Baghdad blues, p.33
Baghdad Blues, page 33
“Damn, that was harsh,” Schmidt said.
“I like her. I like her a lot.” He felt disarmed by her as he’d felt around Doctor Lisa. And even Gunslinger. All three were confident women but not in an arrogant or egotistical way. He laughed to himself. The train up for the deployment to Iraq involved how to kill the enemy and survive. Over the last year he’d certainly learned a lot of lessons when it comes to anger and aggression, but there was one thing he hadn’t expected to learn about in a combat zone—women.
Later that afternoon, a nurse brought in a new patient, a soldier with a bandage over his left eye. She escorted him to a bed across from them. He settled in while she placed a pillow behind his back to make him comfortable. The new soldier took a deep breath and stared at them intently.
“Sergeant K! Schmidt!”
Sergeant K stared back. No. No way. It can’t be. It’s just not possible.
“It’s me! Lieutenant James Jammer!”
Oh … my … God. He stared at him in disbelief. “What … what happened? Why are you here? You didn’t get hurt going outside the Wire, did you?” Sergeant K asked stunned.
Jammer chuckled. “No. Nothing like that. I was playing pool with a friend at the MWR and he was breaking. I didn’t realize how close he was and when he hit the balls the stick flew up and hit me in the eye. There’s damage to the retina. I’ll need surgery but the doctors think my vision will be normal with time.”
“Are they giving you a Purple Heart?” Schmidt asked sarcastically.
“Uh, no, I don’t think so.”
“What happened to you guys?”
“We got blown up and shot,” Sergeant K said flatly.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I hope you’ll be okay.”
“We’ll live,” Schmidt said.
“How long will you be here?”
“A few days.”
“Oh, good. We have some time then.”
Sergeant K shook his head. “Yes, but I could die this evening a victim of medical malpractice.”
Jammer smiled. “You’re funny, Sergeant K.” He looked over at the table next Schmidt’s bed. “Is that a Trivial Pursuit game? You guys wanna play?”
“No,” Sergeant K said immediately.
“Sure,” Schmidt said with a smile. “We’ll be happy to play.”
Shooting him a nasty look, he said, “You’d think that after being blown up I’d be entitled to a little rest and relaxation that doesn’t include losing at Trivial Pursuit.”
Jammer quickly slipped out of bed, grabbed a chair, and positioned himself between them. “I’ll roll for you guys.”
Sergeant K’s head began to throb. “That would be great, Lieutenant, just great.”
“Have you guys heard about Lieutenant Colonel Emmitt?” Jammer asked.
“No,” Sergeant K said. “The arrogant bastard didn’t get himself killed, did he?”
“No. General Rochester relieved him of his command.”
“What?” Sergeant K said, shocked. “Why?”
“Rochester caught him in his room standing in front of a mirror dressed up like a Brigadier General. He had his dress blues on, general’s rank, a salad full of medals on his chest. He even had a Congressional Medal of Honor around his neck.”
Sergeant K and Schmidt laughed out loud. “Well,” Sergeant K said. “I guess his ego finally caught up with him. But I’m surprised that Rochester would have taken his command away over an incident like that. He could have kept it between themselves.”
“It’s probably because we’re heading home,” Jammer said. “But General Rochester’s father won the CMH in Korea. Posthumously. Apparently, he didn’t find Emmitt’s dress up amusing.”
“No, I bet he didn’t,” Sergeant K agreed.
“He got what he deserved,” Schmidt said.
Following another ignominious defeat at the hands of Schmidt and barely beating Lieutenant Jammer, Sergeant K used the excuse that his head hurt to avoid playing another game. Jammer and Schmidt both took a nap while he began reading the book Nurse Carol had given him. He was close to finishing the third chapter when a doctor came in accompanied by Nurse Carol.
