20 November: Colorado Springs, Colorado (UPI)—A 4th Infantry Division (Mechanized) spokesman confirmed this morning that the Fort Carson soldiers still in Kuwait will return home in two days. The soldiers of 3rd Brigade defied the odds and twice defeated superior forces from Iraq’s elite Republican Guard in the fighting that took place in Kuwait a month ago. The first flight will contain the 3rd Brigade’s casualties. Specialists have been busy over the past three weeks equipping a special treatment facility at Fort Carson’s Evan’s Army Hospital to deal with the soldiers injured in the Iraqi chemical attack during the last day of fighting. In a side note, the Kuwaiti government announced plans for a massive memorial to the 3rd Brigade soldiers who died in the defense of the Kuwaiti people in what is coming to be known as the Second Gulf War. The monument will feature life-size marble replicas of an M1A1 tank and an M2 Bradley Fighting Vehicle and will be placed on the site where the seventy-six chemical casualties of the Striker Brigade are buried.
Colorado Springs, Colorado
23 November, 1300 Hours Mountain
As the aircraft made its final approach into Colorado Springs, Dillon felt his stomach flutter. It had been over a month since he’d seen Melissa and his four daughters. A lot of things had changed since then, not the least of them he himself.
Turning in his seat, Dillon looked down the length of the aircraft at his men. Clad in desert camouflaged battle dress uniforms for the chartered flight home, they laughed and talked nonstop in their excitement. Dillon smiled slowly. The conquering warriors returning home. They’d seen the elephant and lived to tell about it.
The smile disappeared as the faces of the men he had lost flashed through his mind. The first nights after the fighting, there had been no dreams, only nightmares. Slowly, very slowly, that was changing. Now Dillon dreamed of his lost men, but they were not dreams of his men’s suffering or their deaths. These dreams were more the journeys of his troopers taking a respite from their final resting place at Fiddler’s Green, the tankers’ and cavalrymen’s Valhalla, to wish their commander peace.
Turning to his window, Dillon watched as the Rocky Mountains came into view. He often had to leave Melissa and his girls. On his return, the sight of the majestic Front Range and Pike’s Peak always seemed to be saying welcome home. An end to another leg of his seemingly eternal warrior’s odyssey.
As he stared at the snowcapped peaks, Dillon thought of his family and what their lives would be like now. He’d only been able to call home a few times before the flight out of Kuwait City. Prior to that, he and the other men of the Iron Tigers had manned positions along the now-stable Kuwait-Iraq border, keepers of the new peace during the initial postwar period. Though he’d attempted to sound upbeat during their brief conversations, he knew that Melissa could hear the darkness that had taken root in his heart. He only prayed the worst was behind him.
Next to Dillon, First Sergeant Rider stood and began his final duties of the trip home. “All right, shitbirds! Shut your pie holes and sit down. Everybody look next to you. You should see one of two gentlemen, either Mr. M16 Rifle or Señor Beretta Pistol. If you do not, you better find them in the next five seconds! Do not let me find a weapon on this aircraft while you’re on the ground hugging Momma! Speaking of Momma, on landing you will file out of this aircraft in an orderly fashion, not make a mad dash for those sassy ladies sure to be lined up outside!”
If possible, Rider’s voice became louder as he warmed to his topic. “Once off of the aircraft, if Momma or your sweetheart runs to you, you will kiss her warmly but quickly, assure her of your undying love, tell her that you will take care of her needs later, then proceed smartly to the Customs Station! Is that clear, gentlemen?”
“Clear, First Sergeant!”
Rider couldn’t help but smile. They were a good bunch of boys. The smile turned to a snarl. “And one final thing. We are a kinder, gentler army. Should you find a microphone in your face, you will not use profane language! Are you little bastards clear on that issue?”
Once again the plane roared with the men’s response. “Clear, First Sergeant!”
Jones, looking through the window of the aircraft carrying his command group and staff, watched the rolling hills of some Midwest state slide by. Turning to a passing flight attendant, he touched her elbow. “Ma’am, seeing as how we’ll be landing in a couple of hours, you can go ahead and pass out the pleasantries.”
