The Long Road Home - Part Two - Robert's Heart

The Long Road Home - Part One: http://stormplay.blogspot.com/2009/12/long-road-home.html

As the beauty of Christmas morning draped the vast Afghan expanse like the December frost encased the rolling fields back home, Robert’s appreciation for Afghanistan swelled inside him. He finally felt at peace with the rugged terrain. It was a familiar feeling, one he’d felt a few years earlier when he stood entrenched in an Iraqi sunrise, amidst a limitless desert on a very similar morning. It was a morning he’d never forget yet he pushed the imagery out of his mind as he stared intently at the red skies of sunrise reflecting off the snowcaps all around him.

God’s magnificent creations knew no politics, no boundaries, no nationalities, no conflicts, no constraints, he thought to himself as the wonders of Christmas morning sent chills up his spine. This day was special to Robert and his hardened exterior always softened a bit on Christmas, regardless of the environment.

A member of the 4th Brigade Combat Team, 25th Infantry Division, hailing from Anchorage, Alaska, known to the military world as the “Spartans,” Robert’s unit had seen very little of home over the last four years. During his time abroad, he’d spent two Christmas’s in Iraqi, one in Alaska, and one in Afghanistan making him kind of a rolling stone to his folks back home in central Kentucky.

As a matter of fact, Robert’s parents had seen very little of him since the day they drove him to the big city to meet some fellow recruits in route to boot camp. A few weekends the first year, none the next, and one the third coupled with a week of leave here and there was all they had seen of their youngest son and they worried for his safety night and day. In his defense, Robert always had some reason for limiting his time back home, a girlfriend obligation, a buddy’s wedding, an impromptu trip with friends, you name it, if Robert had an excuse, he would use it to avoid the back roads of the Bluegrass and the people and places of his youth.

But this was Christmas and on Christmas, everyone in Robert’s unit wanted to be home, Robert included. It didn’t matter what he wanted to avoid, what situation didn’t sit right with him, who was dating his high school sweetheart, no, what mattered to Robert was communing with family and celebrating Christmas. As it was, deep down in the pit of his stomach, Robert felt a little bit alone as he wandered into the chow line. With a quick look around, chow firmly in tow, Robert located John Sellers; a stout bearded 20-something from Iowa, and Wesley Anderson; Robert’s best friend from boot camp and fellow Kentuckian fully engaged in breakfast. Wes and John made room for Robert to join them, just in time for the Lieutenant Colonel’s announcement who had rushed in with a specific look of uncertainty on his face. A 2nd Lieutenant followed closely behind exhibiting a similar look. “This isn’t good,” Robert murmured over an off-color joke John had told for the third time in two days.

As the Colonel addressed the men in his charge, his words hung in the air like the pungent aroma of a freshly lit cigarette. Robert, Wes, and John stared blankly at one another as they measured the gravity of his statements, carefully appraising his body language and the seriousness in his tone of voice. Once finished, the Colonel turned, made a few inaudible comments to fellow officers, and departed the chow tent. After a couple minutes had passed, John broke the awkward silence by repeating the punch line to his ill-timed joke….”Get it.” John giggled sheepishly, “Kermit the Frog’s undivided attention.” Robert dismissed John’s immaturity as he shoveled another spoonful of potato hash into his mouth.

Christmas in Afghanistan, while thousands of miles from home, was typically a festive occasion complete with American celebrities on tour with the USO, metal bands and mosh pits, parties with eggnog and mistletoe, and even a traditional feast complete with good old fashioned country ham and cranberry sauce. It was a time to lift the spirits of the troops in light of the harsh conditions that plagued them daily. And that was just by way of the Armed Forces. Corporations back home were sending care packages, Christmas cards, and video encouragements, random citizens were organizing fund raisers for military families in need, while radio stations were telling stories of families enduing yet another season without their loved ones. “Tis the season”, Robert thought, as he watched the Colonel’s Butterbar also disappear through the flap of the chow tent.

The disconcerting information that hovered over the men was news of a Christmas mission; one that would take Robert and the rest of his Spartan Brigade into direct conflict with the enemy. Reports from command had Taliban fighters mobilizing along a heavily used US supply route to Firebase Salerno, nick-named “Rocket City,” the current home of the 4th Brigade. No way would the Taliban jeopardize a major US supply line. Add to that the impending arrival of dignitaries and guests that were due in country for scheduled Christmas activities and you had the reason for the Colonel’s unexpected interruption of breakfast and the impeding mission at hand. All though the Colonel’s word indicated there was hope that the enemy would back down immediately when confronted by American Stryker Teams, Robert knew that he and his fellow Spartan’s faced a Christmas day battle regardless of the Colonel’s conjecture and idealistic attitude. It was just the way this enemy fought.

