The world-class Burn Unit at Brooke Army Medical Center, a level-one trauma center, located at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas, would become Smitty’s home for the indeterminate future. Master Sergeant Jason Smith would remember none of this, for he remained in a coma for two months. Later, upon hearing about his earlier classification of KIA and his half hour in a body bag, he wondered, but would never know, just what sign of life he had exhibited? Who had noticed? A mystery for the ages, but thankfully someone had, and his life, such as it was, was saved.
Smitty had been identified in the field by his Dog Tag whose embossed lettering of name, serial number and blood type were seared to his chest. The letters and numbers, a mirror image, were legible, so intense were the flash burns he received. Local and Unit records were changed to reflect his status among the living but historical records reflecting the initial report did not. So it was, when Daniel reviewed the historical record, that Jason Smith was listed as KIA “by body count,” and the other three team-members, including his brother, were listed as KIA, “by virtue of investigation.”
4
The Introduction; Questions Asked
Daniel’s desert tour had culminated with his reassignment to Fort Hood where he settled into his familiar routine. Thoughts of his brother dying in an explosion haunted him for months, but as the years passed, so did those thoughts. Now his brother remained in the shadows of his consciousness, stepping into the light only on birthdays or special occasions. That changed one afternoon in late May when a fellow medic coming off duty approached Daniel with news of a new patient on the ward.
“Thought you might be interested in a burn patient over at rehab. He’s been around the block a few times, a lifer with almost twenty-five years of service. If you ask me, I say he ought to be in a VA hospital drawing retirement. He sure as hell won’t see action again, but for some reason he’s still on active duty.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Daniel asked.
“What’s not? He spent his last few years down at Brooke in the burn unit, poor bastard. They’re gradually giving him a face but there wasn’t much unburned skin to harvest for grafts. It’s amazing he’s alive.”
“Why is he here? And why should I be interested?”
“He’s here because of our state-of-the-art rehab facilities. You should be interested, because he knew your brother.”
“My brother? How did you find that out?”
“Like I said, this guy’s been around. He knows a lot of people and wanted to see a roster of hospital staff to see if he recognized any names. He asked me if you were related to Brandon Stiles and I said I thought you were. Was I right?”
Daniel nodded. “Yes, you were right.”
“Well he wants to meet you. I’m warning you; this guy isn’t much to look at in spite of multiple surgeries. So, don’t let it freak you out.”
“Thanks. Maybe I’ll head over there now. Will you cover for me for about fifteen minutes?”
“You bet. Take your time.”
Room 212 was a double but only Jason Smith was resident. Daniel knocked and heard a garbled reply. He entered and swallowed hard. The man he faced, propped up in bed, had no nose or lips, no eyebrows and one missing ear. Daniel’s stomach rolled and he heard himself say “Hi, I’m Daniel Stiles.”
Smitty’s taut face was expressionless but the voice was enthusiastic and welcoming although the words were altered by his inability to form them, sounding somewhat like the deaf who speak words as they imagine they might sound but never heard them before. Smitty’s words were hollow and imprecise, forced out on a wave of air through the cavity that was the remnant of his mouth.
He motioned Daniel to a chair by the bed. “Did you ever see the movie Cat Ballou with Lee Marvin?”
(Daniel heard: “Did you error see the ooheey cat aloo ith eee arein?”) He paused in thought before saying, “Yeah, with that actress that got a bad reputation for being chummy with the North Vietnamese.”
“That’s the one. I mention it because I’m getting a tin nose too. Actually it may be silicone, but whatever it is it’ll be an improvement wouldn’t you say?”
Daniel fidgeted and searched for the right answer, but was interrupted before he could speak.
“Don’t worry about it,” Smitty said disarmingly. “I understand. So, you’re Brandon’s kid brother? I heard a lot about you.”
“Were you and Brandon close?” Daniel asked.
“Like brothers. I love him like a brother,” Smitty strained.
“Loved. Past tense,” Daniel said looking sadly at his brother’s friend.
“That’s what I hear. What happened to him?”
Daniel paused, unsure of what to say.
