One September Morning

by Rosalind Noonan

  “Yeah, sure.” Hilliard pulls a container of peanut brittle from his open box.

  Besides food, Hilliard’s wife has sent a DVD containing Scrubs, Lost, and Desperate Housewives.

  “Isn’t that a chick show?” Flint asks, but no one seems embarrassed by the question.

  “Eva Longoria is hot,” insists Lassiter, a soldier with a shelf of hot sauces and a string of chili pepper lights over his bunk. Yeah, he seems to be an expert on hot.

  “Spinelli?” Dr. Jump announces, reading the name on one package, and a scrawny kid pops up from one top bunk. “Looks like your mama remembered you.” The kid, who looks like he’s fourteen, catches the package in the air, then settles back into the mattress, worlds away from the rest of them.

  “You’re welcome,” Doc says sarcastically, and Spinelli’s head reappears.

  “I said thank you.” The boy glowers, then retreats again, and Flint wonders what his life would have been like if he’d been sent to a place like this when he was eighteen.

  “I also got us a copy of yesterday’s Today show from the Armed Services Network,” Doc says, holding up a videotape.

  A few of the guys seem interested, but Lassiter moans. “No news is good news.”

  “Have a seat,” Doc offers, indicating a plastic chair next to an empty bunk. Did it belong to John and Noah Stanton? Last night, when he was looking for a place to bunk, he was told he could come here, but when Flint realized he’d be bunking in John or Noah’s spot, he declined and went over to another platoon. Flint figured it might offend some of the guys if he assumed too much.

  “And this is Today on NBC,” Ann Curry announces.

  “McGee, it’s your girlfriend,” Lassiter jokes.

  “Shut up,” McGee growls.

  “John slept right up there, in that bunk beside you,” Doc tells Flint, turning his back to the small television. “He’ll be sorely missed here. He was one of the rare guys that got along with everybody. Partnered with Emjay over there. Both Stantons, good people. John used to play poker with Lassiter and McGee. And John and I go way back. We played football together in college.”

  “Is that right?” Flint says casually, not wanting Doc to dominate his time here. “You were on the Scarlet Knights?”

  “Defensive end. I injured my knee senior year, which ended my football career. I realized I’d need a real job, so I detoured to med school instead.” As he talks, Doc plucks a gold metal piece from the mesh of his helmet. “My Purple Heart,” he says, flashing the medal at Flint. “Actually, this is just a replica of the real medal, which you don’t wear in combat, of course. I got it in Afghanistan. You ever been there?”

  “I haven’t,” Flint admits. “You were injured.”

  Doc frowns. “Heavy combat. Not a good scene. But that’s another story. After you finish this thing on Stanton, you get in touch and I’ll give you an exclusive on the Doc Jump story.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Flint says. “So you met John at Rutgers?”

  Doc goes on to describe the different paths he and John took after college, how they’d remained friends but landed in the same platoon by chance.

  Flint listens but also tries to tune in to conversations around him, about the peanut brittle Hilliard’s wife made herself, about the tightest women in a new issue of Playboy, about Spinelli’s mysterious care packages from home always containing toothpaste. “How many teeth do you have in your head?” Lassiter jokes.

  On the Today show, a chef from a New York restaurant stirs a sauce for filet mignon, and Lassiter talks of his plans to grill a “big-ass Texas steak,” when he gets home.

  “Did you want to get some quotes from us about your article?” Doc asks, drawing attention to Flint. “Our memories of John.”

  “That’d be great,” Flint says, “but I don’t want to force anything. If there’s something anecdotal you want to share…”

  “Well, Brown over there was John’s partner whenever we were paired up in missions. Emjay, what would you say about John?”

  Emjay turns toward them slowly, reluctant to be drawn in. “He was a good man,” he says slowly. “A good friend.”

  “A friend to everybody,” McGee adds. “He kept us going here, kept our spirits up.”

  “Every week he’d give out these bogus awards.” Lassiter points to a ribbon hanging over his cot. “Mine’s for Best Boner Move, when I nearly stepped on a land mine. Scared the shit out of me, but John knew how to turn everything around. He could make you laugh at yourself.”

