The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  Brighton turned toward him again. “Southwest, actually. Texas. Go Cowboys.”

  “Oh, yeah. Texas is cool!”

  “Ever been there?” Brighton asked.

  “Nope. But it’s still cool.”

  Brighton smiled, but didn’t know how to respond. “Ahh . . . yes, it is,” he offered weakly.

  “How long you been in Germany?” the missionary asked.

  “Couple of months. And you?”

  “Almost two years.”

  “You like it?”

  “Absolutely. Love it. Best two years of my life.”

  Brighton studied him a moment, then glanced down at the missionary’s buddy, who had remained in his seat. He stared up with a puppy-like smile, overly anxious to please. The two looked like the Bobbsey twins: same goofy haircuts, faded white shirts, almost identical red ties, brown shoes, and polyester pants. “So are you guys really preachers?” Brighton couldn’t help but ask.

  “Not really. Like I said, we’re missionaries.”

  “You go around preaching the word?”

  “Well, yes. But not like you think. We go around talking to people . . .”

  “How come you’re not in Africa or India somewhere? Most of the Germans I know are already Christians.”

  “That’s a great question, Captain Brighton, but it would take us a while to explain.”

  Brighton saw the trap. “That’s okay, guys,” he answered. “I wish you luck, though.” He again turned away from the elders and back to his friend. “Aren’t you and Crusty flying up to the range tonight?” he started to ask.

  “Captain Brighton, are you married?” the missionary interrupted from behind him once more.

  Brighton turned toward him. “Got married just a few weeks ago,” he answered with obvious pride.

  “Cool! Congratulations. Now do you want to know how you can live with your wife forever, even after you die?”

  Brighton hesitated. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the way it is now, when you die, BAM! it’s over. That’s it. Think of your wedding vows. Till death do you part. But there’s a better deal out there, if you want to know what it is.”

  The young Captain Brighton looked at the missionary with his mouth slightly open. He paused, thinking, and was about to dismiss him again when he felt such an overwhelming feeling, it was almost a voice. “Listen! This will be your only chance!” the voice seemed to whisper in his mind.

  He was so taken aback he didn’t know what to say. He stared at the missionary a long moment, and then cocked his head. “What are you talking about?” he wondered.

  The missionary started talking, and Brighton ended up sitting down.

  Four months later, after many long nights of study and prayer, after shocking his family with a phone call back to the States and being cursed by his father for leaving the faith (a faith that his father shared with his mouth but not his heart or his soul, and certainly not his wallet), Neil and his young wife Sara were baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ.

  And since that spring day in Germany, their lives had never been the same.

  * * *

  General Brighton stared at the old brick building, hearing the noisy crowd and the music pounding through the small windows and old wooden door.

  It all seemed so long ago. A different life. A different world. So much had changed since that rainy day long before.

  He took a step forward and opened the door.

  Entering Miss Lela’s, Brighton summed up the crowd. The sergeant was right—it was a rough-looking group—and he was surprised not to be able to pick out any other Americans there. He listened to the voices, but heard no English being spoken as he made his way through the crowd and sat down at a tiny round table near the back of the café. He felt suddenly uncomfortable in his uniform, his dark pants and blue shirt with pilot wings on his chest. The café was smoky and warm, just like it had been in the past, but the music wasn’t familiar. Instead of the blues, a loud and screaming band from the Netherlands cried from the back wall. What they lacked in talent they more than made up in volume, and Brighton almost wanted to cover his ears.

  He ordered three house specials—two to eat in and one to take back to the crew chief—then sat back and waited for Sam.

  Five minutes later, his adopted son walked through the door.

  * * *

  Samuel had put on weight, twenty pounds, all of it muscle in his shoulders and arms. His hair had grown thick and sun-bleached, and it hung in long bangs in his eyes and over his ears. And he was tan, almost dark, from the vicious Afghanistan sun. Brighton noted his goatee, which was so tightly trimmed it was barely a shadow of stubble. Dressed in dark jeans, a tan T-shirt, and thick leather hiking boots, he looked more like a European than an American standing there. And he certainly didn’t look army. Brighton was a little surprised. He knew the Deltas often worked undercover, but as a traditional soldier he felt a little unsettled. He expected a GI Joe in a tight haircut and USA T-shirt. What he saw was a Hell’s Angel who had just slipped off his Harley.

