And Yesterday Is Gone

by Dolores Durando

  “Sure, Ma, the next time you’re here, Babe will have blue eyes. They change as they grow older, you know.”

  “How would I know? No one in our family ever had black hair and brown eyes. Sis and Tim’s three-year-old girl has curly blonde hair and big blue eyes. Cutest baby that ever walked,” Ma declared.

  To cover Ma’s misspoken words, Charles and I exchanged glances and changed the subject, nearly outshouting each other about the price of oil. I was grateful that Rica was in the kitchen.

  Charles added that Tim had received another promotion, and that there was talk among the military of an American interaction to discourage Iraqi violation of Kuwait territory.

  The night before they left, we were invited to dinner at the big house in Pacific Heights. And what a dinner it was, as usual, and in such impressive surroundings.

  Charles and Dr. Teddy were deeply engrossed in the subject of cars. Ma and Sara bragged about their sons, and Rica attempted to interrupt with Billy’s latest achievements. Juan and I hid out in his studio.

  I wished that Sis and Tim could have been with us to make the evening even more perfect.

  But there was a serpent in the Garden of Eden.

  I was disenchanted with the same old routine of everyday life, and increasingly bored, even with the job that I loved.

  My wife, my kids and my job. As much as I truly loved them, this was my entire world from day to day.

  Now, I did have my Saturday-night poker game with the fellows at the paper, and Rica had her clubs and activities with the girls, plus a new Chrysler station wagon, in which she was always picking up or dropping off someone. She acted like a girl herself and I loved her—that never changed.

  So why wasn’t I content? Sometimes I felt alone, what with Rica and the girls off to their various events, and Billy and Juan almost inseparable. Just reading the Sunday funnies was all the excitement I thought I needed.

  I got fat and lazy.

  “There’s got to be something more,” I told Rica.

  She laughed at me. “You’re young for male menopause. What more is there? You have beautiful children, a lovely home, a good job, a devoted wife and friends who love you. There isn’t any more—you’ve got it all.”

  “I know, but for some reason it isn’t enough.” Thoughts of an exciting faraway adventure blocked everything else out.

  • • •

  Then came breaking news that grew like Jack-in-the-Beanstalk of an invasion by Iraq into Kuwait, a land rich in oil that Saddam Hussein maintained still belonged to Iraq. This claim was violently disputed by Kuwait and supported by the United Nations.

  An ultimatum to withdraw Iraqi troops from Kuwait was ignored, and so the Persian Gulf War exploded with over one hundred thousand sorties flown, eighty-eight thousand and five hundred tons of bombs destroying both military and civilian structures on the first day.

  At that, my mind instantly snapped back to my last conversation with Alfie, and how it had fueled the flames of my imagination.

  As I sat by my warm fireside dreaming, I did not know how fine the line is between a dream and a nightmare.

  Everything else paled beside the news of the war. Every newspaper, every television program centered on reports of the Gulf War.

  Inwardly, I both raged and wept—and here I was home “walking the dog.”

  I called Alfie, only to be told that Dr. Myers had joined the military.

  Shortly after, I received a short note from Alfie telling me that “Now is the time” and giving me his location.

  My heart leaped—this was my chance to be involved in something really big. I imagined my magic pen could win me the Pulitzer Prize if only I could get to the real war. I would probably get enough material to write a book—oh, and the pictures taken on the spot would go down in history books. I’d never have another opportunity like this—I couldn’t miss it. I was going to go come hell or high water and nobody was going to stop me.

  I knew the real battle would start at home and that was a feeble understatement.

  When I approached J.W. with the hope that he was going to be supportive, that hope died a quick death.

  “You’re like a damn kid. You think war is all glamour and excitement like it is in the movies. I can tell you it is not. I was in the Second World War, and that hell I don’t dare to think about. Blood, guts, brains—not from the assholes that plan it, of course, but the little guys in the field.” He waved away any interruptions.