  Doc hands Flint a pen. “You want to write this down?”

  Act like a reporter, Flint thinks. “I got it covered.” He takes a pen and pad from inside his camouflage jacket and scribbles a few notes. “Did John leave anything behind that was significant? A book he loved, or a photograph?”

  “It’s all gone.” Gunnar McGee frowns at the empty bunk. “He used to write in a journal every day. Three notebooks full of stuff, but the MPs came in and took it all away. It was sent back to the States, for investigation.”

  “Really?” Flint scribbles again. “So there’s going to be an inquiry into his death?”

  Heads nod. “There always is,” Doc said.

  “Who do you think killed John Stanton?” Flint lobs the question up casually, like a coach warming his team up.

  But the response is awkward—pursed lips, reticent stares. All peripheral conversation stops.

  “Didn’t you hear the whole story?” Doc asks. “There was an insurgent in the warehouse. We had him cornered, but he came out of his hiding place shooting, and John was the first one in the line of fire.”

  “Is that how it happened?” Flint asks the others, but no one volunteers. “Wow…from reading the report, you get a very different picture. I guess it pays to go to the source, right?”

  “I just wish we got the sniper,” Lassiter says. “Insurgent bastard.”

  Flint nods at the television. “They’re showing John. Looks like they did a report on him.”

  The television screen was filled with images of John racing down the football field, breaking tackles, scoring, first for the Scarlet Knights, then for the Seattle Seahawks. Lassiter turns up the volume as the voice-over about John’s life ends. The studio camera pans back to reveal a uniformed soldier and a petite woman sitting in the studio with Ann, who introduces John Stanton’s father, Ret. Capt. Jim Stanton, and John’s mother, Sharice Stanton.

  “I never imagined John having a family,” Gunnar McGee says wistfully. “He fit in so well here. It was like he belonged to us.”

  In his peripheral vision, Flint sees Emjay sit up to watch. Spinelli leans his head on the edge of the bed, quiet, attentive.

  Flint recognizes John’s mother from the wedding, but Jim Stanton looks like every other man in uniform. John’s parents express their pride over their son’s desire to serve his country, the example he set, the courage and selflessness that made him leave his career in the NFL to enlist in a combat unit.

  The interview wraps up, the light shifts on the men’s faces, sad and poignant.

  “It’s weird to know someone famous who died,” Gunnar says. “It sort of makes us famous, too.”

  “I wish I could go on the Today show,” Doc says balefully. “Nothing personal, Flint, but television’s a lot sexier than newsprint.” He chuckles, and Flint raises his hands, as if in surrender.

  The sudden movement behind Flint sets off an internal alarm, until he hears Doc order the men to be at ease. The door has opened behind Flint, and he turns to see a lieutenant standing there—the name on his shirt is CHENOWITH.

  That would be the name of the 1st Lieutenant of this platoon, the man Flint was supposed to get clearance from before he interviewed these men. Oops.

  Chenowith takes in the dynamic of the moment quickly, then wheels. “Who the hell are you?” he asks.

  “Dave Flint. I’m an embed.”

  “With this platoon?”

  “With the 121st Airborne.”

  �
��Outside Baghdad? You’re a little far from your assignment. Are you lost?”

  “I’m here for the story of an American hero,” Flint says, ready to banter all night if the lieutenant so desires. What’s the worst Chenowith can do, ask him to leave? He’s hoping to get out of Iraq in the next day or so, anyway. “It’s not every day we lose an All-American football star to the enemy.”

  “True.” Chenowith nods. “Can I get you to step outside, Mr. Flint?”

  Outside the bungalow, the buffeting winds are full of sand. Chenowith presses against the side of the building that provides the most shelter.

  “I don’t know what you’re thinking, talking to my men without clearance from the Public Affairs Unit,” says Chenowith. Flint has his number. A recent college graduate of West Point. A by-the-book leader. “At the very least, you should have come to me first.”

