by Kip Cassino
“Try it on the right then,” Taws advised. “Stay as close to the road as you can. The IED that got two was detonated, but I think they buried surprises off the road. I’m coming back to lead you.” He turned to his first sergeant. “Move up to my seat, Top,” he said. “Lead the convoy right. I’m going back to direct traffic.”
Jumping from the slowly moving Humvee, Taws ran to the burning debris that had been truck two. It was almost split in two, he saw. The front, with the driver’s cab, lay on its side. Fire hadn’t consumed it yet. Someone inside might still be alive. A secondary explosion startled him. Its force blew his k-pot (helmet) from his head and knocked him to the ground. He shook his head to clear it, rose and moved on.
He ran past the wreckage and toward truck three, which had still not moved. The driver’s name, he recalled, was Johnson. He leaped to the HEMTT’s door, leaned in. The driver, he saw, was wide-eyed and pale with fear, unable to act. The young soldier had wet himself.
“Goddamit, Johnson, why aren’t you moving?” Taws yelled, shaking the driver by his shoulder. At least he’d gotten the man’s attention. The soldier’s head turned. His eyes moved.
“C-c-can’t move!” Johnson stuttered, “I-IEDs!”
“Well, you’ve got a choice, soldier,” Taws said with less emotion. “You either move this truck, or I’ll throw you out of it and move it myself. Now go slow and follow me. I’ll make sure you don’t hit an IED.”
Taws jumped from the truck’s cab and began walking slowly forward, signaling truck three to follow. He picked up a still-warm rod of metal thrown from truck two, and used it to probe the ground in front of him. He heard the truck behind him begin to move. He continued to guide the driver until he was well past the burning wreckage.
He signaled the truck to stop, and climbed to its cab once more. “Good job, Johnson,” he said. “Now move back on the road and follow the truck you see in front of you.”
Jumping back to the ground, Taws signaled the next truck in the convoy forward, then remembered the men in truck two’s cab. He had to see if they could be saved. Running back to the stubbornly smoldering hulk, he began to climb the truck’s cab, which had come to rest on its side. After some unmeasured time he stood panting in back of the cab’s door, and tried to peer inside. Two men could be seen within the cab. Both were motionless, but Taws thought he heard a moan.
He had to get inside the cab. The door would not open, no matter how hard he pulled. Taws pried loose a fire extinguisher mounted on the running board and used it to smash open the door’s window. Then he lowered himself inside the cab, and slid to where the two men lay. After feeling their necks for pulse, Taws believed both men were alive. How to get them out, before the still active fire consumed them? He wasn’t strong enough to lift either man. For some reason, his strength and his wind had deserted him. The only alternative was to break the truck’s windshield, and drag them out to the ground.
Taws tried kicking the glass, with little effect. Finally, winded and groggy, he used his pistol to shoot the damn thing to pieces. He laughed as he pumped off round after round. This was the first time he’d ever used a gun outside a firing range. After some time passed, he was able to kick the remaining glass aside, make a hole and push the unconscious men through it. It was tough work, like moving sacks of flour. That job done, he crawled out himself, then dragged his soldiers safely away from the wreck―which had finally engulfed the cab in flame.
More time went by, how much he couldn’t tell. He heaved himself to his feet, then walked up the road to see how the convoy was forming. To his amazement, the last few trucks were moving past him, followed by Bob Hansen’s Humvee. He waved to his XO as the vehicle moved by.
The Humvee stopped abruptly. Hansen got out and ran to his side. “How are things going, Bob? Taws asked. “I’ve been out of comm for a little while. Can you call for a medevac chopper? I’ve got two badly wounded soldiers here.”
“The convoy’s in good shape, sir,” Hansen said, frowning. “No more trouble. We called in some air support to scatter the bad guys coming up behind us. You should sit down.” He turned and sprinted back to his vehicle. Through a deepening haze, Taws heard him call for medevac. “Three wounded,” he heard Hansen say. Three, he wondered. Who is the third? That was his last conscious thought as he collapsed in the clinging Afghan dirt.