Tom Proctor, seated next to Jones, looked at his boss with a raised eyebrow. “Pleasantries, sir?”
Jones waved his unlit cigarette, privately damning the FAA. “Tom, my boy, I gladly pass on to you the knowledge of how to win the hearts and minds of soldiers, acquired over a lifetime of military service. The boys are almost home, so I’m gonna give ’em a little present—something they’ve been missing for too long.”
“And what would that be, sir?”
“Alcohol.”
“Sir, that’s against regulations.”
Jones looked at S3 and shrugged. “They can sue me,” he said. “Now where the hell did I put my bifocals?” he asked no one in particular, feeling his pockets.
“Sir,” said Proctor, trying not to smile, “they’re hanging from your neck.”
Reaching down, Jones secured the glasses and slid them on the tip of his nose. Looking to his protégé, he clucked, “One day you’ll start losing track of things, young smart-ass. Hope I’m there to see it.” Reaching into the seat beside him, Jones retrieved some paperwork.
“What’s that, sir? It’s about time you relaxed a little.”
Jones paused, looking at Proctor over the tops of his bifocals. “Tom, this is my last official act before taking a well-deserved vacation.”
They were interrupted as the attendant paused next to their seats, handing each of them a plastic cup of ice, two cans of Coca-Cola, and two small bottles of Jack Daniel’s.
Proctor looked doubtful. “Sir, I hope you set some kind of limit on this so things don’t get out of hand before we land and meet the brass.”
Jones nodded. “I did.”
“You did?” Proctor asked, surprised.
The attendant chimed in brightly. “He did. Six bottles each, maximum. But that figure is . . .” She looked to Jones for help.
Jones smiled at her in a grandfatherly manner. “Negotiable, darlin’, negotiable.”
“But, sir . . .”
“Shut up, Tom.” Reaching into his carryon, Jones extracted two shot glasses and winked. “Had a batch of these made up special in Kuwait City before we flew. Notice the detail in the brigade crest?” Filling each of the glasses, he handed one to Proctor.
Proctor, resigned, shook his head and lifted the glass. “So what are we drinking to, sir?”
“New beginnings.” Jones smiled, lifting the glass in one hand and his paperwork in the other.
“What’s that?”
“Doc Hancock’s leave papers.”
“There are a lot of guys taking leave, sir. What’s so special about Hancock’s?”
Jones drank deeply and sighed. “I’ve still got the magic touch,” he said, waving the form. “These are for Doc’s honeymoon. Seems he’s marrying a certain young aviator on Christmas Eve.”
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
23 November, 1515 Hours Eastern
“If you don’t behave, I’m going to take you straight to bed. Yes, I will,” Rhonda Kelly cooed at the crying baby. Walking through the Kelly home’s front room and rocking the infant in her arms, she was rewarded with a large smile. “There’s my big boy! You’re such a good boy!”
“Do you know how much it turns me on to hear you talk like that?” came a voice from the front door.
Wheeling, Rhonda Kelly saw a large figure standing in the open doorway. Wearing a green Class A uniform with trousers tucked into shiny black jump boots, Captain Jack Kelly’s freshly cut flattop threatened to burst through the top of the doorframe.
Rushing to him with the baby, his wife squealed with delight
. “Jack!”
Kelly laughed as he embraced her. “Easy! Don’t crush my boy.”
After a few breathless moments, Rhonda pulled away. “I thought you weren’t coming home for two more days!”
Kelly looked uncomfortable. “They wanted a few of us back early. They’re having a ceremony or something in Washington tomorrow. I thought I’d surprise you with a little vacation.”
“Ceremony?”
Kelly blushed and looked uncomfortable. “Yeah, for my guys. I get to tag along.”
Rhonda looked at her husband knowingly. “Well, Mr. Tag-along, it wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would it?” she asked, pointing to a new addition to the living room wall. A USA Today front page hung in a frame. The headline read IRAQI LEADER CAPTURED. The full-color photo showed a particularly vicious-looking army captain in desert fatigues and maroon beret leading the ex-president into a military headquarters building.
