Johnathan shifted his weight onto his prosthetic, testing his ability to stay on it for however long it took him to say whatever it was he planned to say here in front of these men and women, soldiers and Marines, some of whom had given so much more than he.
What am I supposed to say? How can I motivate or encourage or empower? What pithy, uplifting thing can I spit in the face of so much pain? His throat left dry as bone. Thoughts of scotch floated from somewhere in the back of his mind. He looked at his phone and thought about calling Randall and canceling the gig. This was supposed to be his show after all. Why did it have to be me?
Another memory resurfaced.
He was in the gunner’s seat, sweat poured from under his Kevlar helmet, rolling down, stinging his eyes. The trifecta of sun, dust, and heat. He recalled thinking of home, as he often did, when suddenly, a small sedan broke free from a herd of drivers keeping their distance from the convoy. The rusted yellow wagon galloped forward. No sign it was ever going to stop. His fear took the reins. He pressed the butt of a M4 5.56 rifle against his shoulder. Taking aim, he yelled. The warnings were of a profane dialect only common to soldiers, but it mattered little, nothing could be heard above the growling of those engines. The car kept coming. He pulled the trigger. Screams and burning rubber were well known in Tikrit and it was reckoned to them as malcontent. The sheep lay motionless. Tiny bloated skeletons playing on the street were quickly scooped up by their hooded mothers as people fled for safety. The sedan was left smoking on the side of an unnamed dirt road.
And I won't forget those who died…
He recalled how the convoy never missed a step as they drove away from that haunting scene.
We ought to have desiccated our Declaration, masticated our Independence, and set the refuse of our bugle out to sea on a scow. Why am I here? Why did I survive? The crowds of our beloved, our family, and friends, they kept on waving and chanting ‘Hero…hero…hero,’ yet my heart weeps for absolution.
“And it is my great pleasure to introduce to you a soldier, much like many of you, who overcame great odds and has worked to bring hope to the lives of others around him, who has worked tirelessly with veterans in Houston. Please join me in a round of applause for Corporal Johnathan Steele!” the announcer cheered, flapping his hands together like some bird with clipped wings.
Johnathan smirked. Couldn’t give me Sergeant, but then again, I guess going from Private to Corporal is still pretty damn good. He cleared his throat and limped briskly out from behind the curtain. Bright and hot beams of light followed him as he made his way to the epicenter where the announcer, some civilian named Doug Sanders, shook his hand and handed him the microphone. He waited for the muffled applause to subside before speaking.
Those who could stand did. Those who couldn’t, if they still possessed them, raised their arms. Hand met hand or hand met some chunky leftover of thigh. Some did nothing but hoot, holler, or whistle. And a few remained still, watchful. Though Johnathan still felt his stomach twisting in knots, he also was overcome by the sheer bravado of the men and women before him, the sincerest form of love and adoration and respect held here for, not just him, but for one another was breathtaking. He listened silently as the crowd cheered and cheered in an uproar of blood-curdling solidarity. Now I know why Randall does this.
“Hello,” Johnathan started. The roar faded to a hushed rushing wind and then disappeared altogether in an eerie dull silence. “My name is Johnathan Steele, former Corporal in the United States Army, Eighty-Ninth Military Police Brigade, Second Platoon, Renegades, First Squad, call sign 7-Bravo-Golf. A former gunner.”
Former…though I’ll never stop being…
“I was a twenty-two-year-old grim reaper, as some of us gunners called ourselves. Twenty-two and already filling out a Last Will & Testament. Twenty-two and had already engaged an enemy. Twenty-two and already had my bell rung more than twice. Been shot at on more occasions than I care to think, and not all of that was combat related. Twenty-two and wounded. My driver, my team member, my best friend, my brother, killed in action. Twenty-two and disabled. And I survived and this is why I’m talking with you today.”
He paused. Searched the crowd. Searching the faces that had once held smiles, he watched the sunshine evaporate into dismal, stoic remembrance of their own history, their own survival, their own lost comrades of brothers and sisters and friends. The parts of themselves that they’d lost and would never get back. Johnathan had never felt so alone yet so connected in all his life.
“Have you ever heard the saying, ‘Some family runs thicker than blood’?” Has anyone ever heard that before?” Johnathan waited for more than a few responsive nods.
