Broken Soldier: A Novel

by Clara Frost

  Emily stopped by a log railing and set one foot against a post, stretching her calf. Rafa stood beside her, rubbing his wounded leg. The skin below his PT shorts was puckered and red. When he’d first called them PT shorts, she’d thought that meant Physical Therapy, but he’d explained that in the military it was Physical Training. Even though he wasn’t with an actual unit, he still felt like it was his duty to stay fit.

  “Your leg hurting you?” Emily asked.

  “I’ll live.” He stood up straight, puffing his chest out like he was just fine, even though she could tell that he had to be in pain. “I used to run up and down hills like this with eighty pounds of gear on my back.”

  “Hills?” The valley was long and steep, and the peaks behind them climbed toward the heavens. On the upper slopes, there was already snow.

  “If you let yourself start thinking that you have a mountain to climb, you’ll never get out of the valley.”

  “Your soldiering sounds an awful lot like my psychology.”

  “It is. We both deal with children.” He grinned. “You’ve never seen a manchild until you’ve been inside a barracks. But enough Army talk, no?” He looked out into the valley. “It’s very pretty.”

  That was fine. If he didn’t want to talk about his pain, she wasn’t going to make him. She wanted to be more than his friend, and definitely not his shrink. Emily pointed to a spot in the hills, on the nearer side of town. “You can’t quite see it, but my apartment is over there behind that ridge.”

  Rafa looked at the ridge, his jaw clenching and his eyes narrowing.

  “What?” she asked.

  He took a couple deep breaths, each exhalation turning to a cloud in the cool mountain air. “The shape of that ridge just reminded me of Afghanistan. We joked that Kandahar Province wasn’t hell, but you could see it from there.” He squeezed her hand again. “The thing is, Kandahar is one of the most beautiful places on Earth.”

  “When people weren’t trying to kill you?”

  “No, it was beautiful even then. When you are in a war zone, you must always remember that people are trying to kill you. Even when the bullets are not flying, they are planning and maneuvering. The day you forget is the day you go home on a med-evac.”

  Emily didn’t respond. He hadn’t talked too much about his experiences in war, and she didn’t want to interrupt him if he was finally going to open up to her about them. She could sense a deep well of emotion within him, and she knew he still needed to come to terms with the things he’d seen. And the person he’d become.

  When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “That final day, I thought that we were safe. The tribal leaders we were escorting were among the most respected in the whole province, and they assured us that we were safe.”

  He swallowed hard. “We weren’t.”

  Emily waited a little longer, hoping he’d open up more, but he just stared into the distance. She had a feeling that he was seeing something other than a peaceful Colorado valley.

  “Do you want to walk the rest of the way down?” she asked. “I’m starting to get cold.”

  “If you wish.”

  He walked beside her, not letting go of her hand. After a few minutes, he spoke again, his voice strained. “My leave is ending soon.”

  A pang of fear went through her. He was still technically in the Army, and the talk of Afghanistan made her worry that the government was going to find some way to send him back, prostheses and all. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve been offered an honorable medical discharge. I talked to my father this week. He said his firm might hire me.”

  Emily bit her lip, considering that. It was a relief to know that he wasn’t about to go back into a war zone, but his father’s consulting firm was in DC. “What are you thinking of doing?”

  “I don’t know. If I don’t take the discharge, I’m not sure what the Army would want me to do. Go work at the Pentagon, maybe?”

  And that was only if they didn’t decide to court-martial him. When Christa had helped get them together, she’d explained to Emily that someone had to take the fall for the disaster that had wiped out Rafa’s unit, and he’d been the highest ranking officer on the scene.

  “What about working for your dad?”

  “He’s offered to help get me on the staff at his firm. I also have a possibility at The Citadel. One of my former professors mentioned me, thinking I might make a good lecturer.”

  Emily frowned. “Where’s the Citadel? West Point?”

  “South Carolina.”

