BRAD
Ka-boom! The explosion was so big and close that the shock waves knocked a few guys out of their beds. The air was instantly filled with dust. Ears ringing painfully, I started to feel around for a light amid shouts and coughing in the dark.
“What the hell?”
“Must’ve hit right outside,” Skitballs said.
Everyone was hacking, grabbing for anything they could find to press over their noses and mouths to keep the dust out of their lungs.
Clay was the first to find a light. “Wasn’t a rocket. There was no siren.”
But the words had hardly left his lips when the sirens started. The knee-jerk reaction was to run for the nearest bunker, but everyone stopped at half stride when the siren cut out, then started and stopped again. That code had been drilled into us.
“Attack!” Magnet shouted.
The small arms fire began. Then bang, floosh, boom! An RPG. Then the crack of more shots and small arms. We pulled on our armor as fast as we could.
The barracks door banged open and Brad stuck his head in. “SVBIED at the front gate! They’re coming in!”
Then he was gone.
The huge blast had been a truck loaded with explosives crashing into the front gate. The small-arms fire and booms of RPGs were the insurgents piling in through the gap where the front gate had been. Outside through the drifting smoke and dust, it was just starting to get light. The firefight was on. We heard the rip of Brad’s SAW and headed toward it, scrambling from barracks to Conex boxes to T-walls, skirting and tripping over smoking debris thrown a hundred yards by the explosion.
Bullets whizzed and pocked into walls. Men shouted. Peeking around the corner of a Conex, I saw Brad crouched behind a pile of sandbags, shooting at an upward angle. It didn’t make sense until we saw the muzzle flashes of returning fire. The insurgents had gotten into the gate guard tower. They were firing down on us. We were pinned down inside our own FOB.
Brad waved us over. A moment later, Skitballs, Clay, and I were hunkered beside him behind the sandbags.
“Take the SAW.” Brad handed Clay the machine gun. He tapped me on the helmet. “Clay and Skit’ll cover us. We’re going there.” He pointed at the corner of a barracks halfway between the sandbags and the guard tower.
I felt my scrotum contract. Even with suppressive fire, we’d be running right under the insurgents’ noses.
Clay and Skitballs started firing. I followed Brad, running as fast as my legs would carry me, praying I wouldn’t get hit. Lead whizzed past us and kicked up dirt around our feet. Breathing hard, we reached the side of the barracks and pressed our backs against the wall. Clay and Skitballs had ceased fire and were safe behind the sandbags while the insurgents kept firing, wasting their ammo. We could always hope they’d shoot their weapons dry.
“How many frags you got?” Brad yelled over the pops and bangs.
“Two, Sarge.”
“Okay, that makes four. How’s your aim?”
“Guess we’ll see, Sarge. Where’re we gonna deliver from?”
“On the run, soldier.”
If my scrotum felt tight before, now my balls felt like they’d crawled up into my throat. The guard tower was open on four sides. But throw too low and the frag grenade would hit the lower wall and bounce back at us. Throw too high and it would bounce off the roof and roll back on us. In other words, if our aim wasn’t perfect, we were more likely to kill ourselves than the enemy.
“Ready?” Brad grinned tightly. It was one of those moments when I felt like he was testing me. Like trying to see if I’d been man enough for Erin Rose.
Or maybe he was testing himself.
“Ready, Sarge.” My M-16 was strapped and I had a frag grenade in each hand.
Brad signaled Clay and Skitballs for more suppressive fire, then he and I took off across the open yard. When we got close enough, we threw the grenades. Luckily, our aim was good. The first two landed inside the guard tower.
That’s when it hit me that Brad had forgotten one important part of the plan. Once we’d thrown the grenades, then what? We were out in the open. Brad tackled me and we both hit the ground.
Boom!
I half expected the tower to fall on us. Next thing I knew, Brad was on his feet, yanking me back up. He had his handgun out. “Come on!” He signaled Clay and Skitballs and headed up the guard tower ladder.