  So these were the new warriors. Well, that was okay with him.

  He stared a moment, proudly, then stood and waved to his son.

  Sam picked him out and moved through the crowd toward his table. Brighton stood to embrace him, and they slapped each other on the back half a dozen times before they sat down. “Sam, it’s good to see you!” Brighton said in delight.

  “No kidding! This is great. How are you, Dad?”

  “A little nervous, actually.”

  “Why’s that?” Sam cocked his head.

  “I was only scheduled for a forty-minute refueling stop at Ramstein,” Brighton answered. “I didn’t think I’d have time to get together with you, but your mother was so determined that I see you, I’m thinking she snuck onto base and sabotaged my aircraft before I took off. Now I’m wondering what else she might have done. Is my airplane safe anymore?”

  Both of them laughed. “You know there’s another possible explanation,” Sam offered quickly as he leaned back in his chair. “She might have been praying. That’s a more likely cause. I’ve never known anyone who has a more direct line to God. If she wanted you to break down at Ramstein, well, sorry, Dad, but you were condemned to have trouble here the moment she bowed her head.”

  “Yeah,” Brighton laughed. “You got something there.”

  The two men stared at each other, one a proud father, the other a hesitant son. “You look good,” Brighton offered, “but I’ve got to tell you, your appearance isn’t what I have come to expect from a soldier.”

  Sam pushed his hair back. “Dad, you don’t have to have short hair to kill people. Welcome to the Deltas. This is how it is now.”

  Brighton pointed to the long hair and rough clothes. “They wouldn’t let our air force boys get away with that,” he answered.

  “Your boys jet around like Space Rangers. They don’t play down in the mud with the men.”

  “I guess not,” Brighton smiled.

  “And remember, Dad, we have to work with the locals. It helps us to blend in, which is a good thing.”

  Brighton nodded. He knew that. “Things in Afghanistan okay?” he asked.

  “Doing good, doing good.”

  His father leaned toward him intently. “Really?” he asked.

  “Well, Dad, I’m not really sure what you want me to say. It’s a hole. Hot. Dusty. Too many idiots who hate the United States. Too many donkeys and not enough rain. The whole country smells like an outhouse on a hot summer day. Chiggers and sand fleas. What more do you want to know?”

  Brighton shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Sorry! Are you kidding? I wouldn’t have it any other way! I can’t wait to get back there. We’re really smacking heads. It’s a miserable and lousy mission, and I love every second I’m there. We’re killing more of our enemy than any other unit in the world. We’re destroying a lot of those hoods who are bent on destroying the United States. T
hat’s what I’m fighting. So I’m not complaining. I’m just doing my job.”

  Brighton cracked a thin smile; there was a little bravado, he knew, in Sam’s words. “You should have listened to me. You could have gone to the academy and learned to fly jets,” he said.

  “And miss getting shot at? Why would I ever do that?”

  Brighton shrugged his shoulders. “What was I thinking?” he answered sarcastically.

  “And remember, Dad,” Sam continued, his emotion on the rise, “these guys don’t just want to destroy us in some vague or ambiguous way. They want to kill us. To hurt us. To cause us any kind of pain. Give them a dull knife, and they’d happily cut off your head, all the time laughing while they hacked away. Give them a nuke and they’d take out D.C. in a heartbeat, smiling and laughing while counting a million people dead. And if anyone doesn’t believe that then I think they’re a fool. If they’d seen what I’ve seen, then they wouldn’t have any doubt.”

  Brighton watched his son closely. “Hey, Sammy, you’re preaching to the choir here.”