  The words were like a fist to the stomach. It nearly took Emily’s breath away. She swallowed, thinking fast. Now that she had Rafa in her life, she wasn’t sure what she’d do without him.

  “What about working at the VA in Denver?” she asked. “Then you could stay in the area.”

  “I don’t have a medical background.”

  Emily pushed away a brief moment of panic.

  They were closing in on where they’d both parked their cars. She had the new Lexus Rafa had helped her pick, a replacement for the one that she’d stupidly let get stolen on their very first date, and he had his old pickup.

  “What about teaching history? The UC would probably love to have you.”

  His jaw clenched. “I don’t know, Em. I hate to throw this on you, but I just found out myself. I only have ten days to figure it out.”

  The panic came back in full force. He was just trying to let her down easy. Even though she thought there was a spark between them, he must not feel it as much as she did. She squeezed his hand again, savoring that connection. For all she knew, it might be the final time she’d feel it.

  “Well, when you decide, please let me know.”

  He looked into her eyes. All her doubts and insecurities boiled inside her. It was like he was looking right through her, reading her mind. Here it comes, she thought. The letdown.

  He pulled her into a hug, squeezing her tight. “I will,” he said, then kissed her carefully on the forehead. “See you soon.”

  And then he was gone, striding across the parking lot, only a slight hitch in his step. Emily looked after him, more confused than she’d been in over a year. Did he mean he wanted to stay with her or leave or what? She walked to her car and flopped into the driver’s seat.

  She wasn’t good enough. She’d known it all along and foolishly let Christa convince her that she was, but when it really mattered, she was just chubby Emily, the girl no man could love.

  Her lip quivered as she started the car and pulled out of the lot.

  #

  Rafa watched Emily leave in her shiny silver coupe. She made that car look so good it hurt. It pained him to tell her about his leave ending, but he knew he shouldn’t keep it from her, either.

  When he’d looked into her eyes, he could see the way she thought about him, how it was a reflection of the way he thought of himself: broken. A man trained for war and killing, rendered impotent without a hand and a leg. In the olden days, he would never have survived the wounds: he would have died a hero. Now, thanks to the wonders of modern technology, he was a pariah. A has been.

  A cripple.

  He gritted his teeth. The mountains loomed above him, reminding him of Afghanistan. Reminding him of what he used to be. What he could never be again.

  Dusty trails. Rooms full of smelly, bearded men. Gunfire popping on the ridge like a fourth of July cookout. Bodies and blood. The pride of a job well done.

  War was cruel and hard and remorseless, and he missed it so fiercely it felt physical. Other men woke up with cold sweats and nightmares. They hit the deck when a car backfired. Rafa slept like a baby. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, but whatever it was, it made civilian life almost unthinkable.

  For a brief, fatalistic moment, he wondered if he shouldn’t be a true warrior: wander into the mountains and let them claim him.

  But no. Emily gave him hope. She had acted like she cared for him. And even if it
was only an act, she’d had him convinced. For a while. If she loved him, he couldn’t hurt her like that.

  “God, cabrón, what are you doing?”

  He threw open the truck’s door and hopped back down to the blacktop. He needed to run. Needed to feel that freedom of a good, long run. Deep into the mountains and back out again. Cold mountain air to fill his lungs. The wind to carry him on its back. Run until his mind was empty.

  But that was impossible. So he set his goal lower. Maybe just around the parking lot a time or two.

  Rafa broke into a brisk jog, testing his prosthetic leg with more impact than he’d ever tried before. The jolts from the parking lot hurt far worse than the treadmill or the trails he’d jogged with Emily. Each step sent a shiver of pain through his knee. The pain felt like it ended at his belly button, a ribbon of fire that arced through his leg and into his bowels.

  He slowed to a walk, wincing. The fire ebbed away, replaced by a throbbing. This is ridiculous, he thought. How am I supposed to live like this?

