The Severance (18 page)

Luckily, more pleasant images began to flicker through Jake’s exhausted mind. Amy, his love, the mother of his child, the woman who once called him a jerk but married him anyway, that was the ticket. Amy could wipe out every ache.

They’d met when they were still in college. A friend of a friend told Jake that Amy thought he was too tactless and he was instantly hooked. Like most men, he chased after the things he couldn’t have.

When conventional attempts to woo Amy failed, he attempted what he called a “stunt.” The police called it a “misdemeanor” and the paramedics referred to it as “foolish.” Though the gesture resulted in a broken arm, it also earned him a first date. Within a year of meeting, Amy and Jake had moved in together and, after 18 months, they were married.

Amy seemed to possess a strength that most women didn’t. Jake admired her courage at dealing with the hardships of being separated from him and remaining faithful to him, even after she gave birth to their son, John, without Dad being present. At the time, Jake had been deployed to Iraq on his first combat tour. Now, John had recently turned three. Of course, Jake hadn’t been there for that occasion or any other in John’s short life.

Still, Amy carried on. She had sent him pictures of the boy, John smiling broadly, a replica of his father. For an instant, Jake regretted those absences—from his wife, whom he loved, and his son, to whom he didn’t feel even slightly connected. But he cheered himself up briefly by remembering The Severance. Money created options, and Jake wanted his son to have all the options possible.

I’ll devote all the time necessary to get to know him, too, when I get home, he thought, looking up at the ceiling of the tent and letting out a long sigh. Still there was the matter of cheating on his beloved wife. Why? It wasn’t for the sex. Amy more than satisfied him. It wasn’t for love. Amy was the only woman that Jake had ever loved or ever would. He had kept justifying his infidelity by telling himself that he couldn’t stand to be alone. He needed to feel a woman’s warmth next to him. He needed to lie next to someone who cared about him as much as he cared about his wife. Was that the same reasoning his father used to habitually cheat on his mother with all those secretaries, assistants, and paralegals?

Though he’d said the same thing scores of times before, Jake resolved that he was finished with extramarital affairs. He sat up on his cot and spoke aloud. “I mean it this time!” Instantly, he fell back on his pillow and let sleep wash over him.

• • •

As was so often the case these days, Jake’s dreams, unlike his fantasies of his wife and son, were of death and destruction. As he dreamed, he rolled around restlessly and occasionally cried out.

Williams, Marcus Williams
. He’d been Jake’s gunner in Iraq. He did his job, didn’t talk much, and stayed out of trouble. Marcus Williams was completely forgettable. In the Army it was all too easy to remember the worst soldiers and hard to remember the good ones.

In those days, they patrolled in Humvees. Jake and many other junior officers were convinced that the Humvee was invincible, with its gun turret, steel doors, and bulletproof glass. In reality, the guntruck was a deathtrap. Small improvised explosives could disable it; even those produced with household cleaning products could be sufficient if employed correctly. Jake saw many Humvees in various states of destruction, smashed up and torched. But Humvees were the best the Army would provide its soldiers at the time.

Jake’s platoon routinely patrolled their sector with no destination or schedule. They aimlessly drove around the streets of Baghdad. Jake’s company commander called this “presence patrolling.” Jake referred to it as “drive around until you get blown up” patrolling.

It was on one of these aimless patrols in Al Dora, Baghdad, that Jake’s Humvee, the lead truck, struck an Improvised Explosive Device. It had been a small bomb, and it did little or no damage to the vehicle. Jake’s driver mashed the gas pedal as he’d been trained to do and got the vehicle out of the immediate blast area. The other vehicles in the patrol followed.

Once safely out of the kill zone and the truck stopped, Jake and his driver began to laugh hysterically. As scary and dangerous as IED strikes were, nothing made a person feel more alive than surviving one.

As they were laughing, a look of horror overtook the driver’s face and Jake began to feel a warm wetness on his face and neck. Williams, the gunner, had been hit in the neck by a piece of shrapnel and was now slumped over, dripping blood onto Jake. The driver, screaming, rushed for a medic.

It took a full two seconds for William’s injury to register with Jake. The gunner’s seat quick-release tab seemed to be jammed with duct tape, making it inoperable. Jake produced a small pocketknife and began to cut at the seat’s thick strap, a seeming eternity. Meanwhile, Williams’ blood poured over him as if from a pitcher.

When Jake was finally able to cut the strap, Marcus Williams dropped into the truck’s crew area like a sack of potatoes. The hole in his neck was the size of a golf ball. Jake put his hand over the wound and applied pressure, but blood gushed out from around the sides of his hands. Williams was barely moving. His brown skin was turning pale grey.

“Stay with me, damn it!” Jake yelled, looking around the truck’s cramped cabin for some inspiration that could save the stricken soldier.

Williams’s eyes tried to focus on Jake’s. He began moving his lips in an effort to say something, but the only sound he made was a loud gurgling.

When the platoon medic arrived at the vehicle, he took command.

“Sir, I’ve got to get at this wound. Move your hands!” Calmly, but with authority, he began to stuff the wound with gauze.

Jake watched the medic at work, his mind numb. He wanted to leap from the vehicle and bellow commands to the soldiers, who had now dismounted their vehicles. But he could do nothing but sit and watch Williams die. The driver sprinted back to the vehicle and leapt in.

“Don’t bother hurrying, he’s done,” the medic said flatly.

“What?” Jake said, not fully comprehending.

The wounded soldier was still; no more blood poured from the neck wound. His skin had lost all its color. Williams was dead. And the only thing Jake could remember about the 19-year-old boy was that he liked Fruit Roll-Ups and read
Source
magazine.

“But shouldn’t we still take him to the hospital?” Jake asked, voice trembling.

