Fade to Black - Proof (27 page)

Chapter

30

It was dark as he lay there,
and he felt the ground begin to tilt. In the distance Jack heard the sound of
gunfire, or maybe close and the distance was an illusion. He felt nauseated,
tasted the bile mixed with blood in the back of his throat. There was a burning
pain there, spreading out backwards over his neck. And there was a tightness
that extended into his chest. With each struggling breath, there was a high‐pitched
whistling and gurgling sound. He realized that the darkness was because his
eyes were closed, and with great difficulty, struggled to open them. The sky
above him was purplish and hazy, heavy with dust. A shadow passed over him and
he heard the familiar thump, thump of a UH-60 passing overhead. A darker shadow
enveloped him as someone bent over his face. He tried to force his eyes to
focus on the features of the man looking down on him, but couldn’t.

“Hang in
there, Sergeant. You’re gonna be ok!”

“How is he,
Doc?”

“I don’t know.
He’s lost a shitload of blood. The left side of his neck is swollen tight. I
think he might have gotten his carotid artery.” There was a pause and more
light as the featureless face disappeared from view. “We got to get him the
fuck out of here, Mac, or he ain’t gonna make it. He needs to be in the OR,
like, 5 mikes ago.”

It was
painfully familiar. The horrible déjà vu was back, only now, lying on his back
in the dirt he had no activity to distract him from it—only the terrible radio
play that he had heard before. Doc White, the young Louisiana corpsman, would
tell Mac about his tracheotomy next. God, please make it stop!

 “What is that
in his neck? Shrapnel?”

“It’s a
tracheotomy, dipshit. I had to put it in so he could breathe. The bullet tore
his windpipe nearly in half. He was drowning in his own blood.”

There was
movement around him, then another shadow, another featureless face. It had to
be Ballard, or maybe someone from first platoon. Maybe even Chad. How weird.
Hadn’t he just had lunch with him?

Jack felt
desperately short of breath and struggled to suck air into his lungs, which
made the burning worse. He tried to raise an arm, to reach out for Mac, but his
arms were dead weight by his sides. He felt a panic grow inside of him, and
struggled to stay calm. Why the fuck couldn’t he move? Was it like that before
in the dream?

He forced his
mind away from his burning pain, from the feeling like tight bands were wrapped
around his chest, keeping him from getting air into his oxygen‐starved body. He
forced his mind to Pam, to thoughts of her body moving against his, of their
legs entwined, her breath on his neck. The way she liked to lick his neck and
earlobes. He thought of Claire, lying peaceful and calm on his bare chest,
rocking in the glider beside her crib—his big girl. He tried again to let his
mind wander to his girls and away from his fear of his lingering death.

He sensed more
movement beside him and he blinked his eyes to clear them. He turned his head
slightly to the left, forcing his eyes to focus on the dark shape beside him in
the dirt. Slowly the image sharpened, like someone was fine‐tuning a pair of
binoculars. Jack suddenly remembered what he would see when the image cleared.
He closed his eyes tightly. He had no desire to see Simmons’ dead body again.
He had seen that more than enough. Jack found himself wishing that, if he
couldn’t fade away in his chariot of swirling sand, he could just fade away all
together.

Jack heard the
horrible whistling and bubbling, just like in his nightmares, and then
something warm and sticky poured out from the center of his neck. He felt the
blood tickling down both sides of his neck and dripping off into the dirt.

Jack realized
he needed desperately to know that his girls were ok. If he could just know
that, he thought he might be brave enough to finish his trip. He felt a gentle
breeze on his face.

*   *   *

Jack sat on a
bench, warm in the sunshine but not hot in that oppressive, ovenlike heat of
Iraq. He leaned forward, knees to elbows, and rubbed his tired face with clean
and soft hands.

Then he opened
his eyes.

He was in the
park near their house. He could tell from the green leaves and warm breeze that
it was definitely not November anymore, but rather spring or early summer. He
scanned the handful of people on the playground, searching for them.

