Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop: 2 Bugman Novels in 1

by Tim Downs

  “Good,” he whistled. “Good, good, good.”

  Kathryn turned to the backseat. “I brought you this.” She held up a faded gray T-shirt with the words “82d AIRBORNE” in black block letters across the top with Master Parachutist’s wings beneath. “It’s the only thing of Andy’s that I thought would fit you.”

  “It might be a little tight in the chest.”

  “You wish.”

  “What else have you got for me?”

  Kathryn hesitated.

  “Come on, Mrs. Guilford, let’s see them.”

  She turned slowly to the backseat once more and removed an accordion letter file with a brown shoestring wrapped around it. She opened it and carefully removed a small stack of wellworn envelopes, each bearing her name and address in a coarse handwritten script. Some bore large and foreign-looking stamps; some had no stamps, but several different postmarks; some were so badly worn that the pages within poked through the crumbling corners of the envelope.

  “There aren’t many of them,” she said. “Not as many as I would have liked—not many at all before September of ’90, when the postmaster announced that the soldiers could send letters home for free. Andy said he’d go to mail a letter but the whole book of stamps would stick together because of the heat. The truth is, he wasn’t much of a writer.”

  She flipped through the crumbling papers like a rabbi handling the Torah. She turned to Nick.

  “I’m not sure I want you to touch them.”

  “I don’t want to touch them. I want you to read them to me.”

  Kathryn looked aghast. The words of these few letters were more than personal; they were sacred. Was she supposed to casually recite each one as though it were nothing more than an interesting tidbit from this morning’s Holcum County Courier? And how was she supposed to read them? Should she simply relay each word, or should she make a real performance out of it—should she put some feeling into it? The worst part was that she knew this Bug Man was oblivious to all of these concerns. To him these sacred writings were nothing more than miscellaneous bits of evidence—perhaps insignificant bits of evidence—to be tagged and filed away for possible use. Her blood ran cold at the very idea. She felt incensed; she felt insulted; she felt violated.

  Nick interrupted her thoughts.

  “Mrs. Guilford, we’re trying to understand the cause of your friend’s depression. Your husband and Jim McAllister were in the same unit—that means they camped together, they ate together, they probably fought together. Jim’s depression may have been triggered by a specific event in the Gulf, and that event may have taken place before your husband was killed. If so, his letters may provide some clue as to what it was. I’m sure you’ve read them a hundred times; maybe there’s something you overlooked.”

  “Maybe what killed Jimmy was my husband’s death,” she snapped. “Did you ever think of that?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you survived it, and no one felt his loss more than you.”

  It was a minor acknowledgment of her feelings, no more than a nod in her direction, but Kathryn appreciated it nonetheless.

  Nick began to slowly shake his head. “There had to be something else—something more. Mr. McAllister felt that there was something wrong that needed to be made right. Maybe your husband knew what it was.”

  Kathryn slowly picked up the first of the precious envelopes and carefully removed the letter within. With the first glimpse of her husband’s handwriting a wave of grief overtook her. These were more than words, they were strokes made by Andy’s hand—a hand that no longer existed anywhere in the universe. The script was rough and uneven, and the left margin of his letters was never straight. He dotted every “i” with a tiny circle because Walt Disney did, and he liked that. Whenever her name appeared—always as “Kath,” never “Kathryn”—it began with a printed “K” simply because he had never mastered the cursive letterform. Every jot and loop and curve reminded Kathryn of the man. It was almost like hearing his voice again, and she longed to weep. Instead she felt sick to her stomach.

  She turned to Nick. “Roll your window up,” she said. “I’m not going to shout this.”

  He took one look at her and complied without question. She began to read clearly and evenly.

  August 8, 1990

  Dear Kath,

  Well, by now you know it wasn’t just another alert. Got to the base just before midnight—it was pouring rain. Most of the boys were betting that this was just another emergency deployment exercise and after a day in the woods we’d be back home. Then a Red Line came down from brigade HQ and we found out the whole 82d was called out! That’s when I knew it had to be the Middle East.

