by Sex, Nikki
Of course, the Marines didn't know which was dangerous and which was just nasty looking, so they had to stop and check out every damned one.
"How much time before we end this sweep?"
Chief pulled out his laminated tactical map, looked at it, turned it over and looked at it again. "About an hour, I guess. We go up to the next village, then hang a left down the MSR."
That made Jack feel a little better. MSR stood for "main supply route" and to Jack that meant a wide paved road and a Hell of a lot less dust. He hated the dust.
It would be hot… again, as usual. Scorching hot. One-hundred and twenty degrees in the shade, hot. This place was the definition of 'Hell' in a few different ways. Unrelenting, immense summer heat was definitely one of them.
Huge clouds of talcum powder-like dust the patrol trucks kicked up, added to their misery. It was so fine that it got into the hoopty and all over everything.
Dust got up his nose, in his mouth, ears and throat. It tasted like a mixture of dirt, oil and goat shit. Jack felt as though he could never get fully clean while he was in this God forsaken place.
What I wouldn't give to be going deep on some gnarly waves, right now. At this point, I'd settle for a long shower.
Iraq might have sand, but Orange County had sand and surf. Besides, Iraqi’s sand was more like nasty-ass dust.
Chief Whitley put away his map. "Why don't you ever let me drive, sir?"
"'Cause I get bored, that's why. I gotta do something or I'll go nuts. Tell me, why are we following these guys around again?"
"You said you wanted to be where the action is," Chief said, as he waved his hand at the windshield. "That's the action."
"Funny." Jack shifted. "Looks like we're moving again. It must've been somebody's laundry."
The column moved up the trail in silence until they reached the village. It was small, just a collection of huts, really. Jack could tell it was probably a bunch of farmers by the palm orchards and goatherds.
They turned left at the main intersection.
"Keep your pacing, you're getting behind."
"I see it." Jack sped up a little.
In a convoy, you don't want to get too close to the vehicle in front of you. If you’re too close, a bomb could take both of you out. However, if you got too far behind the group, you'd be a sitting duck for an ambush.
The wheel jerked in Jack's hand as they made the transition from a dirt trail to the paved road of the MSR.
"Chief, I think—"
Jack's voice was lost in an ear-splitting roar just ahead. A large plume of earth and smoke erupted from the shoulder, right next to the passenger side of the HUMVEE in front of them. The vehicle was propelled to the other side of the road where it shuddered to a halt.
"Fucking Hell!” Yelled chief. "That was a big one!"
Chunks of asphalt and dirt that had been tossed into the sky, pattered down on top of their hoopty with metallic pinging noises.
Jack's ears were ringing. He felt as if his whole body was shaking, vibrating like a tuning fork.
The entire right side of the HUMVEE was caved in, kind of like a beer can that had been stepped. Black smoke billowed ominously, like a growing thundercloud from under the hood.
In a rush, Jack kicked open his door, and pulled the small fire extinguisher from its mount on the dashboard. With his other hand, he grabbed his medic bag and slung it over his shoulder.
"Don't forget your rifle," he called needlessly back to Chief.
Fire. I hate fire.
A tendril of fear ran through him. They both knew that more often than not, these roadside IEDs proceeded an ambush. First responders to the wrecked vehicle were almost always the targets of choice.
Together, without hesitation and well aware that they may get shot, Jack and Chief Whitley rushed toward the blasted hoopty.
Chapter 9.
To Jack's relief, the other HUMVEEs in the patrol had noticed the blast and stopped. He could see a number of Marines dismount and fan out on either side of the road, their rifles pointed outward, to make a defensive perimeter.
When Jack and Chief reached the wrecked vehicle, two Marines were already at the front, spraying under the hood with their fire extinguishers. Jack pulled open the driver's door, prepared for the worst.