Taws had no clear idea of what was happening after that. He heard voices, but couldn’t understand what they said. From time to time, he saw lights and sensed people around him. His head hurt terribly. He felt he was being handled, then moved. He heard loud noise and felt cold air. Then he blacked out completely.
He drifted weightlessly for some unmeasured period. His level of consciousness varied. The intensity of light beyond his closed eyes fluctuated from grey to deepest black. Beyond everything else, Taws was deeply, profoundly weary. He wanted only to sleep. He hardly noticed movement or sounds around him.
His return to consciousness was gradual. The periods of grey half light grew longer, and he became more aware of sounds and activity around him. He heard voices, and began to recognize what was being said. Finally, as he felt a tug on his arm, he opened his eyes. “Welcome back, captain,” said a man in mint green scrubs.
Now awake, Taws felt the need to sit up, to see where he was. This was obviously not the road to Firebase Adder, the last place he remembered. He looked to his left and saw beds, and realized he was in one as well. He tried to sit up and felt a growing hollow pain begin to invade his new-found consciousness. “It’s too soon for that,” the mint green man said. “Maybe later.”
Taws lay back on his pillow. “Where am I?” he asked. “What happened?” His own voice sounded to him like a raw whisper.
The man, who he now recognized as a nurse, told him he was in a hospital. “Craig Joint Theater Hospital,” he said. “It’s good to see you awake. We’ve been worried. You’ve been out for three days.”
Three days! It seemed impossible. He tried to gather his memories, but found only a hopeless jumble of sights and sounds. “What happened to me?” he asked.
“I don’t know, captain. Maybe some of your men can tell you. They’ve been stopping by to check on you every day. I can tell you this: you’ve had a severe concussion. Beyond that, when you got here you had a piece of steel about six inches long sticking out of you, and bullet wounds in both legs and your right arm. You damn near bled out. You’re lucky to be alive.” Taws tried to process what he was being told, but it confused him. His frustrated mind retreated to unconsciousness. He slept.
In the days that followed, Taws spent more time awake. He began to eat and drink. His mattress was propped up, allowing him to see the dressings that covered the wounds in his side, arm, and legs. He was tempted to try to rise from his bed, but realized it was too soon. Besides, he had tubes and wires attached to him. He’d sever some if he tried to move too much. His profound lethargy had retreated, replaced by universal weakness. He knew he was healing, and wondered idly how long the process would take. He still slept most of the time.
Two days into his healing, Bob Hansen came to visit him. “They told me I can only stay a little while,” he said. “The whole company is asking about you. You saved a lot of lives the other day, sir.”
“What about the men in truck two?” Taws asked. “Did they make it?”
“Jimenez is already back on limited duty,” Hansen said. “He was just shaken up. Wicker was evac’d to Germany. I understand he’ll be O.K., but his war is over.”
“What about Sergeant Alvord?” Taws remembered the mine-blasted Humvee, slowly rolling aimlessly forward.
Hansen looked down, shook his head. “Alvord didn’t make it, sir. Neither did the interpreter. The gunner was thrown free, though―ended up with a broken leg. He’ll be O.K.”
Taws felt his eyes tear. Alvord had been a good man, one of his best NCOs―a young man who could have become
something. “Things sure went sideways, Bob,” he managed to say. “Any more bad news?”
“Only bad news is we’re all still in the ‘Stan, sir. Everything at the company is running fine. We go out on another run tomorrow. The men want to hear about you. They’re calling you ‘Iron Man,’ you know.”
Taws laughed, even though it hurt to do it. “Don’t look like much of an ‘Iron Man’ now, do I?” he said. “Hell, I’d get up, but for all these tubes and wires.”
The nurse came up and whispered in Hansen’s ear. The XO nodded. “They’re telling me I’ve got to go now, sir. They don’t want you getting too agitated. I’ll be back in a few days. Before I go, I have to tell you how proud I am to serve with you, captain. In my book, you’re a hero.”