  “It wasn’t convenient.” After three months here, Flint is beyond apologizing. “You’ve got some men in there who need help, Lieutenant.”

  “The army has provided us with a field therapist, who happens to be assigned to that platoon. And I won’t have my authority undermined by some pop psychologist reporter scrambling for an easy story. I’ll make sure you’re provided transportation on the next convoy out of here. Is that convenient enough for you?”

  “I’m just saying, you lose one or two of those guys to suicide, it won’t look good for you.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a war going on out here, and I don’t have time to baby a soldier because he misses home or he’s afraid of getting killed.”

  Flint puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Nobody said it was easy. And I imagine you’re already under scrutiny over Stanton’s death.”

  The young lieutenant pulls protective goggles over his eyes, effectively shielding his reactions from Flint. “Why would that be?”

  “Isn’t his death under investigation?” Flint asks.

  “That’s standard procedure.”

  “But there’s been the suggestion of friendly fire.”

  “It’s my understanding that the investigation will rule out friendly fire.”

  “But was that what happened? Was Stanton’s death an accident?” Flint suggests. “A weapon discharging by accident? That would be your bad luck, one of your guys taking out a famous hero like Stanton by accident. The Great American Hero, loved by all.”

  “Spare me the accolades. You can save them for your article.”

  “Not a fan?”

  “John Stanton was a rebel bordering on anarchist. He was telling those men in there that this war is illegal, that it’s a travesty. And that’s your Great American Hero?”

  A bead of sand whips into Flint’s left eye, and he recoils in pain.

  “I’ll let you know when that convoy is ready,” Chenowith says, moving away from the bungalow into a cloud of dust.

  Chapter 23

  Dover Air Force Base

  Abby

  “Are you the woman the MP called about from the gate?” The corporal rises from her desk chair and pulls a sweater close over her well-pressed uniform shirt, warding off the overactive air-conditioning.

  “I’m Abby Fitzgerald. My husband is here. Or…his remains are.” Having argued her way past the Military Police at the gate of Dover Air Force Base and into the mortuary without security clearance, Abby now wonders if the battle was worth the effort. Now that she’s here, the whole thing seems a little morbid. She journeyed here, for what? To be here for John. Is she the only distraught widow who has come to the morgue driven by some crazy, protective instinct?

  A sign over the door catches her eye. ALWAYS WITH HONOR. It gives her goose bumps, realizing that John is not the only fallen soldier to come through this facility. From the Iraq invasion alone, there are now more than two thousand dead. The staff here has done this before.

  The other cubicles are surprisingly empty, but then Abby suspects it’s probably lunchtime and this woman was the unlucky worker who had to stay behind and answer phones.

  “We don’t get many widows here,” the woman says as she drags an office chair from another cubicle. She pats the seat of the chair, and Abby sits. “To be honest, we’re a mortuary. This is just a stopping place for the soldiers’ remains. We don’t conduct any ceremonies or public events here. Formal services are held at the final destination, usually the hometown of the service member. But ma’am, you should have been counseled on this by someone in the field. Our public relations work is left to local casualty assistance officers. Weren’t you contacted by someone at home?”

  Sgt. Palumbo…Abby can still see the consternation in his brow when she told him she’d be coming here. “I met with a CAO, but I chose to come here. I wanted to be here, for my husband.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am, I truly am.” Behind the woman’s gray glasses with designer “Bs” on the frames, Abby detects a flicker of sympathy. “But I’m not sure how I can help you today.”

  “I’m not sure, either.” Abby pulls her purse onto her lap, feeling as if she’s swimming through a surreal dream. “I guess I came here because I couldn’t stand the idea of my husband arriving back in the States all alone. I know that probably sounds crazy, but I feel like, like I’m his only advocate here and…” Tears streak down her cheeks now, but she’s determined to see this through.

  “Ma’am?” The woman hands Abby a box of tissues. “I am so sorry about your husband. Was he over in Iraq?” When Abby nods, the woman sighs. “How can I help you? First, let me tell you that we take our work seriously here. Our mission is to work with dignity and precision and sensitivity. Each day begins with a prayer from our chaplain, and we know what we have to do here, and that’s get the remains of our troops home.”

