“You’re up late, Briggs.”
“You too. Know where we can get a good cup of coffee?” Briggs asked as he kicked out a chair from the other side of the table and motioned with his head for Blake to have a seat. “Take a load off.”
“Thanks. Can’t help you with the coffee. Man, what I would do for a decent cup of joe. What are you up to? Writing home?”
“No, I’m writing a letter to the parents of Lance Corporal Packer; he caught the RPG this morning.”
“I thought that was the lieutenant’s job,” Blake said.
“It is, but he was my Marine more than the lieutenant’s, so I want to write one, too.”
“But he was only with your platoon two days, same as me.” Blake seemed baffled by Briggs’s gesture.
“Yeah, but he was still one of mine. His parents need to know that he died not just in the line of duty but in the presence of his own, protecting his friends and standing tall for what he believed in. He didn’t just die—he made a difference. He left his mark on this lousy world, and he saved my life. Only I can convey that to his parents because I was the last soul to see life in his eyes, which obligates me to bear witness to his bravery.”
Blake leaned over the table to look at the letter and tapped it with his finger. “There wasn’t much bravery. He caught an RPG and painted the walls and ceiling with his guts.” Briggs knew Blake was entertaining himself by getting under Briggs’s skin.
Briggs checked his patience. “No, Blake. That’s how he died. It’s how he lived that shows his courage and bravery. His bravery started the day he joined the Corps and became my brother—your brother, man. He was cut from the same cloth as you and me; he was family. His drill instructor became his father; his company commander, his mother; the Grinder where they practiced marching, his playground; and his rifle, his lover. All that is what led him to his last order, which he took from me, to stand his ground and protect you and me as we ascended that ladder well. His parents need to know that they are not just getting a form letter. They need to know about their son. They need to know that David A. Packer, Lance Corporal USMC, had my back and cared enough about his title to follow orders—orders that led to his demise in the line of duty. He died doing something that mattered and that had a profound impact on the lives of others.” Briggs stopped short, inhaling deeply, and leaned back in his chair.
“But he’s dead. I mean people die here; that’s the business of war. He died in the line of duty doing his job. We have to get on with our jobs. Can’t take any of this too much to heart, right?” Blake shrugged.
“You’re wrong. The battle that took his life is over and in the past. What you do in the heat of battle is different from what you do when it’s over, and that is what’s missing in your life, Blake. I don’t know how you missed it, but you have to learn it somehow, and fast.”
With that, Briggs stood and turned away from the table.
“Learn what, Briggs?”
“Compassion, you dumbass.” Briggs turned back around and quickly picked up a page of the letter. “Not in these scribbled words, but the compassion in your heart. It’s the common glue that even barbarians understand, Blake. The tears that are shed by families when they lose a loved one are universal. Tears come in every language, and they mean the same thing. Someone is in agony over the loss of another human being, precious and irreplaceable.” Briggs sighed. He placed the letter back on the table as he sat down again.
“You told me that you came here to die because of the guilt you felt over what you did or didn’t do. You need to start asking yourself if the price you’re paying to feel better is worth the price your parents are going to pay when they get one of these letters. You’re torturing your parents, not yourself, and that act will be complete when your father has to bury you. No parent should have to put their child in a grave, Blake.” Briggs leaned toward Blake over the table.
“It’s your job as a good son to take care of your parents. You have to go home and make this right. You have to see to it that they live long, happy lives before you do your duty and bury them at the end of their time. You say you want things to change, the pain to stop. Well, this is how it’s done. Christ, man, stop being selfish and go home, ask for forgiveness, learn compassion. I’ll damn well bet your father shows you some. From what you’ve told me, he sounds like a great man. Do something tough for a change and stop wimping out. Humble yourself to your father. Give him the chance to forgive you, Blake.”
Blake swallowed the lump of pride in his throat and nodded. Without another word, he stood and exited the room.
