Price of Duty

by Todd Strasser

  The medevac landed in a cloud of noise, wind, and dust, and we watched them lift Morpiss aboard. The chopper took off, our buddy with it.

  The faces around me were pale and drawn. Morpiss was done. The first in our squad to go. The first time most of us had seen someone be horribly wounded.

  For life.

  Nothing you thought you knew, nothing you’d imagined, prepared you for that.

  Skitballs sat on his helmet, covered his face with his hands, and started to cry. The tears left tracks on his dark skin. I was fighting back tears myself. Someone lit a cigarette. We were still outside the wire, deep in enemy territory. I glanced at Brad, wondering why he hadn’t ordered us to assemble.

  But our squad leader just stood there with a grim look on his face, watching Skitballs sob. Finally, he went over, squatted beside the bawling soldier, put his arm around Skitballs’s shoulders, and started to talk quietly. I wanted to go closer and listen in, but it felt like snooping, so I hung back with the others.

  “Am I seeing things?” Magnet whispered.

  “Another side of Sergeant Burrows, that’s for sure,” muttered Clay.

  We waited, trying not to stare, while Brad consoled Skitballs. Finally, Lt. Abrams went over and said something. Brad and Skitballs got to their feet. The sappers were climbing back into the MRAP.

  “Return to Base,” Brad said. “Who wants to be the wheelman?”

  “I will, Staff Sergeant,” Magnet volunteered.

  “No!” Clay and I shouted at the same time. For an instant, Magnet looked surprised. Then he got it.

  Clay drove. Magnet and I sat in the back. No one manned the Browning. Clay and Magnet were the new guys in our squad. Both solid and dependable. Magnet, an inner-city kid from the south side of Chicago, who hoped he’d have a better chance of surviving in the Army than in a gang. Clay, a first-generation Hispanic American from El Paso, who saw the Army as a job opportunity. In the front, Brad slipped something under his tongue—one of the sublingual meds the docs gave out. He lit a cigarette. The Humvee bumped back to base.

  “What about clearing the rest of the mines?” Skitballs asked.

  “Now that a guy’s been blowed up, they’ll probably bring in the dogs,” Clay grumbled.

  Translation: Morpiss had to be torn to pieces for anyone up the chain of command to take the land mine problem seriously.

  * * *

  “Morpiss didn’t have to be on that hill.” The words came out of Brad in an anguished whisper. It was just me and him in his office. We’d returned from patrol about an hour ago.

  “We had to provide support for the sappers, Sarge.”

  Brad suddenly exploded to his feet. The chair flew backward. He grabbed a can of Dr Pepper and hurled it against the map on the wall. Reddish-brown pop splashed out. The can clanked on the floor. “Glad you enlisted?” he shouted, face red, breathing hard. “Think Morpiss’s glad? That he got used as a human mine detector because the XO didn’t have a dog team to spare? Now he’ll get to spend the rest of his life with no legs? And for what? Some stupid patch of dirt they wanted cleared so it can be used by a bunch of kids who are gonna grow up to hate us anyway.”

  I stood stock-still and stunned. There was no point in answering. The pop had spilled on his desk, on memos, on his keyboard, on a yellow legal pad covered with handwriting. Brad looked at the pop-splattered map. His shoulders drooped; his balled fists relaxed. He picked up the chair and sat, burying his face in his hands. “I can’t take this anymore . . .” His shoulders trembled. He . . . he was sobbing. “I don’t know what it is about this deployment. The first two I felt like I had a purpose. Couldn’t wait to kill the bad guys. I was so gung-ho they practically had to tie me down. This time it’s . . . it’s like staring into blackness. All these ghosts in my head. All these blowed-off legs and arms. Bloody stumps and pieces of bodies.”

  My squad leader was blubbering. It was a startling, disturbing sight. I glanced at the door to make sure it was closed. To make sure no one else witnessed this. After a few moments, Brad seemed to get hold of himself. Wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “You swore, Private Liddell.”

