Second War

The continuous low frequency drum of the Hummer’s engine began to wind down as the convoy started to enter the small Afghani village along the only dusty street in the village, if you could call it that. Dust caked the six convoy vehicles as a result of the four hour journey through the hot Afghanistan summer desert. The drivers learned not to use the wiper fluid when cleaning the dirt from the windshields, as that just created a brown muddy mess that made it impossible to see through. Besides, the swirling dust just clung to the moisture on the windshield making the action of cleaning the window worthless within minutes anyway. Instead, they learned to turn on the wiper blades without using water. The dust was thick, but fine, and the wipers were able to keep the layer thin enough to be able to see out of. Cpl. John King was driving the lead vehicle with his long time friend Sgt. Derociac riding shotgun. To the casual observer, one would think the two men were brothers. King was a bit taller, but both men shared the same slight build, the same widows peak hairline, the same dimples, and the same piercing blue eyes. Sgt. Derociac was much older though—36 compared to King’s relatively young age of 25. Derociac’s face had many lines and creases that showed experience and stress, but his eyes and smile portrayed youthfulness. They had done this patrol a hundred times, and complacency was a real risk. The two men were joking with each other as they drove through the village. Swirling dust devils blew across the road. Stucco buildings lined the side of the road and seemed to blend into the rest of the landscape, just a slightly different shade of brown than the air and ground. The only other sounds besides their laughter was the drone of the engines

and the squeaking of the wiper blades. There were no children playing in the side streets, which was unusual, but neither man noticed as they were laughing at their own jokes. Suddenly a blast shook the Hummer. In an instant Cpl. King’s vision changed from that of a laughing Sgt. Derociac to wave of flame, smoke, and shrapnel. All sounds disappeared and were replaced by dull ringing sound. All sensations of sitting in the rigid Hummer seat, grasping the hard plastic steering wheel, and the hot spot created from wearing the heavy Kevlar helmet were replaced by a concussive shock wave slamming his body against the driver’s reinforced door. Chaos erupted instantly.. Cpl. King thought he could hear the sounds of smaller explosions and gunfire through the ringing in his ears, but his vision was still only an inky blackness. He thought that he had slumped forward, but he could not be sure of his body’s orientation. His vision began to return slowly, seemingly in perfect parallel to his returning sense of touch. As his vision began to clear into a blotchy red and black canvas, he began to feel that his right side was very hot and seemed to pulse and throb with every heartbeat. He instinctively reached up with his left hand and touched his right shoulder, feeling a sticky moisture. Pulling his hand away and trying to shake the cobwebs from his head, he looked at his hand and saw it was covered in blood. His injury did not register with him, nor did the continuing sounds of small arms fire around him or the acrid smell of smoke and burning metal and flesh. Closing his eyes, he tried to get his bearings. After a few agonizing and painful moments, the reality of the situation finally and suddenly became clear. Opening his eyes wide in shock, Cpl. King hunkered lower into

his seat as best he could to find whatever protection he could gain from the vehicle. Where was his weapon? Cpl. King snapped his head to the right and reached out with his good left arm to where his weapon would be--in the center console between the two men. He did not grab his weapon. He froze in mid posture as he saw the ghastly scene beside him. The entire right side of the vehicle was blown to shreds. Sgt. Derociac’s body, or what was left of it, slumped half out of the vehicle, charred and blasted to the very bone. Unable to break his gaze of horror, Cpl. King looked upon the mutilated body of his long time friend. He did not know how long he stared at the body. He did know what his expression was or if he was crying. He did not notice that the firing has stopped. The next thing he knew was that he was being grasped and yanked out of the vehicle.

“Hey King!” A firm shake on King’s left shoulder broke him out of his reverie. “Wake up man. You got any smokes?” The man standing in the airplane isle was Pfc. Alvarado. As usual, Alvarado was wearing a uniform that looked as though it hadn’t seen an iron in years. In fact, Alvarado was famous for “ironing” his uniform by placing it between the mattresses of his bunk when he went to bed. The young man of 19 had slicked back jet black hair, and he kept twitching the overly bulbous nose in impatient anticipation in a way that had always sat wrong with King. “You can’t smoke on the plane, jackass,” replied King in an annoyed voice. “I’ll go in the bathroom,” shot back Alvarado, leaning forward. “They won’t be able to tell. They’ll think I’m taking a shit or something.”