Smitty pressed, “How did he die? Was he ambushed? Did that Iraqi major get the upper hand?”
Daniel was bewildered. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. He was at El Sharif in a weapons storage bunker when it blew. The records show there were no survivors.”
“Don’t I count?” Smitty said with a stab at humor. “I thought I was alive and kicking but on second thought maybe I am more dead than alive.”
“You were there, with Brandon?”
“That’s affirmative. I was just leaving the bunker, but your brother was already outside. It took me two years to remember that, but I’m sure of it now. I’ve had a lot of time to think, you know.”
“Tell me what you remember, Sergeant Smith.”
“I will, but you knock off the formality. My friends call me Smitty.” He paused, remembering. “Demolition charges were being set. Brandon had an Iraqi major in tow and was headed outside to interrogate him. He told me to follow but I wasn’t quite finished. I did stop what I was doing when Pluto found what he thought were chemical weapon artillery shells.”
“Pluto? Is that a dog?” Daniel asked.
“Ha! That’s a good one. No, I think his name was Phillip but he could smell trouble. Everybody called him Pluto. Anyway, I was still inside when the place blew. I can’t remember more than that.”
“That doesn’t fit the historical record, Smitty. A recon team found Brandon. He was taken back to camp in a body bag. You and your team were listed KIA after a recon squad checked out the site.”
“No. I was the KIA in the body bag. Someone at the field hospital changed my status about thirty minutes later. Everyone inside got wasted but Brandon was outside; he must have survived.”
Daniel lowered his head and cupped his face in his hands. He raised it slowly, fingers sliding away to reveal his eyes. They met Smitty’s steady gaze and Smitty nodded, acknowledging the question never phrased. If Brandon survived the blast, where was he?
“Look, Smitty, I have to go on duty. I’ll check on you later. Meanwhile maybe you can think of a way for me to get a look at the communication logs relating to your mission and the demolition of the storage bunker.” He paused. “It’s good to know you.”
Smitty nodded and gave a thumb up signal as Daniel backed out into the hall.
The Pentagon, Department Of Historical Records (Following Day)
“I’m sorry, sir,” the insincere voice whined, “those records are still sealed, and the Freedom of Information Act does not apply to Top Secret Elint.”
“Elint?” Daniel questioned.
“Electronic intelligence includes radio transmissions from the battlefield. You’d be surprised what the enemy can learn from that.”
“I’m not the enemy, and I think my brother may be a POW. I need access to those records.”
“Sir, with all respect, we have no prisoners in Iraq. All detainees were returned by Iraq on March 4th and 5th less than a week after the Cease Fire, and the files you request are classified. Good day.” With that the connection was broken.
“Bitch hung up on me, Smitty.” Daniel fumed as he cradled the phone and looked across the room.<
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Smitty motioned him closer, took a pencil and scribbled on a note pad: “Sam Sneed, also at the Pentagon, don’t know exactly where. Try him.” Handing Daniel the pad he said, “His real name is Roland, but everybody calls him Sam. Call Personnel and get his number. I heard he was going to retire with twenty-five, but he may still be active. The guy can work magic.”
Daniel returned to the phone and was soon conversing with Major Tim Pierce, Director of Personnel at Fort Hood. He had met the officer at the Comanche Pool on Post where he responded to a report of injury. Susan Pierce, age six, had been swimming at the base of a water slide when a rambunctious teenager had sailed off it striking her in the face with his foot. Daniel had gently checked for injury and, finding none, soon had the frightened girl laughing. Major Pierce had thanked him profusely and said the magic words, “If I can ever help you, just let me know.” Daniel was collecting on that marker now.
Within thirty minutes, Major Pierce had returned his call with the information needed on Master Sergeant Roland Sneed scheduled to retire in ninety days.
Sam was a gruff, burly man, about forty-three years old with a raucous laugh and wry sense of humor. He took the call from Daniel but after introductions thereafter referred to him as Ace.
“What leads you to my door, Ace?”
“I hear you can open doors that are otherwise closed.”
