Brass & Unity, page 13
I’m exhausted, my clothes are stained with someone else’s blood, and the only thought I can latch onto that distracts me is the thought of going back out to get my revenge.
Wishful THINKING
You aren’t going to get that image out of your head.
Not today.
Not tonight.
Not tomorrow.
Not ever.
Doesn’t work that way, kiddo.
I have you now, and I won’t let go.
Those things you just saw/heard/smelled/felt?
They’re with you forever.
That’s how I make sure you and I never part.
TWELVE
Post Op
The moment I close the door, tears sting my eyes and soak my face. A week’s worth of emotion pours out of me, and my chest heaves.
The sour stench of sweat and the metallic smell of blood fill the safety of my room at KAF. I’ve been in the same clothes for a week, and I can’t get them off fast enough.
For four days, I’ve slept, eaten, and breathed in this bloodstained kit. Parts of Mick have been in these pockets. I can still feel his warm flesh in my hands.
In the bathroom, I lock the door and stare at myself in the mirror. Who are you, with the sunburnt cheeks, smeared with tears and dirt? Are you really still only nineteen? Those eyes have seen too much.
I pull the elastic from my hair and take out the three-day old braid. Sand falls all over the floor. God, I hate sand.
My boots are a mess. I haven’t actually looked at them in a while. They have holes on both sides, and the duct tape holding them together is fraying. I shake the boots out; rocks and dirt spill onto the floor. I hate rocks.
Stripping down to bare skin, I turn on the shower—as hot as it will go.
My head spins the second I stand under the water, and I slide down the wall onto the shower floor. Water is rationed here, but I only let myself worry about that for a second because I can’t move.
I need the sound of mortars to calm me down, but all I can hear is Max screaming for Mick. My body shakes with fear as the terror replays in my head. I close my eyes, but I can still see Mick’s sweet, smiling face. No matter how much I wash, I can’t get the blood off my hands. My chest heaves with raging sobs until I can’t catch my breath, and I cry until I feel an emptiness as raw as the skin I’m scrubbing.
Good GIRL
You’re a fast learner, Kelsi.
You already know how this is going to work.
Every
Time
You
Close
Your
Eyes
You
See
It.
You smell it.
You taste it.
You feel it.
Know how to make it stop?
Lights out.
Water pours down over me, and the shower floor is covered in sand, filth, and remnants of blood. I tuck my knees to my chest and cry in the fetal position, staying there until the water runs cold.
My skin is covered in goose bumps, and I reach up and turn off the tap. Still dizzy, I catch my balance as I step out of the shower and lean against the wall. Shivering, I grab a towel and scream at the top of my lungs.
I thought I was out of tears.
Service Bulletin
Nobody’s coming to comfort you.
No Mommy or Daddy.
No Dillon.
No Jen or Bine.
No Mick.
Somehow, I manage to reach the bed, but I don’t have the energy to get dressed. I pull the damp towel around myself, bring the covers up to my head, tuck my knees into my chest, and sob.
I wish my parents were here.
I wish I was home so that Dad could tell me everything’s going to be okay and Mom could hug me through it.
I can’t close my eyes, because that’s where the nightmares hide.
June 15, 2009
For three days I wake up at 0430 and go to my debrief with the British MPs. I’m told it’s routine to make sure everyone’s stories line up and everything is clear, but I’m wearing thin.
I wear the same disgusting, filthy boots, stained with blood. They must smell it during questioning.
“Where was Mick’s body found?”
“The grape hut.”
“Who was with Mick when he died?”
“Max was the only one in the grape hut, that I could see.”
“How many people were with you when Mick died?”
I count on my fingers. “Charles, Watson, Max—” I stop for a moment and look at the clock. This will probably be another six-hour interrogation. How many rounds were fired? Who was there? In what order did events occur? How did we run into the firefight? This British MP is thorough, but over and over again? Each day she writes down my statement, wanting to know all the details about the op, every incident. Every little detail.
“Where was each piece of his body found?”
“The grape hut. In the ceiling, the walls, the hole where the IED went off.”
Why do they keep making me go through this? Don’t they know they are adding scenes to the horror movie that will play in my head for the rest of my life? Why are they making me relive and repeat a moment I will never forget, but desperately want to?
For the rest of the day I’m on autopilot, trying my best to recall what time things happened, who was there, how many rounds were fired, who handled what, when we started getting contact.
Until it’s time for Mick’s ramp ceremony.
Two hundred soldiers parade onto the tarmac, each looking resolutely in front of them, lost in their own world, without noticing the emotion of others around them.
My unit is brought right up in front, and a lump rises in my throat when I see the Brits. Tears run down Watson’s face, and our eyes meet. Charles, Rav, and Vince all let their eyes well up as if proud to shed a tear for Mick, who had their back. Even cocky Johnny doesn’t hide his wet face, as if those tears are his salute to Mick, to his family back home.
I stand alone in my marching row—behind the Brits and in front of the Canadians—waiting for the command to go to attention as the caskets get closer to the Herc. Besides Mick, there’s a thirty-five-year-old Canadian, Corporal Joseph Robert Martin Dube.