“Private Alvarado,” glared King, “get back in your seat and shut your hole. I don’t want to hear another word. Got it?” King was obviously very annoyed, as he was hesitant to ever pull rank on another in his squad unless he had to. Mumbling something about a “long ass flight” under his breath, Alvarado grudgingly returned to his seat in the 747. King turned his head back towards the small porthole window, staring at the pillowlike clouds. His shift in posture caused a sharp pain in his right shoulder where he was still healing from the ambush. Man! How could I have let this happen, King thought to himself. I was supposed to be paying attention. The other guys thought there was something wrong but I kept going into town too fast. I fucked up and I’m the one coming home alive. I’m the one alive… King clenched his fists, and then reached out to the tiny shelf that was supposed to be a flip down table. He grabbed the Jack and Coke mixed drink, reached into his pocket with his free hand, and pulled out a few more Vicodin. Downing the pills in one shot, he quickly followed with several gulps of the drink. Sighing heavily, he leaned his head back and hoped that he could get some sleep. ***************************** As the plane slowly taxied into the terminal, anxiety began to grow exponentially inside of him. He hadn’t seen his family in nearly a year, and wondered just how much his son had changed in that time. Would he still recognize me? He thought. Would I recognize him? How much could a kid change from 6 to 7, after all? Well, I guess I’ll find out. I just hope we get this done quickly, my head hurts like hell.

The plane jerked to a stop and the men inside didn’t wait for the seatbelt sign to turn off before standing up. John slowly rose to his feet, trying not to agitate his still sore shoulder. Seeing that it would be a while until his turn came to exit the cramped plane, he sat back down and looked to see if he had anymore Coke left in his cup. As he finally exited the plane, nearly the last one, he felt a renewed wave of anxiety. His breathing became a bit labored and he felt his heart fall into the pit of his stomach. He readjusted the strap on his bag and picked up his pace. Exiting the offloading area and entering the waiting area, he saw a chaotic sight. Hundreds of people where there cheering and screaming as his platoon of less than 40 soldiers found family members. There were even a few news camera crews, filming the entire thing and trying to get interviews with the officers. Both soldiers and civilians were weeping in embraced joy. Dozens of imposing signs and banners made it hard to find people in the crowd. John searched for his wife and son in the crowd, but could find no familiar faces. Finally, after what seemed like ages with his heart sinking with every moment, John caught a flash of movement in the noise and chaos. He glanced to his left and saw his parents there carrying signs. But he could not see his wife and child. Pushing through the crowd, he was finally able to reach them. His dad gave him a firm handshake and his mother gave him a long embrace, of which he gave back—the first real emotional human contact he’s had in a year. She was crying, but King was not. “Where is Cheri and Christopher?” John asked, pulling away from his mom. “I don’t see them anywhere. Are they in the bathroom?”

“They couldn’t make it,” Mr. King replied. “Cheri was feeling pretty ill. Come on, let’s get your gear and go home.” He seemed to change the subject fairly quickly. John just nodded in disappointment feeling a heavy weight of disappointment fall over him. He wanted to get out of the airport quickly. ********************** “That’s our jeep over there.” Mr. King said, pointing through the dim parking garage to a mid 1990’s faded black Jeep Cherokee. A failing florescent light above the Jeep flickered, making the Jeep stand out from the rest of the vehicles in the garage. “I remember,” replied John. “How’s the old thing holding up?” He readjusted the heavy duffle bag weighing on his shoulder to distribute the weight better. Thankfully his dad had offered to carry the other large army duffle bag. Despite Mr. King’s thin frame and being into his mid 60s, the man was stronger than his appearance gave and did not seem to struggle too much with the heavy luggage. “Oh, it’s doing pretty good,” said Mr. King. “A few things here and there, but it gets the job done.” They arrived at the rear of the jeep and Mr. King set down the duffle bag with a minor groan and fished out the keys from his pocket. He leaned forward with one hand on the dust covered jeep and used the other to jiggle the lock on the rear hatch door. After several minutes he was able to unlock the door and open it. “You know dad,” John said, “most cars these days have remote keyless entry. It would be so much easier to unlock and lock without having to jimmy that thing for so long.”

