by Joe Gribble
range. The first time Bob picks up a handful of darts, he can barely hit the wall. His left arm is so uncoordinated it is next to useless.
Eventually, and slowly, things improve. The worst things he has to deal with are the dreams. During the physical therapy, Bob can push his way through the pain and discomfort; but he has no defense against the dreams. The doctors assure him they will get better, and they prescribe pills to help him in the meantime. Bob tries the pills, but they provide little relief. They also caused his heart to race at the slightest noise, and he was constantly dizzy. When he finally gave up on the meds, the docs encouraged him to talk to one of the many pastors who move in and around the men and women doing their therapy.
Bob has never been a very religious person, and really doesn’t want much to do with the pastors. They are nice enough, encouraging in their own way, but Bob doesn’t feel they offer anything useful, so he does his best to avoid them.
As Bob pushes through his rehab, Johnson is true to his word. He is there almost every day, motivating Bob to do better, go faster, try harder.
Bob wonders about his new coach. Johnson doesn’t talk much about himself, but Bob knows they share similar feelings, dream of the same kinds of ghosts. They both lost parts of themselves, but more importantly, they had lost friends. Close friends. Johnson is part drill instructor, part father figure. He somehow inherently knows when to be the gruff drill instructor and when to show his fatherly side.
After two months in rehab, Bob is alone in the dart room. He still has trouble hitting the board with any consistency. He launches a handful of darts, with only two of the five hitting the board. The others bury themselves in the large piece of cork that protects the wall. As he comes back from retrieving the darts for another shot at it, he spots a news magazine on a nearby table. The front of the magazine has a picture of an Afghan man, probably only about thirty, but as grizzled as a fifty year old. Bob’s anger returns. He checks out the photo and the caption. The Afghan is a farmer. That doesn’t matter to Bob, as his anger continues to rise. He rips the cover off the magazine and carries it to the dart board, pinning it over the board with four of his darts.
Bob grabs the darts from the adjacent board and walks back to the throwing line. He begins throwing. He is cautious at first, trying his best to pierce the picture of the Afghani. As his anger grows, so too do the force of his throws, and for some reason, his accuracy. Bob spends the next hour throwing darts at the picture until all that remains is shredded paper hanging in tatters from the four darts holding the corners.
Near the end of rehab, it’s time for Bob to ship out. He gets his orders to go back to his unit at Wright Patterson Air Force Base in Ohio. His arm is still too injured for him to be fitted for a prosthesis. That would come in time, they assured him, and would make life easier, more normal.
Departure is bittersweet. It will be good to get back to normal, whatever that is, but Bob knows, deep down, nothing will ever be normal again.
The night before he is to leave, while Bob packs his gear for the trip, he hears the familiar tapping on the door.
Johnson rolls in without being invited. He nods at Bob, then sits silently while Bob finishes stowing his uniform into his duffel bag.
Packed, Bob zips the duffel shut. He sits down on the bed. “You know I owe you.”
Johnson holds up his arm. “Enough said already. I only showed you what you would have figured out eventually.”
“I suppose,” Bob says. “No telling how long it would have taken, though.”
“Some figure it out real quick. Most take quite a while. Only a few never get it. I knew you weren’t one of them.”
“I’m guessing you got it quick?” Bob asks.
Johnson shakes his head slowly. “Actually, I was one of the ones who almost didn’t figure it out. It took someone in worse shape than me to show me the way. He had to threaten to kick my ass before I finally figured it out. He was a fantastic man. A true warrior.”
“Was?”
Bob sees something in Johnson he’s never seen before. Johnson’s eyes begin to water.
“He didn’t make it,” Johnson says. “We all thought he was golden, even with all his injuries. He had a few surgeries to go. During the last one there were some unexpected complications. He’s sorely missed.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Bob says.
“Got a couple of glasses?”
Bob nods and gets a couple of plastic cups from near the sink.
Johnson pulls a half-pint bottle of Kentucky’s finest from between his torso and the side of the wheelchair. “I know we ain’t supposed to drink in here, but I figure it’s appropriate.” Johnson holds the bottle out and Bob twists the top off. Johnson pours a splash into each of the plastic cups, and caps the bottle again. Each man grabs a cup and they tap them together. “To our brothers and sisters who’ve gone before,” Johnson says.