Taws was stunned. What had he done that was so great? “Don’t lay that label on me, Bob,” he said. “I only did what any man would have done my place. Now get back to work, lieutenant! I’ll be there to check your work soon enough.”
Hansen smiled, and saluted. “Yes, sir!” he said, then turned and left.
The next day, orderlies came to place Taws on a gurney. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“You’re going on an airplane ride,” one of the orderlies said, “stateside. Walter Reed, I think.”
Taws swung his legs from the bed. “Are you crazy?” he said. “I’m much better. Look, I’ll show you!” He tried to rise from the bed, to stand up. It was very hard. He felt dizzy, then faint. He saw one orderly nod to another, who produced a syringe and quickly injected something in his arm. They laid him on the gurney. Sleep took him quickly.
They loaded him and several other invalids into a C-17 jet, gurney and all. He was told later that this was standard procedure for more serious medical cases. It allowed the big cargo lifters to usefully fly back to the states. Otherwise, they’d have made the return flights relatively empty. Taws slept through the trip, sedated. He was aware when the plane landed, and felt his transport on far smoother roads than he’d become used to lately. By the time his consciousness fully coalesced, he was in a hospital bed at Walter Reed.
The next day was a busy hustle. He was pushed from one clinic and scanner to another―in preparation, he was told, for his upcoming surgery. An hour after he was wheeled back to his room, a young doctor explained what was going to happen the next day. “It’s brain surgery, Captain Taws, but don’t let that scare you. Your prognosis is excellent. There’s some bleeding going on, probably the result of your proximity to a large explosion. Once we fix that, you’ll be fine.”
Taws nodded. He had no questions. In truth, his head had been throbbing since the first time he woke up. Maybe this would help things. Right now, he just wanted to lay down and sleep.
His head was shaved early the next morning. Then, a nurse and a doctor put him under anesthesia. When consciousness returned, another full day had passed. The dressings on his head looked like a turban. He laughed at the image. A nurse who came by told him the operation had been successful. His head stopped hurting so much.
There were two more surgeries, one to repair his arm and another to fix damage to an artery in his left leg. After that, he was left alone for a few days. He rested, sleeping a lot as his body healed. He woke up one afternoon to find medals pinned to his pillow: The Bronze Star with “V” device, the Purple Heart, the Army Commendation Medal, and an Afghan Service Medal. He asked the nurse to put them away, the next time she stopped by.
Soon physical therapy began. At first, trying to move himself even a short distance was painful and frustrating. The nurses and therapists he dealt with showed little overt sympathy. They had established goals for him to meet. It was his job to achieve them.
Several weeks passed. By now Taws was feeling much better. He could walk easily, and the stiffness in his arm had abated. They’d removed the dressings from his head. As his hair started to grow back, he noticed it was mostly grey. He was sitting up more often than lying down. He sensed that his release was growing near. It was finally time to go home.
He’d called Margie a couple of times during the past month. The calls were short, disconcerting. Even the boys seemed evasive―as if there was something they wanted to tell him but couldn’t. He told his wife he was going to quit the National Guard. “That’s nice, Vern,” was all she’d say. As their last call ended, a few days ago, she’d said, “Once you get home, there’s a lot we have to talk about, Vern. Get well and hurry back.” Then, she’d abruptly hung up the phone.
A week later, Taws was discharged from Walter Reed. He’d spent almost four months under medical care, a total of seven away from home. Wearing freshly pressed fatigues, he was transported to Dulles Airport and put on a series of flights which eventually got him to Grand Forks. When he left the jetway, Margie was there to meet him. She was by herself. He rushed to her, but she remained seated. “Where are the boys?” he asked. He had ached to see both of them. Now he was confused.
His wife motioned him to a seat beside hers. “I didn’t bring them, Vern. We have to talk. Now is as good a time as any. I don’t want you thinking you can come home and things will be like they were before.”