It’s time to say our last goodbyes to the people we lost on our op and send them home to their families.
The haunting sound of a lone bagpipe playing “Flowers o’ the Forest” moves closer, and on one long, continuous note, six soldiers carrying the casket stop. They place one hand each on the back of their comrade, linking them as one.
I step into position and stand at attention. When the call comes for the final salute and 200 soldiers in the hangar lift their arms in unison to salute our friend, my legs buckle. I can’t support my own weight, and two women grab me from behind to hold me.
My eyes drift to Mick’s casket, and I know how little of him is inside.
Tears fall heavy and fast as I try to call out, but my voice balls up in my throat. For a moment, my legs grow heavy, pushing my voice through until I feel as if I can’t stand. “He isn’t even in there,” I say to myself. Salt from my tears sting my chapped lips, and as much as I try, I can’t catch my breath.
The bagpipe plays over my sobs as the casket is draped in the British flag and loaded into the Herc. There’s a weight on my chest, and it’s crushing my lungs and heart.
The soldiers lower their salute. Some go to say goodbye, telling Mick, “See you in Valhalla, brother,” and “See you in the re-org.” I want to join them, but I’m still on my knees, wailing, hands pressed into the grit, leaning against someone’s leg. The two women are trying to hold me up and help me calm down. Their voices are soothing, but I know Mick’s casket is filled with sandbags to mimic the weight of his body, and I am sick.
Sandbags
Heads up, Kelsi.
That ramp ceremony?
It’s going to fuck you up for the rest of your life.
You’ll never hear a bagpipe again without thinking of Mick’s parents burying a casket full of sand.
Oh, and by the way, you won’t see anyone in Valhalla.
That’s where the warriors go in the afterlife.
And you’re a weak little girl.
Two days after the ceremony, after my three days of questioning are over, I am invited to the Brits’ barbecue. The smell of meat searing on the grill turns my stomach, and I force down the bile.
Charles walks over to me first, a vacant look on his face. “Thanks for coming, Burns.”
“A somber party.” Watson hands me a beer. “But Mick would have wanted us to keep our barbecue.”
“Mick had gumption, barreling into that grape hut with the metal detector. He’d be so proud knowing he saved the rest of us.”
Johnny lets out a deep sigh, his T-shirt pulled tight against his chest. Everyone is in civilian clothes, and I feel out of place in my uniform. I figured because the barbecue was on base, I needed to be in uniform. No one told me this was informal.
Watson lights up his cigar. “He had our back.”
Vince nods and starts to recite, “When I go home people will ask me, ‘Hey Hoot, why do you do it, man? What, you some kinda war junkie?’” He looks to Johnny.
Johnny takes a long puff and watches the smoke curl. “You know what I’ll say? I won’t say a goddamn word. Why?” He looks to Rav. Rav presses the cigarette to his lips and takes a deep drag. “They won’t understand. They won’t understand why we do it.” He turns to Charles.
“They won’t understand that it’s about the men next to you, and that’s it.” Charles pauses. “That’s all it is.”
I’ve been quiet all along, but I find the strength to say four words. “Black Hawk Down, 2001.”
We all stand in silence, looking down at our feet, then up toward the flag blowing in the wind.
“Aye, Mick.” Watson tilts his bottle. “See you in the re-org!” Charles raises his beer. “Yeah, Vikings.”
I lift mine, and we all join in and drink to our friend.
We stand quietly again, each of us with a distant stare, united in that one moment none of us can shake. Even when we eat, chomping and slurping just fills the void. I nibble at my food while the guys gulp theirs down. Once in a while, a sliver of conversation breaks through.
“They’re done questioning you?”
“Yep.”
“The British cleared everyone involved.” Charles swigs a beer. “Made sure we all had the same story.”
There’s a lull again until Johnny puts down a lobster tail. “It’s disgusting.”
Vince nods and does the same. “Hot on the outside and frozen on the inside.”
“The steak was better.” Watson spits his tobacco. “One of us will probably die from it.”
“Not you.” Johnny holds out his cigarette. “It’s not August yet.”
The guys crack up, and I just pour the beer down my throat. In our line of work, we have the darkest humor, but I can’t force words out of my mouth or find a smile to cross my face. I haven’t slept. Maybe that’s it.
We all fall quiet again until Rav asks, “How’s Max?” Not long ago, his beautiful sing-song voice made me smile, but now I just stare blank-faced. Mick should be here, is all I keep thinking.
“Not sure.” Charles flicks ashes onto the ground. “He was flown back to the UK to have his lacerations looked after.”
I find my voice. “He won’t lose his arm, will he?”
“Nah.”
“A friend of mine got both his legs blown off on tour.” Watson sends a puff of smoke through his flaring nostril. “I was the medic that dealt with him. He said to me, ‘Do you mind if I borrow your trainers?’” Everyone starts laughing, and he holds his cigar in the air. “I go back to base. Sent him Runners Weekly, socks, and shoes.” He’s buckling over in laughter with the guys. “Bit the legs off of gummy bears and sent them to him.”