“That depends on the door, now doesn’t it? The door to the ladies’ latrine, for example, would be off limits, wouldn’t you say?”
“Don’t need anything that adventurous. Just need a look at radio communications on the last day of conflict in Iraq.”
“Sorry, Ace, that’s off limits too. No can do.”
“Smitty said you could do anything.”
“Smitty? What’s Smitty’s full moniker?”
“Master Sergeant Jason Smith, ‘Big Shot’ to you,” Daniel read from his script.
“Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. What’s that old war horse up to these days?” asked Sneed, obviously unaware of his condition. Smitty, listening on an extension phone, raised a finger toward his mouth and shook his head slowly left and right.
“I think he’s handing out pamphlets at a Reverend Moon meeting right about now.”
Sam let loose a howl of pleasure saying, “I can just see that; him wearing a white suit carrying a collection bucket, ah man, that’s a good one. I needed a good laugh.”
Daniel looked at Smitty and saw tears running down his cheeks. God, he felt so badly about this good man. His thoughts were interrupted when Sam collected himself. “You got it, Ace, but not from me. Say the magic words back to me.”
Daniel smiled. “When I get what I get, I didn’t get it from you, whoever you are.”
“You catch on fast, Ace. You must be Smitty’s understudy.”
“We’re spending a lot of time together here at Fort Hood. Let me give you a mail drop number.”
Connection severed, Daniel looked at Smitty and together they showed two thumbs up.
“Thanks, Smitty, I’ll see you later in rehab if you want.”
Smitty answered again, his thumb getting a lot of use.
Mail Call (23 May 1994)
On his fifth trip to the Post Office, Daniel found a packet waiting for him, USPS Special Delivery. He signed for it and ran back to barracks. He pulled the two-inch thick packet from the envelope and placed it on his desk. The print was tiny and Daniel wondered if he could get through all this material without going blind. He wished he’d been a bit more specific in his request.
It was a little after midnight the day following receipt of the comm logs that he came across a communiqué from AWACS, the Airborne Command Post, call-sign Spotter-one, to an F-16 on Combat Air Patrol. The Killer Scout had been on CAP at fifteen thousand feet when vectored north to the site of an explosion. Daniel read through the transcript and noted the discovery of a dune buggy near the destroyed bunker, and another headed north with two occupants, one of whom may have been tied to the roll bar. Daniel was excited by this Air Force exchange on UHF but what was the Army saying? At 2 a.m., he doused the lights eager to start again after breakfast.
Sunday morning, before settling into his routine, Daniel shared his find with Smitty.
“Interesting,” said Smitty. “Don’t you know that Pointer fellow is a hot shot? He wanted to shoot ‘em up because they didn’t wave. Ha! That’s rich.”
Smitty didn’t wait for nor expect a reply. “It sounds like Pointer didn’t engage but he fired a cannon burst across the bow and the ATV swerved and rolled into a ball. Somebody was lashed to that roll bar and I think it’s clear who he was.”
“That’s my take on it too. But I have plenty more to scan before I’m done. I’ll keep you posted.”
Reenergized, Daniel hurried back to barracks and resumed reading. By mid-afternoon, he had found dozens of references to scouts or recon teams that he would not have been able to differentiate had Smitty not remembered his mission designation and command link. Daniel was scanning for a reference to Guardian on VHF or FM frequencies, and to Limo One or Two on FM, as well as any reference to a storage bunker on any radio band.
Communications on a specific frequency would be in chronological order, but there were a lot of frequencies, and that made the time line hard to follow. The UHF band was Air Force and Navy tactical air. VHF was used by Command Centers primarily, and HF/FM was used between ground units and ground to air if the aircraft was equipped for Forward Air Control. Limo One and Limo Two represented Brandon’s team of four rangers on two ATVs. They would be communicating on the lower frequency.
Limo-One was first referred to in the Comm Log when it checked in with the command center at 1400 hours with the words, “No joy,” which meant no contact, and Guardian replied that aerial recon was also negative. At 1450, however, Limo radioed, “We have contact.” And at 1455 there was another transmission. “Guardian, Limo team is whole, two enemy KIA, looking for treasure.”