  Sam only nodded. Even in the darkness, his blue eyes burned bright. Brighton lifted his water and tilted it toward him. “I’m proud of you, Sam.”

  Sam lifted his Perrier. “Thank you, General,” he said.

  * * *

  The five Germans watched them intently while sipping their ale. They were all in their thirties and had missed most of the U.S. glory days. More, they considered Miss Lela’s a local joint, off limits to the riffraff from the States, and they thought that had been made abundantly clear by the old BUSH IS HITLER poster hanging near the front door. And if that didn’t do it, the upside-down British flag over the bar seemed to make their feelings clear.

  What was it about these guys? Were they entirely stupid? Or just trying to get under their skin?

  Besides being angry at the world, the five men were also unemployed and drunk. And as they watched the tall U.S. officer and the local kid (some kind of traitor—probably selling secrets about the antiwar movement), they whispered and cursed at the strangers. Hissing among themselves, they quickly decided they hated Americans as much as they hated anything—and over the years they had come to hate a lot: their government, their ex-bosses, their lousy flats, and their wives.

  “Look at him!” the largest German sneered. “Big shot American cowboy, just like Bush used to be. On his way to kill Iraqis. That’s all they do is kill!”

  His buddies shook their heads. The old boy was right. Stinking Americans. All cocky and proud.

  “You remember Wolf?” one of them asked. The other men stared. “You know, Wolfgang Struttger, runs the printing service downtown. He married an American, some woman who got a divorce from her soldier when she got over here. Then she dumped ol’ Wolf and took off with most of his cash. Cleaned him out completely, then made off with his son. He’s never seen the kid, not even once since she left. She’s back in the United States now, but he doesn’t know where.”

  The other buddies swore. “Filthy, arrogant witch!”

  They stared at each other and sipped miserably at their beer.

  “He shouldn’t be here,” the largest man finally sneered to his friends. “This is our place. Our country. None of them should be here. They bring only death and destruction. They only care about war! They only fight when there’s oil they want to get their hands on. They only fight when it suits them. And have you ever noticed, comrades, they always fight against us. Look at all the wars of the past hundred years. Did the United States ever help us? No! Never once. They claim they’re our ally, but isn’t it funny how we always find ourselves looking down the barrel of their guns?”

  His buddies all mumbled, boiling even hotter with rage.

  “Jew-loving Amris!” the leader hissed. “Arab-hating scum. Closed-minded bigots and self-righteous crusaders is all they are. How many nations have they exploited and crushed through the years?”

  The other men mumbled, content to hate from afar. But the big one, the fat one—he had had too many beers. “I’m going to get him!” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “I hate these stinking Americans, and it’s time I let them know.”

  * * *

  General Brighton and Sam were working hungrily through a heaping plate of sausage and sauerkraut when Brighton saw the men approach out of the corner of his eye. Four of them followed their leader, who was a large man, tall as he, but at least fifty pounds heavier. He had a dark beard and short hair, and he wore common work clothes. They all looked to be in their thirties, and for a second Brighton thought they were coming to talk to him about flying—back in the old days, it wasn’t uncommon for the locals to want to talk about the air force or what it was like to live in the United States—but then he saw the angry looks on their faces and realized these men were not in a talking mood. These men wanted trouble. And they were coming for him.

  “Heads up,” he whispered to Sam as the five men approached.

  Sam had already seen them, and he nodded imperceptibly. “I’ve been watching them,” he answered.

  Brighton put his glass down.

  “This isn’t going to look good,” Sam whispered. “A general and his son cracking a bunch of local guys’ heads.”

  Brighton shrugged his shoulders. “We’re the ones who might take the cracking. We’re outnumbered pretty bad.”

  “No prob, Dad,” Sammy answered as he slowly pushed back his chair. “Just remember, strike to do damage. You’ve got to get them out of the fight. If the only thing you do is hurt them, then all you’ve done is tick them off.”