  Spent the night at the Corps Marshalling Area. Slept on the concrete floor—sure wished I was back in bed with you. Most of the unit made it for lock-in but I bet they had to search all the bars in Fayetteville to round up some of the boys. Pete and Jim both made it in, but I was in first. The 2d Battalion split off and that’s the last we saw of Pete.

  The next day was just squat and hold. Tried to find out what we could about the mission, but nobody knew much of anything except that we’re headed for someplace called DARAN (can’t spell it) and we’re not jumping in. Then we got the word that the 2d Brigade would be first to deploy and Jim and me were on the first chalk out. We were slotted to leave on a DC-10 but we drew a C-141 instead. It was crowded—forty boys, two Hummers, and a M-105 trailer. We had wheels-up less than fourteen hours from call-in—good thing we were the DRB. Stopped to refuel in Goose Bay, Canada, then again here at Torrejon AFB in Spain. I’m mailing this from the USO post. Free mail!

  Can’t tell you much about the mission except nobody thinks we’ll be here long. Sorry I didn’t get to say a proper good-bye—you were sleeping sound and I didn’t want to wake you. Wish you hadn’t been too tired when we went to bed! NOW how long do I have to wait? When I get home let’s set the day aside and—

  Kathryn looked away. She folded the letter and gently returned it to its envelope.

  “I followed most of that,” Nick said. “What’s the ‘DRB’?”

  “The Division Ready Brigade. The 82d Airborne is the army’s rapid-reaction force, and they have to be ready to deploy anywhere in the world in just a few hours’ time. The division is made up of three infantry brigades. They take turns being the DRB, each one for six to eight weeks at a time. It’s like a doctor on call. When you’re the DRB, you’re on two-hour recall and you have to be ready to have wheels up on the lead aircraft within eighteen hours of call-in. Andy and Pete and Jimmy were all in the 2d Brigade, and they were the DRB when the call came in.”

  “They were all in the same unit?”

  “Not exactly. You were never in the army, were you? A brigade is broken up into battalions. Andy and Jimmy were in the 4th Battalion, Peter was in the 2d. The 4th Battalion was designated DRF-1—Division Ready Force 1—that’s why Andy and Jimmy were the first ones out.”

  “Two-hour recall—that’s pretty short notice.”

  “Andy left so fast he took the car keys with him. I couldn’t drive because the keys were in Saudi Arabia.” Kathryn stared out the window. “I never even woke up,” she whispered. “Maybe that’s why I never sleep now.”

  Without looking down she opened the second envelope.

  “The next one’s dated two weeks later.”

  August 24, 1990

  Dear Kath,

  We made it into Dhahran. Me and Jim marched out the back of the Starlifter in full combat gear and camo paint ready to go to war. It was the middle of the night and there was nobody around anywhere. We felt like idiots! Some buses met us on the tarmac and took us to our command post out in the middle of nowhere, an old Saudi air-defense base near a place called al-Jubayl.

  Got your first letter last week along with three more. Jim was jealous as a jay—write more! Took a while for the mail to catch up with us here. Thanks for the picture but guess what? The Saudis
blackened out your arms and legs. Seems that’s pornography around these parts, young lady! I’ll have to fill in the rest from memory. Thanks for the County Courier. It’s a few days old, but the papers are our only source of news around here. Send a Fayetteville Times if you can.

  You wouldn’t believe how hot it is here! We picked a great time to fight with Iraq. Yesterday we deployed into the desert for the first time, mostly to start getting used to the heat. By 0800 it was 95 degrees—it can hit 130 in the afternoon. We started NBC training—nuclear, biological, and chemical—and we’re learning to spot Iraqi land mines.

  Most of all we’re learning how to see. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? In the desert, distances are really tough to judge. That’s risky when you’re trying to call in fire. Sometimes the rocks heat up and they look like enemy patrols through our thermal sights. We got a lot to learn fast—the 82d’s last deployment was in the jungle in Panama!

  Nobody knows when the enemy might come. We keep hearing about terrorist threats but we haven’t seen a single wog since we’ve been in country—but they tell us there are 250,000 of them just a hundred miles north! We have to wear our helmets and carry our weapons and masks at all times, even at mess. Got to be ready when the balloon goes up.