  Abby nods. “I appreciate that. Can I…can I see him?”

  Instead of answering, the woman wheels her chair around to the computer. “How about I give you an update on what stage of processing has been completed? What was his name?”

  “John Stanton.”

  As the woman taps the keyboard with fingernails that remind Abby of a saxophone reed, Abby searches the desk for a nameplate, but the office is not set up to receive visitors.

  “Okay, yes. I found him. His remains have arrived and are being processed, but we’re not ready to release just yet. Let me see something.” More clicking of nails. “The thing is, we have a few extra steps to go through that wouldn’t happen in, say, a normal funeral home. I see here that he has already been scanned, which they do to all the remains to make sure no unexploded ordinance is present. His personal effects have been secured and inventoried.”

  Abby thought of John’s journals. He loved to write. “It’s the best therapy,” he always said. She saved every letter he wrote. There were three boxes of them in their closet at home. “Can I pick up his journals today?”

  “I’m not authorized to release his possessions, ma’am. But everything will go to you with his remains. The thing is, we have a very detailed process here, and for the protection of the family and the fallen service member, we follow it to the letter.” She nodded at the monitor. “I see that the remains have already been identified.”

  “That’s something I thought I could do,” Abby says, her voice hoarse with emotion. “I guess I thought I could help identify him. For closure, for me.”

  “I can understand you thinking that way, ma’am, but we use other sources, digital X-rays, dental records. DNA if need be. And it says here that your husband’s ID was positive. They were able to use his fingerprints.”

  His fingerprints…

  More tears sting Abby’s eyes. He was left with his hands intact, unlike so many troop fatalities she’d read about. His hands…the palms that used to run up her bare arms over her shoulders, the fingertip that would lodge in the cleft of her neck. She grabs a fresh handful of tissues and presses the white mass to her face.

  “Okay.” There’s more tapping on the keyboard and clicking of the mouse. �
�Ma’am? Your husband’s autopsy has already been done. It looks like they’ll be embalming the body today, and then sometime tomorrow it will be ready for shipment wherever you choose. Which is Arlington, Virginia. I see you’re to have burial in Arlington National Cemetery.”

  Abby shakes her head. “It’s been suggested, but I…” She leans forward, wishing she could see the information on the monitor. “No, I didn’t make that decision yet. It must have been his mother and…he wanted to be cremated.”

  “That’s an option, if you wish,” the woman says. “We take care of that here, and an engraved urn will be carried to the place of interment.”

  Abby straightens, galvanized by Sharice’s interference. “I want him to be cremated,” she says. “How can I make that happen?”

  “I’ll get the paperwork done for you right now. If you’re his next of kin, all we need is your signature.”

  “Let’s do it.” Abby stands and steps behind the woman to view the computer screen. “And I’d like a copy of all the records you have on him.” She wants to see what other requests Sharice has made. A twenty-one-gun salute? The U.S. Army Marching Band?

  The woman shoots a look of alarm over her shoulder and minimizes the file. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is classified information. I can’t release it to anyone.”

  “Not even my mother-in-law?” Abby asks.

  “Ma’am, unless she’s employed here at the mortuary, she’s not going to see this file.”

  “I guess that’s some consolation.” Abby returns to the chair and asks the woman her name. Cpl. Heighter pulls her sweater close, taking a moment to look Abby in the eye, which she’s been avoiding through most of their conversation.

  For the first time Abby sees compassion in the woman’s eyes and recognizes the caring soul of a patriot, a daughter, a sister…a human being. “Thank you, Corporal Heighter.”

  The corporal nods and excuses herself to expedite the paperwork.

  When she’s gone, Abby gets up to pace. She checks the terminal, but John’s file isn’t even listed there anymore. Damn. She checks over her shoulder—no sign of Heighter—and moves the mouse to click on an icon. A file opens, but to get any further she needs to put in a password. Damn.