Pam stood
behind Claire, pushing her in a swing. Jack saw immediately that it was not the
little toddler swing, but a “big girl” swing, and the little girl seated there
was much older than Claire-- at least four or five years old. She had the most
beautiful blonde hair that trailed out behind her and reflected gold in the
sunshine. Her blue eyes were wide and smiling. She pumped her little bare legs
back and forth, her dress bunched up unceremoniously in the wind she created.
The sound of her musical laughter grabbed his heart.

“Higher,
Mommy, higher!” she squealed.

“High enough,
Claire Bear,” her mother laughed back. Jack smiled, his eyes filling with
tears. “You’re gonna give ol’ Mommy a heart attack!”

Claire giggled
and then Pam grabbed her around the waist, pulling her to a stop and then
smothered her in kisses. Claire squealed again and then hopped from the swing
and ran towards the jungle gym.

“Catch me, Mommy!”
she shouted.

Pam started
after her then stopped. She hesitated a moment, and then turned slowly towards
Jack. For a moment their eyes met across the park. Pam wrapped her arms tightly
around her chest, as if she had gotten a chill. Her smile tightened a bit, but
Jack noted with satisfaction that she still smiled. They stared at each other
like that, motionless.

Then Claire
broke the moment.

“Come on,
Mommy,” she said with a five-year-old’s fleeting irritation. “Come and catch
me!”

Pam stood a
moment, and then raised a hand to him in a small wave. She pressed her lips to
her fingers, and waved again. Then she spun on a heel, laughed again as if the
moment had never happened, and ran towards the jungle gym where her daughter
climbed the wrong way up the slide.

“I’m comin’ to
getcha, Bear!”

Jack caught
the invisible kiss in his hand and pressed his palm to his own lips.

Then the
sunlight was obscured by swirling sand.

*   *   *

He struggled
to open his eyes again, fighting the darkness and the sense of being buried
alive. Thick clouds of dust and sand swirled around him, kicked up by the
blades of the helicopter. The blackness continued to envelop him, although he
felt quite certain that his eyes were open now.  He was flat on his back,
uncomfortable in his body armor. His Kevlar helmet was off, his head in the
dirt, but he didn’t really care. He was only vaguely aware, in a disinterested
way, of the sound of gunfire, like noise on a TV in another room. He could also
hear voices and was aware of activity all around him. Someone held his hand.
There was a horrible burning in the center of his throat and a raspy gurgle
when he sucked in a breath.

“They’re
coming around this side.”

“Clear that
space as a path.”

“Hold his
head! Hold his head!”

“Corporal
light up that fucking window and silence that Hadji sniper!”

Jack was
pretty sure it was Captain Lewellyn’s voice. Not much patience in it right now.
Jack wondered if Lewellyn knew what he had been to him.

A burst of
gunfire.

Screams in the
distance.

“Dustoff in three
minutes, sir!”

“Casey! Hang
in there, bud. Helo’s coming! ...Casey!!”

Casey? He
realized that felt truly right for the first time. All the times he had heard
it now in this running nightmare, this was the first time it felt like him. A
hand squeezed his own left hand and he tried to squeeze back, but couldn’t be
sure if he had. There were spots of light in the dark. Small, but bright, spots
of light. He felt that should mean something to him. He wiggled the fingers of
his left hand and felt them move.

“That’s good,
Sar’n. I’m here, buddy. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

Casey tried
again to talk, but his effort brought only frustration and more pain deep in his
throat. Casey thought of his wife. What would she be doing right now? What time
was it there? Was it day or night at home? He wasn’t sure. He only knew that he
wanted desperately to be there. Where was the dusty tornado that was supposed
to take him home? He concentrated on picturing them in the park, running the
wrong way up the jungle gym slide.

Come and get
me, Mommy!

Casey smiled.

 
“Bird’s on the
ground.”

“Great,” Doc’s
voice. HM2 White, the Navy corpsman. “Doc Barton on board?” Barton was the
physician from battalion.

“He’s here.”