  You’d love it here, Kath. They’ve got the biggest black flies you ever seen! The joke around here is that this is where the army’s helicopters are born—the flies are really baby Chinooks. They love our food so we have to eat fast. Had our first scorpion casualty too. Your kind of place—wish you were here.

  Word is we might redeploy soon. Rumors everywhere—none of them reliable. I’ll write when I can. Jim says hello.

  Miss me?

  Andy

  “I know those flies,” Nick whistled. “They’re tabanids—probably Tabanus arabicus. Very large, very nasty.”

  “Is that all you’re getting out of this? Observations about the local insects?”

  “Not at all,” he said calmly. “So far we have a lonely soldier eight thousand miles from home, uprooted on a no-notice call-out, adjusting to a strange and hostile desert environment, and living under the constant threat of enemy attack.”

  “Two lonely soldiers,” Kathryn corrected.

  “But only one with a loving wife waiting for him back home.”

  The traffic began to slow and came almost to a standstill where the HOV lanes had been closed after the morning rush. With the windows rolled up and the breeze no longer forcing its way through the vents, the car became more and more unbearable.

  Kathryn resisted the urge to wipe a bead of sweat rolling down her forehead.

  “The next letter didn’t come for over a month.”

  October 15, 1990

  Dear Kath,

  Sorry it’s taken so long to write—you know me. The first of the month we redeployed to a place called Ab Qaiq. It’s the home of a huge ARAMCO oil complex and we’re here to protect the pumping station from attack—a ton of Arab oil flows through here to the Gulf.

  It’s about a hundred miles farther away from the enemy—bet you’re glad to hear that, but I can’t say I am. We were the first troops into Saudi Arabia and now it seems like we’re being told to move over and let the heavy forces do their stuff. I didn’t come here to squat and hold, Kath. I want a front-row seat when the show gets started. It looks like we could be at Ab Qaiq for a long time and nobody likes it.

  The 4-325 is in an area called Camp Gold, nothing but a huge piece of desert surrounded by concertina wire. We’ve built a tent city there—it’s really something to see. Pretty rough—no lights, no mess facility, no wash basins, no laundry. We shower together outside—no stalls. It’s okay now but they say it gets cold in December! There’s no privacy at all. We each have a small corner we call our own and everybody’s starting to stockpile stuff sent from home. We stash it in our MRE boxes we keep under our cots. That’s my whole world right now—one cot and the stash underneath.

  Caught a glimpse of Pete yesterday. 2d Battalion is in Camp White, an old warehouse across the way behind the motor pool. I waved but I don’t think he saw me.

  Three weeks ago we lost our first man—a truck overturned on a paratrooper from the 505. Somebody wasn’t paying attention. Last week some grunt gave himself the “million dollar wound”—shot himself in the foot just to get back to the States. The waiting and the crowding are starting to wear on all of us. I think the cracks are starting to show. I’m handling it okay but I think it’s driving Jim nuts. You know he likes to get alone sometimes, and there is no alone here—not anywhere. No alcohol either—that was one of the Saudi’s rules. I’d give a week’s pay to be able to take Jim out for a couple of brews. He looks like he could use it.

  Write to him, Kath. The mail comes in every day on two or three forty-foot tractor trailers. Some of the guys get piles of letters and all Jim gets is some hen scratchings from that sister of his begging him not to get killed. He’s taken to reading the unopened “To Any Soldier” mail—stuff from some grade-school class from who-knows-where. I think it’s getting him down. I used to show him all the great stuff you send, but not anymore—it just makes him angry. Write to him.

  I miss you.

  Andy

  “So did you?” Nick asked.

  “Did I what?”

  “Write to him.”

  Kathryn shifted uneasily.

  “Why not?”

  “I did a couple of times, but I didn’t want to give him—you know—the wrong idea. So I kept writing, ‘Andy and I this,’ and ‘Andy and I that.’ But Andy said it only seemed to make things worse, so I just stopped.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes before Kathryn reached for the next letter.

  “So we know that Jimmy’s getting discouraged,” she said.

  “Yes,” Nick said under his breath, “and we know that he’s getting angry.”