CHAPTER NINE
December 2005
After his first deployment, Briggs was recognized for his ability as a leader, and the war needed leaders, especially when the old ones were being taken from the battlefield on stretchers. Briggs’s promotion to sergeant just prior to his return home between combat tours came quickly.
Briggs’s battalion arrived home a week before Christmas and was told to disappear until the first week of January 2006. That was when they were to begin workup training for their return to Iraq in July.
The flight home on a chartered airline jet was the first time Briggs could relax in months. The flight attendants were attractive and dressed in patriotic red, white, and blue. There were banners and “Welcome Home” signs scattered about the cabin, and the flight crew took the time to shake the hands of each and every Marine on board. It was a strange sensation for Briggs to return home among all the fanfare, but it was also a letdown because he knew that Anita would not be there to greet him. He tried as hard as he could to let her go, but it was like pulling a live oak tree out of a clay bank with his bare hands. Something so strong and beautiful that could withstand the strongest of tides and winds could not be moved by simple will.
In Iraq, Briggs could keep focused on the task at hand. Perhaps that focus was what got him promoted so quickly. On the flight home, his mind was filled with thoughts of his mom and sister. They were the only family he had. He missed them but knew they didn’t need him to take care of them. His sister had a husband to take care of her and his mom was more than fine. The only reason she occasionally worked at the fish house was to fill her time and be around her daughter and son-in-law, especially since Scott was gone. Small shards of guilt for not being there burst into his thoughts before he reminded himself, This is what sons do. They leave home and become men.
The pilot announced over the intercom, “Feet dry. I would like to say on behalf of the flight crew, welcome home. We’re all proud of you.”
The returning heroes erupted in cheers of adulation for their country.
“Feet dry” was a term used by the flight crew when the aircraft was returning from a long flight over water and had safely arrived over land.
Briggs had given up his seat next to the window to another Marine; however, upon hearing that the aircraft was approaching land, he leaned as close to the window as possible in order to take in the magnificent spectacle of the green coastline. Green! It was an incredibly soothing color, the color of home. After spending months upon months in a country where the color of the landscape was a dull blend of brown grasses and beige-colored sand, this simple thing alone brought him enormous joy.
When the aircraft touched down on the runway at the Marine Corps Air Station at Cherry Point, North Carolina, the cheers once again erupted, even louder than before. When the doors were opened and the gangway was connected to the belly of the aircraft, the scent of home filled the cabin.
“Oh, man, do you smell that?” the Marine in front of Briggs blurted out as he made his way to the exit. He turned and flashed a wide, gleaming white smile. The grass along the edge of the runways had just been cut and the incredible fragrance floated into the open cabin door.
Briggs smiled in return. The sweet aroma of home floated on the air and found its way to the senses of those who had given so much of themselves for so many. The perfect homecoming. This simple, seemingly insignificant act was
so powerful that it caused Briggs and several of the Marines around him to fight back tears.
When Scott saw his mom and sister in the crowd of smiling faces, a lump formed in his throat. He was home.
After a quick parade on base, the ride home seemed to fly by. When Scott and his family arrived, he found his home invaded by friends. Dozens of cars were parked on the lawn. Tables were covered in food. Although the temperature was in the mid-sixties, the winter sunshine was glaring in its brilliance.
“Hope you don’t mind, but everyone insisted on throwing you a welcome home party,” his mother said, smiling as she reached over the armrest of the car to pat him on the leg.
The truth about the whole thing was that he did mind and was not looking forward to confronting everyone. The forced smiles that he would have to offer up in return for his family and friends’ attention was almost unbearable to him. At the same time he realized that it was more for his mother than anything else, so he pushed on and put on a good son face.
When Scott opened the car door, he was overwhelmed by the smell of freshly cooked seafood. And the people. A sea of arms reached out to hug him all at once.
Some of his best friends were there. And even though he knew she wouldn’t be there, Scott found his eyes searching for Anita among the multitude of faces that paraded through the house and yard.