“I imagine most of us have it heard it a time or two. I never understood what that saying meant. I may have had a notion, a basic understanding that it was probably about biological versus spirited kinship. But I still didn’t get it, you know? But one day it finally dawned on me. The day I understood was the day my friend died and the day I was injured.”
A few more silent gestures of affirmation.
“Specialist Richard Virgil Smith had been my best friend since…since…hell, since Voltron was still on TV. Back in school we were virtually inseparable. Always together. There was a group of us, we all hung out, but Ricky and I, we were like Abbott & Costello. We snuck cigarettes from vending machines in this bowling alley near our neighborhood. We weren’t a bright pair, Ricky and I. One time we rode our bikes to this shopping plaza, over in Clear Lake. This was before cell phones, or at least before anyone could afford them. We rode up to a payphone and dialed 911 and when the operator came on in that hushed, responsive voice they have, we screamed bloody murder and hung up, pedaling our asses off to put some distance between us and the plaza.”
Virgil…Jesus, he hated to be called Virgil. But he was Virgil, wasn’t he? Ricky was our leader, the guy everyone looked to, the guy who always had your back.
Some smiles retuned. A few giggles from the more irreparably delinquent of the bunch.
“We pedaled fast and hid beside some house across the main road and watched as four cop cars came screeching into the plaza. I’ve never been so terrified yet exhilarated in all my life! We were really a pair of dumbass kids, you know. A couple of snot-nosed juvenile pubescents, dumb enough to sign up together. That was me and Ricky.”
Oh to have this nightmare end…Ricky, why did we join, why did we go to war? Can we be young again? Can we forget the service and just be boys?
More giggles, a few laughs.
“I want to tell you more of my friend. No shit, there we were, six months in country. We had some bad times, some bloodcurdling, shrink-your-sack-back-inside-you kinda bad days, but the worst day came after the holidays. As you all know, spending Thanksgiving and Christmas overseas is both equally depressing and uplifting, if that makes any sense. Sure, every one of us missed home, missed our families, missed our spouses and significant others, and sure as hell some of us were worried about Jody sniffing around base housing. But spending the holidays in country, side by side with your friends, your fellow soldiers, and everyone is dealing with the same suck, it just, I don’t know how else to explain it except to say it was all so strangely gratifying.” Johnathan paused, collecting the memory.
All but for Ricky…he was gone during Christmas. Home. With Maggie. I wonder if he said goodbye…
More nods from the mutilated crowd.
“Anyways, the very bad day came after all that. Ricky had just got back from R&R. It was starting to get warmer outside. The wet season was over, or mud season as some called it. The dust was building back up in the dry air. I’ve lived in Houston all my life, been to plenty of beaches, and seen lots of sand. There is just something different about the sand over there. It got into everything. Like a thick cloud of yellow smog and dust. Covering our trucks, our weapons, and filling our lungs with God knows what.”
Someone shouted “Hooah!” from the back. Most of the crowd snickered and ch
eered. A few whistled something that sounded like a catcall. Others clapped stumps while those who couldn’t nodded their heads. Johnathan beamed. We dealt with the same suck, he thought, grinning ear to ear.
“I’m glad you all know what I’m talking about. Ricky used to bust my balls whenever I’d complain about the dust or the mud. He’d hand me a can of Rip It and tell me to walk it off.” Johnathan stopped. The memory was there, strong and unmalleable. How much am I willing to share? Don’t oversell it, Johnny-Boy, stick to the basics, and move on. Do not dwell or they’ll see you tense up and then you’ll kill the mood. Don’t kid yourself; this bunch can smell your stink, your anxiety.
But it is dwelling, isn’t it, Johnny-Boy? You’re afraid of living; you’re afraid of dying. Preach the truth, you coward. You’re all messed up on the inside. You don’t recognize yourself in the mirror. You’re drinking more than ever now.