  “What’s this noble war all about? The poor people in Kuwait? Hell, no,” he spewed, stubbing out his cigarette hard enough to put it through the desk. “We want the oil to feed our fancy cars. Those people have been fighting over there before the ground was dry in Noah’s day and they will be fighting as long as this world exists. We’ll get our men back in pieces, dead, crippled—mentally as well as physically. And the bombing will probably kill thousands of their innocent civilians, too.”

  His disillusioned old eyes were almost hidden under leathery wrinkles; his growly voice was only getting deeper with age.

  “Why do you want to go to some hellhole across the world to get your ass shot off? Find some excitement closer to home. You won’t get my blessing, and if you go, don’t come back here—if you ever come back at all.”

  I called Juan, hoping that he would understand.

  “Got a minute?”

  We met at a little coffee shop near the newspaper office. I figured I’d just been fired so I laid it all out for my friend.

  When I first started to tell him, he laughed. Then, judging from the look on my face, he realized that I was dead serious.

  “Steve, you can’t mean that. What about Rica and the kids? You’ve got a good thing going here—why go halfway across the world to get involved in a war that means nothing to us? Please reconsider. Don’t go, please don’t.”

  That night after dinner and the kids were asleep, I carefully approached Rica with my intentions.

  “What the hell are you thinking of? Yourself? Sure isn’t your family. Why? Why are you doing this?”

  How could I explain?

  “I’m going to call Ma,” Rica stated firmly.

  Before I could intercede, she was on the phone with Ma, raging.

  “Put him on now,” Ma told Rica.

  “Steve, you cannot do this to your family—it’s insane. Promise me you’ll forget this foolishness. You’re working too hard to think clearly. Bring Rica and the kids and come down to the ranch for some rest for a while.”

  “Talk to you later, Ma,” I said as I hung up the phone.

  Two days later, J.W. called. “Steve, if you’re fool enough to do this, you’ll need a lot of paperwork to prove you are an accredited journalist for this paper. My nephew is a pilot on one of those transport cargo planes. He could probably help you with transportation. Here is his name and phone number. I told him you’d call. Take care, Steve… and come home.”

  When I picked up my papers from him, there were tears enough for two.

  Doubts rose up in the night to torment me. I knew the war would be dangerous, but that knowledge blurred with my determination.

  What of Rica and my kids? What if anything should happen to me? I agonized at the thought that some other man would become a father to my children, would comfort my wife, his shoes under my bed. After all, Rica was a beautiful woman. But I comforted myself with the knowledge that nothing, of course, would happen to me.

  We seldom quarreled, but I knew this final round was coming very soon.

  In the light of day, I rationalized. Rica had everything she wanted. She had wanted a fine house, she got it. Children I couldn’t give her, but I gave her all my support. Now she had the girls she wanted. They were everything to me, too, but I had wanted her to be happy. I had wanted her to have her dream. And she had it: a lovely home, children, a husband who denied her nothing, who loved her.

  Now what of my dream?

  I appreciated what our life was. My mother, Sis—how I loved th
em. Our beloved friends in Pacific Heights, the man I loved as a brother, even my fire-snorting old boss who sometimes thought I hung the moon…sometimes.

  But there was a piece missing in this jigsaw puzzle of my life. There was something else. Yes, there was—there had to be.

  I wanted one last fling in my life. Then I would come home and once again the last piece would fit and we would all live happily ever after.

  Over the following days, I got my gear ready: lots of film, notebooks—everything I could think of that I might need. Packed in a duffle bag, I left it in the garage.

  The girls cried and I made extravagant promises. Billy thought of it as an exciting adventure and wished that he could go. My only supporter.

  Rica alternated between tears and recriminations, finally to language I’d heard only in the newsroom.

  “Rica, darling…”

  “Don’t darling me.”

  “I promise I’ll be gone only a month and I won’t leave the base.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Rica…”

  Two days later I got a message from John Owens, J.W.’s nephew. “I’m leaving on Tuesday at five a.m. Call me if you’re coming with me and I’ll give you the details.”

