“Son, you’ve been put in for the Bronze Star with Combat ‘V’. You’re an official war hero,” he said with a smile.
Feeling elated to a point of almost shedding tears, and incapable of doing much more, I returned a blank stare.
“I envy your courage,” he said as he nodded his head in my direction.
Tied to the bed, filled with emotion, and now with a mouth much drier than it was prior to his speech, I couldn’t speak. I glanced toward the side of the bed at the pitcher of water sitting on the table.
“Get these restraints off of my Marine,” he bellowed over his shoulder as he reached for the pitcher of water.
The two nurses immediately came to the side of the bed and removed the restraints from my arms and legs. After pouring glass of water and handing me the cup, I took a slow drink, realizing as I did so, it would take time for me to fully recover from my wounds. Aching from head to toe, but unwilling to admit it, I shifted my eyes to the Lieutenant Colonel and cleared my throat.
“My Marines. They’re all accounted for? No KIA?” I asked.
“That is affirmative. Your actions saved the entire platoon,” he said with a nod.
Thank God.
I exhaled what little breath remained in my lungs and tried to sit up, only to learn the pain in my hip was much greater than I realized.
“Permission to speak freely, Sir?” I asked.
“Granted,” he said, his mouth curling into a slight smirk as he spoke.
“With all due respect, I don’t want – nor do I need – a medal of valor, Sir. I need someone to get me out of here. I don’t belong here. I need to get a ride on a transport back to Fallujah and command my men through that operation,” I said.
He chuckled and glanced at the Major. As he shifted his eyes in my direction, he continued. “Your commanding officer advised me of your gung-ho hard-charging attitude, and I, we, hell the United States Marine Corps appreciates your willingness and desire to fight, but you’re going to be given a medical discharge after what you’ve been through. They’ll be shipping you stateside.”
Stateside?
Home?
You’re shipping me home?
Emotionally, I collapsed. I felt like he had plunged a knife into my chest. Going home would mean no longer being a Marine, and I couldn’t fathom the idea. My heart sank. The mere thought of leaving, especially after seeing the level of fighting we were exposed to in Fallujah made me feel useless, weak, and as if I was letting down the men I had risked my very life to defend. There wasn’t another man on earth who would give the level of devotion to my platoon that I had. Under anyone else’s command, there would certainly be lives lost, and I couldn’t allow that to happen. Going home was not an option.
Not if I was alive and able to fight.
I fought against the pain and did my best to sit upright. I fixed my eyes on the Lieutenant Colonel. “I need to get back to my platoon. I don’t want discharged, Sir. I can’t be. The two-seven needs combat experienced Marines who have proven themselves. I’ve never been one to beg for anything, but I’m begging you, Sir. Send me back into combat.”
His mouth formed into a full-blown grin as he broke my gaze and turned toward the Major. “Three years into this war, and Staff Sergeant Jacob’s got two Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star with Combat ‘V’, and a ride home on a bird. And all he can think about is the welfare of his Marines and how to get back into battle.”
He cleared his throat. “You remind me of someone, Staff Sergeant. My grandfather, who fought for our beloved Corps in the Battle of Bataan in World War II. Crazy bastard begged to be sent back into battle twice after having being wounded, just like you. Marines like you aren’t trained, Jacob, they’re born. Born and raised by men who I can’t help but admire. I tell you what. You get yourself cleared medically and mentally, and I’ll get you back to your war.”
As much as it wasn’t what I should have done from a medical standpoint, and as contrary as I was sure it would be to the doctor’s best wishes, I gritted my teeth, moved my legs to the side of the bed, and allowed them to fall to the floor.
As the doctor began to protest, I pulled against the hoses of the I.V., giving myself a little more room.
The Major raised his hands toward the doctor.
“Let him be,” he said sternly.
As I stood on my rubbery legs, I cupped my hands and pressed them to the outside center of my thighs, and stood erect.
Marines differed from the other branches of the armed forces, with the exception of the Navy. Marines did not salute officers indoors while not under arms or ‘on duty’. As I wasn’t wearing my uniform or on duty, a salute wasn’t proper protocol.
But standing at attention was.
I fully realized he had no expectation of me standing at attention and acknowledging his order. I didn’t do it for me, or to show off, prove anything, or gain his approval. I did it as a matter of respect, and because as a Marine, I felt I had to.
“Make myself mentally fit and physically capable. Aye-aye, Sir,” I said as I clenched my jaw muscles and fought back the tears.
Both he and the Major stood erect.
“As you were, Staff Sergeant,” he said.
I exhaled, did my best to perform an about face maneuver, and collapsed onto the bed.
That afternoon as I slept out of sheer exhaustion, I dreamt of raising a child.
A son.
One with the same moral values that were instilled in me by my father.
And I slept more peacefully than I had in longer than I cared to try and remember.
