by Sex, Nikki
Tradition held, as the officer in charge of the dead man, he was responsible to write a condolence letter to the next of kin. Hell, there was even a template for one, spelled out in regulations.
Jack hadn't even known that until Chief Whitley—senior enlisted Corpsman in Jack's unit, an all-around crusty old salt and Jack's right hand man—had pulled him aside and explained it all to him.
Navy doctors didn't get much of an orientation to the life and responsibilities of being an officer as well as a doc. Jack still found a lot of it confusing.
He had the prescribed format in his lap, also provided by the good Chief. Eyes narrowed, he tried to make some sort of sense of it.
Like anything in the Navy, the things you were expected to cover were set down in precise bullet points. A) Sorry about your loss, "insert name here." B) _____was a good sailor/Marine and an asset to his unit. C) "Put something personal about how much he/she was liked here." And, D) “How sorry you are goes here."
It was such bullshit—all of it.
Bob Wynn was a good guy, Jack thought. Green, a little overeager at times and a little lazy at other times, but generally, he was an OK kid. He was a decent corpsman when he wasn't hiding from doing things. He needed a little "encouragement" now and then to do his job, but he wasn't bad at it.
Bob Wynn had been simple and unsophisticated, yet there'd been a kindness in him. Something wholesome.
The way that he’d faced death had been an unexpected surprise and had earned him more than a little of Jack's respect. For a moment, Jack remembered the courageous and selfless manner in which Bob Wynn had chosen to pass away.
“Take care of someone else. Take care of yourself. I’ll be OK. I don’t mind dying alone. I’ll be thinking of Laura.”
Who'd expect that a green kid of that age had that kind of decency in him? He'd thought of others with his last breath.
It made Jack wonder. What might Bob have been capable of becoming if he’d lived? If he’d been given the chance to grow up?
Yet, now Bob Wynn was dead. None of the “what if’s” mattered anyway, and Jack had to figure out how to write a letter to his wife.
Fuck me. Wynn had a wife and a kid on the way, and he couldn't have been twenty-one yet.
A part of Jack thought that Wynn was stupid and naive to be married at such a young age. Yet another part of him was jealous. It would be nice to have a woman waiting at home. Someone who'd be there for him.
Someone who loved him.
Loved. What a concept. Jack’s chest tightened and something low in his gut did, too. For a long moment, he sat and considered the matter, lost in possibilities. For all his youth and inexperience, Bob Wynn might have had the important things figured out.
Maybe I’m the idiot.
Shooting started up in the distance. Jack heard it way out in the middle of the city. It was accompanied by the familiar sound of long, low rolling booms from explosives.
He knew that his free time would rapidly drift away, as more wounded Marines came in to their collection of tents and trucks that made up this "ER."
"Bullshit," Jack said as he crumpled up the official template for condolence letters. He tossed it aside, into the dirt. Bob’s wife deserved better.
Determined, he bent forward and began to write his letter.
Chapter 6.
North Carolina.
Laura Wynn opened the door to her apartment and kicked off her shoes.
Her back hurt.
Standing on unforgiving tile floors all day, slinging drinks to fishermen and tourists wasn't an easy job, but she still had to do it. By the end of her shift, it pained her to walk the six blocks back home. She no longer had a car, so she just had to do that, too.
She'd gotten a small pension from the Navy when Bob died, but he'd forgotten to fill out his serviceman's group life insurance paperwork before he went overseas. All she received from them was a wooden, "We're sorry, but we can't help you."
Yeah, she'd get a monthly check that amounted to a fraction of his pay when he was alive, but it didn't even begin to cover the rent, much less anything else.
So every day, she found herself walking to Clancy's Irish Pub. She'd sling booze and snacks for eight, ten or twelve hours, and then walk back again. Once home, she'd sit alone in front of the TV before going off to bed, only to do it again the next day.
At least I don't have to worry about anybody else to feed, she thought, as she absently rubbed her belly. She’d miscarried and that still hurt too.
When Bob died and then the baby, Laura felt indescribable numbness, followed by an all-encompassing, heart-wrenching sadness.
It took a while, but she’d gotten over that.
Laura had been fighting a hard battle to stubbornly find her way in the precarious, “just take one-step at a time,” and “you can get through this” gloom that was her life.
Giving in to misery was not in Laura’s nature.
Giving in or getting high had been her mother’s solution—not hers.
There was a pile of envelopes lying on the scuffed wooden floor. They were exactly where they'd landed upon being stuffed through the slot in the door by the mailman.
Laura bent down with a groan and picked them up.
She groaned again as she went through them. Bill, bill, bill, her mother writing again asking when she was going to share all of her "gov'ment" money, another bill and one dingy envelope, marked "free postage, armed forces, Iraq."
At first, she thought it was from Bob. Could it be a letter finally reached her, long after his death? It was like one of those military mail mix-ups she'd seen in war movies as a kid. A pang of pain went through her as she thought of him. Why'd he have to die?
All of the promise in his future, all the pure, sweet innocent love he had for her, everything was gone. Just now, after a hard day’s work, she didn’t feel up to reading an enthusiastic and loving letter from her dead husband. Not right this minute.