Unexpectedly, the driver tumbled out, falling like a rag doll. Hyper-alert due to the blast of adrenaline rushing through his veins, Jack managed to stop the soldier’s fall. He recognized the driver as Lance Corporal Baker, an all-around good kid. Jack tried to remember where he was from.
"You OK?" Jack asked.
The kid looked up at Jack, with blood streaming from his ears. "What?"
Jack grabbed him by his collar and pulled him in close, face to face. "Are you OK?" he yelled.
"I...I think so."
"Good. Sit down. Drink water," Jack yelled at him.
Jack gently lowered the man to the ground, handed him a bottle of water and crawled into the HUMVEE.
The passenger side was completely caved in, pinning the Marine in the seat between the crumpled door and the large center console. The Marine groaned—which was good. It meant that he was still alive.
Jack focused for a moment, trying to remember his name.
He couldn't.
"Easy there, fella. We'll get you out."
Jack crawled onto the crumpled center console to evaluate the man. He was bleeding from his mouth and nose—definitely not a good sign. He ran his hands along the soldier’s chest and instantly knew why.
The sharp, jagged edge of a rib protruded through the man's jacket. Red frothy blood, lined the wound. Pinkish bubbles rose and fell in time with the Marine’s breathing.
Fuck. He dropped a lung, was Jack's first thought. We've got to get him out of that seat, was his second.
"Chief!" Jack shouted over his shoulder. "Get a God-damned crowbar and get that God-damned door open—NOW!"
Jack turned back to the Marine. "Easy there, everything's going to be alright."
The Marine didn't say anything; he just looked back at Jack with wild, panicked eyes. After what seemed like forever, but was really less than a minute, Jack looked across the wounded Marine to the action outside.
Chief Whitley, along with several other grunts, were all pushing and pulling at the passenger side door. There was a long screech of twisting metal, followed by a hollow pop, and the offensive barrier fell free.
"Watch him!" shouted Jack. "Don't let him fall. Lift him out gently."
He knew they had to transfer the man carefully. Broken ends of bones could be very sharp. Movement could cause them to saw into or through organs and arteries, like a butcher's knife.
Gingerly, Chief and the other Marines lifted the injured man from his seat, then out of the twisted wreckage. Someone had spread a tarp down on the side of the road. They gently laid the wounded man on it.
Jack backed out of the HUMVEE and sprinted around the vehicle.
"Dustoff's coming?"
"Already called," answered Chief Whitley. "Helo's on the way. ETA five minutes."
Damn, they're efficient. Those pilots work fast. Jack grabbed his medic kit and knelt over the man. I've got to work fast, too.
Tearing open the man's jacket, Jack cut away his T-shirt, exposing the wound. It looked even worse, now that he could see it fully. A good inch of rib protruded from the young Marine's chest.
Jack pulled a sterile, plastic sheet from his kit and pressed it over the gash in his chest.
The surgeons back at base would fix him up. Jack just had to make sure the injured Marine would make it there alive. Bubbling, frothy, blood immediately stopped oozing out, from under the airtight dressing.
Now Jack had to move even faster.
Since air was no longer able to escape the injured lung, it would build up and up, until the pressure in the injured lung kept the man from pulling air into his good lung.
With a quick and deft movement, Jack pulled an IV needle from his kit and
pushed it into the top of the man's chest, above the now covered wound. The hissing sound made by escaping air confirmed he was on target—the building pressure was being relieved.
Jack sat back just as the sound of helicopter blades tore through the afternoon air.
He had the ridiculous impulse to raise his hands in the air and yell, “Done!” as if he’d tied a calf at a rodeo or something. He’d certainly gotten his work complete, and under time, too.
"The Dragon loses today," Jack said with a shit-faced grin, as he looked up at Chief.
"Fuck the dragon," Chief Whitley growled.
Usually as carefully groomed as one could be in this Hellhole, dust and grime covered Whitley’s dark complexion. Even his bald head wasn’t shining; he was so coated by soot. With his perfect white teeth bared, Chief was smiling.