“Hello, Sergeant Kirkland. I’m Doctor Dipple. We did a CT scan of your brain.” The man had that short, mousy look. His name Dipple fit him perfectly. He seemed arrogant and bored, with a tone of disdain and suspicion concerning his condition—like he was faking his injuries or something. “Tests came back negative for TBI,” he said with a smile. “You suffered a serious concussion, but you’ll be fine.”
“Well, that’s good,” he said with relief.
“Yes,” the doctor said excitedly. “We’ll have you back in Iraq in no time.”
“Excuse me?” Sitting up straight he was about to lay into this pretentious little shit. “What do you mean sending me back?” Fortunately for all parties involved, Nurse Carol intervened.
“He won’t be going back doctor his unit is scheduled to return to the States.”
“Oh,” Doctor Dipple said. The disappointment in his voice was clear. Like a rat, he quickly slipped out of the room.
“I’m sorry about that,” Nurse Carol said, “he doesn’t have the best bedside manners.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell. I’m not being sent back, am I?”
“No. You suffered severe head trauma. You need rest. You may not have tested positive for TBI but there could be long term issues, like memory loss.”
“He seemed pretty excited to send me back.”
“Yes, fixing soldiers up as quickly as possible makes him feel like he’s contributing to the war effort I guess.”
“That’s very courageous of him.”
Nurse Carol smiled. “Don’t worry. You won’t see him again.”
“Good.”
“We notified your ex-wife and told her what happened. She knows you’re going to be okay.”
“Great.”
“She’s waiting for you to call her.”
“I’m sure she is.”
“She sounded upset over the phone when she heard the news.”
“I’m sure she was.”
“You should call her.”
“I will.”
“Well, okay. I’ll be back later to check on you.”
“Great. Thanks.”
I should call but I don’t have the energy. He was alive and was sure she hadn’t said anything to the boys to alarm them.
Dr. Dipple had exasperated his headache, but after a time he dozed off. An hour later Nurse Carol came in with his dinner. Sitting the tray down on a side table she was going to walk away without waking him when he suddenly stirred.
Clearing his head, he said, “Oh, hi,” hoping he didn’t have drool running down his lip.
“Hi,” she said in return. But her look of alarm confused him.
“Is something wrong?”
“Well, you were talking in your sleep. You were very agitated. I thought maybe you were reliving the ambush at first, but that wasn’t it.”
He couldn’t recall dreaming about anything. “What was I saying?”
“You were having a heated conversation. You kept apologizing to someone you referred to as Professor. And a boy named Walker I believe? You kept saying how sorry you were for the death of another man.”
Sergeant K sighed deeply. “Rashid. His name was Rashid. He was the professor’s son and Walker’s older brother. I had become … well … close to them over the last year.”
“I see,” Nurse Carol said. “From your dream I take it your relationship had a falling out over this Rashid?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you write a book?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“In your dream you told the professor you would finish writing your book.”
He looked away from her. “I … uh … well, I started one but never finished it.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“My head’s really hurting,” he said changing the subject. “I think I’m going to try to go back to sleep.”
“Of course. Your dinner is on the table if you get hungry.”
“Thank you.” Jesus. You’d think I’d be reliving the damn ambush, maybe the look of Roth’s eyes staring at me; his neck broken. But no, I’m dreaming about books and the professor. I should never have joined the Army or even bothered to read a damn book. I should have sold life insurance or some shit like that and I would have been happier.
Schmidt returned to the ward an hour later after having been seen by a specialist. “They’re sending me to Walter Reed in a few days,” he said.
“That’s good,” Sergeant K said. “I guess you’ll be on a medical hold for a while?”
“At least six months. They’re expecting multiple surgeries.”
“Me too. At least two months. The doctors want to be sure I don’t have any unseen brain damage.”
“Beyond what you were born with?”
“Ha, ha. They’re giving me a week of leave before I report to the armory in Savannah. I’ll work answering the phones and stuff like that. I’m leaving tomorrow or maybe the next day.”