  “Yes, Sarge, I remember. But, Sarge, what about speaking to combat stress control?”

  Brad snorted derisively. “Sure. Or maybe I should just take a stroll outside the wire with my cammies down and let them shoot my balls off. Set foot in combat stress and you think I’ll ever see another promotion? Staff Sergeant Bradley Burrows can’t handle squad leader, so we’ll kick him up to platoon leader. Now, that makes about as much sense as a screen door on a submarine.”

  “But, Sarge, if you’re in this much misery . . .”

  Brad straightened up and squared his shoulders. His eyebrows bunched into a scowl. Something about the word “misery” shook him out of it. He suddenly looked a lot more like a squad leader. “What did Erin Rose say about you, Private?”

  I felt myself snap to attention. “I’m a standup guy, Sarge. None of that kiss-and-tell crap.”

  “That’s correct, Private. Know what I’m going to say next?”

  “Yes, Sarge. You’re going to say, ‘Get your punk private first class ass out of here.’ ”

  “Correct.” He turned back to his desk and started blotting the wet papers.

  I headed for the door, then stopped. “Sarge?”

  “What?” Brad growled as if he was annoyed I was still there.

  “We’re all broke up about Morpiss, but you did what you were supposed to do. It’s not your fault.”

  Brad let the papers fall to his desk. He leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. “Tell that to his legs. And get the hell out.”

  AURORA

  She’s waiting for me at the bus station. Emotion wells up in my heart. I’m super glad she’s here. She must have called Lori to find out what time I’d be coming in. We hug and share a brief kiss.

  “I don’t want it to end,” she whispers.

  “Neither do I.” Boy, do I mean it.

  The only way I can get my cast into her beat-up Toyota Corolla is by sliding the seat all the way back and then tilting it almost as far as it will go. I’m reclining so far back I’m looking at the ceiling. It’s amazing that this old beater still runs. The dashboard is sun-cracked and the speedometer is shot. The windshield has spidery fissures and the check engine light has been on since the day she got it.

  While Aurora drives, I reach over and gently twist a lock of her soft hair around my finger. We’ve been together since junior year. I’m the only real serious boyfriend she’s ever had.

  “How’s your friend?” she asks.

  The spell is broken. It’s not her fault. It was bound to happen. But, do I tell her the truth? “He’s . . . okay.”

  The sharp glance she gives me says she knows I’m not telling the truth. “Why can’t you tell me?”

  “Aurora . . .”

  “You used to tell me everything.”

  Sure. Back when we were innocent high school kids without a clue. Before I went over there. Before there was so much that I wish I didn’t know and had never seen.

  “Jake, it’s not going to work if you can’t be honest with me,” she says.

  I feel myself grow tense. I could say the same to her. How’re things with Doug Rhinebach? But that wouldn’t be fair. Because, according to her friend Emily, there really isn’t any “thing” between Aurora and Doug.

  “If what happened to him had happened to me, it wouldn’t work between us anyway,” I tell her.

  She gives me a quick, cold frown. “You think I’m that shallow?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. It wouldn’t work because I wouldn’t let it work. You deserve better.”

  Her face scrunches. I’m being obtuse. “Okay, you really want to know how my friend is? He lost both of his legs and some of the lower area of his body. And his left arm. All he’s got is part of his body, his head, and one arm. He lives in a shack in the woods a million miles from everything with no one to
take care of him except his mother. The only things left for him are fishing and vaping.”

  Aurora stares ahead and blinks. We pass the McDonald’s. The big sign out front says, HAPPY 98TH BIRTHDAY, WOODY! Welcoming home the war hero is old news. We pass the Pizza Hut, the World War I memorial with its rusty wagon-wheeled cannon and doughboys in their wide-brimmed helmets. Thirty-eight million people died in that war. Soldiers. Civilians. Women, and children. The military tries to dehumanize the murder of unarmed civilians by calling it collateral damage. Damage. Like what happens when your car bangs into a tree. But it isn’t damage. It’s death. And giving it a different name makes no difference to anyone who has seen it up close. Until you’ve been to war yourself, you can’t even begin to comprehend what that means. How that feels. It’s not the number. It’s the utter misery. In war, you learn that those who die instantly are the lucky ones. The rest suffer terrible pain and agony. And not just from their wounds. They die of hunger, or thirst, or disease. All endure the worst kind of fear and terror imaginable.