“Nothing like a Christmas assault,” John’s added sarcastically; an attempt to process the information he didn’t want to hear while Robert and Wes pushed back from the table, barely wiping their mouths. “We go where were told to go, John,” Robert said while choking down his last bite, “You know that.”

“No dancing girls for you tonight, buddy,” Wes prodded as the three men made the short walk to their barracks to ready themselves for the 9:30am departure. John didn’t find it funny. “Yeah, well, if you think the Taliban will just surrender, you’re plain crazy,” John offered as Robert rolled his eyes trying to distance himself from their childish banter. In his heart, however, Robert knew John was right. Bullets were sure to fly, certainly, and Robert was too well versed in Taliban combat tactics to believe otherwise. “They haven’t given up easy yet,” Robert thought to himself remembering the last firefight he’d had with a small group of bandits just a few days earlier. “They’ll put up a fight for sure…John…that they will…but we’ll put ‘em down, like we did in Khost,” Wes countered while piling more supplies into his pack. That was what worried Robert. Five men died in that assault, five Spartans. Robert knelt by his bedside and prayed as was his custom before every mission. John and Wes nervously looked on while making final provisions for their departure.

Amidst the somber mood of Rocket City, Robert, Wes, and John boarded their LAV’s with the rest of the Spartan Brigade and awaited departure. As the fleet left the safety of the base, Robert couldn’t help but notice the red skies of morning across the wide valley to which they were tracking. The beauty of the sky, while it was breath-taking, couldn’t mask the old saying Robert’s Granddaddy had taught him when he was a kid. Robert remembered the rhyme while taking in the eerie sight, “Red skies in the morning…sailors take warning…Red skies at night…sailors delight.” Robert repeated the rhyme in his head while massaging the trigger of the .50 caliber machine gun he manned on each mission. “Something’s wrong…I just feel it” Robert thought as the caravan of armored vehicles left tracks though the dirt passes of the Afghan valley creeping ever closer to the enemy. A few seconds later, over the radio, Robert heard what he thought were gun shots as he looked ahead to the first LAV leading the way. In an instant, the LAV burst into flames as a RPG slammed into the vehicle. The men were surrounded by Taliban fighters positioned on both sides of the caravan.

Swinging the .50 cal. from side to side, Robert engaged an enemy who was out-manned but relentless in their attack. “Scumbags,” Robert thought as he fired one shot and then another into the hills surrounding the valley passes, his weapon recoiling, again and again, spewing shells in every direction. It was chaos, in a way, the noise deafening, yet Robert and his fellow soldiers performed their duties like they were trained to do. Between RPG explosions, mortar blasts, machine gun fire, and men yelling orders at the top of their lungs, the Spartan Brigade was in full assault mode; an onslaught most in Robert’s midst had experienced at one time or another.

Some might say a battle is like an orchestra of instruments, each one adding to the symphony something unique yet completely necessary, in order to reach the concert’s conclusion. A violin, a horn, a clarinet, an oboe all strengthen one other by blending together to create music. So to are a band of brothers, fighting an enemy bent on employing every means necessary to wreak havoc. With all of the pieces of Robert’s unit in full symphonic engagement, slowly the insurgent forces were sectioned out and neutralized. As the last of the bullets fell to the frozen valley floor, Robert carefully took stock of the situation as a peculiar quiet loomed about the landscape. Exiting the vehicle to assess the injured, Robert’s toes had barely touched the ground when a stray bullet from an AR-15 tore though his chest sending him to the ground instantly. Staring up at the bevy of men rushing to his aid, Robert couldn’t really hear their words as they were garbled and slurred. His senses were malfunctioning. In those moments, everything seemed suspended in animation as normal processes appeared to operate in slow motion. Robert felt no pain, no worry, no pressure, only a wet sensation as a pool of blood formed on the valley floor beneath him. As his eyes closed, Robert wondered who would receive his Purple Heart. He was pretty certain it wouldn’t be him.

