Chapter 2
Bennett
May 30, 1992
SEEING LANDSTUHL REGIONAL Medical Center in the rearview mirror of my transport Humvee was a balm on my bruised and battered spirit. Yes, it was an American hospital. Yes, the majority of the staff spoke English and were very hospitable. But the simple fact was, it was in Germany. I needed American air, American sun, American soil. I needed baseball, apple pie, and the good old red, white, and blue. I needed home, and in less than an hour’s time, that’s exactly where I’d be headed.
I double-checked my rucksack, containing everything I physically owned in this world. A few sets of BDUs and a bag of toiletries occupied the main compartment. In the front, there was a folder containing the contract from the bank, signed and ready to be mailed when I was stateside, and the college admission letter I had yet to respond to.
My passport was there, along with my now-expired driver’s license, both tucked securely in the side pocket.
The newspaper I’d smuggled out of the occupational therapy waiting room that morning—old and out-of-date, but no less valuable—was sticking out from the top of my bag where I’d stashed it before leaving for the air base. And in my pants pocket, Chance’s wrecked picture. His beauty. His golden girl. But I knew that already. I’d checked for it no less than ten times on the drive to the plane, but I checked again. Everything else was replaceable. She was not.
We boarded the aircraft with little fanfare. I wondered if I’d miss the cocktail of the spicy scent of baharat, cheap aftershave, and sweat when I got home. Probably not.
My plan was to kick back, relax, and make the most of my twenty-four-hour flight to DC by getting up to speed on the happenings of the Western world. I’d only been gone just shy of two years: four months lying in wait on the Saudi border, two months falling apart on the battlefield, and fifteen months putting myself back together, mind and body, though neither would ever be the same. War felt like a lifetime. And the way I’d gone about it? Ten lifetimes.
“Where ya headed, once we land?” I pulled my hand from my pocket, where I’d been holding the picture, and ran it through my already sweat-damp hair. Why did I always feel like a naughty child getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar when I held Chance’s girl? Probably because she was just that: Chance’s girl. For the thousandth time, I wondered if I should have let her die with him on the desert floor turned battlefield. But that’s not what he would’ve wanted. Chance was my best friend, my brother in that hole. He would have laid his life down for his golden girl just like he did for me, so it was my responsibility to keep her safe. Because he no longer could.
“This is it, right here Ben. This is why I’m here.” Chance’s philosophical moods were exhausting, but he put up with my grumpy ass, so I owed it to him to listen to his musings. The two of us met at basic, but only became friends during our time in Saudi, holding at Dharan while we awaited orders.
“You talk about ‘this’ all the time brother, though you never let me in on what ‘this’ is.” I attempted to sound perturbed, but my smile was always evident in my voice. At least, that’s what Rosie always told me.
“You’re right, asshole. And you’ll never know.” I rolled my eyes. I’d looked over his shoulder a time or two and knew it was a picture of three people perched on the edge of a stone wall, arms thrown around each other. I hadn’t seen it up close, but there was only one thing that could make a soldier smile like that—a girl.”
“Who is she?” I decided to take a chance, see if he’d take the bait.
“No one.” His words were meant for me, but his gaze never left hers. “It doesn’t matter. It isn’t like that. She’s like a sister.” He sighed, but I don’t think he was even aware of it.
“Well, I can’t speak from experience since I never had a sister, but if I did… and I spent as much time looking at her as you do looking at yours… I’d need to visit a psychologist.”
Chance shook his head and tucked the picture back into his left pocket. “The sister thing is her choice, not mine.” Ah, so there’s the truth. Unrequited love.
“Maybe things will change when you get home.” My friend swung his legs over the side of his cot and stood, stretching high in the air.
“Nope. By the time I get home, she’ll be married.” With that he walked toward the smell of food, but just like always, his left hand was in his pocket, no doubt holding on to something that would never be, both literally and figuratively.
“Hello? Earth to Hanson.” I shook myself back into the present, coming face-to-face with one of the biggest grins that ever joined the army. I cleared the vision from my mind as I checked my pocket again. “Where’d you go just now? Or do I even want to know?”
Botts, or Biscuit, as he liked to be called, was a buddy from my time in Germany. I met him shortly after the incident. He’d lost a few toes from his right foot, a couple fingers from his left hand, and his hearing on one side. His occupational therapy happened at the same time I was in physical therapy. With little else to do there, we struck up a conversation one day and the rest was history.
He went by Biscuit because he said if he could have anything in the world from back home, it would be his momma’s biscuits and gravy. I could think of a million other things I wanted and none of them would be food, so his momma must make some damn fine biscuits. Maybe he’d invite me over for some once we were stateside.
We only spoke in present tense, never past and never future. That’s the funny thing about the army. We kept all conversations superficial. Talking about the past was too painful. Most guys left something behind; a mom and dad, little brothers and sisters, a girlfriend, maybe even a wife and kids for some of the older guys. Mail deliveries, for me, were a double-edged sword. On one hand, it made me smile to see my buddies get letters and packages from home. On the other, I always left empty-handed.
We didn’t speak of the future either, not really. Sure, we’d talk about going to a baseball game, or eating real food again. It was fine to daydream out loud, but we didn’t talk about our future selves. At least I didn’t. While I wouldn’t refer to myself as superstitious, something in the back of my mind told me speaking of the future was a guarantee I wouldn’t have one. Counting your chickens before they hatch and all that crap. I needed to put some honest-to-goodness thought in about my future. I’d get right on it once I was safe in the States.
Neither Biscuit nor I wanted to admit the men we’d been before were long gone. It was much easier trying to figure out which nurses were sleeping with which doctors. No, I didn’t know too much about the man outside of the hospital walls and didn’t care to learn at this point. But he definitely wasn’t a fan of silence, so he chose to fill it with meaningless chatter.
“Where’re ya headed from here? We’re out now. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. You can tell me now without jinxing anything.”
“Don’t know really.” That was a lie. I did know, but I wasn’t quite ready to speak of it. Based on his wide eyes and gaping jaw, one would think I’d told him I was headed right on out to strangle stray cats.
“Whattaya mean, ya don’t know? Surely ya got a woman or a family? That’s where ya go, man. Home isn't the USA, home is where your people are. You got people, right Hanson?” He was so touchy-feely. Me, not so much.
Elbow me one more time, pal.
“Well, I think I might just go to Texas.” My intent was to deflect his question, but in hindsight, my answer reflected what was truly in my heart. He slapped me on the back.
“Who’s in Texas?”
I shook my head. “It’s not who, it’s what. I think I might go to college.” There it was. I’d said it out loud, that was as good as a commitment. I’d applied months ago, and just a week ago received word at least one school had accepted me and it only took one. I wasn’t picky.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, man. That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”
Time to switch to plan B, to feign sleep for the eternal flight to DC. Screw the Western world. I still had another three-hour flight from DC to Houston. We could become reacquainted then.
Maybe.
“Hey, Biscuit. Where’re you headed again?” I was all shared out. I needed peace on my flight to Houston.
“Aw, Savannah, man. My people’re in Georgia.”
Satisfied I’d be parting ways with Biscuit’s big mouth and sharp elbows, I handed him the paper, settled in, and prepared for takeoff. Once I flew into Houston Intercontinental Airport and my feet hit the pavement, I had no immediate plan as to where I’d go first or what I’d do, but those things hardly mattered.
I was going home.