George took over the checker game. Unless Grampa John threw one, he’d never once beaten the old man at checkers and was happy for the opportunity. Between moves, it was obvious that Grampa John was trying to get the skinny on everything. “Wanna tell me ’bout it?” the old man asked.
For the first time ever, George couldn’t meet his grandfather’s gaze. He swallowed hard and was preparing to respond when his grandfather roared, “I reckon all you can do with some pain is allow it its due time.”
Grampa John never raised his voice. George’s head flung up at the wrongness of it.
The old man grinned. Looking the pain square in the eye, Grampa John continued. “It’s true. Whatever it is that ails ya … and I can see it’s deep, it’ll take time. That might not make you feel any better now, but trust me, boy, the memories you want to fade away will, and the feelins’ that come with ’em will leave ya even faster.” With that, he jumped George’s last checker and stood. “Game over,” he said. “And if I ain’t mistaken, only time’s gonna be enough to bandage this one up.” He patted George on the shoulder. “But I’m here when you see fit to talkin’.” He grinned again. “You go see your folks yet?”
George shook his head.
“Then you best get yourself over there. They’re dyin’ to see ya.”
George wasn’t through his nod when Grampa John stepped into the house.
George felt relieved that Grampa John didn’t persist in his quest for knowing. Even though he’d been able to lock away the hideous pictures in his mind for weeks, the wounds were still fresh. He reached to grab his duffel bag when he noticed how many of Grampa John’s checkers remained on the board. With a chuckle, he shook his head. “That old man’s something else,” he muttered.
The door opened again and, as if perfectly timed, Herbert returned with a kitchen chair. “Got time for one more game?” he asked hopefully.
George nodded and reset the board. “Sure, Mr. Manchester. Time is the one thing I do have.”
George’s second foot wasn’t past the bunkhouse threshold when Hank pushed his chair away from the kitchen table and jumped to his feet. “Ain’t you a sight, Georgey!” he gasped. “Just look at you!”
Those words nearly made all the pain worth the trouble—but not quite.
Elle and Evan attacked George like a swarm of honey bees, stinging him with slaps on the back, kisses and proclamations of love. At one point, Lila was introduced and brought into the celebration.
“Where’s Tara?” George asked.
“Over at Grampa John’s,” Evan answered.
Hank walked over, grabbed George by the shoulders and shook him back and forth. Coming from Pa, it was the most intimate hug in the world. “I’ll be,” Hank squealed again and again. “I’ll be …”
George couldn’t imagine a better compliment coming from the frigid man.
On a mismatched set of gas station dinnerware, the five of them ate supper like a family again. George shared his adventurous tales, careful not to include any of the tragic details that stole away his sleep.
In flight, Sergeant George McCarthy and his four-man squad were briefed on Afghani customs, as well as the strengths and weaknesses of their adversary—the Taliban. They were also strongly reminded that America was counting on them. Right off, George understood. He loaded his weapons and prayed, “Father, please give me the strength and courage to serve with honor. Walk with us, Father …”
Under the cover of a moonless sky, they jumped into the roughest mountain terrain in the world. Scattered by the darkness, George went straight for a communications check. One by one, Danny, Brad, Cooch and Private Brady Alexander checked in. They had all made it and were now sitting just outside a known Taliban training camp. Using his call sign, “Pigeon Claw,” George issued a six-digit grid coordinate in code and ordered, “Rally within the hour. Last man in makes supper.”
At the base of a small mountain range—much less majestic than the mountains back home—the boys set up camp while George studied the map. This isn’t going to be an easy mission, he decided. There are no landmarks to guide our way. George cleared the net and called command, advising them of the location to drop the vehicles. It was also imperative that the allied forces know their exact whereabouts. Nobody wanted to be awakened by a “friendly” bomb. Equipment and supply checks were conducted, while chemical detectors were placed out on the tight perimeter. Not one ranger closed his eyes that night. The black sky screamed with the occasional Allied war bird, while the ground trembled with Taliban vehicles. They were close enough to smell the enemy, so George abandoned the idea of rest and decided to put the boys right to work. Their mission was simple: being America’s eyes in Afghanistan, they were tasked to identify and locate Taliban forces. After collecting data for intelligence purposes, they were to call in coordinates and take a few steps back. The U.S. Air Force would gladly do the rest.