I know they use dark humor to stay one step darker than the actual situation they’re facing. This keeps them sane, but all I keep thinking of is Mick. I can’t laugh. I can’t think of anything other than him. He was just a kid. The same age as me. I could have easily been the one to step on that IED. Why wasn’t it me?
I realize they’re all looking at me as if I’m made of glass. Like I could break at any moment.
Glass
Silly girl.
You’re already broken.
And beyond repair.
Poppy, Vanessa Sheren. Drawn by my sister-in-law.
This is tattooed on me.
PART 2
Unity
THIRTEEN
All the Meds
I can’t do this anymore.” I look the military doctor square in the eye. “I can’t sleep. I can’t stop crying. I lay in bed at night just waiting for the sun to come up.”
He scribbles notes in my file and leans back in his chair. “Kelsi, you have acute post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s going to take some time.”
“How much time? I’ve been here for two weeks. I’m yelling and swearing at everyone, including the officers, and that’s going to get me in big trouble. I need to get out of KAF and back on the guns at Ramrod.”
“We’ll get you back there in time, but first you need to take your HLTA. Where are you going for your decompression?” Home Leave Travel Assistance was something the Army did to give us decompression time as needed so we got to go on a break wherever we wanted for two to three weeks during our tour.
“The Dominican with my mom for three weeks, but I can’t go like this. I’m in no shape to see anyone,” I admitted.
“You have to go. We’ll adjust your medication so you can start sleeping, and then you’ll feel better.”
“But what’s the point? I don’t want to leave. My mom will just be worried seeing me like this.”
He shoves a bottle of pills across the desk. “They’re very fast-acting, so go right to bed when you take them.”
The thought of sleep is terrifying. It means closing my eyes, and when I do that, the same horror movie plays over and over and over again.
Medicate
That’s it, Kelsi.
Take the pills.
Numb your brain.
The weaker you are, the more power I gain.
I know that the medication worked because I have no memory of getting myself from Dubai to Paris to Toronto and then to the Dominican Republic. The driver drops me off at the resort. “Enjoy your holiday, Miss. It’s nice and hot here in July.”
Slamming the door without saying anything, I lug my bag to the entrance. I scan my surroundings, trying to spot my mother, but there’s no sign of her. It’s beautiful here, with vibrant flowers and tall palm trees, but I can’t force a smile.
Adjusting Gould’s Oakleys, I take a deep breath and walk into the resort, wondering how Gould and McMillin are doing. And Bless. And all my Brits.
Inside the lobby, Mom is sitting on the edge of a wicker chair with her eyes fixed on the door. When she sees me, she jumps up and runs over. “Kelsi! How were your flights?” She pulls me into a huge hug. “Oh, my little girl. It’s so good to have you back in one piece.”
I can’t manage to hug her back. She has no idea how many pieces her daughter is in right now and that there’s not enough glue in the world to hold them all together.
My body goes limp after a minute, prompting her to pull away. “Are you okay, hon?”
No matter how hard I try to pull my lips up at the corners, I can’t do it. I can’t smile. Nor can I find any words to answer her. The best I can do is stare straight ahead with my eyebrows pulled together so tightly that I have a headache.
“Let’s go to our room and get you settled,” she says. “I think you could use a drink.
Pull it together for her, Kels.
Walking through the resort, I sense that someone’s watching me. Pulling my sunglasses over my hair like a headband, I check over my left shoulder, my right shoulder, then left again as Mom chats with the front desk person. Edging along the wall, I turn a corner fast, my fingers tracing the switchblade in my pocket. All I see is a lobby full of tourists. How can they look so happy when there’s so much shit going on in the real world? Do they even know what’s happening in Afghanistan? Do they have any idea of how many people are dying today to fight for their freedom?
I skulk toward the window and take a wide step around a crumpled newspaper on the floor. My eyes scan for more IEDs, on the floor, on the beach. There are no bombs here, Kelsi. You’re not there anymore. And God, how did you get through security with a knife? Outside, women walk around in bikinis, and the only thing men hold are cold drinks. For a moment, I watch a child building a sandcastle under the protection of a sunburst umbrella. I hate sand. Then a gecko scurries up the wall, and I’m back in Afghanistan.
Closing my eyes, I am in the desert, sweating under the weight of my kit and my weapons. I miss it and hate it all at once.
Flashback
Look, Kelsi, a turban!
That bastard might have a gun…or a knife!
He wants to kill you.
You better protect yourself.
But you’re unarmed, aren’t you?
Go have a Rum & Coke.
My eyes dart back and forth, and I rush to the reception desk, wringing my hands and pacing. There’s a pitcher of ice water on the counter, and I pour myself a glass, drink it, and breathe. Mom glances over at me with a furrowed brow and waves goodbye to the front desk attendant. Her smile falls when she looks at me. “Let’s go, honey. You must be tired.”
