My War

"It matters to me," she croaked.

My blurry eyes stared in fascination, how could she know what I was thinking, was I dreaming?

From that moment on, it was a confused commotion of tearing clothes, needles and darkness. My war was over, my body had signed a cease fire agreement with my brain.

***

I could feel the rain again, sparse droplets falling to my cheek and pooling along my nose. I opened my eyes expecting to see myself back down by the river. But I saw her, PFC Kent, standing watch over me with tears falling slowly.

"I don't know which is worse, the tears falling on my face or when you pissed on my boots," I groaned.

A smile quickly spread over her face, "You old fart, you ought to be thankful it was only your boots that got pissed on," she sassed.

"Yes ma'am,"

"You think you're going to live?" she asked trying to wipe the tears away.

"Seems like I don't have your permission to die, I guess I'll have to pull through."

She blushed at my comment, "You scared the shit out of me out there,"

"That's my job, scaring all the young recruits, I reckon I'll make a man out of you yet," I rasped.

"Oh, here we go again, here comes that girls don't belong here routine..."

"No, you'll never hear that from me again. You're a soldier Kent, and I can't think of anyone that I'd rather have for a backup. I was wrong, and if you tell that to a soul, I'll have you scrubbing latrines for the rest of your tour, you got that private?"

She leaned over and kissed me on the forehead, "You don't scare me anymore."

"Knock that shit off, I got a reputation to uphold. The next thing you know the Lieutenant will be in here trying to get a hand job."

Then out of the blue she asked, "Are you ever going to see her again and explain?"

"See who, explain what?"

"Veronica, your wife."

I looked at her like a deer in headlights, I was stunned. Where had she come up with that? There wasn't another living soul besides Veronica that knew that story, that was something I kept locked away in a secret box in my brain. I had no answer for her, all I could do is stare.

"You did a lot of talking after you were hurt, I didn't understand some of it but..."

I didn't let her finish, "Just forget you ever heard any of that, that's none of your business. All that happened a long time ago..."

"Sarge, you need to clear the table, just talk to her."

The doc came in and broke up the party at that point. Kent said goodbye and I sulked over being found out. I ratted myself out, all those feelings that had been locked inside were stirred up to the top of the pot again.

I was recovering and would be on the next transport out to Ramstein. I'd be checked out in the hospital there and back in the states soon. I was patched up but still had some trouble walking, I had scars now instead of open wounds. I'd been home for about a month but I was still going to the hospital for physical therapy, the wounds don't heal as fast on us "old" folks. The docs had me doing a lot of stretching and bending, I spent a couple of hours in the pool each week to help the sore muscles heal.

When I wasn't at the hospital, there was a lot of time for me to remember. I had no way of forgetting what Kent had said. Maybe it was time to try and talk to Veronica and try to remove this lump that had been stuck in my throat for the last thirty years.

I sucked it up and limped down to the pay phone. It took a while and more than a few tries to information, but I had a phone number in my hand. I was sure that my fingers wouldn't do what my brain was telling them, I expected a wrong number.

"Hello," it was her, her voice was familiar to me even now.

"Veronica?" I waited for the click at the other end, the signal that she had hung up on me. It didn't come.

"So, this is a surprise, it's been a long time, how are you?"

"As screwed up as ever, maybe worse."

"That's not possible, how could you be?" she quipped.

"I guess its time for me to stop being a caveman, do you think I might evolve? Can you picture me as an actual human being?"

"Not a chance you old fart, it's too late for that."

"Is it too late to say how sorry I am? How about a little understanding for a rusty old soldier?"

"You still can't see it, can you? You're asking the wrong person, I'm not the one that can forgive you, that's not my job, it's yours."

I heard the phone click as she hung up the receiver. I had expected for things to go a little differently, but I wasn't completely shocked. I listened to her words, but did I really understand what she meant? Not completely, maybe I never would. It seems that everyone but me knew exactly what I needed to do, all but me of course.