  And for what?

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry about your friend,” Aurora says.

  It’s not just Morpiss. It’s every human being who’s ever died because of war. Who’s ever been wounded and maimed. And not just physically, but mentally, too.

  Aurora pulls up in front of my house, but neither of us gets out of the car. We sit in silence, not knowing what to say. It’s like the other night at the end of our “private” road in the woods. Like she’s just asked if she should wait for me.

  Should she wait for a guy who’s supposed to go away again for another six months? And if he does go, may never come back? Or may come back far more physically or mentally damaged than I am now?

  And if I decide not to go back? If I say to the Army, “Take your medal and shove it. Because no matter what you do to me, it can’t be as bad as war.”

  Where would that leave Aurora? Does she want to be with a guy who’s brought shame to his family? To his town? To the entire military?

  Neither option looks particularly promising. If I really love her, maybe the best thing I can do is help her cut her losses and start over with someone new. Someone like Doug Rhinebach, heir to the Rhinebach Auto Group.

  A curtain in our living room draws back. Someone looks out. The curtain closes.

  In the car, Aurora and I stare straight ahead. She’s waiting for me to say something.

  What can I say when I don’t know what I’m doing? When no matter what I do, chances are it will hurt her?

  I hear a sniff. A tear rolls down Aurora’s cheek. She reaches for the key and starts the engine.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” It’s all I can say.

  Then it’s time for me to get out.

  * * *

  Lying in bed in the dark. It’s probably around 2 a.m. My mind is racing.

  I don’t want to lose Aurora. But I can’t deceive her. If I go back over there, I’m not as worried about getting killed as I am coming back with missing parts. That’s not what she signed up for. It’s not what she should have to feel obligated to spend the rest of her life dealing with.

  And what about Erin Rose? I can’t wait any longer for an answer to my texts and emails. Tomorrow I’m going to have to track her down.

  And then there’s my family.

  And my future.

  All these thoughts racing around and around. Guess it’s a good thing I’ve still got some no-goes. The Army provides soldiers with a selection. The short-term variety gets you about four hours of shut-eye. The medium-term pill is good for six. And then there’s Sleeping Beauty, a twelve-hour sleep-like-a-baby dose that leaves you feeling the next morning like you’ve been raised from the dead.

  None of it’s the over-the-counter stuff you can buy at Walgreens. It’s all heavy-duty prescription meds, the kinds that come with lots of red-and-yellow warning labels. You almost have to take them to fight this kind of war. You need to sleep, so you take a no-go. But when your body gets used to one pill, you have to take two no-goes to sleep. And you’re doing the same thing with pain meds and anti-anxiety meds. Guys taking that stuff wake up in the morning feeling like their brains are clogged with sludge. So they take a go pill. That plus battery acid and Rip-It and you’re good and wired and ready for action.

  It became a cycle. Pretty soon guys had so many meds inside them that they couldn’t think straight, couldn’t feel straight. So what did the docs do? Gave them anti-depressants and anti-psychotics to stop all the other meds from driving them crazy. After a while, guys were taking seven or eight different pills a day. With no one monitoring them. No one to say, hey man, it can’t be good to take so many medications at once. Maybe you should try to get off some of this stuff.

  Usually you could tell who was on the heavy cocktails. They’d develop weird tics, or forget what you’d just said to them, or fly into a rage over nothing. There were stories of guys getting paranoid, guys going on shooting sprees. And, of course, guys so whacked out they did themselves in.

  For tonight, the medium six-hour dose will probably be the best. I’ll need to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning. There’s still a lot to do.