The scene inside the tower was gruesome. Mangled bodies, blood, parts of bodies. The acrid stink of smoke. Clay and Skitballs joined us. More insurgents were pushing up the road and through the wire. Some found cover behind rocks or small rises of dirt. Others were out in the open. We made quick work of the ones who weren’t well protected. But the ones that had found cover kept firing.
In the distance, a car was racing parallel to the wire, leaving a long cloudy trail of yellow dust. It turned and came tearing up the road toward the blown-out gate. This was another SVBIED for sure. Clay got the car in the SAW’s sights and let loose. The windshield turned white, then blew in. The driver got smoked. The car slowed and came to a stop about thirty yards from the front gate.
The insurgents turned their fire from us to the car.
“Aw—” Brad started to curse.
Ka-boom!
We were knocked backward. The car had been loaded with explosives. The insurgents fired at it to ignite them. Ears ringing, heads throbbing, we got back to our positions just in time to see the last heated-up RPG rounds launch in crazy directions from the flaming wreckage like the finale of a fireworks display.
And then came the kids.
Three of them in baggy camos and sneakers, lugging AKs and running up the road toward the gate. Almost all the fire from our side stopped as we stared, aghast at the sight. They were skinny, all knees and elbows, not even old enough to have whiskers. The legs and sleeves of their camos had been rolled up.
“Got to be kidding,” Clay muttered.
We silently hoped the warning shots Brad fired over their heads would be enough to make them turn tail. Instead, two took knees and fired while the third kept coming.
They’d been trained.
One of their shots smacked into a corner post of the guard tower not a foot from Skitballs’s head.
When we still didn’t return fire, the other two jumped to their feet and started toward us again. By now the first kid was just passing the smoldering skeleton of the SVBIED. He was the smallest of the three. Probably the youngest. Twelve? Thirteen? Carrying an AK.
What the hell do you do?
In the guard tower, Brad reached for my M-16. He looked grim. “Your weapon, Private.”
I let him take it.
* * *
The next couple of days around the FOB were pretty busy. The two guys who’d originally been manning the guard tower had been killed by the first SVBIED, and three others were pretty badly wounded in the subsequent firefight. We had a memorial service and did a lot of patrol work to reestablish the perimeter. Buildings had to be repaired and the front gate rebuilt.
But no matter how busy they kept us, the memory of those kids was never far from my thoughts. We all knew that they shouldn’t have been involved. They should have been in school or outside playing. They had no idea what was at stake. When my friends and I were their age, we’d gone to war too. With toy guns. We got shot, fell down, and then got right back up again. You had to wonder if death was any more real to those child soldiers who’d attacked us than it was to us at that age.
Everyone in the squad knew why Brad had used my M-16. He didn’t want any of us to take the responsibility. He wanted to do it in one clean shot. The SAW would have made a mess of the body. The other two kids were also dusted. But that was a few seconds later when the firefight erupted again. No one knew for sure who’d done it.
The deaths of those kids got to me in a way little else in that stupid war had, but I kept it inside. I’m certain it weighed on some of the others, too. Brad never said a word, but I know it got to him. By then
he and I were pretty tight. I knew that Erin Rose had filed for divorce. Strangely, Brad didn’t seem that broken up about it. He said that it was probably for the best. That he didn’t think he had it in him to be a good husband and father. Maybe I should have listened more carefully or thought more about what he’d said. About what state his mind must have been in to say things like that.
About what state his mind was in to volunteer to be the one who smoked that kid. Knowing he’d have to live with that for the rest of his life.
AURORA
I’m driving the Jeep to her parents’ house. I sure hope there isn’t a law against operating a vehicle while part of your leg in a cast is sticking out of the gap where the removable door usually is. In less than twenty-four hours, I either leave for Walter Reed or turn my world upside down. It’s after five o’clock, and Aurora’s not answering my texts or calls. The clock ticks. I may not know what decision I’ll make, but I do know I don’t want to lose her.