Another
squeeze on his hand. He felt so fucking weak, but was able to squeeze back. His
mouth was so dry. He desperately wanted a drink of water. Casey blinked his
eyes as he saw red lights approaching. Flashlights. Then there was a loud
explosion, close this time, and he felt Doc White lean over him to keep the
blowing dust from settling on his face.

“Shit! Jesus,
where did that come from?”

“No! Goddamn
it, no. Check left! Check left!” he heard short bursts of M16A rifles, then the
loud burp as a squad assault weapon let loose a ten‐ or fifteen‐round burst.
There was shouting as well, farther away.

“Holy shit!
How long has his neck been that big? Goddamn. Got the carotid for sure. If that
thing lets loose we’ll sure as hell lose him.”

“Doc, he’s
awake. He can hear you.”

“Sergeant
Stillman? Casey? It’s Doc Barton. You’re gonna be ok, buddy.” He felt a squeeze
on his left shoulder, but was not reassured. Casey felt a strong terror grow
inside him. He didn’t want to die here in this shithole. He didn’t want to die
at all.

“Pam…Claire.” He
mouthed the words but there was no sound. He was certain now that they knew how
much he loved them. He pictured them again, playing and laughing in the park. Casey
felt the world getting dark again, felt again like he was tumbling, falling to
the left. It was nauseating and he felt a horrible sharp pain growing in his
left temple. He could also feel tears, running out of his eyes and down his
grimy cheeks.

I love you, Baby.
I’m so sorry, but I think I’ve got to go.

Then he felt
himself getting pulled down into a warm darkness, like the night was wrapping
around him in a comfortable blanket.

Chapter

31

The young woman walked slowly
up the familiar path between the identical white headstones. Around her a mix
of tourists and families milled about in quiet reverence, whispering to one
another as they pointed to names, or stood quietly beside a stone. The quiet
ones mostly stared fixedly at the stones, eyes far away and lost in thought. Some
looked off in contentment, finding comfort in easy memories of better times.

Though she
walked slowly, she lost herself in thought of the man she never really knew. She
walked with the steady pace of one who had walked this path many times. She
pictured in her mind the strong face of her father, his easy smile, his hazel
eyes which seemed to hold so much love and happiness. As she often did lately,
perhaps as she grew older, she wondered whether the pictures in her mind were
real memories of her father or just memories of pictures and stories, shown and
told so often by her mother that they became real to her. She smiled softly.
Just the kind of question her Dad might wonder. It didn’t matter. Her father’s
memory was very real and alive for her, whether from her own very early
memories or her mother’s loving portrait of the man. That was what mattered.

Claire was
unsure why today, this time, it seemed so important to her that she come for
her visit alone. It was the first time she had ever been here without her
mother, and she felt the same sense of purpose, of destiny, that had drawn her
since last night. Her mother would arrive at the airport in just a few hours.
Then they would come here together later this afternoon, walk this same path as
they had every November for all the life her memory could share with her. But
since last night, it had felt as if she were being called here. Crazy as it
sounded, she knew in her heart that she was supposed to be here alone this
morning. Claire pulled up the collar of her navy blue overcoat, as much against
the chill the thought gave her as against the actual cold of the crisp morning.
The leaves were gone from the trees—had been for nearly a month—which was a
little early for Washington D.C., but the cold had come well before Halloween
this year.

Claire turned
right, her pace slowing a little, both by her search for more memories of her dad
and a little apprehension about standing at his grave alone. She had lived in
D.C. for almost a year and a half now, since starting last year at George
Washington University, and had never come here alone. She had thought about it
a time or two last year, and of course had made the visit with her mother last
November, but had never quite been able to make herself come alone. For some
reason the thought made her feel better about this morning instead of more
nervous.

Claire turned
left almost without thinking. Almost there. As she approached her dad, she
suddenly stopped, surprised and unsure what to do.

The man who
stood at the foot of her father’s grave was tall and lanky. His hair was
peppered grey on top and shaved skin-close on the sides. His face looked much
younger than his grey hair suggested and he had the build of an athlete,
obvious even with his loose-fitting black leather jacket.