Within four hours, they made their initial enemy contact and George called in his first coordinates. Allowing them a twenty-minute buffer for safety, the whining buzzards swooped in to claim their prey. The Taliban fired wildly into the sky, sending up a barrage of all they had, but it was such a futile attempt at survival. Panic overwhelmed them, while the allied pilots took their sweet, torturous time with the easy kill. George thought, I wish they would just drop the hammer and be done with it. From Hellfire to Tomahawk missiles, they finally unleashed their rage. Pounds of TNT were slammed right into the enemy’s face, erupting into a ball of fire that looked like it traveled a hundred miles into the sky. Sometimes making a second and third run, the flyboys left behind nothing but remnants of bone and fragments of steel. George and the boys carefully reconned the area. The morbid sight was enough to upset a cast-iron stomach. Walking through the path of destruction caused by his one call, to his surprise, George was barely affected. The Taliban are the enemy and the men who died are wearing uniforms, he reasoned. We’re soldiers and the rules are clear on both sides—kill or be killed. George actually felt good about saving the lives of Americans who would follow.
Life in the mountains was the truest test of survival. When the relentless wind blew, the mercury dropped off the thermometer. And the nights were colder than any winter Montana had ever seen. They traveled light so food was carefully rationed. Even the dirt was a constant problem. It was as fine as powdered sugar and inescapable in all aspects of their existence. They ate it, slept with it—even bathed in it. And there was no such thing as privacy. They constantly covered each other, so even when they defecated an armed guard was posted at their backs.
Secretly, George missed the correspondence from home. Though other servicemen in Afghanistan were showered with supportive letters from home, the 4th Battalion conducted only covert operations. No one could know where they were exactly—no one. For all anyone knows, I’m stationed in some Quonset hut, playing ping-pong. George postmarked fabricated letters filled with white lies and had them sent out whenever they crossed paths with other units. Each letter was intended to quell his family’s worries. He doubted Grampa John bought a word of it. That old man’s tuned in to a higher source.
There was no room for the simplest comfort in the mountains. Maintaining the edge meant staying alive and there could be no mistakes. Every second in Afghanistan was a hazard to their health. Their fierce adversary—the Taliban—was out hunting, too.
One night, the squad searched an area and happened upon two Taliban scouts doing the same. In swift response, both Afghani fighters were on their way to Allah’s paradise before ever feeling the deep scratches on their necks. The key was not to fire a round and attract any unwanted attention. George’s men used their knives and followed protocol. As one Taliban soldier lay gurgling on his own blood, Danny suggested, “We should amputate a finger before he dies.”
George stood horrified. As Taliban religious beliefs denied their enemy entrance into heaven unless physically whole, black ops insisted—when possible—that body parts be removed prior to any k
illing, but George wouldn’t hear of it. The mission was top priority and there was no time to dabble in psychological warfare. Besides being inhumane, playing masochist was just a waste of time. George had no need to respond. His eyes said it all. The squad moved on.
Two weeks into their service in Afghanistan, the squad also crossed the bloody path of the British S.A.S., England’s own version of Airborne Rangers. Their mission called for more ruthlessness. They worked in teams of three and hid right out in the open by wearing Taliban uniforms. Their main task required them to infiltrate enemy convoys from the rear and silently slit throats all the way to the front. And from the look on their smug faces, they thoroughly enjoyed their work. George didn’t care for them. Although they accounted for more kills in Afghanistan than any chopper that flew, he never met a single one he cared to see again.