“Well—” Johnathan continued, “—it was on the bad day when the yellow dust seemed worse than normal, like a mist of grit that smelled like a sewer drain coughed up a fart,” he pressed on. “We’d been working with the Iraqi Police since we set boots on the ground. My platoon, Renegades, had the prestigious honor of working in the Al-Hurriyah district in Baghdad. Al-Hurriyah, if you don’t already know, had a nasty reputation for small arms attacks, hit and run kind of skirmishes. We pulled up there one day, just like any other day. After the call to Muslim prayer stopped—you know the siren scream that crackled through those speaker systems attached to the top of mosques, wailing all across Baghdad during the afternoons—after that, everything was quiet. Maybe that should have told me something, like a bad omen, right? Well, it didn’t. Most of the NCOs went into the station, including my team leader, Sgt. Cobbett. That tubby bastard never waited in the truck, just like my squad leader, SSG Adams. The rest of us were left to keep perimeter.”
Was I watching? I can’t remember anymore. Was I watching without really seeing…? Did I kill Ricky? Was it me? Was it me…because of my negligence?
“I was sitting pretty with my .50-Cal, resting in the air. But it was so damn hot out. I hated that seasonal transition, from hot as balls during the day to cold as a witch’s tit at night. And if you’ve ever been in the gunner’s hatch, you know. Like a turkey cooking in an oven, especially with all that gear on. Fifty plus pounds of plating, Jesus! And I was keeping watch near the front. I was, I swear to God I was (easy now, Johnny-Boy, don’t slip, don’t slip), but the heat got the better of me. I have no idea how long we were there, but (don’t tell them you saw the Devil, you can’t tell them that, they’ll think you’re nuts) and my eyes started to get heavy (move on; don’t say what you want to say). I looked up finally and saw a plume of white smoke. The next thing I know I’m face down on my gunner’s platform, seeing stars and smelling burnt matches.”
And across the road there was something that couldn’t exist, but it was there, right? Large, red eyes glaring at me, whispering something in the air, clicking in its throat. Claw-like pinchers for hands. Brittle black hairy skin.
Johnathan paused again, collecting himself against the onslaught of memory, flashing images and smells and tastes he wished he’d long forgotten. Silence fell over the crowd, no more smiles, no more cheers. Just a sea of hollowed Grim Reapers looking back at him with sunken eyes filled with black abysmal gemstones.
Clearing his throat. “Another phrase took on a new meaning for me on that day,” Johnathan went on. “The phrase: ‘the calm before the storm.’ Another one of those surface level understandings. But it’s true. It was so peaceful out there that day. If you closed your eyes you’d swear you were lounging in an armchair sitting on your back deck, drinking a beer, smelling the sweet charcoal smell and the tang of lighter fluid, listening to ladies gossiping, and the dog barking and dancing around the poor sod with his chew toy. Maybe one of your neighbors has kids and they were laughing and giggling in the sun. It was that kind of peaceful that day. And maybe my mind wandered away somewhere back home.”
Murderer!
“I should have kept better watch, but you never know when your time comes. A buddy of mine, Jake Williams, he’s a bona fide priest. He told me once about a saying in the bible ‘Jesus will come in the dead of night.’ Well, the same could be said of when those mujahs come. You never know. An insurgent attack could be an assortment of things. The worst, I think, are IED’s.” He paused, noticing a few uncomfortable shifts in the audience, a majority coming from the burn unit.
You wish this was just an IED, you bastard murderer! Fake! They know, man. They know. They can see the truth on your face.
“Been through a few of those, myself,” Johnathan continued. “The boom detonates and your truck gets rocked up to heaven. Someone screams bloody murder. The first time it happened to me, I yelled, ‘Fuck!’ at the top of my lungs. My LT was riding with me that day, he just kinda looked at me with that dumb ‘were we just hit?’ glazed over look. I tapped on my buddy’s shoulder, to make sure he was okay. He was. The truck wasn’t, though. One of the trucks had to tow us out.”
“The really bad IEDs are the ones when someone doesn’t get to walk away. Seen a few of them as well. Another kind of attack them hajis like to do is lob mortars over the wire. The falling whistle and the siren, ‘Incoming, Incoming,’ and…just a big lottery game, really. Who’s going to draw the short straw? And you’re never sure who took the hit unless you’re close enough to hear them screaming or on your way to gear up for mission or to walk to the chow hall you’d see the smoldering wreckage of some trailer or building someone had called home.”
And the drone of those C-RAMs would howl like something from a Lovecraft story. Deep. Penetrating. Stealing your breath with its thunderous wail. An Old One whispering in the night. The color of exploding rockets sparkling before being snuffed away into grey smoke.