Chapter Two Hundred Forty-Five
Early Winter 2005, Wichita, Kansas, USA
She asked, and because she did, I had to tell her the truth. One thing I had never done – and never would do – was tell a lie. My concerns were whether or not she would be able to accept the truth as being what was in our best interest as a couple.
“You can’t. They’ve got to let you out. Alec, you’ve been shot to pieces. You have pieces of metal inside of you. You were…” She paused and began to cry.
I reached for her shoulder and pulled her against me. “Babe, don’t cry.”
She sobbed for a moment, caught her breath, and leaned away from me. With her face filled with a combination of concern and fear, and her eyes still dripping droplets of hope down her cheeks, she continued.
“You were in the hospital for two months, Alec. Two months. You’ve been…you’ve been shot over and over. I asked Steve. And I’ve looked on the internet. I know. You can get discharged. Have they offered you a release?” she asked as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.
Steve, my best friend since childhood, was a trauma surgeon at the local hospital, and an excellent source of information and support for her. Since my first deployment, she had used him as a sounding board for her concerns, always receiving well thought out replies and opinions. A wealth of knowledge and a very sensible man in general, I trusted him with not only my life, but Suzanne’s. Truthfully, if it wasn’t for him, I suspected Suzanne may have given up on me many years in the past.
“Let’s have a seat,” I said.
She raised her hands to her face and nodded her head as she rubbed her fingertips against her eyes. I realized she probably felt embarrassed for crying, as it was something she never did, but I didn’t view her as weak for doing so. As easy as it was for me to want to return to the war, it was impossible for me to fully understand why I had the desire to continue to fight. My beliefs on the matter were mine and mine alone, and came from nothing other than a self-performed diagnosis of myself.
“You can barely walk,” she said as she sat down on the couch.
I sat down in the chair across from her. “I ran three back to back six minute miles this morning.”
“You have a limp,” she said.
I chuckled. “Marine Corps swagger.”
“Alec…” she said sarcastically, her voice trailing off as she shook her head.
I nodded my head in acknowledgement of her sarcastic tone. “My hip hurts a little, but it’s much better than it was. And my heel is tender, but it’s getting better too.”
“So you’re justifying it? Going back? Can you get out? Have you asked?” she asked.
I pressed the palms of my hands together and held them in front of my chest for a moment as I studied her. She was a beautiful woman, and not only in her appearance. She had remained by my side through four years of me fighting in the war, and she had done so, for the most part, alone.
Suzanne was one of the strongest people I had ever met. Her ability to accept what most would be incapable of even considering was instrumental to our success as a military couple. I realized I had to tell her the truth, but explaining how I felt would be difficult – if even possible. I folded my cupped hands open, lowered my face into my hands, and sat for a moment, breathing into the palms of my hands. After a moment’s thought, I slid my hands from my face, and gazed across the room at her.
“Let me try to explain,” I said.
She wiped what little remnants of tears remained on her cheeks. “I’m listening.”
“While I was in Germany, two officers came to let me know I was going to be pinned with a medal for valor in the Second Battle of Fallujah. They told me I could get a medical discharge…”
“Take it,” she blurted excitedly.
I raised my hand as I cleared my throat. “Hear me out.”
With wide eyes, she nodded her head eagerly.
Damn, I hate to do this to you.
“I begged them to let me stay. I talked to the doctors, and I lied to the psychiatrist to get a clean psych-eval. He granted it, declared me fit for service, and I denied the discharge. I’m sorry, Suzanne, but I’m going back,” I said.
She sat, far less emotional than I expected her to be, and glared at me. After what seemed to be an hour, but was probably a matter of thirty seconds, she stood, turned away, and began to cry.
I stood from my seat. With her back facing me, she raised her right hand and held it in the air between us. “Just give me a minute.”
“Suzanne…”
“Give me a minute, Alec,” she said, her voice filled with emotion.
I sat down in the chair and waited, wondering how many other men in my position would have taken the offered discharge and walked away. There was no doubt in my mind that the war had changed me, but as I sat waiting for her to gather herself, I wondered just how much I had actually changed. I raised my hands to my face, pressed my palms to my cheeks, and covered my eyes with the tips of my fingers. I had always been able to think more clearly with my eyes closed, and sat hoping some newfound clarity would wash over me.
My mind immediately went to thoughts of my Marines, and I filled with guilt for sitting in the living room with Suzanne while they were dodging bullets and returning fire under someone else’s command.
Someone far less capable of protecting them than me.
“You know,” I said as I lifted my head. “Most of the men think I’m lucky or something.”
She turned toward me and wiped her eyes. “And you think you have some sixth sense about danger or whatever.”
I nodded my head. “Men are going to die in this war, Suzanne. I can’t change that. But what I can do is do my best to protect the men in my command. In my platoon. And in doing so, we rid this earth of what is evil, one bad guy at a time.”
