Promises to Keep (4 page)

The
funeral and the veteran's cemetery was only a few blocks further down the road
so she’d walked there for the memorial service. Her mother, whom Laura hadn't
seen since she was fifteen, was also there. She hugged Laura, said 'sorry' and
asked just how much she got for her widow's benefits.

How
had she known?

Unlike
Bob’s mom—a stranger that she felt an unexpected kinship with—her own mother’s
touch, made her skin crawl.

Laura
was both surprised and guiltily pleased at how worn out her mother looked.
After all, her 'dear and caring' mother had tried to sell Laura to her alcoholic
trailer park friend—for drugs, of course.

A
roiling fist of remembered fury coiled in her gut.

What
kind of mother does that?

Laura
already knew the answer to that particular question—an addict who would do
anything for her next hit.

At
one time, her mom had been different. Even though her mom was always a little
crazy, Laura felt loved as a child. They’d lived the stereotype—a single mom,
paying low rent in a trailer park, working two jobs to make ends meet. Back
then they had been in it together, fighting for survival—her and her mom.

Then
her mom discovered meth.

Laura
hadn't seen her mother in ages—since she'd busted their drunken neighbor over
the head with her junior high swimming trophy and ran out of her room, out of
her ramshackle trailer park home and out of their backwoods town.

The
guy's voice still rang in her ears. "I done paid for a virgin and Goddamn
if I ain't gonna have my piece of one."

Laura
hadn't a clue how her mother found out about the funeral. Maybe from the news
on TV? She couldn't imagine the Navy told her.

Completely
unwelcome, the woman shouldn't have been there, yet there she was in all her
sunken-cheeked, smelly, methamphetamine glory.

Laura
politely endured her mother’s presence throughout the short ceremony. Some
extremely dour man in a uniform said some words about a grateful nation. Laura
didn't see any grateful nation. In fact, to her eyes, the nation didn't seem to
remember or care—especially if the latest reality show was on.

Then
an American flag was stuffed into her arms, some military men shot some guns in
the air and it was over. It was a miracle that she'd been able to give her mom
the slip.

Mom
hadn't had the nerve to come to her home—not yet, anyway—but every other week,
like clockwork, Laura had gotten a letter from her, asking about money.

She
cracked the beer and folded her legs under her. God that beer went down well.
It was cool and satisfying after a long, hot day.

The
envelope opened easily and she started to read.

Dear
Mrs. Wynn;

I'm
so very sorry to have to write you in this way but I feel that I should. My
name is Jack Curren. I am a Navy doctor. I was in charge of the medical team of
which your husband, Bob, was a part.

I
really don't know what to tell you. I'm new to this sort of thing, but I feel
it's my duty to reach out to you in some way. There's nothing anyone could say
that could make this better or justify his death. What happened to Bob was
awful and senseless and I cannot say enough about just how sorry I am.

Bob’s
gone and there’s no rhyme nor reason to it.

It
could have been anybody who was unlucky enough to be in that place at that
time. No battle was won, no strategic initiative gained, nobody is any more
free as a result. It was just a bunch of guys who depended on each other and
cared about each other in some worthless place a million miles from home—and one
of them didn't make it.

I
know this sounds depressing. Bringing you down is not what I'm trying to do.
What I'm trying to say and what I'm saying so badly, is that I don't buy into
the platitudes and hollow words that people think are so comforting at a time
like this.

The
truth is that this whole thing sucks. It sucks for you, for Bob and for all of
us. I think we don't serve his memory justice unless we recognize it for what
it is.

I
won't pretend to have known him very well. I think people who go on like they
do when they don't, are fake to the core.

Bob
was a new guy in a large group of men under my command. In the short time he
was with me, I didn't get the chance to know him like I should have.

He
was just another one of the guys trying to do a tough job in a tough place.
Even though we may not have been close, that doesn’t mean that I don't
appreciate what he did for us and his fellow sailors and Marines. I respect the
fact that he put on a uniform and came out to this lousy piece of sand.

I do
know some things about Bob from spending time with him and seeing him at work.
I know he truly cared about people. I know when he worked, he always put in his
all. He went above and beyond to help our wounded. I deeply respected and
appreciated that about him. He was a good medic.

Bob
was extremely brave and put others before himself until the very end of his
life. He earned my deepest respect for the courage he exhibited until his last
breath.

I
was with Bob when he died and I can tell you honestly that the last words he
said to me
—
his last thoughts on this earth—were
of you and how much he loved you.

If
you remember anything about him and this whole situation, please remember that.

He
was a good guy and a good corpsman and the world will be a lesser place without
him in it.

I’m
so incredibly sorry for your loss
—
our loss
—
and
I hope I can be of service to you and help you with anything that you need.

Jack
Curren, M.D.

Laura
put the letter down, her eyes brimming, blurred with tears. She looked over the
signature once more.
Jack Curren, M.D.

At
first, she didn't know what to think. The letter wasn't what she'd expected at
all—not by a long shot. Laura thought that maybe she should be a little
offended. It was definitely frank and almost offensively to the point.

On
the other hand, it was a heck of a lot more sincere than all of the crappy
platitudes the Navy men and Marines had fed her at the funeral. It was, in a
way, refreshing to read.

Dr. Curren
cut through all the bullshit and told it like it was.

She
appreciated that.