Maybe I’ve been stupid. Maybe I’ve tried to be too fair by giving her an out. But like some cowboy once said, “You don’t miss your water till your well runs dry.” Without Aurora these past few days, it feels like my well is parched.
I manage to get to the house without getting pulled over by the cops. But Aurora’s Corolla isn’t in the driveway. Now what? Do I just drive around town looking for her?
No.
I turn around and head home, feeling pretty low. Maybe this was a dumb idea anyway. Maybe it’s too late for Aurora and me.
The ride home takes me along Lakeside Drive. It’s a typical hot early-summer day and people are out on the lake on paddleboards and kayaks. Stopped at a traffic light, I watch a ski boat race past.
What I see next makes me blink with astonishment. The water-skier is Aurora.
When did she learn to waterski?
The car behind me honks. How long has the light been green? I pull to the curb and watch the ski boat carve a wide circle and then pass again. Even from here you can see the big smile on Aurora’s face. Should I wait? Or should I go back home and call her later?
While I’m debating this, the ski boat slows. Aurora lets go of the towline and glides until she sinks down. The boat comes around and stops beside her. Doug Rhinebach reaches over the side and helps her climb in.
BRAD
It’s my last night at home. The hospital bed is no longer in the den, but the mail crates loaded with letters are, along with the manila envelope filled with phone numbers and messages. Even if I find the time someday to reply to all of them, will I know what to say?
Lori and Dad make a great meal, but it’s consumed in an air of gloom. Lori gets teary. By not making a decision, it looks like I’ve made one. Tomorrow I’ll be heading for Walter Reed. And after that? Officer Candidate School at Fort Benning, I guess.
Halfway through dinner, my phone vibrates. It’s a text. From Erin Rose: Snt u email.
That’s strange.
After dinner I go up to my room and read it:
Dear Jake,
I’m really glad you came by. I was afraid of what you might say, but as always, you were a true gentleman. Thank you so much for that. I’ve attached the last letter I got from Brad. I’ve often wondered why he wrote it out on paper instead of just sending it as an email. I think maybe he wanted me to have something I could hold in my hands. Maybe something I could share with Amber when she’s old enough. Anyway, when you were here, I wasn’t sure whether to show it to you or not. I didn’t have time to think about it. But now I’ve thought it over. I don’t think Brad would have minded me showing it to you. And again, thank you for understanding.
Love,
ER
I click on the attachment. It’s a scan of a letter written on yellow-lined paper. The paper is wrinkled, with reddish stains. So this was what Brad was writing in his office the night he hurled the Dr Pepper at the wall. It’s smudged in spots as if it’s been read and reread dozens of times. Knowing Erin Rose, I’m sure it has.
Dear Erin Rose,
I’m writing this because I can’t take it anymore.
Every day is torture, and it only gets worse. Its been going on for a long time.
Its constant agony. I’m not even sure where the physical pain ends and the mental begins. Its all mixed together. Every day is a waking nightmare. Horrible memories, guilt, anxiety. The meds used to help a little . . . for a while . . . but I feel like now they just scramble my brains and add to the depression, doubt, and pain.
The things I did on my first two deployments haunt me.
A couple of weeks ago at Airbase Delta, I ran into the guy we used to call Fozzy. He and I served together during my first deployment. Our eyes met, and we both looked away. Passed each other and never said a word.
I know what he was thinking because I was thinking it too. About the things we were ordered to do. The things we had to do. To get information. To kill the enemy before they killed us. To survive. Thats all it ever was. Just trying to survive. I can’t even remember if it was ever about winning this stupid war.
No matter what anyone says, you can’t play fair against an enemy that doesn’t play fair. Against an enemy that dies willingly. I was guarding a checkpoint and this young woman came toward us carrying a bundle. We yelled at her to stop, but she kept coming. Not running, but coming steadily. Suicide bombers are a real problem. They mix in with a crowd of GIs and blow themselves up and take half a dozen guys with them. We kept yelling and waving, but she wouldn’t stop. Soon she was going to be close enough to the checkpoint to blow us all up.