  And that brought him to a more important question. When the Army gave him his walking papers--oh, wasn’t that bitter irony: walking papers--what was he going to do? Working for his dad’s company wouldn’t be too terrible, but he couldn’t bear the indignity of begging for scraps from the old man. Take that job at The Citadel? As if the students would want a constant reminder of how horrible the war really was? The desk jockeys wouldn’t want to be confronted by the ugly truth, and the actual veterans wouldn’t want the bitter memories. And while he wouldn’t have believed it a month ago when he’d gone on that first blind date with Emily, he didn’t want to lose her, either. There was something there, like the sun rising after a long, lonely night.

  So what then? He stopped in the middle of the lot and spread his arms. The cool mountain breeze whipped right through his workout clothes, chilling him clear through to the bone.

  Go back to the Army? Beg for a staff position? He’d make a fine backdrop for a general. Maybe he could be the slave that whispered in Caesar’s ear, reminding the high and mighty of mortality. God knew Washington could use a few people doing that.

  He snorted. Washington didn’t fight wars. It sent people like him to do it. For duty and honor and country and oil.

  Rafa slapped himself in the face with his good hand, savoring the sting of the blow. Madness lay that direction. Every professional knew that.

  “So what assets do I have? Think, Rafael.”

  He looked at the stump where his right arm ended. At the metal pole that ran from his right knee to his equally metal foot. Asset A: a ruined body trained for a war it could never again fight. It was a wonder that Emily would even look at him.

  He looked at his good left hand. Asset B: Five fingers that could barely type without cramping.

  But he still had his mind. A mind steeped with nearly thirty years of study. Cultures and politics and warfare. He wasn’t fit to teach English, but history maybe. Or political science. Call that asset C.

  So the mind then. How could he use it? Where could he teach? He’d have to investigate that. Even the cultural and political parts of his education would be enough. It wasn’t perfect, and it may not pay half as well as working for a Washington think tank, but it would give him freedom to live his own life.

  And maybe the freedom to keep seeing Emily, if he could find something close enough.

  He walked back to the truck, ignoring the pain coming from his knee. Pain was just weakness leaving the body, after all. And he had a lot of weakness to get rid of.

  Chapter 10

  R

  AFA pushed himself until the pain in his leg screamed like a jet engine. Finally, at the very edge of exhaustion, he stepped off the treadmill and collapsed onto the mat beside it.

  “Whoah, buddy, you didn’t just stroke out on me, did you?” Paul asked. He was still loping along on the treadmill beside Rafa’s.

  “You are not rid of me yet.” Each word was practically a gasp as Rafa tried to catch his breath. He leaned back on the mat, stretching out his legs and trying to ignore the curtain of fire in his right knee.

  “Bro, you don’t look good.” Paul thumped down on the mat beside Rafa. “Oh man, that’s not right.”

  Rafa opened his eyes to see Paul looking at the red streaks around his right knee. “It’s just weakness... leaving...” Rafa sucked in a deep breath. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Bro, I know you’re big into that Ranger School ‘weakness leaving the body’ horseshit, but that’s only when you aren’t wounded.”

  “I’m not wounded. I’m crippled.”

  Paul touched the puckered flesh, sending a fresh knife through Rafa’s leg. Rafa grit his teeth, but kept himself from wincing.

  “That’s not right, bro. You need to see your orthopedist. They can help with that.”

  “I. Will. Be. Fine.”

  Paul matched Rafa’s scowl with one of his own. “You realize that there’s a paralympics, right? People run marathons, triathlons on amputated limbs. What you’re experiencing is abnormal, even for someone missing a leg.”

  Rafa closed his eyes, forcing the pain from his mind. He’d handled worse and with better grace.

  “So how are you and Emily doing?” Paul asked.

  You had to give him credit, he knew how to push a point, and then pull back just before he drew blood. It was part of what made Rafa keep up with him even as their careers had diverged. Where Paul had gone to college and law school, Rafa had gone to West Point and to war.

  “We’re still seeing each other. I feel like I’m always on the scale, though. Waiting for judgment.”