He looked at Margie, his wife for most of a decade, as if seeing her for the first time. She was uncomfortable, tense. It was obvious to him that she didn’t want to be here, that seeing him did not make her happy. “O.K.,” he said slowly, “why not?”
“I’ve moved on, Vern,” Margie said, looking away from him. “The boys have too. There’s no place in our lives for you anymore.”
A great sadness settled over Taws. He felt faint, too weak to move. “What are you telling me, Margie?” he said. “Say it plain, don’t creep around the edges.”
His wife sighed. “O.K.,” she said. “I’ve found someone else. The boys love him too. We don’t want you back. I need a divorce.”
Taws tried to rise from his seat and failed. He felt dizzy. He sat back down, put his hands to his eyes, and began to cry. He choked and bawled for several minutes. Margie did not attempt to touch or ease him. She simply stared straight ahead, silent.
He finally composed himself, but remained confused and disoriented. Margie? The boys? Leaving him? How could it be?
“Get your gear,” she said. “I’ve made arrangements at a motel near here. You can stay there while we sort things out. But Vern, you must promise …”
“What? Promise what?” he gasped, interrupting.
“Promise not to try to call or come by the house right now. You’ll only upset the boys, and it won’t do anybody any good.”
Numbly, he gathered his belongings, and she got up to lead him to her car. As she rose, he noticed that she was visibly pregnant.
In his memory, the next few weeks were a blur. He bought a used car, found a place to live. He drove to the National Guard center, and began processing to resign his commission. He returned to his old job. Everyone there seemed glad to see him, but he could tell by the way they treated him, by the sidelong glances many gave him, that something was wrong. These people knew something, shared some secret they were not telling him. He asked for some time off, to get his personal life in order. “Sure,” they told him too hurriedly, “Sure! Take as much time as you need, Vern.”
Taws was served with divorce papers two days after he moved into his new apartment. He signed for the envelope of legal documents without comment, went to his phone, and called the number of the attorney on the letterhead. “I need to meet with Mr. Walsh and my wife,” he told the secretary who answered.
They met at Walsh’s office the next afternoon, at a conference table. Margie sat on one side of the table, Taws on the other. “I don’t know why we need to meet,” she told him bluntly. “Just sign the damn thing and get out of my life.”
Taws finally began to get angry. “You’ve taken advantage of me,” he said. “I’m still weak and sick from months in the hospital, recovering from wounds I
got fighting for our country. We have eight years of marriage and two children behind us. You can’t take that away without some reason. What have I done to deserve it?”
Margie laughed. “Yes, fighting for your country,” she said. “Off in the desert with your pals, with me left to find a way to pay the bills. Did you know we almost lost the house? Look at you now, Vern. You’re half dead. Probably got that mental ailment all you vets get. What is it, PS-something? I thought you learned your lesson last time, in Iraq. You’ve been weird ever since you got back from there. But no! You wanted more! Well, I’ve had it. I’ve had it with you, and your National Guard―all of it! Sign the papers, Vern. We’re finished.”
“I want to see the boys.”
Margie angrily shook her head. “No,” she said. “To them you’re dead. I’m going to keep it that way.”
“I could fight this. I could get a lawyer.”
“And hurt everybody? There’s nothing left here for you, Vern. Sign the papers and get out of town. This place is too small for both of us. Go somewhere else and start fresh. I already have. If you ever really loved me, you’ll do this.”
Once again, Taws began to weep. They left him alone in the room. When Margie and her attorney returned, Taws had left―but not before signing the divorce papers. She never saw him again.
He lingered at the rented apartment until his resignation papers came through. Then, he packed his belongings and drove away from Grand Forks without a backward glance. In his mind, Vernon Taws died then.
A greasy hand tapped his shoulder. “No more daydreaming,” the obese straw boss said. “Your break is over. Time to get back to work.” The Captain nodded in agreement. Dredging up the past was a bad way to spend the day. He set his jaw and returned to his cubicle.
Chapter 5
Tucson, Arizona
Two Months After the Tanner Murder