Maybe not ever.
Wholesome and kind-hearted, I cared for Bob. I admired him. Yet, I never really loved him—not like he loved me. Together we had the potential for something more. I wanted to have his child. That was all we had, but it had been enough.
She was about to put the letter down on the hallway table when she caught the return address.
Laura didn't recognize the name, but it certainly wasn't from Bob. This made her curious enough to look. After fetching herself a beer from the kitchenette fridge, she settled down on her threadbare couch to open it.
Bob had been in the ground for over a month by then—Hell, they'd been married less time than that. Laura couldn’t remember much from the moment she was told that Bob was dead, until right after the funeral.
Was this weird form of amnesia from what had happened? Or was it more from the way that everything had been so professionally taken care of?
It was so cold. So impersonal. How else could it be done?
Discovering Bob’s death was a chaotic blur that started with dour men in uniforms with a bunch of shiny stuff on their chests at her front door. They told her how sorry they were, but they had something to tell her. Could they please come in? She'd better have a seat first.
Everything out of their mouths seemed to have been memorized by rote, as if they were quoting a manual or something.
"We're sorry to inform you...blah, blah...deepest regrets...blah, blah...will help in any way we can...blah, blah."
It was false and she knew it. It didn't feel genuine or sincere—it felt fake. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it just seemed that way to her because they had to do it so many damned times. It had become just the same lines, in the same play that they repeated over and over again.
It really didn't matter if they cared or not. Bob was still dead, and she was still alone. She was still living in this crappy apartment that she could barely afford, with a crappy job and an uncertain future.
At least she’d almost managed to pay off the debt from her car that her ex crashe
d when DUI. Two more payments to go, thank God.
For a moment, she recalled Bob’s family: four tall older brothers, two younger sisters, a somber father and his mother. Her husband had come from a big family. Laura was happy he'd had that.
As an only child, she imagined how much fun it would be to have built-in playmates, to never to be lonely and never to be alone. No wonder he’d been so happy and idealistic. Inexperienced and sweetly naive, at least Bob knew who he was. He’d had a broad and secure foundation to build on.
She felt guilty for not having a big wedding in Iowa—his family would've loved that. But everything was all done in such a rush as Bob had to ship out. Bob’s family were overjoyed that his wife was pregnant.
Laura called and spoke to his mother about her miscarriage already. Giving them that news during the funeral would have made burying her son even more painful.
Bob’s mom had made a huge impression on her during the memorial service.
The woman was a stout, dowdy lady with forearms that could crack walnuts and a red, tear-streaked face. Mrs. Wynn put her arms around Laura and hugged her with strength that a fully-grown boa constrictor would admire.
“My boy loved you,” she sniffed. “You made him a happy man. I thank the good Lord every day for that. It ain’t right for a man to die without having been loved by his wife, and I know you loved him. You’re a blessing, sweetheart. You’re family now. You need anything, you call us, OK?”
For one long moment, Laura basked in those strong arms, wondering about the love that a real mother might give her. She even seriously considered going home with Bob’s family. Could she make a fresh start in Iowa?
It was her love of the ocean that held her back. How could she live landlocked? She’d feel trapped and smothered in the center of the continent. Surrounded by earth, as if buried alive.
No, she had to live near the ocean.
The seaside was the only place where Laura felt she could breathe.
Chapter 7.
The funeral and the veteran's cemetery was only a few blocks further down the road so she’d walked there for the memorial service. Her mother, whom Laura hadn't seen since she was fifteen, was also there. She hugged Laura, said 'sorry' and asked just how much she got for her widow's benefits.
How had she known?
Unlike Bob’s mom—a stranger that she felt an unexpected kinship with—her own mother’s touch, made her skin crawl.
Laura was both surprised and guiltily pleased at how worn out her mother looked. After all, her 'dear and caring' mother had tried to sell Laura to her alcoholic trailer park friend—for drugs, of course.
A roiling fist of remembered fury coiled in her gut.
What kind of mother does that?
Laura already knew the answer to that particular question—an addict who would do anything for her next hit.
At one time, her mom had been different. Even though her mom was always a little crazy, Laura felt loved as a child. They’d lived the stereotype—a single mom, paying low rent in a trailer park, working two jobs to make ends meet. Back then they had been in it together, fighting for survival—her and her mom.
Then her mom discovered meth.
Laura hadn't seen her mother in ages—since she'd busted their drunken neighbor over the head with her junior high swimming trophy and ran out of her room, out of her ramshackle trailer park home and out of their backwoods town.
The guy's voice still rang in her ears. "I done paid for a virgin and Goddamn if I ain't gonna have my piece of one."
Laura hadn't a clue how her mother found out about the funeral. Maybe from the news on TV? She couldn't imagine the Navy told her.
Completely unwelcome, the woman shouldn't have been there, yet there she was in all her sunken-cheeked, smelly, methamphetamine glory.