My whole life at that point revolved around the hospital, I seemed to be doing everything there but sleeping. I got to know quite a few of the nurses, as I was always around. I sat in waiting areas for hours, but I was used to it after so many years in the military. There isn't much to do, so after reading all of the magazines a couple of times, I would offer to sort papers for the staff.

One such boring morning, something caught my eye, a soldier I knew was here in the hospital. I didn't understand the doctorese, but I knew the name and thought I would wonder by and visit. It would be good to see somebody from the old outfit, at least I thought it would.

PFC Kent, had been driving her deuce and a half when she hit a mine planted in the road. The fact that she was alive was good news, but you would have never known that after seeing her. She looked haggard and was unresponsive, she wouldn't even look at me. We'd been through a lot together on that day in the desert, she'd saved my ass.

Kent had lost her left leg below the knee, and was not having an easy time accepting it. I stopped to see here every chance I could, but her attitude never wavered. The Doc encouraged me, he thought the presence of someone familiar might jump start her healing. It wasn't happening, she slid deeper and deeper into depression.

My therapy was slacking off a little by then, but I seemed to be spending more and more time at the hospital. I was with Kent more each day, hell, I would even fall asleep sitting in the chair next to her bed. I'd been with her every day for weeks and she'd barely said a word.

One night, sitting quietly together, I looked into her face and recognized a younger version of myself. I know that sounds idiotic, but she had that blank look about her that I had felt deep inside. I still felt that way some days, it's as if your will to go on were taken violently away from you. Your need to breathe sits off in a corner alone watching while you are powerless to react. Your pain and pleasure converse as if you weren't even there with them, you're left out of picture like an empty hull.

In war, there is a phenomenon known as friendly fire, where soldiers are attacked by there own side. It is impossible to confront an unknown, unseen, and totally unexpected enemy. You can't fire back, you can't run, you're stuck in the middle. You sit with your head down and watch as your buddies die and fall in bloody heaps. Kent, like me before her, was attacking herself, a bloody firefight from within.

I made the decision at that point not to keep my head down any longer, it was time for me to stop looking away. This was what Veronica meant, I had to do this to forgive myself. I had to stop being selfish and get on with life, it was time to look beyond my own fears for once. Kent needed me now, just like Veronica once had. I ran like a coward so many years ago, leaving my wife to deal with what I couldn't. Kent's legs wouldn't carry her now, so she was trying to avoid life by the only route she could.

War is hell, but nothing like trying to reason with a pissed off uncooperative woman, it's a brain fuck from the first step. Each day, Kent's eyes tried to bore holes into me. Every act was met with angst or resistance, she fought my help like a samurai.

I had finally gotten her to speak to me, I was now known to her as Sergeant Motherfucker, the prick, wormy cocksucker and a few other choice endearments. In my opinion, it was a step closer for her, she at least acknowledged my presence. Her battles with me meant she was alive, she was consciously choosing to reject my help.

I started her on a routine, each day I would arrive at her bed with a wheel chair. It was the same every day, I, the cocksucker, would load a struggling and flailing Kent into the chair and limp along the gardens of the hospital. I was getting more exercise than I wanted and went home each night with aching, tired bones.

During those walks, I tried my best to connect with her. I couldn't see any progress, but I wasn't going to quit. The strolls through the garden went on like clockwork with no outward change from her. I was by her side like a faithful dog, just hoping for a morsel to be thrown my way. Kent was a cruel master, not one single bone for this old hound.

Normally, I would be at the hospital by zero eight hundred, but that day, the day things changed, I had an appointment I couldn't miss. It was sixteen hundred when I stepped off the elevator, the duty nurse hailed me as soon as she saw me.

"Where the hell have you been?" she scolded.

"Why, did you miss me?" I flirted.

"Not me," she said as she pointed to Kent's room.

"You're kidding," I said, and quick timed it to her room.

