26 and Change

by Deacon Rie

  No talking, no gunfire, no sounds. Stephen couldn't move and his head was positioned helplessly forward, staring straight ahead into the white fog of debris surrounding them. His elbow was elevated on something rough and solid. There was a tremendous pain in his shoulder as it bent his arm awkwardly across his face. The only image he could make out was his own hand directly in front of his eyes, barely distinguishable from the solid chalk that swallowed everything around him. As the dust in the air started to clear, Stephen squinted his eye and saw a slim maroon line forging its way down the skin of his forearm. The steady stream consumed the white chalk as it continued down the path of his arm, beyond his hand, until it formed a teardrop shape at the end of his harshly crooked and immobile finger. The maroon bubble swelled until it dropped, and Stephen's eyes followed its descent onto the ground. His gaze fixed on the ground when another drop landed, immediately followed by another that splashed into the growing puddle of blood directly in front of his face.

  Mile 13

  "Hey buddy, are you alright?" The alarmed voice came from directly above Stephen and a hand gripped him under the arm. "That was quite a fall you took. You okay?"

  Stephen looked at his graveled covered hand and saw a red stripes in his palm mixed with blood and asphalt. "Yeah, I'm okay. Just zoned out. Must have tripped. Thanks."

  The man held Stephen's elbow and placed a reassuring arm on his shoulder. "Alright. You're gonna wanna take a little more care there. You might even want to walk that off for a minute. At this point of the race a lot of people don't realize how tired they're getting and they begin drag their feet a bit. Catch a piece of the pavement and you have a little nasty like that. Try to keep those feet up, okey-dokey?"

  "Yeah, sure. Thanks for the help." He gave a nod as the good Samaritan runner picked up his stride again and raced ahead, leaving Stephen with more injury to pride than flesh. Stephen remained bent over on his knees a moment more. Glancing back, Stephen saw the culprit. He had gotten so lost in the memory that avoiding the golf ball sized chunk of asphalt in the road hadn't even crossed his mind.

  This might take a moment. He thought to himself.

  Slowly, he straightened his back, stretched his sore leg and starting to walk again. Several other runners passed by with one or two who witnessed the fall, a couple gave commented on his strong recovery and encouraged him to keep pushing through. He brushed the rest of the asphalt off his skinned elbows and repeatedly contracted his fingers to loosen the stiffness of overstretched tendons. He must have been running with clenched fists because his fingers were sore and ached each time he extended them out.

  A particularly concerned lady slowed next to him, "Hey there. I saw you fall. Are you okay?" Her caring tone but resolved tone had the hint of a mother's compassion but it lacked any sympathy whatsoever.

  She must be a mother of boys.

  "Yeah, I'm okay. Left a little bit of skin and a whole lot pride back there, is all." He responded with a smile. "Thanks for checking."

  "Alright then. Try to be more careful. Okay, hun." She instructed and took off at a pace that told Stephen he would not be seeing her again on the course.

  Most definitely the mother of boys.

  The road didn't energize him as it had before. Instead of gliding, each step now felt like he was pounding a hole in the ground. He noticed his stride had shortened and around the same time he began feeling a stinging pain on the side of his right toe. The mid-morning sun continued to rise and with it, the air's temperature. Roaring through the earlier miles, Stephen had felt his shirt sticking to him from the sweat. Now it regularly dripped from his forehead and stung his eyes despite a steady routine of brow wiping with his forearm. He wished he had left the long-sleeved shirt at home. That maniac guy in the yellow singlet was looking pretty brilliant right about now. A small breeze offered a hint of relief, but Stephen continued to feel the warmth beginning its migration through each limb of his body.

  It seemed there hadn't been an aid station in miles. Truth be told, Stephen had gotten into such a rhythm of running he knew he may very will have run right by two or three of them. Regardless, he felt very thirsty. His throat became parched and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. A subtle but nagging dull pain began to form on the left side of his head. The combination of thirst and the aching in his head was making him a bit nauseous. He squinted in the sunlight and wiped his brow again.