  Coward that I was, late Monday night, I sneaked to the kitchen to call a cab. Waiting, I tiptoed to the girls’ room and pulled their blankets up, kissed Sarita, smoothed the hair from Babe’s face and whispered, “My girls, I love you the most and the best.”

  My girls were sixteen, almost young women now. Sarita, outgoing, with a vivacious laugh and dancing feet, was a carbon copy of her mother. My “Babe” had Juan’s unmistakable stamp upon her and yet was still “Daddy’s Babe.” My beautiful girls.

  Billy had spent the night in Pacific Heights.

  As I left, I looked back at this huge part of my life that I was putting on hold. I tucked the letter I had written under the coffeepot where Rica couldn’t miss it, then added a P.S.: “I promise to come home.”

  After paying the driver, I walked toward the biggest plane I’d ever seen. John intercepted me as I was halfway across the runway. Taking my duffle bag, he said, “Glad you’re early. I was hoping to get an earlier start. Go over there to the flight crew,” he directed and motioned to a group of men near a large pile of boxes. “Give them a hand. Then carry a box into the plane and stay in the crapper until we’re off the ground.”

  When I joined the men, one welcomed me with “You got here just in time—we’re almost done.”

  Laughing, I carried a box, followed a man who carried the same and watched as he delivered it to the fellow waiting, standing in the doorway of the plane’s belly. I brought two more boxes, and then went up the steps with another in my arms. Depositing that, I retreated to the crapper.

  I sat down on the stool and promptly fell asleep. I hadn’t had much rest at home since I had been holding down our big chair due to the hostile reaction to my announcement.

  I was awakened by a thunderous knock on the door.

  “Hey, are you alive?” came the copilot’s irritated voice.

  I could tell the copilot was not impressed by my presence, but he eventually warmed and we talked with the pilot off and on for about eighteen hours as the flight crew played cards and slept.

  I was thrilled beyond words. My mental notebook was bursting.

  “We’ll set down shortly. Where are you off to?”

  “The field hospital near the First Battalion of the First Calvary Division.”

  “We can probably get you a lift. Some of this stuff is for them.”

  My luck was running strong, I thought. See? I was meant to do this; everything is going perfectly.

  When that big cargo plane rolled to a stop, all I could see were camouflaged men and khaki-colored sand—and lots of both, and big trucks and every kind of equipment. I was about to get into a waiting loaded truck when an officer approached me.

  “Hey you. Who are you and where do you think you’re going? What are you doing here? This ain’t fucking Disneyland—no tourists allowed here.”

  I stood up tall, my heart pounding. Oh no, not now.

  Looking him dead in the eye, I said, “I am an American citizen and I am an accredited journalist for the Bay City Chronicle in San Francisco. I have a right to let my readers know what is going on in this country, and I have a right to be here. I’ve been cleared by top authority.”

  J.W. would have been pleased by that promotion.

  The driver of the truck was revving his motor.

  I added, “I know my material will be subject to military approval and I respect that. If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with Major Alfred Myers.”

  I stepped past him and climbed into the truck. He gave me a baleful stare and waved us off.

  My luck was holding, I assured myself.

  From the youthful truck driver, a young kid who didn’t look much older than Billy, I learned enough about the war to fill a book. He dropped me off right in front of the field hospital.

  I walked inside and asked for Dr. Alfred Myers and waited a moment. Then a voice boomed, “Cowboy, where’s your horse?” Standing as big as a mountain, Alfie’s arms enveloped me.

  My dream was coming true.

  “You got here just in time. This war is about over. The Iraqis are about done, deserting back into the desert. The fires are burning at seven hundred oil wells, and four hundred million gallons of crude oil have been dumped into the gulf to keep the Marines out. Of course, there’s still some last-minute, last-ditch fighting.” He paused. “But they are at a big disadvantage with old, very poor equipment, poor training and not much motivation. And our men, excited about our new armored tanks and Humvees, thermal site lasers, and rangefinders, are eager to use them. Rumor has it that we’re pushing the Iraqis down to the last tank.”

