the glove, an excruciating pain races from his shoulder up his neck and into his head. He clenches his teeth to keep from screaming.
That’s when he sees it. He looks down to his right side and recoils in horror. Where his right arm used to be is a short, bandaged stump.
Bob's opens his eyes wide. He tries to back away from his missing limb. He breathes fast, hyperventilating. How can his arm be gone when it hurts so much? After a few moments of panic, he slumps back onto his pillow, staring at his missing limb.
He wills himself to calm down, but his mind is racing. A tear drips from the corner of his eye as one big reality dawns on him—no more baseball. No career in the Majors. He’ll never live his dreams, his passion. Never.
As his brain races out of control, he thinks about all the other things he won’t be able to do: shoot a gun—there goes his life as a