His biggest fear was how to avoid someone who wanted to hear a war story. It wrenched his guts just thinking about what to say to avoid a conversation about war. They had no idea how utterly horrible it was, and the worst part was they didn’t have the right to ask him anything about it.
The first person to get a hold of him was Mike Shepherd, and simultaneously his friend Gerald Shepherd, no relation to Mike but they both shared the same last name. Hence, they were called the Shepherd brothers—kind of an unexplainable thing in such a little town. The three of them had been inseparable in high school and kept each other in and out of trouble at the same time.
Mr. Rose grabbed him by the shoulder halfway to the house and spun him around for an embrace and a firm handshake. He was one of the finest boat builders on Harkers Island and helped Scott build his first rowboat when he was just twelve.
So many people, so many faces. Briggs did his best to indulge their questions, but all he wanted to do was slip away to the quiet and serenity of the waters’ edge. He was not the same person they remembered and grew up with. His profession eroded away the joy that such a gathering like this should arouse in someone.
After everyone had left, Scott talked to his mother for a long time. They sat comfortably in the living room next to the large sliding glass doors that overlooked the bay. The conversation was mostly about life in general with no major sticking points, save one, Anita. Scott asked his mother if she had seen Anita lately.
“No, I haven’t.”
Scott was surprised by his mother’s matter-of-fact and slightly curt reply. The wheels in his head started to spin. “Mom,” he said, reaching out to her as she got up to go into the kitchen. “What is it, Mom?”
“Nothing,” she responded, patting her hair and refusing to look him in the eyes.
“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” he mumbled.
She sighed and stopped at the kitchen doorway. “No, you should’ve. I know how important she is to you, son. I’m only concerned about you. I just don’t want to see your heart broken again.”
“What do you mean ‘again’?”
His mother didn’t respond until she had returned with two glasses of sweet tea. Sitting close to him, she looked deeply into his eyes. “Anita has a baby, Scott. Her name is Jean, but they call her Sweetie.”
Scott felt as though someone had punched him in the gut, and he slumped back against the sofa.
“There’s more,” his mom continued. “Her husband accused her of cheating on him.” She paused and inhaled deeply. “With you. He thinks the baby is yours.”
“But I haven’t been here,” Scott protested.
“Scott, Anita’s husband is selfish and shallow-minded, and his family is no better. In fact, his mother was the one to put the thought in his head about the legitimacy of his own daughter. She didn’t like the fact that her blue-blooded son had diluted their family gene pool by marrying, in her words, ‘a backwater hick with only a high school education.’” She stopped to sip her tea and catch her breath. Scott remained silent. “And before his mother could talk her son into getting rid of her, Anita had a baby. So his mother convinced him that Sweetie had to be your child.”
“But it’s not true,” Scott whispered, staring out the glass doors. “We’ve never even had . . .”
She smiled sadly at him. “I know—not just because I trust you, but because Anita told me.”
“You talked to her? When?”
“Almost every week since she separated from her husband and temporarily moved back home with her mother. Her mother and I are best friends, if you’ll remember.”
“Are they getting divorced?” It came out before Scott could stop himself.
“Now we are getting back to my point of me protecting you and your heart. You need to stay away from her. She is trying to make her marriage work. She says she loves her husband and is trying to make things right.”
“It doesn’t sound right to me.”
“It’s not for you to say or even question.”
Scott shook his head. “Mom, she still loves me. She came to me after boot camp and hugged me, and she was crying.”
“I know.”
“Did she tell you that too?”
“No, I saw,” she said, then waved her hand in the air. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. I’m your mother. I’m allowed to spy.”
He sat back and took a deep breath. “If I could’ve been stationed at Cherry Point, then I could have made it work.”