Awakening from his slumber, Robert looked around the empty hospital room to find no one in his presence. His uniform was gone and he was wearing a white gown with tubes and hoses emanating from every available orifice of his body. Mechanical ticks and squeaky moans of aged medical equipment accompanied by a searing pain coming from his chest and left arm made Robert uncomfortable and as he tried to speak, his words were barely audible. Looking down at his hand, Robert saw a remote control at his bedside with a nurse call button flashing a green beacon light. Robert pushed the button. Seconds passed, then minutes with no response. Robert pushed the button again. “Surely someone can tell me what’s going on,” Robert thought as he lay tied to a hospital bed in shear solitude on what he thought was Christmas. Slight at first and then louder, Robert heard what he knew were voices coming up the hallway. “Finally, nurses,” he murmured though the side of his mouth. As the voices passed his room and slowly faded down the hallway in the opposite direction, Robert knew something was wrong.

Just then, an older man in a black trench coat walked in Robert’s room and sat next to his bedside; his top hat covering three-quarters of this head. “Didn’t think I’d ever get here,” the man said sarcastically as he took Robert’s hand in his. “How do you feel, son,” asked Robert’s visitor clearly concerned for his condition. At first Robert could not place the old man, just felt his presence, knowing he knew him from somewhere but wasn’t sure from where. “I’ve been better,” Robert answered. “Well, I knew you’d be in need of some company so I thought I’d stop by for a few,” the old man offered as he removed his coat and top hat, making himself comfortable in the visitor’s chair to the left to Robert’s bedside. “I told that old club-foot nurse of yours to give us a few, that we had some catching up to do. By the way, you don’t know who I am, do you?” the old man said leaning forward in the chair, cupping his face in his wrinkled hands. Robert still couldn’t place him.

“You remember that time when you were little and we played basketball out in front of your Mom and Dads house, just you and me? Of course I was too old to really do much but I’d pass you the ball and you’d pretend to make the last shot, to win the game. Or how about our trips to the creek, the four of us, me, you, your Dad, and brother, you remember that, right? Or the Thanksgivings meals we’d share. I always told a story about a roaring bear that you loved. Or the riddles, you’ve got to remember my riddles. You used to love them! You and me, we were thick as thieves back then.”

“Pops?” Robert inquired trying to process the information. “You’re dead.” “Nope, not dead son, just doing other things in other places. I look in on you and your brother, you know, from time to time, to see what your up to. And when I saw you lying here, in a hospital bed with a two inch hole in you chest, I knew you’d need a visit,” Pops stated rather sternly as if his words made perfect sense to Robert. “Last time I looked, you were squeezing off .50 cal rounds, blowing the heads off some rogue Taliban fighters. You got four by the way; I saw them on their way through. I guess one got you after all, huh?” Pops surmised sounding a little dejected.

“Am I dead?” Robert inquired truly wondering what was happening to him. “I don’t know son, I don’t know,” Pops stated as he tightened his grip of Robert’s hand. The squeeze jarred Robert’s consciousness and invoked memories of long ago.

Roane Marley was Robert’s hero and paternal grandfather, whom Robert affectionately called Pops. Growing up, Pops was the one man that Robert seemed to understand with very little effort. Living some twelve hours away, Robert would visit him during holidays and other significant times of year and while the reunions were mostly short, they were continually wrought with smiles and laughter. Something was special about their relationship, a great connection shared by grandfather and grandson and when Pops passed, over the summer of Robert’s senior year of high school, Robert mourned the passing for months. It took some time to gather that he’d never see Pops again and Robert enlisted in the Army a few months later, partly to help deal with the loss. With time, he was able to remember Pops without the emptiness in his stomach he’d learned to hate. The loss of other friends, thanks to a hellish war and a ruthless enemy, made Robert hard and desensitized to death. A few years later, Pops death no longer haunted him, at least not until now.

Robert struggled to sit up but there was just no slack in the restraints that fixed him to the hospital bed. “A little tight, bud,” Pops said as Robert wrestled with the wraps on his wrists. “They’re there to keep you from flopping out of bed son,” Pops imparted as he worked to release the first and then the second wrap. “Now how’s that buddy,” Pops grinned, releasing Robert’s restraints while helping him to a sitting position. “Much better Pops,” Robert said, choking back the pain that pulsed through his body.

