Honor Courage Commitment

by Jordan Danzig

  With a smirk in her direction, Zanna breezed past the woman. Once outside, she took a deep breath and asked in a light manner. “Did you take one of those pills?”

  Without looking at her, Rivera answered. “No.”

  “It’s going to be a long day.”

  He shot her a sideways glance. “I’ll be OK.”

  “You really—”

  “Are you ordering me to take one?”

  “I can’t do that. I’m just suggesting.”

  Doyle’s car pulled up and Rivera moved to open the rear door for her. The peaked cap he held under his arm slipped and Zanna scrambled to catch it before it hit the ground. He acknowledged the prompt save with another of his curt nods. She climbed in the back seat, still holding the hat.

  No one spoke during the short journey, and when they arrived at Arlington National Cemetery, Doyle dropped Rivera and Zanna as close as possible to the gravesite.

  Rivera held out his hand for the hat—a white peaked cap with a black visor adorned by a gold Eagle, Globe and Anchor badge. Inside the cover—as Zanna had learned all Marine headgear was called—was a pair of white gloves. She held his crutches while he donned the gloves and made a tiny adjustment to his cover when he asked Doyle’s opinion. He then carefully made his way past rows of white marble headstones up the short grassy incline to the site of the ceremony.

  Before Doyle left to take part in the quarter-mile long foot procession preceding the full honors ceremony, Zanna quietly asked about the man they were here to inter. He explained Sergeant Cayetano Villarreal was an EOD—Explosive Ordnance Disposal—Technician killed attempting to defuse an IED discovered by a routine foot patrol in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. He successfully defused one roadside bomb and was called over to deal with another. This second device was remotely detonated as Villarreal was examining it. When Doyle left, Zanna joined Rivera who was standing a little way off from the prepared grave.

  A caisson drawn by six black horses arrived and the six Marines comprising the honor guard of pallbearers lifted the flag-draped casket from the vehicle. Rivera and others in uniform came to attention and saluted; a slow ceremonial salute. Several of the civilians in the small party of mourners placed their right hand over their heart. The honor guard executed a formal five-step turn in the direction of the burial site. The salutes were dropped as the men made their way up the gentle slope. Rivera and Zanna moved closer when the pallbearers approached.

  Everyone came to attention and saluted again while the honor guard positioned the coffin over the grave. They paused for a moment and then in a beautifully choreographed motion, they made a small move as if to lower the casket before hoisting it quickly to shoulder height in one last tribute to their fallen brother. It was then gently set down on the bars spanning its final resting place. The pallbearers took hold of the draped flag, lifted it to waist height and held it taut between them.

  Once the honor guard was motionless, the Navy Chaplain conducted a brief service, commending Villarreal for his bravery, dedication, and passion shown in performing such hazardous duty.

  Zanna looked around the other mourners. There were the Schwarz brothers and Doyle, standing at modified parade rest with their hands clasped in front of rather than behind their body, as was Rivera and a couple of other Marines she didn’t know. There were a few civilians dotted around and five family members seated at the graveside; two middle-aged women and a middle-aged man, and a young woman with a toddler on her knees.

  Oh, no. Zanna winced. She must be his wife. She looks so young—and with a baby, too. Her throat constricted at the scene and she stole a sideways glance at Rivera. His eyes wore the thousand-yard stare.

  The two pallbearers at the head of the casket raised the flag slightly for the Chaplain to bless the body. The service concluded, he stepped back. Those in uniform came to attention and saluted when the sound of gunshots rang out from the seven Marines comprising the rifle party giving a three-volley salute.

  As the echoes from the gunshots faded, the haunting sound of Taps cut through the warm, still afternoon air. A lone bugler stood in a spinney about thirty yards uphill from the funeral party. Zanna stole another glance at Rivera—and her heart disintegrated. His crutches lay on the ground and he stood there at attention, still holding the salute, completely immobile, tears rolling down his cheeks. You sweet, stubborn man. You didn’t take that damn pill because you didn’t want it to mask any pain. Zanna wanted to hug him. To console him. She wanted to be there for him . . . if he would just let her in.

  Taps ended and the honor guard intricately folded the flag; first folding it in half lengthwise and then in half lengthwise again. The striped corner end was brought up into a triangular fold, the top edge of that was folded back to keep the triangular shape. This was done thirteen times, finishing so that the white stars on a blue background were all that was visible. The ceremony was executed in a slow, exaggerated movement that was fluid from first fold to last. When completed, the flag was handed over to the staff sergeant in charge of the honor guard.