  Stephen pressed through the next half mile when an aid station finally rose from the horizon like a desert oasis. Relief came over him as a wave of salvation pushed away his intermittent thoughts of keeling over dead in a dehydrated state. As he approached the station, there were several signs on both sides of the road. Many were encouraging notes with phrases like, "You can do it!" and "Pain is temporary, Pride is forever." Stephen got a chuckle out of the one that said, "Donuts and Coffee just up the road… way up the road."

  A short man with a prosthetic arm bellowed out instructions to upcoming runners. "Water on your right, electrolytes on your left! If you're not stopping then stay in the middle." Apparently, the man had little need for a bullhorn as his stature had absolutely no relevance to his volume. Stephen veered to the right where a young man with a buzz haircut and a friendly smile gave him a cup of water. Stephen couldn't tell if he gulped the water or inhaled it, but the cup was empty before he realized it. Typical of the other stations he had seen, the volunteers were extremely friendly and encouraging. Stephen didn't know where these people came from or who they were. He assumed they had to be runners themselves. They certainly knew plenty about what he was doing and gladly offered appreciated advice. A lady nearby carried platter of fruit so he took an orange slice and reminded himself to stop at the rind. While passing the middle of the table, a young lady in a Golden Knights windbreaker handed him another gel packet.

  "No thanks," Stephen declined.

  "Are you sure?" she looked at him hesitantly. Apparently, he really looked like he needed it.

  "No, really. Thank you but I don't think I can stomach another one of those things right now."

  "Alright, sir. Take care. You're doing great."

  Stephen made his way to the end of the table where a woman was mixing a blue concoction with greater vigor than necessary. She was pleasant but stressed in her attempt to keep up with the never-ending demand caused by the constant stream of race participants. Stephen smiled at her and took a cup of her mixture, "Are these electrolytes?"

  "Yeah, I think so. Help yourself." She could be serving straight vodka and Stephen felt she would have thoughtlessly offered it with same rushed enthusiasm. But then, he probably wouldn't have minded either way.

  He was still quite thirsty and after tasting the sweetness of the refreshing beverage, Stephen asked for another drink. The lady was overly generous and reached down to offer one of the larger bottles they had stored under the table. "Here you go, hon. This should help you along." She must have seen how thirsty Stephen was and felt sorry for him. Graciously, he took the bottle of blue sports drink and made his way from the table. As he left the aid station Stephen opened the bottle and drank half the container in a single gulp. The cold refreshing beverage was exactly what he wanted. Appreciating the flush of electrolytes he had just applied to his system, and ignoring the overload of sugar, he closed the bottle and gripped his new companion firmly into his palm.

  As he passed the last of the aid crew he saw a sign indicating that the station was being sponsored by a local Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps program. That explained the respectful high-schoolers as well as the generous and supporting mothers mixing drinks. An elderly gentleman, in his late 60s or early 70s, stood alongside the road waving an American flag and cheering on runners.

  Stephen nodded to the man and took a second to focus and read his black hat which covered the man's balding head. The hat's patch suggested he was a Vietnam veteran. There was a unit pin attached to the side which Stephen couldn't make out. What he did see though was the very familiar in
signia of a purple medal with the image of George Washington on it.

  Stephen recalled that day in San Antonio, Texas. It was May and there was an uncharacteristic hint of rain in the clouds looming above. Something he had learned about people living just south of the Texas Hill Country was that they never complained about getting rain, even when it brought the periodic threat of deadly flash flooding. On this gloomy day to remember sacrifice, he found it ironic that the locals were in such a good mood.

  Stephen stared at the ground and examined the hundreds of small one-inch tiles which had been so delicately placed. The detail of the oversized image of the Purple Heart medal was incredible, particularly around the section of George Washington's image. It was an impressive tribute donated by a generous artist to the family center at Brook Army Medical Center, or BAMC as it was known.