“Why go home? They’re giving you a week’s leave. You could take it here in Europe. Rome’s only a short train ride away. I’ve heard you talk about visiting Italy a dozen times and now’s your chance.”
“But I miss my kids.”
“They’ll still be there in a week.”
“Yeah, but I would feel a whole lot better if ….”
“Come on, man. You deserve to do something for yourself, and you’ve wanted this for a long time.”
“I know.”
“You might never get another chance.”
“I know.”
“So, go.”
He could resist Schmidt’s urging but saying no to Nurse Carol was another thing. When she came in later, she immediately brought up the issue.
“Your friend Schmidt says you want to take your leave here in Europe rather than go home. Is that right?”
Thanks, Schmidt, you intrusive dick. “Well, I’d thought about it. But I should go home. The paperwork to stay here would probably be too difficult anyway.”
“It’s not normal but I’ve helped a few soldiers do it before,” she said smiling, exposing her beautiful white teeth.
“Uh … okay,” he said. He couldn’t say no to her. She was just so nice—that and she looked like Dana Delany from China Beach.
True to her word, Nurse Carol expedited his paperwork, and he would begin his leave effective the following afternoon. He wanted to see his boys badly but there was a yearning inside for something more—he just wasn’t sure what that was. Sometimes one must do things for themselves first before they can do more for others Doctor Lisa had said. It’s unlikely that Rome’s going to solve all my problems, he thought. But it’s worth a chance.
Sergeant K called his ex-wife. She was relieved that he was fine and even excited that he’d be travelling to Italy. It would be good for him she said. She was genuinely concerned for his welfare and wanted him to be happy. When he reflected on the ambush and the deaths that occurred, his resentment toward her seemed almost ridiculous and even juvenile. His year in Iraq had taught him much—life was impermanent and so were relationships. He deserved another chance at love—Thornton, James, Roth, Gibson, and the eight guys killed never would. Love must not entreat or demand. Love must have the strength to become certain within itself, he’d read once without truly understanding the words. He’d loved and lost but many people love in order to simply lose themselves. Maybe he was afraid. Afraid to find himself. Or maybe it was less about finding and more about creating.
He couldn’t sleep that night, so he finished reading Beyond Good and Evil. In the morning he felt a sense of optimism he hadn’t known in years, like he was free. Following breakfast, he gave the book back to Nurse Carol.
“Thanks again for the book. It wasn’t Harry Potter, but a decent read.”
“You’re welcome. So today is the big day. Soon you’ll be off to Italy.”
“It looks that way.”
“Well, Tom, you still have some forms to sign but don’t leave without saying goodbye.”
“I won’t.”
He finished the paperwork and had lunch with Schmidt and Second Lieutenant Jammer. As distasteful as the thought was, he was finding himself not having complete disdain for the lieutenant. He’s not a bad guy, even if he does have perfect hair. He packed what few clothes and necessities he’d bought from the PX. His bags were sitting on his bed when Nurse Carol walked in. He suddenly felt pangs of loss, realizing—like he had with Doctor Lisa—that he was going to miss her a lot.
“It looks like you’re all packed and ready to go,” she said. “But I want you to have something.”
He smiled stupidly. “You’ve changed your mind about the marriage proposal, and you want me to accept your undying love for me?”
She shook her head. “No, that’s not it.” She handed him the copy of Beyond Good and Evil. “I signed it with some kind words. Maybe not what you’d like, but it’s the best I can do.”
He took the book. “Thank you. This means a lot.”
She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Take care. I’m glad we met.”
“So am I.”
She began to walk away but stopped and turned around. “Nietzsche said ‘that which is done out of love always takes place beyond good and evil’, Tom. Don’t forget that.”
Schmidt followed him in his wheelchair outside where a cab was waiting. “It’s too bad you can’t come with me,” Sergeant K jokingly said. “We could spend a couple of days in the Fatherland and make a pilgrimage to Hitler’s bunker, or at least the parking lot that’s over it now.”