“And then there’s another kind of insurgent attack. Small arms, RPG. Sometimes they hit your convoy on the open road. Sometimes they hit you when you’re stopped somewhere, say a neighborhood, meetings and greetings, or…”
Right oh, Johnny-Boy. Here’s the meat of the matter, right? The grand finale!
Johnathan cleared his throat. “That’s the kind we had that day—everything felt warm and fuzzy and there I was thinking about my wife and my daughter, about getting fat on hamburgers and beer. My head nodded and I caught a glimmer of something…black and robed and holding something glistening in the sunlight and then a plume of white smoke and…”
Liar! Tell the truth. What if it’s real? What if they’d seen that hideous thing too? The thing was calling to you, wasn’t it? Calling your name. Wanting…what? Jesus…why? What’s wrong with me?
“Like I said, the next thing I know I’m lying on my gunner’s platform and I’m smelling burnt something, sulfur, hair, and my leg is tingling—at first, and then the pain surges, shooting up my body. I could hear people shouting outside; I think most of it was from my squad. And then these loud, metallic pings clink against our truck, which was still somehow mostly intact, all but for the driver side and a gashing hole in the back passenger window. More rattling goes off. The smell of burnt hair gets worse. My head is ringing, but I think of Ricky, then. I look over and…and…he’s gone. Half his body is all charred in black gristle-soot. And he smells like when we used to mess with this alley cat that hung around our neighborhood when we were kids. One of our buddies, Bobby, while we were smoking cigarettes took his lighter to it once. Never seen hair go up like that before. It had a strong tangy sulfurous aroma to it. Ricky smelled like that. And I’m yelling his name, trying to move, trying to get to him, but I can’t. My leg is—well…”
Johnathan stopped and lifted his pant leg. Surprisingly, he felt no shame in exposing what he wore as a leg nowadays. Not in front of these brothers and sisters, these likewise malformed erstwhile Soldiers, Marines, and Airmen. There was no humiliation here, only miserable commiseration. It was a terrible club to be a member of, but it was his, and they were each ot
her’s. And still he could not tell the truth. He could not mention what he saw. No matter how impossible, it was his secret to keep.
“So, I’m still trying to get to Ricky when Cobbett comes rushing back to our truck. Sweat’s flying off his red flushed face. He sees me and then I follow his gaze to Ricky. I’ve never seen a look like that before. The look of man who’s seen the worst kind of thing, something no one should ever see. And then his eyes come back to me and I know—I can see it written in his irises—that despondent, tragic look doctors have when they share the bad news with the family in that sullen hospital waiting room, bad news that their husband, father, brother, sister, mother, whatever, did not make it. Ricky didn’t make it. I saw that look in his eyes and knew Ricky was dead. My best friend since school. My Costello. He was gone.” Johnathan took a drink of water from a bottle someone had blessedly placed on the stool beside the microphone stand.
“Then I’m waking up in Germany. One of the detachment hospitals, Landstuhl, I think. The Rear D guys come in. Checking to see how I’m doing, I guess. Which, to be honest, doped up on morphine and whatever else the docs were dripping into my body, pretty damn good, from what I remember, all but for my ghost leg bugging the shit out of me. I ask them about Ricky. His body got shipped back stateside. I recall, despite the drugs, picturing then, Ricky’s wife, Maggie, another one of our circle of friends from school, walking to his coffin draped in a dazzling bright American flag. And I remember feeling thankful then—thankful they didn’t have kids, just a dog, Moxie.” Johnathan took another sip. His eyes felt hot.
“Anyways, I went through rehab. Learned how to live with the wound. How to dress my residual limb. Learned how to walk again. Started there and finished up at the VA hospital in Houston. This fellow from the Wounded Warrior Project, Randall, he came out to see me. We talked. At the time I felt utterly alone. And to be honest, thought about overdosing a time or two, maybe even fantasized jumping out the fifth-story window. But Randall talked with me. He was a real straight shooter, no bullshit, you know? He really inspired me to deal with my life as it was, not for how I wanted it to be. It’s only been about year now, since the day. I’m still learning, but I’ve also found that I could share my story, to help other veterans as I was helped. And now, here we are…”
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