  Because everything in the Army must have an accompanying acronym. Stephen sighed to himself.

  He looked around and recalled being told the lush gardens surrounding them had also been donated. The support of a grateful nation had been both generous and humbling to wounded warriors like him.

  Stephen spent a few months at BAMC recovering from his injuries sustained in Fallujah. The remaining soldiers in his unit were finishing up their rotation and would be returning stateside within the coming months. Stephen hoped to be fully recovered in time to see them arrive. He was particularly anxious to see Chelp and Hooper. They had each recovered from their wounds and quickly returned to duty alongside the rest of the squad. He hadn't seen that dynamic duo since the mortar round exploded above them.

  Stephen and Waters had been evacuated and placed on a transport flight to Landstuhl, Germany. Their ride wasn't pleasant but Stephen was grateful for the Air Force trauma doctor who operated on soldiers during the entire flight. The doctor checked on Stephen regularly but kept Waters unconscious for the duration. It was impressive considering his operating room was little more than a gutted out cargo plane and had a tendency to periodically bank to one side.

  Stephen had thought it quite a treat when the trip provided in-flight entertainment toward the end of the journey. The even-tempered doctor would look at him and talk about how everything was fine and he was stabilized, then he would excuse himself and take a few steps forward towards the cockpit. What followed was one of the most severe tongue-lashings Stephen had ever heard as the doctor demanded the pilots put wheels on the ground. The doctor would then come back as though nothing had ever happened. The only mention would be a non-emotional comment about how medical flights should be prioritized by German air traffic controllers. Then a moment later the doctor would again excuse himself and unload another verbal onslaught onto the pilots in the hope they would convey his reiterated regards to the crews on the ground. While he was sketchy on the details, Stephen was pretty sure this scenario played itself out at least four different times during the time they circled the airport. The whole scene provided a bit of humor that helped to pull Stephen's mind away from the incredible pain he was under. Eventually, they made it to Landstuhl Medical Center and the entertainment ended.

  Waters had suffered a severe brain hemorrhage. Keeping him alive in the makeshift trauma center had been nothing less than a miracle delivered through the inspiring skill of the surgeon and his rock steady hands. But once on the ground, each man was received by medical staff and sent to different wings of the hospital. Within hours, Waters had been prepped and was on a flight back to America where a special team from John Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore was waiting to treat him. It tortured Stephen to know he wouldn't be there when Waters woke up. But Waters' family was from the Northeast and it brought him comfort to know they would be nearby to receive him.

  People arrived for the Purple Heart ceremony right on time. Family members and nearby friends came to support the soldiers they had spent much time praying for. Stephen stood in a modified parade-rest position as he braced the crutches under each of his arms. His right leg was still in a cast but Stephen had no complaints after recently being released from the facial mask which supported the rapid healing of the broken bones in his face. For all he had been through, he was actually feeling pretty good and recovery had been going better than expected. As positive and encouraging as the staff at BAMC had been, he began to find himself feeling guilty for being there. So many other soldiers had injuries much worse than his. He leaned forward to steal a glimpse of the soldiers to his left. There were a couple of Army guys and several Marines. He had gotten to know all of them over the past months.

  Stephen appreciated those who had gathered to be a part of the ceremony. Attendees had been briefed beforehand that at a Purple Heart ceremony one had to be careful with the amount of sympathy shown. The service members being honored need to be treated delicately due to their injuries. However, they were still warriors and overcoming mental ailments could be just as difficult as overcoming their physical ailments. Inside they need to know they are strong, regardless of the injury. The last thing any warrior wanted was to be coddled.

  Coddling was one thing; but who would punch a man who was recovering from severe wartime injuries and now standing on one leg and crutches? The impact to his right elbow nearly knocked Stephen over.

  "Wake up, Lantz!" Mayweather was looking up at him from the wheelchair with that stupid grin on his face.