  Another quick peek at Rivera now showed no evidence of his earlier emotion.

  The staff sergeant walked over to the seated party and went down on one knee in front of the young woman with the child, whom Zanna had presumed was Villarreal’s widow. He leaned in toward her, the flag held sandwiched between his hands. As he presented it, he said, “On behalf of the President of the United States, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s service to Country and Corps. Semper Fidelis.”

  He repeated the ceremony with another already folded flag, which was briefly placed on top of the casket before being presented to one of the older women. The Chaplain had a few private words with the family, as did a representative of the Commandant of the Marine Corps.

  Villarreal’s widow got up and walked toward the casket. Rivera, using his crutches again, moved to her side and spoke a few words. She didn’t reply but squeezed his arm. He tousled the infant’s hair, then walked over to the still-seated older woman holding the flag in her lap. She looked up at him and smiled. He dropped down onto his left knee and removed his hat. Zanna could hear some of the words, but as they were in Spanish she didn’t understand many. When he finished, the woman cupped his face in her hands and kissed the top of his head. Rivera kissed the woman on the back of her hands. He stood and went back to the casket where he came to attention and rendered honors with that same slow salute, the poignancy of which sent shivers through Zanna. He stood with his head bowed for a moment, then limped off into the spinney. Zanna longed to go to him but now was not the time. She sought out Doyle instead.

  “Did you catch what he said to the woman with the flag?” she asked.

  “No. It was in Spanish and mine isn’t that good. I only caught the end. She said something about the barrios and a thank you. Then she kissed him.”

  Ben had gone up the hill to talk to Rivera, and now they were both coming back down. Ben spoke to Zanna as they passed, “Me and the guys are heading over to Murphy’s Bar for a bit of a Wake. You coming with?”

  16

  Amanda’s eager anticipation had evolved into anxious apprehension, so she was relieved when Gant showed up while she waited for Washington outside the hospital. Although he’d shaved, his eyes were heavy.

  “Have you been up all night?” Amanda asked.

  “Not all night.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “A couple of IED casualties.”

  “Why didn’t someone wake me?”

  “There’s always tomorrow. You have a big day today.” His gaze shifted to somewhere over Amanda’s right shoulder. She turned around at the rumble of an armored vehicle pulling up alongside them.

  The driver’s door opened. Amanda made a small noise in the back of her throat which was drowned out by the loud engine. You!

  “Good morning, ma’am. My name is Angel (he used the Engl
ish version). I shall be your tour guide today. And, these two reprobates”—he tossed his head to indicate the two men leaning out of a rear passenger door,—“will be accompanying us on our pleasant journey through the local countryside.”

  O’Malley and Lowell put their heads together, smiled inanely at her and waved like little children. Amanda laughed and waved back. Angel pointed to the roof. “And up there is Matty Kraus.” Matty leaned over the gun turret and gave her a double thumbs up.

  Gant addressed Angel. “Why didn’t you say, last night, you were slated for this?”

  Angel caressed his beard and gave a small shrug.

  Gant stifled a grin. “Play nice.”

  “Yeah, I’ve already been warned.”

  Three more vehicles pulled up behind Angel’s. Captain Washington exited the first one to speak with the driver of the second. A burst of static and a garbled message came from the radio inside Angel’s truck. “That was Mason and Doc Patterson,” he said, “saying ‘hey’ from the M-ATV bringing up the rear.”

  Amanda stepped back and waved at them. The truck’s headlights flashed in acknowledgment.

  Washington strode over to her. “Would you like to ride with me, Nurse Wilks?”

  “Oh.” She glanced at Angel. “I sup—”

  Angel cut her off. “That’s OK, ma’am, Nurse Wilks will be traveling with us.”

  With you? Oh, my gosh! She headed for the shade to retrieve her Kevlar helmet, body armor, and backpack containing supplies for the day. She’d been told to bring plenty of water; it was going to be a hot one.

  Gant followed and gestured at the compact digital camera slung around her neck. “A quiet word, Amanda. If you were thinking of taking any snaps of your visit today, be careful where you point that thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Given the nature of these guys’ work, they get a little jittery when a total stranger starts taking photos of them. They don’t want to find themselves all over YouTube and Facebook.”

  “The nature of their work?”

  “They’re Quiet Professionals.”

  “And that should mean what exactly to me?”

  Gant frowned. “Are you kidding?”

  “If I were, Will, I wouldn’t be asking you to spell it out.”

  “They’re an MSOT—A Marine Special Operations Team.”

  The beards! “Oh, crap, you mean like the SAS. I had no idea. I’m sorry to have been so dense.”