  THE GENERAL

  Crack! Crack! Crack! I go code red and start to drop, but a gnarled, bony hand grabs my arm. “Easy, son. It’s just some firecrackers.”

  The hand belongs to Howard Miller, sitting next to me in his old olive Special Forces uniform. We’re on the back of the General’s white 1975 Eldorado convertible, his parade car. Old Howie is another of Franklin’s military heroes. From Vietnam. He’s been in parades before.

  I take a slug from a water bottle and try to swallow down my racing heart. What is a parade? A convoy. I know there are no IEDs planted along Main Street, but when those firecrackers went off, I automatically reacted. Sniper!

  “Keep waving, son,” Old Howie says out of the corner of his smile. The sun-washed street is lined with people wearing hats and sunglasses. Some wave American flags. Others shade their eyes with their hands. I’m still trembling from the aftershock of the firecrackers. Maybe I should have taken an anti-anxiety pill for this parade. But I’m trying to break the habit.

  I know how Old Howie deals with the stress. Just before the parade began, I walked into the bathroom in the firehouse and found him filling his empty water bottle from a flask. Vashe zdorovie, Howie!

  Pop! Pop! Pop! I’m prepared when the next set of firecrackers explodes. But I still get tense. Can’t help it. I don’t know who originally thought that a good way to honor military vets was with a parade and fireworks. But it had to be someone who’d never been in battle.

  * * *

  The parade ends at Town Hall with a round of speeches. I’ve been told ahead of time that I won’t be asked to speak. I’m just on display. All I have to do is accept a gold-plated key to the city and say thank you.

  Then it’s off to Anthony’s, the best steak house in town and the General’s favorite hangout. In fact, the General likes the place so much that about ten years ago, when it ran into financial trouble because people weren’t eating as much steak as they used to, he bought an interest in it just to keep it going.

  Our family sits at a big round table. Now and then during the meal, someone comes over from another table to say hello to the General and congratulate me. Then, just before dessert I look up and see Brandi standing inside the front door. When she catches my eye, she tilts her head to the left and disappears from sight.

  I pretend I need to use the john. Brandi’s waiting for me by the ladies’ room.

  “Had a feeling you’d be here after the parade,” she says. “Can we talk some more?”

  “I told you, I can’t be in that video.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  Her eyes slide toward the dining room, as if implying that what she wants to say could take a while.

  “Not sure how long I’ll be,” I tell her.


  “I’ll wait in the park.”

  I return to my family feeling conflicted. If not about the video, what does Brandi want to talk about? Why didn’t I just say no?

  At the table, the General’s telling the same old war stories we’ve all heard a hundred times before. The ones that always start out as tales about the funny or stupid thing someone else did or said, but somehow always end with my grandfather looking like a hero. My father sits quietly and hardly says a word, just as he always does at family meals with the General.

  Dinner’s over when the General says it is. Then he announces that he and I are going to stay behind and have a little chat. Dad gives me a nod. Lori says she’ll see me at the house later. Everyone departs.

  “What are you drinking?” the General asks me while a busboy clears the table.

  I’m a tequila man, but in the General’s company, it’s the rule of bourbon. The only choice you have is which brand. “Jim Beam Signature, sir. On the rocks.”

  “Good choice.” The General tells the waiter to make it two. My being underage isn’t an issue. He’s the General and part owner of this establishment. There’s not a law officer within a hundred miles of Franklin who would think of citing this restaurant for serving me.

  “Heard you visited a squad buddy yesterday,” he says while we wait for our drinks.

  How does he know that? Does he have a staffer draw up a daily report of his family’s whereabouts? “Yes, sir.”

  “WIA?”

  “Yes, sir. Pretty bad. Lost both legs and an arm.”

  The General shakes his head slowly. “The bane of modern warfare. When I was a soldier, men like that didn’t survive. Who knows whether it’s a good thing now that they do?”

  The waiter delivers our drinks.

  “To your future.” The General lifts his rock glass.