Everyone knew what had to be done, but no one wanted to be the one who did it. But someone had to take the shot. I guess I thought I’d be a hero. Not because I’d shoot an unarmed woman, but because I’d spare my fellow soldiers the awful task.
I fired and she went down. We were waiting to see what would happen next when the bundle she was carrying moved.
I wanted to puke.
A couple of guys took a closer look. She was carrying an infant. The kid had been badly burned, probably thanks to one of our artillery attacks or bombing raids. She was probably bringing him to us for help.
Now, not only did we burn the kid. We killed his mother.
I wish that was the only thing. But it wasn’t. There was a lot. Some things we were ordered to do. Things that would be considered war crimes in any military court. None of us wanted to do them. But we had no choice. To refuse was to endanger the lives of your fellow soldiers.
So I did them. Lots of us did. I don’t know how the other guys dealt with it. But now all those things are in me, always. I can’t escape. Sometimes I think only a crazy person could live with the things we had to do.
Maybe thats the problem. I feel crazy now, but maybe not crazy enough.
You must be wondering, if it was that bad, why would I ever go back for a second deployment? And then a third? The answer is that after the first deployment I felt guilty about what I’d done. I went back for the second because I stupidly thought that maybe I could do a better job. I felt I owed it to all the soldiers who died, and to those who were still alive. I told myself that if I did better this time, the ghosts that were haunting me would go away.
Maybe I did do a little better during that second deployment. But people still died. Our enemies were still being tortured and murdered. And the ghosts from the first deployment were still there.
And the third deployment? I think you know why I went. By then I couldn’t live with myself, or you and Amber. I was going crazy at home. You knew because you walked into the bathroom and I was sitting there with a gun in my mouth. You have no idea how many times I did that when you didn’t walk in. I had to come back here so that whatever I did, I wouldn’t do in front of you and Amber. That’s why I don’t blame you for wanting a divorce. I’m not the same person you married. If I can’t live with me, how can I expect you to?
I’m looking at my rifle right now and wondering for the millionth time what hot brass t
astes like. Racking a round in the chamber, sticking the muzzle in your mouth and . . . I don’t have to say the rest. Not an hour goes by that I don’t wonder. Theres only one thing I know for sure. Whatever happens, it’s going to be a relief.
By the time you get this letter, I’ll have done what I need to do. You and Amber will get my death benefit. Its way more than I’ll ever be worth to you.
Someday when shes old enough to understand, please tell her that I loved her. And that I tried my best.
I know when you read this you’ll be sad. But try to remember that I won’t be in pain anymore. It’ll be better this way.
Love,
Brad
DAD
How’re you feeling, son?”
I’m sitting on the back deck, gazing up at the moonless night sky. The Milky Way is a hazy diagonal across the star-glittery blackness. In the immensely vast universe, we are a tiniest speck. In the billions of years of history, we are the merest infinitesimal instant.
Yet we persist in believing that what we do can be important.
“Jake?”
“Sorry, Dad, I was just thinking.”
He pulls a chair beside mine and sits. Ice clinks in two glasses. He hands one to me. “You ready?”
He’s talking about getting on the plane to Washington and Walter Reed Hospital tomorrow morning.
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
Does he want to hear something more affirmative? More gung-ho? Something like “Can’t wait to get my cast off and go back over there and kill me some more insurgents.”
He is the father and I am the son. And yet, he is the one who has never had to take another human’s life in the line of duty. He’s the innocent, who doesn’t have to go through life with the guilt, shame, and agony of knowing what you’ve done and can never undo. I am the one with blood on my hands.
And like Brad knew all too well, it never washes off.
The glass Dad’s given me is cold and wet. I take a sip and feel the hot trail of bourbon down my throat. A week ago I came home knowing what the bare minimum was. I had to see Morpiss. I had to tell Erin Rose that she had nothing to be ashamed of or feel guilty about. But I also came home hoping I might be able to do more. That perhaps I could tell the truth as I’ve come to see it.
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