Laura politely endured her mother’s presence throughout the short ceremony. Some extremely dour man in a uniform said some words about a grateful nation. Laura didn't see any grateful nation. In fact, to her eyes, the nation didn't seem to remember or care—especially if the latest reality show was on.
Then an American flag was stuffed into her arms, some military men shot some guns in the air and it was over. It was a miracle that she'd been able to give her mom the slip.
Mom hadn't had the nerve to come to her home—not yet, anyway—but every other week, like clockwork, Laura had gotten a letter from her, asking about money.
She cracked the beer and folded her legs under her. God that beer went down well. It was cool and satisfying after a long, hot day.
The envelope opened easily and she started to read.
Dear Mrs. Wynn;
I'm so very sorry to have to write you in this way but I feel that I should. My name is Jack Curren. I am a Navy doctor. I was in charge of the medical team of which your husband, Bob, was a part.
I really don't know what to tell you. I'm new to this sort of thing, but I feel it's my duty to reach out to you in some way. There's nothing anyone could say that could make this better or justify his death. What happened to Bob was awful and senseless and I cannot say enough about just how sorry I am.
Bob’s gone and there’s no rhyme nor reason to it.
It could have been anybody who was unlucky enough to be in that place at that time. No battle was won, no strategic initiative gained, nobody is any more free as a result. It was just a bunch of guys who depended on each other and cared about each other in some worthless place a million miles from home—and one of them didn't make it.
I know this sounds depressing. Bringing you down is not what I'm trying to do. What I'm trying to say and what I'm saying so badly, is that I don't buy into the platitudes and hollow words that people think are so comforting at a time like this.
The truth is that this whole thing sucks. It sucks for you, for Bob and for all of us. I think we don't serve his memory justice unless we recognize it for what it is.
I won't pretend to have known him very well. I think people who go on like they do when they don't, are fake to the core.
Bob was a new guy in a large group of men under my command. In the short time he was with me, I didn't get the chance to know him like I should have.
He was just another one of the guys trying to do a tough job in a tough place. Even though we may not have been close, that doesn’t mean that I don't appreciate what he did for us and his fellow sailors and Marines. I respect the fact that he put on a uniform and came out to this lousy piece of sand.
I do know some things about Bob from spending time with him and seeing him at work. I know he truly cared about people. I know when he worked, he always put in his all. He went above and beyond to help our wounded. I deeply respected and appreciated that about him. He was a good medic.
Bob was extremely brave and put others before himself until the very end of his life. He earned my deepest respect for the courage he exhibited until his last breath.
I was with Bob when he died and I can tell you honestly that the last words he said to me—his last thoughts on this earth—were of you and how much he loved you.
If you remember anything about him and this whole situation, please remember that.
He was a good guy and a good corpsman and the world will be a lesser place without him in it.
I’m so incredibly sorry for your loss—our loss—and I hope I can be of service to you and help you with anything that you need.
Jack Curren, M.D.
Laura put the letter down, her eyes brimming, blurred with tears. She looked over the signature once more. Jack Curren, M.D.
At first, she didn't know what to think. The letter wasn't what she'd expected at all—not by a long shot. Laura thought that maybe she should be a little offended. It was definitely frank and almost offensively to the point.
On the other hand, it was a heck of a lot more sincere than all of the crappy platitudes the Navy men and Marines had fed her at the funeral. It was, in a way, refreshing to read.
Dr. Curren cut
through all the bullshit and told it like it was.
She appreciated that.
Laura didn’t know how long she sat there, staring at the bold, hand-written script. They were words meant to give peace and closure, written by a man who was finding it difficult to come to terms with Bob’s death.
She sat looking over the unexpected letter, a single piece of paper sent from a place of war in another country, far, far away.
It took some time before Laura realized that she’d been crying. Hot wet tears rolled down her face, yet she knew she wasn’t sad. In fact, she felt better than she had in a long, long time.
Her skin tingled with the feel of a cooling salt breeze coming off the river. It was unique to the brackish waters that fed into the Pamlico Sound.
It smelled and felt so good, softly caressing her—refreshing and filling her senses.
The breeze flowed through the open window of her apartment, carrying nocturnal sounds that drifted up through the North Carolina night from the street below.
Laura wiped her eyes, took out a pen and paper and began to write.
Chapter 8.
Jack hit the brakes of the HUMVEE, affectionately known as a "hoopty" as in "let's get the hoopty and go for a ride.” Dust flew as the tires skidded. The Marines were out to play today, but Haji just didn't want to be found.
"Why are they stopping?"
Chief Whitley peered through the grimy window. "I dunno. Maybe they found an IED."
"Or another bag of trash somebody left on the side of the trail."
"Who knows? There's garbage everywhere."
Jack nodded. One thing about Iraq, there's no trash day and no cans neatly lined up on the curb—not many curbs either, for that matter. People did what they had to do. Most stuff was used over and over again, but even with the most meticulous recycling and reusing, stuff eventually wore out. When that happened, it was tossed right out the front door where the wind picked it up and blew it all over the place.
Every pile of crap, every bag of garbage could hide a bomb. Many times, trucks were blown to shit by those bombs, but mostly they were just piles of random refuse.