  Brighton glanced around quickly, wishing he had brought his bodyguard, not because he was scared, but it would have made it much easier to get out of the café without trouble. Though he had popped a head or two in his early days, and had been a pretty good boxer in college, he still swallowed tensely. General officers weren’t supposed to get into fistfights with the locals, it was . . . unbecoming to their rank. And if the German press got wind of the trouble, they would have a field day. He could almost see the headlines. “White House Military Officer Brawls in Local Bar.” His boss would freak out. And Sara would faint!

  He cursed himself silently. How had he gotten into this mess? He shot a quick look to Sam. “You okay?” he asked.

  Sam only nodded.

  “If this gets ugly, stay together.”

  “I’ve got your six.”

  “Don’t challenge them. Keep your head down, and maybe they’ll leave us alone.”

  The five men drew near. Sam cut a hunk of greasy sausage with his fork and lifted it to his mouth. Keeping his head down was the last thing on his mind. A soldier always watched his enemy as they approached.

  Brighton heard a deep growl from over his shoulder. “Er sieht so hungrig aus. Er kommt sicherlich von dem töten vielen Irakishen Kindern zurück,” the huge German mocked.

  He struggled to translate, pulling the German words from way back in his mind. “Look at him, so hungry. He surely comes from the killing of many Iraqi children,” the German had said.

  The five men laughed as General Brighton looked up and smiled weakly, feigning ignorance.

  The German shot a dark look at Sam as if to say “get out of here, boy,” then turned back to Brighton, summing him up. “Big shot,” he sneered in German to his friends. “Fancy stars on his shoulders, but not smart enough to learn German. Another ugly American soldier, that’s all we have here.”

  Brighton turned away. All he wanted was a quiet dinner. He didn’t have time for this. He felt his back tighten and his chest muscles grow taut, but he kept his head down and his eyes on his plate.

  Sam looked up and smiled. “Hey guys,” he said in English, “we’re just having a quick bite to eat. We don’t want any problems. Give us a few minutes, and we’ll be out of here.

  The thug nodded to his buddies, then reached out and tugged on Sam’s hair. “You need a haircut,” he sneered, leaning across the table to him. “I’ve got a knife in my pocket. Do you w
ant me to cut it for you?”

  Brighton leaned across the table, putting his arm between the fat man and Sam. Sam angrily shook the German off, pushing his hand away. Brighton stared at the strangers and nodded his head. Five against two. Hardly a fair fight. And they probably had weapons, which made it much more dangerous and far more difficult.

  The German leaned across the table and stuck his fat fingers in Brighton’s food. “Looks good,” he snickered. “Don’t mind if I do.” He swirled his fingers through the meat juice then licked them and wiped his hand on Brighton’s shirt.

  His buddies laughed loudly, prodding him on. The German turned to Sam. “Why don’t you leave?” he said. “This isn’t about you. This is between this U.S. soldier and me and my buddies here.”

  Sam pushed himself away from the table and stood. “You got problems with Americans,” he snorted in anger.

  “Sit down,” Brighton told him, then turned quickly to the man. “We don’t want any trouble . . .” he said softly, being careful not to give any excuse for offense.

  Their leader bent toward him. “You’re in Germany,” he sneered, spit spraying on Brighton’s face. “We don’t speak English or wear cowboy boots here!”

  “We were just leaving . . .”

  The German stood in his way. “I said speak to me in German, or I’ll cut out your lying tongue and shove it down your throat to your heart!”

  “Get him!” his buddies taunted. “Take him out, Friedrich. You can do it!” they cried.

  General Brighton breathed deeply as his eyes shot to Sam.

  “You don’t want to do this,” he told the fat man.

  “Yeah, pig, I do.”

  Brighton sighed again, and the German sneered. “No stomach for a fight, boy? You just want to kill babies. Is that all you do?”

  The German shoved the American’s shoulders, and Brighton caught a glimpse of the knife sheath underneath his oversized shirt. He shot a quick look to the others, wondering if they too were armed. The German poked a fat finger in his ear. “I’m talking to you, Pigdog,” he shouted. “Are you not hearing me?”