It took them less than five minutes to wrap the Marine up in the tarp and carry him to the waiting chopper. They barely had time to put him in and back away before the MEDIVAC helicopter leaped skyward once again, with an almost triumphant roar.
Jack and Chief Whitley hurried back to their HUMVEE. The patrol resumed its trek up the road. The last thing Jack saw of the village, were marines tossing incendiary grenades into the badly damaged HUMVEE.
He knew the Marines didn't want to leave the enemy anything they could use, so what they couldn't take with them, they burned.
The rest of the patrol was uneventful, but everyone was understandably on edge. It was the heat. It was the pressure. It was the smell of blood, dust, gas and soot. It was the nearness and prospect of death.
When they finally rolled into home base, the first thing Jack did was to walk between two of the tents, take off his grimy uniform jacket and douse himself with bottle after bottle of water. He wanted to feel clean.
It felt like forever since he'd had that feeling.
Cool, clear water flowed over his head, washing the dirt and dust away from his face, out of his ears, and his mouth. The water that pooled at his feet was tinged red with the blood from the soldier in the blown up HUMVEE.
Jack just kept pouring the water over himself until it ran clear.
"Doc?"
Jack turned around to see Chief Whitley standing behind him. "What's up, chief?"
"I just got off the radio with the hospital. That Marine’s going to make it. Good job."
"Thanks, Chief. Good job to you, too."
"It feels good to win one, don't it?"
"It sure as Hell does."
Chief Whitley started to turn away, but paused and pulled something out of his back pocket. "I almost forgot, mail came in today. You got this letter."
He handed it over.
Jack took it and held it up to the light. At first, he didn't recognize the return address, but then, with some surprise, he realized where it must've come from.
Bob Wynn’s wife.
Chief Whitley left as Jack settled down on an empty jerry can and tore open the envelope.
He smelled the faint scent of a lady on the paper. It wasn't any overly flowery, feminine perfume, nothing as tacky as that. It was just the clean, wholesome smell of a woman.
Feeling a little sheepish, Jack pressed the letter to his face, shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He allowed the scent to transport him back, if only for a moment. Inhaling, he smelled the fresh air of home—of a normal life, of family, friends and familiar goodness.
Man, he missed those things.
The letter wasn’t typed. Her cursive script was handwritten in large letters, with small neatly spaced loops. In some inexplicable way, the writing was visibly feminine.
Dear Doctor Curren;
Thank you so much for your heartfelt letter.
Things have been really rough here all around. I'd honestly started to put everything behind me by the time your letter finally arrived. I'd convinced myself that sometimes it was best just to forget things that hurt, and move on with life. I tried to let the past be the past.
What you wrote to me in your letter got me thinking. You made me reconsider my philosophy. I now believe that it’s important to remember, even if it's painful.
Early in the morning, I often go down to the beach and watch the sunrise over the ocean. It's so quiet then. Even the waves don't make much noise. That’s my thinking time.
Once I read your letter, I immediately started to write back to you. Then I stopped until I'd had a chance to go over it in my mind. I went down to the beach and sat there just at the high tide mark and thought and thought. I concluded that it would be wrong to forget Bob—who he was and what he did.
You can't just let the past go and I guess no matter how painful it is, it’s wrong to try. It’s a part of you, of who you are. The past changes you. It colors how you see the present and the future—all at once.
Thank you so much for taking the time to reach out to me, and for what you did for Bob. I know you did everything possible.
Thank you too, for all you are doing for those boys who are still over there. I hope that you, all of you, come back home safely.
God bless,
Laura Wynn
Jack leaned back, strangely moved and comforted by her words.
He thought about the cold and foggy mornings that only LA could have in the middle of winter. How he'd get on his surfboard and paddle out as far as his arms could take him.
Then he’d just sit and listen to the silence.