“It still works.” Mr. King replied dryly, a bit irritated. He walked over to the driver’s side and unlocked the door manually, and then reached in and started to unlock the rest of the car doors from the inside. “Hey John, why don’t you throw your bag in back here and you can have the front seat.” Chimed in Mrs. King as she stood on the passenger side waiting for Mr. King to unlock the doors. “I can sit in the back.” “Are you sure mom?” Asked John. “I’ll be OK in the back.” John heaved his heavy duffle into the back and shut the hatch. “Yes, I’m sure,” Mrs. King opened the rear passenger door and began to enter the cramped rear seat. “You’ve been on that plane for so long. Stretch your legs out a bit.” Shrugging, John opened the passenger door and entered the front seat. Shutting the door, he instinctively locked it and put on his seatbelt. He then reached forward and slid his seat up a few inches despite his mother’s protests. He leaned his head back and let out a deep sigh as his mom buckled herself up in the back seat. “So are you glad to be back?” Asked Mr. King, looking over his shoulder as he backed the jeep out of the parking space. “Hmm? Oh, yeah. It sure is a lot cooler and wetter here than in Afghanistan, that’s for sure.” John chuckled. “I think the first place I want to go is Taco Bell. It’s been ages since I had some really good, crappy American fast food.” “Well,” John’s mom replied, “we have to go home first because we have a party set up for you. Christopher is there waiting for you and he’s really anxious to see his daddy.”

“I can’t wait to see him either,” John replied. “He’s probably grown up so much in the year that I’ve been gone. I really regret not being able to see him during his first year in school. It’s too bad Cheri is not feeling well; I’d have liked to see them at the airport.” “Yeah,” Mr. King said, “but with her not feeling good and all the people and everything—she didn’t want to upset Christopher. She thought that maybe it would be too much for him.” “And the party at home isn’t?” Asked John. “Well, that’s different.” Retorted Mr. King, his tone of voice suggesting that the conversation on that topic was over. “So, do you have any great stories?” Asked Mrs. King. “No, nothing spectacular. It was hot. That’s pretty much it.” Answered John. “Well,” said Mr. King, “you boys have been doing a hell of a job over there. We’re all proud of you guys for fighting these coward Arab bastards. Show ‘em just how tough we Americans can be. They come over here and take a cheap shot? They should be lucky our president doesn’t have the balls to just nuke them into oblivion. You guys over there are making a worthwhile sacrifice.” “Yeah.” John said in a very tired voice. He immediately though of Sgt Derociac laying there dying. Worthwhile sacrifice? Not sure about that, he thought to himself. The rain from outside seemed to be getting heavier, and that combined with the glaring lights of oncoming traffic made it very difficult to see the lines on the wet road. Wanting to change the subject, John asked, “Dad, can you see fine? The rain and lights make it really hard.”

“I can see fine,” Mr. King replied. “I’m just following the guy in front of me. We’ll be fine. So, are you re-enlisting?” “What?” “Are you re-upping?” Mr. King said again, glancing over at John through his thick glasses. “For Iraq. We’re finally going to finish what Bush’s daddy didn’t have the guts to do in the first place.” “I’ve heard about it,” Replied John wearily. The seat in the Jeep seemed awfully a lot like the tiny cramped airplane seat. He readjusted himself but couldn’t quite get comfortable. “But I don’t know. Some of the guys are--reenlisting that is. It just seems to me that we need to get Osama first.” “Saddam is worse than a terrorist,” shot back Mrs. King. “He has killed hundreds of thousands of his own people, used WMDs, and will use them again to destroy Israel. Besides, all of the Al Qaeda terrorists are being trained in Iraq.” John let out another sigh. “I don’t know, maybe. I’m pretty tired from the flight. I’m going to try to get a little rest. Let me know when we get home.” John leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes, tuning out any further response from his parents. The pain in his shoulder from leaning against the door was nothing compared to the pain of continuing the line of conversation his parents were trying to extract from him. ****************************** The jeep pulled up to the large farmhouse. Darkened faded brown shingles gave off a nondescript aura despite the relatively large size of the house and the giant welcome home sign plastered above the door. About a dozen dirt covered cars were parked in the

cut hayfield next to the house, allowing a clear path for the jeep to drive up to the main door. He could make out a lot of excited faces peering through the windows as his dad parked the jeep. Putting on a smile, he stepped out of the jeep and reached to grab his bag. His dad brushed him away and told him to just get in the house; luggage could wait. Before he got to the door, it opened wide and dozens of people started hollering at him and giving him hugs as he entered. Despite being surrounded by many people giving him hugs and handshakes, he couldn’t miss the tight constriction around his legs. Looking down, he saw the sandy blonde hair of Christopher. The boy was hugging him so tightly as if John was a lost treasure never to be lost again. “I love you daddy, and I miss you so much!” Christopher said, looking up at his taller father. Despite being gone for a year, there was no way he could ever not recognize his son. Bright blue eyes full of life, an innocent smile, and the ever-disheveled hair cut were all as he remembered. “I love you too Chris.” John leaned down to give an equally tight hug. “I love you so much and missed you more than you know.” The embrace was short lived, however, as more people began to jostle for John’s attention. People, some who he had seen only once in maybe ten years, grilled him with questions about everything from his combat to the weather to politics. John answered every question briefly and with a purposeful vagueness. It wasn’t long before the crowd started separating into smaller groups to have their own conversations.