Daniel was certain that Limo, a “LERP” team (long range patrol), had a brief fire fight, killed two enemy soldiers in an area previously thought to be clear and was now sifting sand to see what the two KIA were doing in an area without visible means of support. Maybe there was no reason other than they were deserters. Maybe, but at 1458 that changed.
“Guardian, Limo has hit the jackpot. Fox is entering the henhouse.”
This was it! Limo One and Two had encountered brief resistance at what must be a well-camouflaged storage depot, one that had defied aerial reconnaissance. The next report at 1515 confirmed Daniel’s supposition.
“Ammo storage bunker, good cover, resistance minimal, taking prisoners and setting charges.”
A minute later at 1516, “Limo 1, this is Guardian.”
“Guardian, go.”
“Before lighting the candle, check for hazmat.”
“Roger, that. Limo, out.”
Smitty had said that Pluto sniffed out trouble, that he suspected they’d uncovered some chemical warheads. No wonder the Iraqis surrendered without a fight. Once the rangers were inside that was no place to mount a defense. Protection outside was minimal probably because Saddam thought a ground assault was out of the question. A defensive perimeter would have produced a heat signature that could be spotted by airborne infrared, so there was a tradeoff -- no defensive positions, in exchange for greater secrecy. The gamble obviously failed, not because the heat signatures were picked up by infrared, but because a LERP team got lucky.
At 1600 hours, a blizzard of transmissions filled the airwaves. There was a Cease Fire pending, and great confusion. Limo One and Two never checked in again and that went unnoticed until the Air Force eye-in-the-sky reported the findings of the F-16, to the Saudi based Command Center, Camp X-Ray. The report, time stamped at 1658, stated, “Enemy supply depot destroyed; coordinates HPZA. ATV spotted one mile north of gr
ound zero. Ground reconnaissance requested”.
That transmission was relayed from Camp X-Ray to General Brad Hosten and his Armored Division now holding a position about twenty miles west of the coordinates specified.
At 1716, Madcap, a helicopter, called airborne, proceeding to HPZA.
“HPZA,” Daniel said aloud. “I’ve seen that reference before.” He checked his notes. “Yessss,” he hissed and pumped his fist to his chest.
It was one of many passages he had marked with fluorescent yellow ink. His excitement grew with each revelation, because each entry was a piece of the puzzle. Another piece fell into place when Madcap transmitted at 1742 its findings at HPZA: “munitions dump destroyed; three enemy KIA; one friendly KIA; and one badly damaged U.S. issued dune buggy”.
Daniel flipped through his notes. Three hours earlier, Limo One had reported, two enemy KIA. That was at 1455, before the explosion. At 1742, after the explosion, there were three enemy KIA plus one friendly. No mention of a badly injured friendly, and that fit Smitty’s story of being zippered in a body bag for thirty minutes. Smitty was the friendly KIA. The remaining three rangers were presumed killed, their bodies returned to dust in the hellish fire and horrendous explosion. It was the logical explanation if one assumed that no one escaped. But two men had escaped on a second ATV. Why was there was no mention of a search for the second vehicle? It had to be because Madcap didn’t make one, and why would that be? Either Madcap failed to follow orders, or wasn’t fully briefed. Either way, it was a major screw-up. Daniel knew that’s how this went down. He gathered his highlighted transcripts and headed over to see Smitty who by now should have finished another painful physical therapy session and would be resting.
Therapy
Daniel was familiar with the rigors of physical therapy and knew what trauma Smitty endured each day, and why. Smitty walked with an unbending, robotic stride and physical therapy was intended to make him more pliant, by forcing his limbs to bend. But flexing by force meant stretching the skin, devoid of elasticity, to the breaking point. His skin, all scar tissue, with its jaundice cast, was smooth without softness, taut, stretched like a drumhead, and inflexible in the extreme. Daniel had witnessed the struggle. Smitty’s arms and legs resisted the efforts of others to bend them. Reluctantly, however, the skin gave a little, and each millimeter gained was a painful victory.
Price For A Patriot Page 3