“You know what’s sad? I can’t argue with you. I want to, but I can’t, because you won’t listen. You think you’re a superhero or something. It’s been almost five years, Alec. Five years. Five years of me sitting here crying myself to sleep, waiting on the next letter, and hoping each time I go to the mailbox I’m not going to be met by two Marines in dress blues who are here to tell me the man I love is coming home in a god damned flag covered box.”
Apparently I wasn’t the only one worried about me coming home in a casket.
I stood from my seat. “I can’t sit here and let my men die.”
She stomped her foot on the floor so hard she shook the pictures hanging on the wall. “You’re not obligated to protect them. Your obligation is to be my husband.”
I pressed my cupped hands to the outside of my thighs and stood erect. After clearing my throat, I recited the oath I had taken upon entry to the Marine Corps.
"I, Alec James Jacob, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God,” I said, pronouncing each and every word clearly and precisely.
She blinked her eyes and stared.
“I took an oath before God, before the flag, and in the presence of an officer of the United States Marine Corps; and, I took an oath to be your husband. You took one as well, Suzanne. For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. Well, this is the worse and the sickness. I’m upholding my end of the two oaths I took. I’m still your husband. And, until this god forsaken war is over, I’m going to be a Marine,” I said.
“You’re always right, aren’t you?” she asked.
I cocked my head to the side, shrugged my shoulders, and smirked.
“Go find Osama or Saddam or whoever it is you’re trying to find, kill that son-of-a-bitch, and come home, okay?” she said as she slowly walked in my direction.
“So, we’re good on this?” I asked as I spread my arms wide.
“As good as we’re going to be,” she said as we embraced.
And that was all I could have asked for, because even when Suzanne and I were at our worst, we were better than any other married couple on earth.
And I loved her for it.
Chapter Two Hundred Forty-Six
Summer 2005, Haditha, Iraq
In a briefing with my commander, I learned a six-man Marine sniper unit had been overrun outside the city of Haditha, and all six men were eventually killed. Five of the Marines died relatively quickly, possibly executed as soon as they were identified as US Marines. The one Marine who lived – while covered in blood and stripped of his uniform – was paraded through the city with the five dead members of his unit, and the event was videotaped and played on Iraqi television. Later, the sixth Marine’s throat was cut by his captors.
Two days later, Operation Quick Strike began, and 1,000 Marines were sent into the city – not as a retaliatory action – but in an attempt to identify and capture the insurgents who had overtaken the city. At the onset of the operation, an amphibious assault vehicle carrying 16 Marines hit a roadside bomb, and 15 of the 16 Marines were immediately killed in the blast. The one living occupant was burned over most of his body, and wasn’t expected to live. The crater left in the earth by the bomb was large enough to fit a four-bedroom home inside of it.
On the second day of Operation Quick Strike, it was determined the US Marines were outnumbered, and command likened the city to Fallujah, only worse. House to house searches, close quarters combat, and gun battles in an area the size of a living room were a common occurrence. In short, savage extremists had taken over the city, and were going to any length to kill the US Marines or the civilian population who opposed them.
Every Marine being sent into the city wanted revenge for the deaths of their brethren. The 115-degree daytime temperatures, severe wind, and blowing sand only added to the tension. Our convoy arrived at 0800, and the sun pressed down on us like a heavy weight.
As we approached the city, smoke bellowed from the tops of half of the homes and buildings. Bombs exploded every few seconds, and the earth beneath our Humvee shook repeatedly as we slowly rolled into the city.
“We’re going to fucking die in this one, Staff Sergeant Jacob,” Parsons complained as we hit the outskirts of town.
I shifted my eyes toward him for a split s
econd. He looked no different than anyone else in my platoon. He was scared, and his eyes clearly showed it. Given the amount of insurgents in the city, and the temperament of the group who had executed the Marines, we were likely to be in for one hell of a fight and everyone realized it.
Price tilted his helmet up slightly and shook his head. “Jacob is immortal. Only motherfucker that can kill Jacob, is Jacob.”
“Enough about dying. Nobody’s fucking dying. We’re going to stomp in this motherfucker, capture insurgents, and send their asses to Al Asad Airbase for interrogation,” I said. “And then we’re going to finish that fucking football game.”
“Oorah!” Price grunted.
I didn’t think I was immortal, but I was beginning to believe I was something. After five solid years of fighting, I had sustained many injuries, but no one had killed me. The eerie vision of the C-130 filled with caskets still haunted my dreams, and I suspected it always would. Be it luck or the gracious hand of God that kept me from it, however, my body had yet to be shipped home in a casket.
And I was grateful.
“First and second squad take the far side, and third squad will go house to house, just like we discussed. If you think they’re insurgents, they’re insurgents, is that understood?” I asked as we assembled alongside the edge of the street.
“Oorah!” the squad leaders barked.
“We need to capture as many of these motherfuckers as we can. If you’re threatened, don’t think, just kill. Understood?” I asked.
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