The ocean was like his church. It thrilled him when he caught a wave. It calmed him when he was troubled. He loved the ocean as much as anyone loved their hometown, their first school or their favorite band.
Homesick, inspired and pleased with the memory, he stood up and went looking for a pen and some paper. When he finally sat down to write, he sifted through his emotions for a moment, trying to isolate exactly how her words made him feel.
Jack’s lips tugged up into a smile when he figured it out.
The woman had given him a rarely felt sense of peace.
Chapter 10.
Laura stumbled on the stairs.
She'd stopped at Miller's grocery store on the way home from work for a few essentials. Without a car, she'd had a trying time balancing her grocery bags and her shoes. Her boss insisted that she wear heels when she was working the bar. He thought it gave the male customers something to look at.
“You'll get better tips if you sex it up a little, darling,” he'd said. Despite the way he’d said it, it was an order, not a suggestion.
All Laura seemed to have more of at the end of the day, was sore feet. She began stashing a set of heels out behind the kegs. She'd walk to work in sneakers, then change once she got there.
When her shoes suddenly went missing, and nobody would fess up to taking them, she needed a change of plans.
Laura couldn't afford to shell out sixty bucks for another pair of pumps, so she carried her last remaining pair to and from Clancy's every shift. This wasn't much of a problem if that was all she had to carry, but she'd gotten the bright idea to save herself a trip and do a little shopping.
She'd managed to keep the bags from spilling but she smashed her knee against the wooden steps in the process.
Dammit.
Laura regained her balance and walked to her door where she was confronted with the task of juggling her keys, her shoes and her grocery bags.
She finally decided to drop her shoes, shift both bags to the crook of her left arm and try to unlock her door with the key in her right hand. That's when she heard a voice behind her.
"Need some help?"
Her mind and body froze instantaneously. A thousand years later, Laura carefully turned to face her ex.
"No, I don't need your help."
"Looks to me like you do," Jonah Lacks said, as he reached for the groceries.
"No I don't." Laura took a step back. She felt the doorknob press into her hip. "I told you, I didn't want to see you again. We’re over."
As far as ex-boyfriends went, Jonah was the worst. Just
like her mother, Jonah started out kind and caring, but changed as time went on. He had a temper and an unhealthy love of alcohol that made her uneasy.
Laura had promised herself to leave him time and time again, but she'd always stupidly come back.
Why that was, she didn't even understand herself.
When he’d trashed her car while drunk, so her insurance wouldn’t cover the cost, she was furious, but she still didn’t leave. It wasn't until he started taking pills—and much worse, she suspected—when she finally found the strength and resolve to walk out and never look back.
A few months later, she'd met Bob and decided that there might actually be a nice guy out there for her after all.
Now Bob was gone, and it looked as if nice guys had an expiration date, where assholes kept turning up, over and over again. Just why was that? If only it could be the other way around.
"We’re over?" Jonah snorted derisively. "You said it back then, but now I hear you're single again. I figured we might get together or something—you know—for old time's sake or somethin’."
"Single again?" Laura said through clenched teeth. "Single again? My husband was killed. That makes me a widow. You make it sound like I just broke up with somebody."
Jonah shrugged and reached out to touch her ear lobe.
Laura flinched and recoiled.
"What's the difference? I'm lonely—you're lonely. Two lonely people like me and you." Jonah wobbled as he sang the last sentence to the tune of a once popular song. He might've thought it was charming, but it reminded her of the times he'd get messed up on something or another and start acting out.
Laura looked into his eyes and saw that his pupils were tiny, barely there pinpricks in the center of his blue irises.
Pinning. That's what 'pill-heads' called it when their eyes looked that way. Laura knew from sad experience that it meant that Jonah was on a butt load of OxyContin. It was something about how the narcotic messed with a person's system. Their eyes got all weird and their pupils shrunk to almost nothing.
She always thought it made him look possessed, like someone in a cheesy horror flick.