  Paul cocked an eyebrow. “From Emily?”

  “She somehow thinks she’s fat. It took me a while to realize it, but she has some kind of hangup about it. It’s weird.”

  “So tell her that you think she’s beautiful. Or highlight how nice her rack is.”

  Rafa looked up, appalled and mildly jealous that Paul had noticed Emily’s chest.

  Paul winked at him, then continued, “Christa says she used to be much bigger, and she’s never come to terms with her own body.”

  “It’s not just her body, though. We went jogging up in the trails last weekend and she kept taking breaks. She was doing it for me, and I know it’s because she sees me as frail. I can’t stand it.”

  “So the girl you’re seeing cares about you. How’s that a problem?”

  “She’s judging me, Paul. She sees my missing hand, my missing foot, and she thinks less of me for it. Thinks I’m not a whole man. I don’t want to be anyone’s pity project.”

  Paul settled down on the floor beside Rafa and started stretching his legs. “I can’t tell you what she thinks because I’m not a mind reader, but I can tell you what Christa tells me. Emily likes you. She doesn’t pity you--she worries about you. Look at yourself, man. Look how hard you push yourself.”

  “I am just trying to get back what was taken from me. A man has a right to dream, no?”

  “You know the difference between dreams and goals, right?”

  Rafa frowned.

  Paul continued, “A goal is something tangible, something you can work toward. A dream is just something nebulous, something that may or may not ever happen, no matter how hard you work. You can make it a goal to get out of the Army and find a good job. A dream is thinking you’re going to stay in the service and be chairman of the joint chiefs.”

  Rafa stewed over that in silence for a few minutes, doing some crunches to keep his heart rate up. Growing up, he’d wanted nothing more than to follow in his dad’s footsteps and serve his country. Even his mother had encouraged him to apply to West Point. Serving and leading had been goals and dreams both, and he’d reached them. But now? Now he didn’t know. A leaderless platoon had more direction.

  Paul sat beside him, still stretching and cooling down.

  “So, speaking of jobs,” Rafa said, “I’m due for discharge.”

  “Everything okay?” Paul was aware of
the difficulties Rafa had faced after the incident with the shura, but he didn’t know everything. Legally speaking, most of it was still classified and he couldn’t know everything. Not if Rafa didn’t want even more trouble.

  “I could lie and say ‘yes,’ but it wouldn’t strictly be true. I talked to my lawyer, and I’m most likely taking the DoD’s offer and taking the honorable discharge.”

  Paul’s face fell. “I’m sorry, bro. I know how much service means to you.”

  “Yeah, well...” Duty, honor, country. They were more than words for Rafa. They were a way of life, the central pillars of his whole being. And having them stripped away, even if it was with a veneer of honor, it hurt him more than a busted leg or a missing hand ever could. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “So I’m getting out, which means I need to get a job.”

  He could see Paul working through the consequences of that statement. “But not here?”

  “My dad has offered me a position with his consulting firm in DC. One of my professors from West Point has offered to help me get on as a lecturer at The Citadel.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “South Carolina.”

  “Ouch. You talked to Emily about this yet?”

  Rafa looked away. “A little.”

  Rafa expected Paul to bust his balls about it, either indecision or abandonment, but Paul only grunted. Rafa finished his set of crunches and laid back on the mat again, listening to the hiss of the air conditioner and the occasional squeak as Paul shifted positions to stretch a different muscle.

  “I’ve spent my life with orders telling me where to go and what needed to be done,” Rafa said. “I can’t remember another time where I didn’t have a mission. I don’t know what to do about a job or about Emily.”

  “Can you get anything in Colorado? See where things go with Emily.”

  “I don’t even know where to start.”

  Paul chuckled. “Seems weird to suggest it, but you might actually talk to Emily about it. She knows folks at the university. Or what about your army buddies? We have ROTC at a couple schools out here. And there’s always the Air Force dudes down in Colorado Springs.”