“Yeah, I’ll get there soon. Once I heal up, I think I’ll travel. I want to see Romania, Transylvania, and the castles.” After all he’s been through with his old flame Brianna, he sure could use the escape.
The cab driver stood impatiently by his car. Sergeant K regarded his friend awkwardly. “Well, take care man. I’ll see you soon.”
“Yeah, you too. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Thanks. I doubt a week in Italy will change my life, but it can’t hurt to try.”
“No, it can’t.”
“Good luck.”
“I’d give you a hug, but since you’re sitting down I won’t.”
“I’d rather you didn’t anyway.”
“Yes, I know how uncomfortable you are with affection.”
Schmidt looked at him intently. Suddenly, Schmidt struggled to rise from his seat. “Dude, what are you doing?” Sergeant K said as he helped him up. Standing before him, Schmidt rested his arms on Sergeant K’s shoulders. And then he embraced him warmly, holding him close for a few seconds. Separating, Sergeant K held him up by his hands.
Schmidt smiled. “Just because we’re holding hands doesn’t mean we’ll be taking warm showers together until the wee hours of the morning.”
Sergeant K chuckled. “Clint Eastwood. Heartbreak Ridge. I love that movie.”
“So do I.” He helped lower him back into his seat gently.
“I’ll see you soon,” Sergeant K said.
“Yes, you will.”
He was about to step into the cab when he heard, “Sergeant Kirkland! Wait!” A nurse he recognized came up to him. “Nurse Carol forgot to give you something. They found it inside your vest when they brought you in. She thought it was just a rag and was going to throw it away, but then she said I should check with you first. Here.” In her hand was the shirt he’d given Walker. “I’ll just throw it away if you like.”
“Uh … no … no. I’ll take it.”
Holding the shirt in his hands, he felt the softness of the fabric. Opening it he stared at the picture of Chuck Norris brandishing his twin Uzis. He couldn’t help but laugh, remembering how excited Walker was to receive it. And then he recalled the look of disdain on the boy’s face as he’d thrown it at his feet—I used to like America. Now I hate America. And now I hate you.
He’d done the best he could to help, to make a difference. And what did he have to show for it? Nothing but hatred and loss. Doubtless, little would change with him gone. He’d hoped to be a bridge between the Iraqis and America that could help them both—but he’d failed. But how much of that altruism was selfish? Or conceited and arrogant on his part? A modern “White Man’s Burden” whereby doing something good he’d feel better about himself—a way to forget his failures and losses. He reflected on his last conversation with Doctor Lisa. Maybe he’d believed this way for a time, but his interactions with the Iraqis—especially the professor and Walker—hadn’t been forced. They’d bonded naturally. There may have been some altruism on his part, but it wasn’t selfish. If it had, the professor would have seen right through it. They’d connected because all three felt displaced and alone—just as Doctor Lisa had said—and forced to question their past and their future. Maybe I should just throw it away. Why keep bad memories alive? Instead, he folded the shirt neatly and placed it inside his small pack.
“Sir?” The taxi driver said, bringing him out of his reflections. “Are you ready?”
“Yes … yes, I am.”
It was a short ride to the train station. Pulling out the copy of Beyond Good and Evil Nurse Carol had given him he began reading:
Dear Tom,
I wish you the very best. You are a good man and I hope you find the happiness you’re looking for. I’m sure your trip to Rome will be memorable. But if you truly wish to find peace maybe you should do it through words. In your dream you spoke of writing a book. Maybe you should use your time in Rome to finish it or write a new one. Based on our conversations, I’m quite sure you could write a great novel. I know you feel guilty about Rashid’s death and sad about the end of your relationship with the professor and his son, Walker, but maybe you can use those experiences—both the good and evil ones—to help others understand what the war in Iraq is really like. I know many great writers have used their art to expunge their demons, maybe you can too. Some think that holding on makes us strong, but maybe the real strength is in letting go.
With great affection,