Bob sees Johnny in his mind, clear as day, as he pours down the whiskey.
Johnson puts the cup down and stuffs the whiskey bottle back into its hiding spot before he turns away. “You’ll do fine,” Johnson says as he wheels toward the door. “If you need me, just call.”
And with that, he’s gone. Bob feels alone again, but this time with the confidence that he can make it through. How? He isn’t sure yet, but he isn’t going to let Johnson down. He isn’t going to let Johnny down.
---
Wright Patterson Air Force Base—Dayton, Ohio
Bob pulls into the parking spot in his crew-cab pickup. He reaches over with his left hand and pulls the shifter into park. Then, twisting his body, he turns the engine off, pulling the keys out of the ignition.
He sits in the truck for a few seconds, contemplating what he is about to do. Finally, he exhales deeply, opens the door, and steps out. Bob grabs his unit cap and places it on his head, aligning it just so to ensure his uniform is as close to perfect as a one-armed airman can get it. His right sleeve is folded up over what’s left of his arm, pinned to keep it from flopping around.
It’s a crisp spring day. The kind of day he had once looked so forward to. The kind of day that used to beckon him to the baseball field. Now it’s just another day. Another day of struggling to adjust to his new life.
He walks over to the sidewalk and heads toward the door, careful to stay off the ”old man’s” grass. A sign near the door marks his destination:
88TH AIR BASE WING
HEADQUARTERS, 88th SECURITY FORCES SQUADRON
He strides down the sidewalk, then makes a right onto the concrete pathway leading to the door. Ahead, the door opens and a lieutenant colonel steps out, heading his direction.
“Shit,” Bob says under his breath.
As they approach each other, Bob smiles as broadly as he can and greets the officer just as they trained him in rehab.
“Good morning, sir!” Bob says sharply.
The colonel begins to bring his right arm up to return the expected salute, but Bob hasn’t rendered one. Can’t.
The colonel frowns, opens his mouth to say something, then notices Bob’s injury. The colonel fumbles with his half-raised salute, finally dropping it and searching for words. “Good morning, Sergeant,” is all he can come up with.
“Great way to start my first day back,” Bob says under his breath as he opens the door.
Inside, Bob removes his cap and looks around. Not much different than when he left. Not nearly as many people around. Walking down the hall, he spots a couple of civilians in security guard uniforms. Rent-a-cops. They must be the work-around until the rest of the squadron gets back from the ‘Stan.
Bob stops at a closed door. The sign next to it identifies the occupant:
MAJOR STAN KEPLER
DEPUTY COMMANDER
Bob runs his hand through his ”high and tight” haircut, then raps on the door twice, as is customary.
“Enter,” comes a voice from beyond the door.
Bob opens the door and steps inside, closing the door behind him.
He turns and marches up to the desk and comes to attention.
Major Kepler, pecking away at a keyboard, glances over.
“Staff Sergeant Williams reporting, sir.” Bob stares straight ahead as courtesy dictates. He moves the stub of his right arm slightly. Grimaces. “Sorry for not saluting, sir.”
Kepler turns away from his keyboard and stands. He extends his own left hand. “No need to apologize, Sergeant. Old habits die hard.”
Bob reaches out with his left hand and shakes. “Feels weird, sir.”
Kepler drops back down in his chair and points at the guest chair. “Welcome home, Bob. Take a load off.” Kepler pauses briefly, thinking. “I'm sure a lot of things feel weird now.”
Bob takes the chair across from Kepler’s desk.
“I'm sorry about your injury,” Kepler says. “That's got to be tough.”
“Thanks, sir,” Bob says. “It's healing pretty well. Just gonna take some getting used to.”
“Too bad about Johnny, too. He was a good man. A good cop.”
Bob stares at the floor. “Yes, sir. A good friend.” Bob looks back up. “Sir, I'm not sure how much of a cop I can be with just one arm.”
Kepler grins. “I don’t want you worrying about that right now. We’re sure as hell not going to throw you over the wall.”
“I appreciate that, sir,” Bob replies.
Kepler points at Bob’s missing arm. “You've sacrificed. More than most of us. We won't forget that. I won't forget that. What's scheduled, medical-wise?”
“Occupational therapy. Three mornings a week for