  "Man! Are you trying to put me back in surgery? You almost knocked me over."

  "You? Are you kidding? With all of us cripples here, I'm thinking if I can take you down… you drop over into Martinez there… he takes down Saenz, who knocks over McRiddle and… well, you get the point. Let's see how many dominoes fall before they set us all back up."

  "They need to fix that brain injury of yours."

  "No brain problem here, amigo. Just a snapped back and a dozen other broken bones while serving as your personal umbrella."

  "I'm talking about the brain injury that gave you that personality."

  "Ouch! Alright, yeah that was a good one." Mayweather had met his match for the moment but was quick to keep talking, "Hey man. I think that hot looking mama over there is checking ya out. Maybe she's got a thing for ugly guys with a limp. Play your cards right and you might get some sympathy action."

  "You have issues. You know that, right? Serious issues."

  Stephen looked across the courtyard to see Sarah staring at him as she approached. Mayweather was right, she looked great. She smiled at Stephen and gave a short but loving wave. He was glad she had made it to the ceremony.

  In the street behind her, Stephen saw a green cab pull up. He couldn't see who emerged from the cab but he assumed it was another friend or family member. It certainly was not uncommon to see a cab dropping someone off but several families had chosen to take up residence in the Fisher House. Since many soldiers had not been released from the hospital during their recovery, the Fisher House provided a place for families to live together, on-site next to the main hospital, while wounded service members recovered from their wartime injuries. The "home away from home" provided all the necessities of temporary living without causing a financial burden to the families. The donated houses had already been an enormous blessing to thousands of military family members.

  Unfortunately, the Lantz family wasn't able to take advantage of the donation. Even with her cancer in remission, Hailey was still too vulnerable to be exposed to the common germs orbiting a hospital environment. Army medical support and the generosity of beloved supporters sustained Sarah and Hailey while they stayed at an Army hotel at nearby Fort Sam Houston. After his injuries reached the predetermined level of healing, Stephen was able to join them while he finished his last few rounds of in-facility cycle of therapy. It also gave him a chance to celebrate Hailey's sixth birthday outside of a hospital facility, something she hadn't done too often.

  The ceremony was appropriately brief. A full-bird colonel from a Warrior Transition Battalion had officiated and presented Purple Heart medals to each of the soldiers and gave a heartfe
lt appreciation to the supportive family and friends. The media was present and prepared to interview some of the soldiers, particularly those from the local area. Each of the service members received their Purple Heart medals that day. A few, including Stephen and Mayweather were also given medals of commendation for their sacrificial actions on that fateful day in the desert.

  As the Colonel's recitation on the history of everything seemed to drag on, Mayweather pulled Stephen's arm down and whispered, "They should give me the damn Medal of Honor for having to stay on your stinky butt so long."

  "Dear lord. I'll buy you a beer if you'll shut the hell up."

  "Lemme think about that proposal.” Mayweather offered a feigned moment of consideration. “Yeah, I'm good with that but none of that cheap stuff."

  After the ceremony closed the Colonel invited attendees to take a moment to thank their loved ones for their sacrifice. Stephen was asked to step forward with the others to form a makeshift receiving line. The guests formed a chaotic gaggle until they began filing orderly through the service members. Sarah, knowing she would have him the entire afternoon, patiently waited at the end of the line. Friends and strangers alike shared love, gratitude and support all in the grip of a handshake. Stephen thanked them individually for coming and told them how much he appreciated their support. There were some tears but mostly smiles and several embraces.

  Still saying thank you to the elderly gentlemen who was moving on to greet Mayweather, Stephen transitioned and reached out to shake the next person's hand. There was no hand to meet, and when Stephen looked up he stood shoulder to shoulder with a pair of intimidating eyes emerging from the shadow of a dark beret. The eyes were so acute that they carried with them an ability to penetrate a man's soul and reveal his deepest secret with but a single glare.