She was sitting in her wheelchair, well goddamn, I couldn't believe it, she was saddled up and ready to go on our daily pilgrimage. So our walk started late that day, I was beat from a long damn day, but there was no way I was going to disappoint her.

Kent was still taking the loss of her limb badly, she wouldn't use her crutches, and absolutely refused to look at the prosthetic leg. The wheelchair and I were becoming as much a part of her as her good leg. I discussed her release from the hospital with the Doc. He agreed it would probably do her a lot of good to get the hell out of there, but needed to be assured that she would be cared for.

Cohabitation ain't all shits and giggles, there were times that I wanted to kick my own ass for thinking of it. Kent was redefining the term bitch, but I held my tongue, no need to upset the apple cart over minor inconveniences.

I was fulfilling most of her basic needs, I cooked, I cleaned, I did her laundry, shit, I did it all but wipe her ass, and that's not to say I didn't help her onto the toilet. I wondered some times if she had me help so much just to piss me off. Her first bath was like two monkeys fucking a football, modesty had gone completely out the window by then, by the time I finally lifted her from the tub my clothes were wetter than she was.

I knew she was capable of much, much more than she let on, but she continued refusing to admit it. I watched her strength build each week at her therapy sessions at the hospital. She was ready, but clung to the security of her wheelchair.

The showdown came one night while she was in the bathtub, I pushed that goddamn wheelchair out the door and started cooking dinner.

"Hey Sarge, I'm ready to get out of the tub," she yelled.

"I'm busy."

"Come on, I'm getting cold," she whined.

"Not right now, I'm stirring the gravy." I shouted.

"Stop fooling around and get me out of here," she commanded.

"It ain't happenin' sweet cheeks, I told you, I'm busy."

"GODDAMN YOU, GET IN HERE AND HELP ME," she screamed at the top of her lungs.

I continued stirring my country gravy, I love that shit on hot biscuits.

A couple of minutes later, Kent was standing in the doorway. She was dripping wet from head to toe, naked as the day she was born, and very noticeably steaming mad. It wasn't her nude body I noticed first, or the fact she was standing, it was that she had donned the prosthetic for the first time.

"You rotten bastard, somebody ought to kick your ass," she hissed.

"You got anyone in mind, or maybe you want to give it a whirl on your own?" I asked dryly, continuing to stir.

I took the skillet off the burner and walked by her shivering body. I brought back a towel and wrapped it around her shoulders. Pulling her close, I held her tight while she cried for the first time since she stood over me back at the FOB. She let it out, tears, sobs, runny nose, and the whole smear. I couldn't help it, I was misting up too.

The gravy was like glue by the time we got our shit together. Ah well, bad gravy beats an MRE any fuckin' day, and baby girl Kent was sitting at the table with me in a real chair, one without wheels.

My bane, that damn wheelchair, was now obsolete. I never had to push it again. Kent and I walked to the hospital, it was never easy, but it did become less cumbersome with each passing day. Kent was emerging, and growing less tentative, she no longer worried about the way others perceived her and became comfortable with who she was. My role in her life was relegated from provider to roommate, I saw my self being sidelined. She didn't need me anymore, and I was happy and yet sad at the same time.

The night Kent came home from her first date, I was packing my things in my old duffel bag. I'd decided earlier, when I saw the joy of life in her face, as she readied for her escort. It was time to bow out gracefully, I'd given her what I could, now it was up to her.

"What are you doing, are we going some place?" she asked with trepidation.

"Not we baby girl, just me," I answered as I continued to pack.

"Why," she asked with tears welling up, "I need you, you can't... please don't do this."

"I have to sweetie, you don't need an old man holding you back," I said as I slung the old duffel over my shoulder.

I gave her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, I had to get the hell out of there before I started to cry too.

I walked away, it hurt, but I walked. Head up, chest out, shoulders back, one foot in front of the other. I marched off to war, my war. Maybe I'm wrong, it wasn't war. It was simply life, my life, it had been life all along and I was too thick to grasp it. So I walked toward life, and what ever it would bring.