Laura
didn’t know how long she sat there, staring at the bold, hand-written script.
They were words meant to give peace and closure, written by a man who was
finding it difficult to come to terms with Bob’s death.

She
sat looking over the unexpected letter, a single piece of paper sent from a
place of war in another country, far, far away.

It
took some time before Laura realized that she’d been crying. Hot wet tears
rolled down her face, yet she knew she wasn’t sad. In fact, she felt better
than she had in a long, long time.

Her
skin tingled with the feel of a cooling salt breeze coming off the river. It
was unique to the brackish waters that fed into the Pamlico Sound.

It
smelled and felt so good, softly caressing her
—refreshing and
filling her senses.

The
breeze flowed through the open window of her apartment, carrying nocturnal
sounds that drifted up through the North Carolina night from the street below.

Laura
wiped her eyes, took out a pen and paper and began to write.

Jack
hit the brakes of the HUMVEE, affectionately known as a "hoopty" as
in "let's get the hoopty and go for a ride.” Dust flew as the tires
skidded. The Marines were out to play today, but Haji just didn't want to be
found.

"Why
are they stopping?"

Chief
Whitley peered through the grimy window. "I dunno. Maybe they found an
IED."

"Or
another bag of trash somebody left on the side of the trail."

"Who
knows? There's garbage everywhere."

Jack
nodded. One thing about Iraq, there's no trash day and no cans neatly lined up
on the curb
—not many curbs either, for that matter. People did what
they had to do. Most stuff was used over and over again, but even with the most
meticulous recycling and reusing, stuff eventually wore out. When that
happened, it was tossed right out the front door where the wind picked it up
and blew it all over the place.

Every
pile of crap, every bag of garbage could hide a bomb. Many times, trucks were
blown to shit by those bombs, but mostly they were just piles of random refuse.

Of
course, the Marines didn't know which was dangerous and which was just nasty
looking, so they had to stop and check out every damned one.

"How
much time before we end this sweep?"

Chief
pulled out his laminated tactical map, looked at it, turned it over and looked
at it again. "About an hour, I guess. We go up to the next village, then
hang a left down the MSR."

That
made Jack feel a little better. MSR stood for "main supply route" and
to Jack that meant a wide paved road and a Hell of a lot less dust. He hated
the dust.

It
would be hot… again, as usual. Scorching hot. One-hundred and twenty degrees in
the shade, hot. This place was the definition of 'Hell' in a few different ways.
Unrelenting, immense summer heat was definitely one of them.

Huge
clouds of talcum powder-like dust the patrol trucks kicked up, added to their
misery. It was so fine that it got into the hoopty and all over everything.

Dust
got up his nose, in his mouth, ears and throat. It tasted like a mixture of
dirt, oil and goat shit. Jack felt as though he could never get fully clean
while he was in this God forsaken place.

What
I wouldn't give to be going deep on some gnarly waves, right now. At this
point, I'd settle for a long shower.

Iraq
might have sand, but Orange County had sand
and
surf. Besides, Iraqi’s
sand was more like nasty-ass dust.

Chief
Whitley put away his map. "Why don't you ever let me drive, sir?"

"'Cause
I get bored, that's why. I gotta do something or I'll go nuts. Tell me, why are
we following these guys around again?"

"You
said you wanted to be where the action is," Chief said, as he waved his
hand at the windshield. "That's the action."

"Funny."
Jack shifted. "Looks like we're moving again. It must've been somebody's
laundry."

The
column moved up the trail in silence until they reached the village. It was
small, just a collection of huts, really. Jack could tell it was probably a
bunch of farmers by the palm orchards and goatherds.

They
turned left at the main intersection.

"Keep
your pacing, you're getting behind."

"I
see it." Jack sped up a little.

In a
convoy, you don't want to get too close to the vehicle in front of you. If
you’re too close, a bomb could take both of you out. However, if you got too
far behind the group, you'd be a sitting duck for an ambush.

The
wheel jerked in Jack's hand as they made the transition from a dirt trail to
the paved road of the MSR.

"Chief,
I think
—
"

Jack's
voice was lost in an ear-splitting roar just ahead. A large plume of earth and
smoke erupted from the shoulder, right next to the passenger side of the HUMVEE
in front of them. The vehicle was propelled to the other side of the road where
it shuddered to a halt.

"Fucking
Hell!” Yelled chief. "That was a big one!"

Chunks
of asphalt and dirt that had been tossed into the sky, pattered down on top of
their hoopty with metallic pinging noises.

Jack's
ears were ringing. He felt as if his whole body was shaking, vibrating like a
tuning fork.

The
entire right side of the HUMVEE was caved in, kind of like a beer can that had
been stepped. Black smoke billowed ominously, like a growing thundercloud from
under the hood.

In a
rush, Jack kicked open his door, and pulled the small fire extinguisher from
its mount on the dashboard. With his other hand, he grabbed his medic bag and
slung it over his shoulder.

"Don't
forget your rifle," he called needlessly back to Chief.

Fire.
I hate fire.

A
tendril of fear ran through him. They both knew that more often than not, these
roadside IEDs proceeded an ambush. First responders to the wrecked vehicle were
almost always the targets of choice.

Together,
without hesitation and well aware that they may get shot, Jack and Chief
Whitley
rushed toward the blasted hoopty.