Kelly’s blush darkened. “Oh, Jee-sus, I had no idea . . .”
Rhonda smiled. “That you’d return a hero? According to that article, if it weren’t for you and your men, Abdul Aref would likely still be free. The president even referred to you in a speech on television last night.”
Kelly continued to stare at the wall with a slack jaw.
“Doesn’t anyone around here know how to shut a door?” asked a voice behind them.
In the front door stood Martha Kelly, Jack’s mother. Rhonda had attempted to dissuade her mother-in-law from going back to Colorado alone to settle her and the sergeant major’s affairs, but Martha Kelly had insisted. She had felt she needed to say good-bye to Big Jack in her own way, in their own home. From the smile on her face, Rhonda Kelly knew her mother-in-law was going to be all right.
“Mom!” Jack rushed across the room and snatched the small woman from her feet, grasping her in a bear hug. Finally releasing her, Jack reached inside his uniform shirt and pulled out his dog tags. Unsnapping the metallic link, he removed one of the three small silver tags, handing it to his mother. “I thought you might like to have this. I was able to spend a few moments with Dad before they brought him back.”
Martha took the small piece of metal in her hand and looked at it: KELLY, JACKSON EZEKIEL. Smiling, eyes wet with unspilled tears, she held it a moment. Reaching to her son’s chain, she replaced the tag and snapped the clasp closed. “I think your dad would have liked for you to have it. I’ve got Big Jack with me all the time, right here,” she said, lightly tapping her breast.
Colorado Springs, Colorado
23 November, 1330 Hours Mountain
Over two thousand people were on hand to greet the first unit redeployment from Kuwait. Standing back one hundred yards from the aircraft, the families were kept at a distance. To their front, every general officer remotely associated with the 4th Infantry Division or III Corps waited at the base of the steps leading to the aircraft door.
“Are they ever going to let them off the plane?” asked Melissa Dillon impatiently. She and the girls—Meagan, Hannah, Logan, and Carson—had waited patiently with the other families for the better part of two hours. While the sun was shining and the sky was cobalt blue without a single cloud, the cold winds rushing down from the Rocky Mountains had made life less than comfortable for the crowd of loved ones and onlookers.
Carson, the youngest Dillon, looked concernedly at her mother. “They can’t keep Daddy on the plane, can they, Mommy?”
Melissa smiled and began to answer, “No, honey . . .”
The 4th Infantry division band began playing “The Army Song” full blast as the first 3rd Brigade troops departed the aircraft.
“There’s Daddy!” screamed Logan. She broke loose from Melissa’s hand, ducked under the crowd tape, and was speeding across the tarmac as fast as her five-year-old legs could carry her.
“Logan, come back here!” called Melissa. Holding Carson in her arms, she knew she’d never catch the child. “Logan . . . oh, you go, kid.”
The crowd roared its approval as the child pushed past the generals and launched herself into the open arms of a desert-fatigued captain who had just stepped from the boarding ladder onto American soil. Flashbulbs popped and video cameras rolled, recording what would become the homecoming picture seen around the world.
Two military policemen rushed forward to intercede, only to be halted by the 4th Infantry Division commander.
“Sergeant, I don’t think we have a problem here,” said the general, smiling at the ranking military policeman.
The MP paled and saluted. “Roger, sir. No problem at all.”
The father and child stood at the base of the stairs. “Hey there, angel,” said Dillon, squeezing Logan tightly to his chest, tears spilling down his face.
“I missed you, Daddy,” sighed the little girl, content now that she was in her father’s arms again.
Dillon looked into her face and felt the warmth and love flow through him like a river, taking with it the darkness that had been with him for too long. “I missed you, too, darlin’,” he whispered through his tears.
Gathering the child tightly to his chest and ignoring the assembled VIPs, Captain Patrick Dillon walked away from the aircraft and toward the rest of his life.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com
Tin Soldiers Page 33