“Where’s Cheri at?” Asked John to his mom when he finally got a breather. “I haven’t seen her yet?” “She’s upstairs, not feeling well.” His mom motioned over to the old 1970s brown carpeted stairs. “Well, I’m anxious to go see her.” John started moving towards the stairs, taking them one at a time as they spiraled up to the second floor of the house. The bedroom was at the end of the narrow hallway. John walked quietly, wanting to surprise his wife. He got to the door and slowly opened it, peering inside. Wrapped up in a huge comforter in with a wheat field pattern was his wife. He couldn’t see her face, but could see her long chestnut hair flowing from underneath the comforter, and could see the up and down movement of her rhythmic breathing. He crept up to her, and gently shook her shoulder. “Hey honey,” he whispered. “It’s me.” John leaned down towards his wife. She turned towards him and although appeared very ill, she still had a radiant beauty about her. Dark brown eyes opened to look at him and a small smile creased her lips. “Hi.” She replied with a sick weariness. ‘Sorry I’m so sick. I’m glad you’re home.” John started to lean down towards her but she stopped him. “Wait. No, I’m to sick. I don’t want you to catch it.” John stood up in a bit of confusion. He hadn’t seen his wife in a year and she doesn’t want him to hug or kiss her because she’s worried he’ll get sick? After a year of separation? “Why don’t you go downstairs and enjoy the party,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, if I’m feeling better.”

“Um…”, John stammered. “Ok, I suppose.” He turned and left dejectedly, a bit confused about this completely unexpected rejection. Half way down the stairs, he decided that he really did not want to go back to the party. The front door was right next to the bottom of the stairs, so he decided to sneak out. Once outside in the fresh night air—it was always nice after it rained—he decided to make his way down to the barn. Sneaking around the house, he moved stealthily between the bushes, trees, and garden so no one would see him or interrupt him. He walked down the weedy path toward the barn a hundred or so yards away. The large old structure stood out looming in the evening sky, overlooking the pasture. John took in a large deep breath as he strolled up to the fence near the barn. He looked at over the field, noticing how quiet everything was. Even the noise from the house did not seem to reach down this far. John leaned up against the fence and closed his eyes. Despite his wound, the Army declared that he was eligible for re-enlistment. He would get a $25,000 bonus if he did, which would help a lot. Besides, he didn’t have a job here waiting for him. What would he do if he stayed? I know the Army, John thought to himself. That’s what I do. I know what is expected of me. I have a chance to redeem myself, to redeem Sgt. Derociac. How can I not re-up? Cook and Ream are still over there. I can’t let those guys down. John took a deep breath and shook his head slightly. But damn! I don’t want to go back. I don’t know if I can handle it. God I feel like such a failure! I know I can’t let my buddies down, but I don’t know if I can see another person die. Jesus, I’m barely holding it together now.

John reached into his pocket and looked at the bottle of Vicodin. But what do I have here? My wife doesn’t seem to be all that interested in me anymore. My parents have changed. Or have I? At least in the Army I know what to expect. I know where I stand. John let out an exasperated sign and dropped his head down between his crossed arms on the fence. Everything seemed so confused. He was torn between what he felt he should do, and what he wanted to do. But in doing one, he felt like a traitor to the other. God, please help me, he pleaded, looking up at the now cloudless sky, trying to find a star to hear his pleas. “Daddy?” John turned around and saw his son emerging from the darkness of the barn. “Are you OK?” John turned his body towards his son and tilted his head. He made a small cynical smile to himself, and held his right hand out to his son. Chris ran over to his dad and gave him a hug. “I think so Chris.” John whispered. “I hope so.” “Well,” Chris looked up with teary eyes. “I will always love you if you leave again, even it’s somewhere far, like China or something.” Chris buried his head again into John’s stomach. A genuine smile crossed John’s face. “I know son. I know. And thank you for helping me. Don’t worry. I won’t leave. I promise.” A sudden sense of peace fell over John that he hadn’t felt since before the war.