  “The next letter wasn’t until January. Andy called home at Christmas—both MCI and AT&T offered free three-minute phone calls to all the troops. It was wonderful to hear from him, except that an NCO was listening in the whole time to make sure we didn’t pass along anything confidential. I got a video from Andy too—every soldier got a free videotape and the chance to record a fifteen-minute message for the folks back home.”

  “Did you bring it along?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Too bad. I guess it’s ESPN tonight.”

  There was a long pause that followed.

  “I got a video from Peter too. I suppose you’d love to see that one.”

  Another pause.

  “It was nothing.” She shrugged. “Really. It was just about where he’d been and what he’d done and how he hoped he’d be home soon—that sort of thing.”

  “What could be more harmless than that?” Nick intoned.

  “Exactly.”

  “So why did it make you feel uncomfortable?”

  “Who said it made me feel uncomfortable?”

  Nick slowly turned and looked at her.

  At last they began to move again, slowly and relentlessly gathering speed as they approached the Capital Beltway. The traffic didn’t open up, it simply began to accelerate together in one vast, irresistible herd. Kathryn had visited Washington several times, and she always felt as she approached the city that there was a kind of suction, a vortex that seemed to draw her toward some mysterious end of its own.

  January 25, 1991

  Dear Kath,

  I know you’ve been following the news so you know where things are going. Some UN bigwig went to Baghdad on the fourteenth to try to get Iraq to pull out by the deadline the next day—no luck. Iraq’s got the fourth largest army in the world and they’re itching to try it out. For our part, the 82d is happy to oblige them.

  Now the air war has started and that means more waiting—but at least we got our marching orders. The entire brigade has moved into attack position. I can’t say where, and you won’t hear about it on the news, but I’ll tell you this—I can see the b
order from here. At night I can hear the bombers pass overhead and when the strike zone is close enough I can hear the bombs. On the way back home they dump their excess ordnance in the desert not far from here, and I can feel the ground rumble. The Iraqis fired their first SCUD at us but a Patriot brought it down. We started taking our PB pills every eight hours—they’re supposed to stop anthrax and nerve gas, but nobody knows for sure. They make some of the boys sick.

  Two soldiers from the 3rd ACR were wounded yesterday in a firefight across the border. The Iraqis are only six miles away. They know we’re here and they can reach us with artillery if they want to. The pressure’s building. Everybody knows we’re going in but nobody knows when. Not much time to talk to Jim—everybody’s busy digging in.

  I plan to write again before G-Day. The mail caught up with us here so you can still write to me.

  Andy

  They took the exit for 495 North to Rockville, Maryland, where I-95 dumps into the Capital Beltway in a violent confluence of horns, engines, radios, and tires. Hulking gray rigs and flatbeds lumbered along belching puffs of smoke, while Porsches and BMWs honked and darted between them like angry mosquitoes. They all pushed, shoved, and jammed their way toward their destinations, some chatting on phones or dabbing at makeup as casually as if they were still parked at home.

  The next envelope was a medium-sized manila padded mailer. Kathryn squeezed it open and peered deep within, as if she were searching for a bucket in the bottom of a well. She reached in with two fingers and removed a folded letter on ordinary notebook paper, then carefully tipped the mailer over. A golden band rolled out into her left hand.

  She sat silently staring at the ring for several minutes. The folded letter still lay on her lap.

  “May I?” Nick said gently.

  She barely nodded.

  He propped the letter against the steering wheel and began to read.

  February 17, 1991

  Dear Kath,

  I can write this now because by the time you get it everyone will know anyway. A few days from now the ground war begins. G-Day.

  The 82d has been attached to the French 6th Light Armor Division. We’ll be under their command when the battle begins. Our job is to do what the Airborne always does—push in fast and deep, secure a foothold, and clear the way for the heavy forces behind us. Our objective is to seize Al Salman Airbase about 90 miles north of here. At Al Salman we’ll go up against the Iraqi 45th Division—three infantry brigades and two artillery battalions. They got a tank battalion, too, if there’s anything left of it. They’re not the Republican Guard, but they’re no pushovers.