Definitely a Marine.
Claire had met more than her share of Marines over the years. They had come to
her birthday parties and brought their kids to the park to play with her. All
of her life she had been cared for by “the rest of our family,” as her Mom
referred to the Corps. But she had never seen anyone else here on their visits.
And she was sure she had never met this man, who stood next to her dad, his
broad shoulders slumped and his head bowed. Curious, Claire approached.

“Hi,” she
said, unsure what else to say.

The man jumped
slightly, startled from some faraway memory, and then looked around nervously.

“Um…uh, hi,”
he said. His voice cracked the slightest bit, as if he had been crying. Then he
looked Claire in the eyes, his own wet and sad. “I’m…uh…I’m sorry. You and Pam,
I mean your mom, don’t usually come until the afternoon.” The man shifted
nervously, the emotion out of place on a Marine. “You’re Claire, right?”

“Yes,” she
answered.

“Well, I’ll
come back later,” the man announced and turned away from her to leave. Pam
noticed the limp, slight and well adapted over sixteen years, but still easily
visible.

“Wait,” Pam
said, catching the man by the sleeve. The Marine turned to her, pain in his
eyes. “Did you know my Dad?” she asked.

“Yes,” the man
said simply, and he looked down at his feet. Claire saw tears running softly
down his cheeks, weathered beyond his years by many deployments to harsh
jungles and deserts around the world.

“You’re him,
aren’t you?” she asked. Her heart raced with excitement. It was as if a puzzle
picture of her Dad, a single piece missing for all of these years, was finally
going to be finished. Without thinking, she took the Marine’s hands in hers.
“Are you Corporal Rich Simmons?”

The man looked
up, a half smile on his face.

“It’s Gunnery
Sergeant Simmons now, thanks to your Dad,” he said. “But Rich to you.”

“Yes,” Claire
breathed. “Yes, I knew it!”

A pained look
came over the man’s face again.

“Your father
died for me, Claire.” He looked again at his feet. “Because of me,” he
whispered softly.

Claire looked
away as if she hadn’t heard him somehow. Her voice was still pitched with
excitement.

“You used to
send me presents every year,” she said and squeezed the calloused hands in
hers. “You sent me the beautiful necklace with Marine Corps eagle, globe, and anchor!”
She let go of one of his hands and fumbled under her coat, pulling out the gold
necklace for him to see. “See? I still wear it every day! You were WITH him!”
her voice took on a childlike quality and she practically bounced up and down.
“You were with my dad, just like Uncle Chad!”

The Marine
gripped her hands firmly and looked her again in the eyes. Claire stopped
bouncing and looked back at the stranger she felt she knew.

“Mom used to
always invite you over, but you never came,” she said. There was no judgment in
her words—more of a question.

“Claire,” the
man swallowed and clenched his jaw. Then he started again. “Claire, your daddy
is dead because of me. He died saving me.” The man let go of her hands and
pressed one fist to his forehead. “Casey died for me,” Simmons started to sob
uncontrollably and sixteen years of grief and guilt came out as it likely did
every year on this day. Claire reached up, taking the Marine by his wrists so
she could see his face again.

“I was raised
believing that Daddy died for all of us, Gunny,” she said simply. “He was a
United States Marine.”

The man looked
at her again, smiling now, his cheeks red and wet. Claire suspected that the
man knew, just as she did, that was exactly what Sar’n Stillman would have said.
He hugged Claire back and then together they turned and faced his stone.

Engraved at
the top was a reproduction of the Medal of Honor. Below it:

Sergeant Casey
Jack Stillman, USMC

May 1978 –
November 2004

Fallujah, Iraq

Beneath was
inscribed an excerpt from his award citation:

…After saving
the life of one member of his platoon, and while still under heavy enemy fire,
Sgt. Stillman was mortally wounded while trying to rescue another…

Claire and
Rich Simmons, Gunnery Sergeant, United States Marine Corps, stood hand in hand
at the foot of the grave, each lost in thought about the man they loved.