For many months, Sergeant George McCarthy and his four men of the 4th Ranger Battalion represented their country with honor. They called in numerous enemy air strikes and assisted America’s precision bombing with hand-held laser guidance systems. That always meant getting up close and personal with various Taliban targets. They also saved the lives of several dying children who had tripped over the improvised explosive devices, or IEDs, that littered their back yard. The Army, however, didn’t recognize the compassion. It was merely considered extra work.
At one point, even Mother Nature wanted in on the action. A devastating storm blew through Afghanistan, shifting enemy troops and enabling the rangers to move in even tighter. George and the boys reported everything they saw. With the nightly firestorms raining down on their pathetic adversary, the Taliban forces were severely worn down. Only the units forced to dig in—some of which had been maimed by their commanders—stayed put.
In the final weeks of their tour of duty, George, Danny, Brad, Cooch and Brady celebrated their many successes on some unknown point in the middle of a crumpled map. They smoked cigars and drank two cups of coffee each. There was great pride in blazing a path for others to follow. There was even greater satisfaction knowing that they’d helped to spare American lives. Breaking down the makeshift camp, they were quickly on their way again. Their mission was not yet complete.
George came up for air and sighed. “And that’s enough war stories for now,” he said, stopping just before he’d gotten to the worst night of his life.
“Oh, come on,” Hank said, seated at the very edge of his chair.
“I’m tired, Pa,” George yawned, stretching out.
Hank stared at George and finally nodded. “Okay, then. We’ll pick it up again later.”
After Ma’s blueberry pie, Hank fiddled with a toothpick, his tongue sucking any remaining debris from his perfect teeth. Suddenly, as if he’d just thought up the greatest idea ever, he insisted, “Georgey, how ’bout you throw on that camouflaged uniform of yours? I think it’s about time we shared a drink, you and me.”
George was reluctant but the pleading in his pa’s eyes made him accept.
With Ma’s displeased look to take with them, they headed out to the bar.
Hank and George walked into the V.F.W. where Hank immediately announced, “Set up the house. First round’s on me!”
The bartender asked George, “Can I see your I.D.?”
Hank nearly scaled the bar after him. “Jimmy,” he hollered, “old enough to serve, old enough to be served! Got it?”
The man nodded passively and put a head on another cold brew. He knew Pa well and had, no doubt, endorsed a few of his paychecks. That night, though the family could hardly afford it, they drank away another week’s pay. Pa said, “Don’t you worry about it, son. It ain’t every day we celebrate success in this family.” He beamed with pride, making sure that anyone who drank on him hadn’t missed a gander at his son, the war hero.
Instead of feeling good about himself, George began feeling bad for Pa. He sensed that his Army experiences now made him different than his old man—no better, just different. At their closest point, George felt some serious distance between them. In an eerie sort-of way, Pa looked up to him now. That wasn’t supposed to be part of the deal, George thought.
For the rest of the night, George watched his father live inside his Army tales. With every round ordered, Pa asked the same questions about the same experiences. But just when it became more frightening than flattering, the bartender summoned the courage to shut them off. George couldn’t have been happier. He dragged his belligerent father out of the bar and drove him home. They weren’t on the road for two minutes when the old man passed out and began snoring. It was the most welcome sound George had heard in a long while.
CHAPTER 11
After a brief search, Tara discovered an old bottle of Wild Turkey in the cupboard under Grampa John’s kitchen sink. She studied the dusty bottle and snickered. Grandma never drank, she thought, and as far as I know, Grampa John never touched the hard stuff. She looked behind her to ensure that she was still alone. He won’t miss it, she thought, and unscrewed the cap. She began opening the top cupboard for a glass when she abandoned the thought and put the bottle straight to her quivering lips. As though she were nursing from a baby bottle, she drank greedily, ignoring the inferno that ignited her throat and belly. Although she swung the bottle down, it didn’t stay down for long. She quickly hoisted it back up and guzzled more. Four gulps later, the bottle was empty. She placed it into the kitchen trash, careful to bury it deep beneath the other refuse.