His mother smiled and leaned toward him, placing her elbows on her knees. “No, you couldn’t have. What has happened, what is happening, and what is going to happen are supposed to be. You have a strong will and so does she. If the two of you had managed to somehow change each other, it wouldn’t have worked out either.” She lowered her head in order to catch his gaze. “Only you can change yourself, and it is the same for Anita. Trust me, I’ve been around awhile. Give her time to fix her marriage. And you need to move on, for your own sake.”
Scott nodded. He knew she was right, and he trusted her wisdom.
True to his word, to himself and his mother, he stayed clear of Anita, but it wasn’t easy. Every day he had to fight the urge to travel the short distance down the road to Anita’s house, and to do so, he needed every ounce of the discipline that his mother, his father, and his military training had taught him.
CHAPTER TEN
July 2006
Time passed quickly. He would have much rather spent July at home in Gloucester, North Carolina, but he knew that his return to Iraq would give his fellow Marines the opportunity to spend it with their loved ones. In that there was a great comfort. Each rise and fall of the full moon over the Outer Banks hastened along his return to Iraq. Once again it was his battalion’s turn to relieve those who were on duty in Iraq. Fresh faces and old weathered faces with clean weapons and uniforms returned to relieve those who were tired, worn out, and dirty. He was back, and back in a place that he felt oddly familiar with and comfortable in. All of the combat experienced Marines felt the same way. This was their job; it was what they were trained to do.
Briggs and Blake were part of a small unit performing a recon mission in Baghdad when a young boy ran out and grabbed Briggs by his arm, pulling him toward a building as he shouted in Arabic.
“Hey, hold up, kid. Ashie, what’s this kid saying?”
Ashie was a terp—an interpreter. He’d been with Briggs’s platoon for three months and knew damn near everyone.
“He says he knows where the Marine we are looking for is, but we have to hurry. They are moving him.”
“He must be talking about Adams,”
Briggs shouted to Blake.
Two days prior, Lieutenant Adams had been part of a contingent of four Humvees and eleven Marines who daily escorted children to school. When the Humvee rounded the corner of a block-long street surrounded by four-story buildings and burned-out shops, the enemy had opened fire. Lieutenant Adams had been riding in the passenger seat of the first Humvee when an IED went off behind him, blowing the small bus full of children over on its side and spilling them into the streets. Adams had been hit by sniper fire, grabbed by two of the enemy, and thrown into a waiting truck. He had been missing for approximately thirty-six hours.
“Blake, call it in right now,” Briggs yelled as he assembled the five men with him and took off following the kid. He hollered over his shoulder, “He’s not leading us into a slaughter, is he, Ashie?”
Ashie struggled to keep up with Briggs at full run. “No, I know his parents and family. He is a good boy. He goes to school.”
The boy kept a brisk pace. As the men followed, the rattling of their gear and stomping boots broadcasted their arrival around each corner and down every alleyway.
“Okay, okay. Stop him,” Briggs ordered Ashie after five minutes of running. “Get him over here and ask him where this place is before we get too close. I don’t want to run up on top of their lookouts.”
Ashie conveyed Briggs’s request to the boy, who said that he and his two cousins were the lookouts and that there were no others that he knew of. He told them they were close to the hideout. Suddenly, a small pickup full of men sped by, almost hitting Briggs and Ashie as it careened around the corner.
“Guns, guns, guns!” Blake yelled.
“Shit! Cover!” Briggs screamed, recognizing the threat as he quickly started mowing down the six men who’d jumped from the back of the truck with their automatic weapons. The insurgents never had a chance. All were hit several times, some before they even had their feet on the ground. Two other Marines put over one hundred SAW rounds directly into the truck in just a few seconds, giving Briggs and Ashie a chance to hit the ground in order to clear fire. The automatic fire from the two SAWs was devastating. The insurgents’ bodies danced in the air, jerking and twitching, as multiple rounds of ball and tracer fractured their bones and flesh, ripping them apart and spraying blood in a cascade of red mist into the air. They fell with a flop to the ground.
Shadows at War Page 8