“Sir, you don’t take dead people to the hospital. I suggest that you report the situation to higher and we take him back to the FOB,” the medic replied.

The ride back to the FOB was a blur.

The memorial for Private First Class Marcus Williams was short and to the point. Several senior officers who’d never met Williams spoke about the tenets of duty, honor, and country and how Marcus lived up to such virtuous touchstones. The battalion commander, who couldn’t have picked Marcus Williams out of a lineup, recalled a humorous story involving the soldier.

Finally, after the others had their moment, it was Jake’s turn. He wanted to say something moving, something that would have meaning. He wanted to talk about the pointlessness of war. Instead, he gave a rousing speech about the importance of the Army’s core values and how Marcus Williams had given his life for those values, his fellow soldiers, and the people of Iraq.

The chaplain told Jake it might be a long time before he felt “right” again. He felt functional in seven days. Marcus Williams had lived for 19 years and had been in Jake’s platoon for four months. Seven days is all it took him to get past the boy’s death. Jake knew he was not processing the horrors of war in a sensible way, by grieving or getting help. He told himself he would cry for Williams someday, but he never did. Instead he got a new gunner and the platoon continued with its aimless and pointless patrolling.

Jake woke up gasping for air, sweating like a stevedore. Another bad dream had cost him rest and peace of mind. It was getting harder and harder to sleep soundly and Jake worried that he might finally be coming unglued. Hold together just a little longer, he thought. Grabbing his toiletries and towel, he made off for the shower trailer. Perhaps it would help refresh and invigorate him. But as he wiped off the excess shaving cream, he grimaced at himself in the mirror. His face had never looked this battered. But the swelling in his eye had gone down considerably.

“Don’t fret it, Sir. You look like I did after my last bar fight,” Private Cooper said, stepping out of a nearby shower stall. Cooper had a propensity for brawling and was more than happy to throw fists at a moment’s notice, which was why he was in Kodiak Platoon.

“Coop, as I recall, you at least won that fight,” Jake said, as he began to brush his teeth.

“My anger management coach said life isn’t all about winning and losing. It’s a chain of linked experiences and events,” Cooper said, wrapping himself in his towel, and stepping up to the sink next to Jake.

Jake spat the suds in his mouth into the sink.

“Your anger management coach is an idiot. Life is all about winning,” he said.

The platoon was prepared and ready to move at 0730. The men stood around the front entrance of the tent, smoking. Almost all of them had already eaten at the nearby chow hall. Jake had elected to use the additional time to think.

Sergeant McBride arrived and assembled the men in their standard platoon formation and in fresh, new uniforms. For most of the men in Kodiak Platoon, this was the first time they’d been decorated. The last time many of these men had worn new uniforms they’d been informed they were no longer worthy of remaining in the military.

“Let’s have a look at you,” McBride said, as he walked to the front of the group. Jake approached McBride.

“Good morning, dear,” McBride said, as he quickly checked Jake’s uniform.

“Sleep well, sweetheart?” Jake asked, and he checked McBride’s uniform, too. As for the rest of the platoon, most of the soldiers had on acceptable uniforms; only a few had minor deficiencies that were corrected on the spot.

It had been a while since Jake had addressed the platoon as a whole. The last time had been when Corporal Harris was killed the preceding August. Everything Jake had said then felt hollow and insincere. He might not get another chance to talk to his men and would regret it if he didn’t try to say something meaningful, so he licked his lips and prepared his thoughts.

“Everyone doing all right?” Jake asked, trying to project his voice to the back rank of soldiers. The soldiers all nodded their heads affirmatively while murmuring indecipherably. McBride glanced at Jake for a moment and then went back to the task of checking soldiers.

Jake continued his address.

“Good to hear, boys. I was just thinking that it’s been a while since I got to talk to you all at once like this. Might be the last time we come together. You guys have been great, perfect. Nobody expected you to succeed, but you proved them all wrong. You exceeded every expectation, including mine. You’re going home heroes. So thank you. Thanks for everything.” He stopped, searching for something further to say.

“Did that lamppost that hit you have a good lead jab, too?” someone from the back called out. The men chuckled for a moment, before being silenced by McBride. Jake allowed himself to laugh.

“No, it had a weak jab, but one hell of a right,” Jake said, motioning toward his blackened eye. The men laughed again.

“You about done, Sir?” McBride asked as he walked up. The sergeant looked troubled. It reminded Jake that The Severance issue had not been solved.

“What’s on your mind? You look like someone shot your dog.”

“We’re running a little behind as it is. I’ll talk to you after the ceremony,” McBride said. Jake caught a glimpse of Olsen staring at them. Jake hoped with all his might that McBride didn’t want to talk about Olsen. Either way, the conversation was better left for later.

The platoon didn’t formally march to the division headquarters; instead, McBride chose to move them in what he called an “organized mob.” They arrived at the headquarters compound ten minutes before 0800. The four-story division headquarters, with its well-maintained landscaping and paved parking lots, was one of the nicest compounds on the base, and in Afghanistan, second only to the NATO ISAF compound.

The platoon headed for a massive stage set up with 50 neatly aligned, white folding chairs in front. This was its assembly point, where some hard-working, underappreciated lieutenant had managed the setup, but almost certainly wouldn’t be thanked for it. Several people wandered about the stage as the platoon walked up. A lieutenant colonel quickly scurried over.

“Captain Roberts? I’m looking for the platoon leader. Where is Captain Roberts?” the LTC called, moving through the crowd.

“I’m Captain Roberts,” Jake said, raising his hand.

“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Franco from division public affairs office. I’m here to—Jesus Christ, son, what happened to your face?”

“An accident, Sir,” Jake said, hoping Franco wouldn’t question more.

“What kind of accident, Roberts?” Franco asked. “Were you in a brawl?”