  “You won’t get better force protection than these guys.”

  She unslung the camera and stowed it in her backpack. Gant accompanied her back to the transport, then went to speak with Angel and Washington.

  Lowell now sat in the driver’s seat and he pointed for her to get in the back. Amanda surveyed the two narrow running boards that served as steps into the cramped interior. The front door swung open and Lowell took her bag. O’Malley leaned across the back seats and offered her his hand. Once he showed her how the four-point seatbelt fastened she said, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” replied O’Malley.

  “Why don’t you salute Commander Gant?”

  Lowell twisted around. “You mean we should?”

  “But he’s an officer. You don’t even come to attention . . . and yet, he doesn’t seem bothered by it either.”

  “You just answered it, right there, lady,” O’Malley said.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “He’s not only an officer,” Lowell said, “he’s a surgeon and the latter makes him an HVT—a High-Value Target. We go around saluting and snapping to attention, we’re pointing that out to the bad guys.”

  “Oh, I see now. I thought you were being disrespectful. In fact, you’re being the total opposite. You’re protecting him.”

  Angel got in, then leaned down to shake hands with Gant.

  “Stay frosty,” Gant said.

  * * *

  Amanda ran her fingers around the neck of her flak jacket in the vain hope that some air might reach her. They weren’t wrong about the heat. The mandatory wearing of body armor and helmet for anyone going—what the military termed ‘outside the wire’—was making matters almost unbearable in the stifling confines of the vehicle. How on earth do these men survive in all the kit they have to wear? Trying to take a drink from her water bottle while bouncing along the rough, unpaved roads was no mean feat. However she timed it, more water spilled over her than went in her mouth.

  The men held conversations so riddled with slang and military jargon that Amanda traveled in silence, except for some involuntary squeaks and squawks when they hit various potholes. She clung to her seat belt harness, uncertain if Lowell was finding them on purpose, but since there was no snickering from anyone, she decided this must be a typical ride for them.

  “You doing OK back there?” Angel asked.

  No, I’m hot, sweaty, this seat is horrendous, and there’s no air in here. “Yes, thank you.” In an effort to distract herself from the discomfort, she tried to engage Angel in conversation, opening with, “Commander Gant tells me you chaps are like the SAS.”

  Total silence. O’Malley shot a glance at Angel that told her enough.

  Oh, great. How to kill a conversation before it even gets going.

  Angel took his time before answering. He angled his head so she could hear him better over the engine noise. “Like the SAS. Like SEALs. Like Rangers. Not quite like Delta.” He laughed. “We get it all the time. We’re not like any of them. We’re all good at what we do—and we all do it differently.”

  He turned to the front, which Amanda took as a clear signal that the conversation was over. Or indeed, any conversation.

  When they reached a small village, Lowell pulled into what might loosely be called the square. Washington’s detail parked a short distance away and the vehicle containing the rest of Angel’s team did the same but faced in the opposite direction.

  Angel addressed Amanda. “You wait here.” To the men, he said, “OK, gentlemen, ears and eyes open.”

  The men exited the vehicle. Amanda twisted and turned in her seat trying to take in every aspect of the unfolding scene. Washington plus two American soldiers dismounted and stretched their limbs. The double doors on the back of the second Army vehicle opened and more soldiers spilled out, including three ANA soldiers. Mason and Patterson alighted along with two other men, one of whom was dressed the same as them but carried no weapons. His body language seemed different from the fluid confidence with which the Marines conducted themselves. Ah, perhaps he’s their interpreter?

  Angel and his men surveyed the surroundings; their intense focus obvious. A group of men approached so Angel and Washington walked out to meet them. Greetings were conducted through the interpreter, then one of the villagers led the way to a shaded area. Washington started to follow Angel, but he turned and exchanged a few words with her. He appeared calm and matter-of-fact. Washington’s replies looked more animated. He chucked his chin in the direction of the trucks. She squared her shoulders, spun on a heel and marched toward Amanda. On reaching the vehicle, she opened the door and invited Amanda to join her.

  Amanda scrambled down, firing a barrage of questions. “Is it safe? Aren’t you in charge here? Shouldn’t you have gone with him to meet with those men? Why—”

  A muscle twitched in Washington’s clenched jawline and she raised a hand to stem Amanda’s flow. “Safe is relative. In military terms, yes, I’m in charge, but not in the eyes of Afghan tribal culture. Torres and my senior NCO have gone to take tea with the elders.” She removed her helmet and dragged her sleeve across her brow. “And these tribal types will not negotiate with women, period.”