  He put his arm over my shoulder. “You should get some incredible pictures of the oil wells, especially at night.”

  I felt my state-of-the-art camera dance with anticipation.

  “We haven’t had many casualties, thank God, but let me show you what a mine can do.”

  I followed him to the back of the tent. On a stretcher lay a body. Alfie pulled the blanket back. The body was that of a young man who had no legs, and some of his internal organs were exposed in the torn abdomen. His bloodless hands were crossed on his chest as if in prayer.

  I turned my head, my stomach rebelling, but I made a desperate effort to keep everything down. Alfie pulled the blanket up.

  “Are you gonna faint?”

  “Of course, I’m not gonna faint. Do I look like I’m gonna faint?”

  “Yes. Don’t go outside the perimeter.”

  “This is where we put the dead and the ‘expectants.’ Those are the ones we expect will die immediately. When we have to choose quickly between those we can save and those we can’t, it’s a horrible decision. The ones who are alive but need immediate, extensive surgery are airlifted to a hospital in Landstuhl, Germany, in a special cargo plane.”

  As we walked back, he said, “There is a huge armored convoy of tanks and Humvees going down the Iraq-Kuwait highway to clean up Kuwait. The Iraqis have mostly gone. Now that you shouldn’t miss. That will be the end. You should be able to get enough pics and material there that you’ll never have to work again. But you’ll have to figure a way to get into one of those tanks. Act cool and keep that camera out of sight; it won’t be easy.”

  “I will, if I have to buy it,” came my cocky response.

  “You can sleep in my tent. Did you bring a sleeping bag? The sand fleas will eat you alive.”

  I slept soundly that night despite the sound of far-off guns, and dreamed of ways to get into that front tank. I was here and I was safe and heaven could wait.

  A day later, there was a tremendous amount of activity—looked like an anthill that had been disturbed. I tried to sneak a few pictures without much luck. A big guy noticed me and said, “Get your ass in gear, soldier. This ain’
t no picnic.”

  Somehow Alfie had found me a camouflage uniform, but my longer hair betrayed me. I heard snickering as I walked around. “Pretty Boy” was the nicest thing they called me.

  Since it was an open secret, I knew the big push was going to start early in the morning when the 1st Marine Division, 1st Light Armored Infantry would head for Kuwait City. I couldn’t sleep—excitement was at fever pitch.

  Alfie embraced me and gave me his Kevlar vest. “Cover that camera and don’t take chances. When we get back home, we’ll have a party that will make the Fourth of July look like an ice-cream social. Take care.”

  I had never been so excited in my life—nothing mattered to me today but going to Kuwait in that tank.

  Loading started at daylight. I edged my way up to the big tank. Watching my chance, I climbed up to the turret and pushed in close behind another guy.

  “Hey, you stupid asshole. This ain’t your ride out.”

  I was shoved out so fast I thought maybe I had sprouted wings. But it was only a size-twelve boot. Shit.

  Taking another tactic, I walked boldly up past a guy waiting to climb up. He said, “That you, Mickey?”

  “Yeah,” I grunted and figured I had it made.

  “You ain’t Mick. Who the hell is this shit-for-brains? Don’t even know his own name.”

  Again I got a rough shove and sprawled in the sand. I started to panic. I was going with this damn convoy if I had to ride on the roof.

  The Humvees were loading their last men. Slipping among some guys who were bullshitting each other, I elbowed in and crowded between two soldiers, then put my head in my hands and held it down.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m sick to my stomach. Leave me alone or I’ll puke all over you.”

  “Oh, shit, just my luck to sit next to a puker.”

  The column was moving and picking up speed. I raised my head to look out the little slit from which the guns worked.

  “Hey, who the hell is this?”

  “Dan Smith. O’Brien gave me orders.”

  “That son of a bitch throws his surplus off on us like we’re not already sardines.”

  The men all talked at once—arguing, chatting about all the fun they were going to have in Kuwait, cursing the crowded quarters and O’Brien.