Tara awoke from her nap three hours later. When she opened her eyes, she spotted the empty whiskey bottle sitting on the oak dresser. “Oh, no,” she muttered.
The old man was standing at the stove, stirring a giant pot of soup. Tara took a deep breath, stepped into the kitchen and sat down at the table. “Quench your thirst?” he asked, without bothering to turn around.
“I … I … had one drink,” she stuttered.
“Nope. You had half a bottle.” He shrugged. “Besides, there ain’t no such thing as just one drink,” he said, while turning around to face her. “…not when you’re an alcoholic.”
The word stung her face like an angry wasp. She searched her grandfather’s eyes for mercy.
He took a seat at the table and placed a bowl of steaming soup in front of her. “That’s right, sweetheart. You have a disease and the sooner you get help for that disease, the better off you and your little one’ll be.” He pushed the bowl closer to her. “If you had diabetes, you’d go see the doc, right?” Without awaiting her answer, he added, “This ain’t no different, Tara. It’s a disease.”
Tara grabbed her spoon and dove into the soup, doing her best to avoid his penetrating gaze.
The old man grabbed her other hand. “And the next time you want somethin’ in this house, be sure you ask. I know for certain your parents didn’t raise no thieves.”
This second sting closed her eyes shut. “I’m sorry, Grampa John,” she mumbled.
He squeezed her hand hard enough to throw her eyes open. “Already forgiven … and forgotten,” he said with a wink and got to his feet. As he walked back to the stove, he added, “But given that you’re gonna have to face more moments of weakness, just know that I emptied this house of any booze.” He nodded, placing his back to her again. “There ain’t one drop left in the whole place.”
She nodded too and quickly returned to her soup. The rest of the meal was spent in silent reflection.
Across the creek bridge, Evan was heading out of the house when he grabbed his jacket and threw it on. As he reached the front door, he felt something bulging from the inside pocket. He reached in and pulled it out, knowing what was on the yellow lined paper before he unfolded it. His breathing became shallow and his heart raced at the anticipation of reading it again.
He stepped onto the front porch and slowly unfolded it. He wasn’t surprised that his eyes filled with tears. It was a poem he had written for Carley not so long ago. From the opening line, he realized that the wound wasn’t only fresh; it was still gaping and raw
. He read:
Everything
Into the night, I cast a wish
that my life I might share.
And when I least expected love,
you answered every prayer.
I found my heart inside your eyes;
my future, in your smile.
And from the day I took your hand,
I’ve cherished every mile.
This path shall lead us to the end
through sun and freezing rain.
Without conditions, I am here
in joy and every pain.
Our love is proof that dreams come true,
I vow in life and death,
That all I am I give to you
with each and every breath.
From the darkness came a light
that only God could bring.
For you are not just whom I love,
to me, you’re everything.
He crumpled the paper up and threw it into a bucket of kindling that Pa left near the door. “You were my everything,” he whispered, and stepped off the porch to stumble through another day.
Grampa John jumped in his pick-up truck and went for a ride. Even though the air was bitterly cold, he rolled down the window and turned up the country music. The combination always helped to clear his head.
Too many miles and just as many sappy ballads later, as if being drawn by a magnet, the truck made a u-turn and headed back toward the farm; toward where Alice peacefully slept.
With three walls of stone as borders, Alice now rested on the prettiest patch of land. In the spring, flowers grew wild and perfumed the air—just the way she always loved it. Today, though, the ground was frozen solid.
Ignoring the cold on his knees, John offered his usual prayers. After blessing himself, he scanned the sacred patch of land and pondered the permanence of death. The only way to get into this cemetery and relax was to never come out. But knowing that Alice was resting with kin and not the remains of strangers, he felt some comfort. He wiped his eyes and whispered, “I miss you somethin’ terrible, squaw.”
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