Once upright, Pops and Robert talked for what seemed like hours while the pain in Robert’s chest slowly began to fade. “It’s the morphine Robert, that what’s killing the pain, that ding was the pump releasing another dose,” Pops explained. “They think you’re a dead man Robert, that’s why you got no response earlier. Eight men in your brigade are dead from that attack, you’re the only survivor, and that’s still debatable. You were dead for 12 minutes, though. They brought you back. The burns on your chest are from the shock of the crash cart, the nurses in the other room are waiting to see if you ever wake up from this coma.”

“Coma, come on Pops, I’m not in a coma, I’m wide awake,” Robert exclaimed, “sitting up, pushing buttons, listening to voices, feeling the pain of that SOB’s bullet. I’m fine, right, how else could I be talking to you right now” Robert argued but the look on Pops face said otherwise. “Are you sure buddy? You are talking to a dead man you know,” Pops said.

Robert considered Pops words carefully. He was right. How else could he be speaking to a dead man if he wasn’t either dead himself or close to it? Once he accepted death as a reality the tension he felt began to subside. “What’s heaven like Pops?” Robert inquired. “Who said I’m in heaven,” Pops said trying to keep a straight face. “Come on,” Robert prodded, what’s heaven like? “Heaven, pal, heaven is a lot like home. It’s a place of routines and spontenaiety, of sunrises and sunsets, of reunions and celebrations, of new friendships and old loves. Heaven my boy is, well, heavenly,” Pops said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Robert,” Pops interrupted, “I’m always with you. I know you struggle with my death, with death in general, but I’m always there.” Robert strained as Pops continued, his consciousness fading. “I ride with you in battle and keep watch at night. I fit on you like your armor, your holster, your weapon.

Pops’ words were fleeting, it was obvious, and Robert concentrated on the movement of his lips, “I’m next to you at sunrise, at sunset. I’m so close at times I can feel the warmth of the morning’s light as it reflects in your eyes. I’m lost in the colors of the evening sky, the crimson and orange or the total blackness of the nightfall you patrol. I’m encased in the frost on the frozen ground and I too revel in your appreciation for of the pallid clouds floating in a sea of blue. I’m emitted by the light of a thousand gleaming stars and the ripples of the crystal waters mirroring the evergreens of your youth.” Pops continued, “I was with you in Iraq, Christmas morning, two years ago when you first gave God the credit for your existence and accepted Jesus Christ as your savior, on his birthday of all days. In His creations you’ll find me; whether amidst a shimmering rainbow or cobalt sky, whether your footsteps lead you to Afghanistan, Siberia, or the ends of the earth, I am where your heart is…”

Robert could no longer hear Pops; his words had trailed off to nothing until his lips no longer moved. With one final squeeze of Robert’s hand, Pops carefully stood, donned his over coat and top hat, wiped a tear from his cheek, and turned to leave. As Pops’ grasp regrettably fell from Robert’s hand, he exited the room as quickly as he came. “Why,” Robert tried to say but his words were frozen in his mouth. The chirps and squeaks of hospital equipment surrounding Robert were quickly replaced with screams and bellows from Robert’s unit as he struggled to get up from the frigid Afghan valley floor.

“You OK Robert,” Wes hollered as he dragged him to his feet. “Are you hit, buddy?” John asked rushing to his aid. “Yeah, John, I’m hit, at least I think so” Robert shouted as Wes pulled at the body armor covering Robert’s chest. Removing Robert’s vest, it was clear that Robert had taken a direct hit to his chest plate, about an inch or so below his heart. The bullet was still smoldering in the Kevlar, a sure kill without the protection of the ballistic vest. Robert looked stunned. “Close call huh’” Wes offered. “By the way, we hit that sniper a couple moments ago with a mortar. He’s meeting his maker,” Wes paused a beat, “right about now,” Wes laughed clearly relieved with Robert’s current condition.

“Your sure you’re all right Robert,” John inquired as the Styker Teams rolled back to base for a belated Christmas celebration, complete with country ham and pumpkin pie; the sun setting on the Afghan expanse. “Yeah, buddy, I think so,” Robert said. Now how about finishing one of those jokes of yours,” Robert chuckled, finally relaxing a bit “Alright,” John yelled doing his best to remember a joke he hadn’t told a thousand times all ready.

“There really is no place like home for the holidays,” Wes hollered sarcastically from his roost on the .50 cal as the caravan pulled back into the safety of Rocket City.

“Home is where the heart is gentlemen,” Robert added while rubbing the knot on his chest left by the bullet that nearly killed him. “Home is where the heart is.