Memories Part I. (New)

Part I.

          I’m drunk with the memories of what I’ve been through. We all are, but our tipsiness varies from soldier to soldier. I’ve been though a lot, more than my share, more than four shares. I often feel like a stockbroker when talking about all the hell I’ve been through. “Buy, no sell, now buy now!” it’s a constant competition as to who has been through more, who has given more suffered more. Most of the horrible events happened early on in my career, and then eased into a ten-year span of relative dullness, that was until the Towers happened, then my career stepped on the accelerator and hasn’t stopped. These are just a few recounts of the hell I’ve been though.

          I haven’t had just bad days or weeks in the Army. Yes, I have had good days, but it doesn’t seem that anyone wants to hear about the good times, peace times, they just want to know about the tragic. The kind of things that cause your stomach to knot up with pain, and tears to swell in your eyes with grief. It seems I’m never the one who cries. I have always won the battle over my tears. It’s not that I can’t cry; it’s that I don’t cry. I don’t allow myself to show pain through my tears, I don’t show pain. To my disapproval during the course of writing this I have teared up many times, it’s different though, I’m tearing in solitude. I haven’t any company as I write, so no one can see the pain I feel. They can only read about the pain I have felt. Because of this separation, I am able to show all the pain I have been forced to endure over the years, the pain I have forced others to endure on my behalf.

          I remember very vividly the first time I felt pain in my heart like few have ever felt. It was a cool spring day. The road we walked dried and brittle from the crisp sun above. Scott, my best friend from high school was walking about twenty-five yards in front of me. He was talking loudly, joking with Mickey another MP and our medic Jr.

          I could hear every word he was saying to the two walking with him, Mathews another MP and myself were making fun of Scott’s stories of when he was a wrestler.

          “So I had this guy pinned on his knees to the mat, when out of no where I hear his chick yell, ‘fuck ‘em Scott. Pin the fucker.”

          “No way!” Mickey squawked. “When the guy was on his knees?”

          “Were you behind him or to the side?” Jr. asked laughing so hard his face was as red as his hair.

          “I was behind and on top of the dude. That’s what made it so distracting. I lost my concentration just long enough for the guy to flip and pin me.”

          “You’re kidding?” Mickey laughed.

          “That sucks man,” Jr. added.

          “Yeah, I think the guy thought I was queer or something.” He said slapping Jr’s lower back. “You can bet your ass I’m not queer though. Ain’t that right Leigh?” Scott called back to me for confirmation.

          “That’s right boys, your asses are all safe with Scott around. He is the furthest thing from queer you will find.” I reassured the other two.
It was hard to believe that Scott was ever a heavy weight, considering his current size. In high school he weighted about two hundred and ten pounds, quite heavy for his five-eight frame, but by this time he had trimmed down to a hundred and sixty or so pounds.

          Scott was recounting another one of his matches to Jr and Mickey when it happened. The loudest explosion I had yet to hear went off in front of Mathews and myself. We hit the deck so fast that I cut the bottom of my chin on the rocky dirt road. My first explanation for the explosion was that my squad had been hit with an RPG (rocket propelled grenade) and we were taking enemy fire. As the clouds of dust settled, this explanation was disproved. As I gained my composure I began to call out for the status of my squad members.

          “Mathews?” My voice was shaky.

          “Clear Sergeant,” he responded still on my right side.

          “Jr.?” No response.

          “Mickey?” My voice was slightly more strained.

          “Hit. Shit, I’ve fucking been hit.”

          “Stay where you are, we’ll come to you.” I called back out before continuing.

          “Roger Sarg.” He grunted back.

          “Scott?” No answer.

          When it became clear to me that there was no longer a threat to my squad, Mathews and I picked ourselves up off the ground and made our way just up the road to the location of the other three.

          As we approached we found a crater in the ground about four feet wide where a landmine had been hidden from sight and missed by the detonation crew that had swept the road earlier that day.

          Mickey was holding his left arm; he had taken a large amount of shrapnel to his left side, but he was alive and going to live, he wasn’t losing too much blood. Jr. had taken a large piece of shrapnel to the right temple, killing him before he hit the ground. Scott lay on the road, barely conscience, his right leg severed at the hip.

          “Scott, you’re going to be fine buddy. Just stay with me.” I said almost pleading with him, his eyes fixed on mine. “Mathews, get Doc’s pack and give me the compression pads and a tourniquet.”

          Mathews followed my order quickly turning Jr. over on his side and rummaging through his pack for the items I had requested. I was examining Scott’s hip area, he had lost a lot of blood, and I had no idea how I was going to patch him up and get him back to base camp our radio carried by Mickey was destroyed by a piece of shrapnel, so there was no calling for help.

          “Scott, talk to me man.” I pleaded, but Scott wasn’t talking. I looked up to his face, his eyes were wide open and fixed on the sky above, so was his mouth. My lower legs and my hands were covered in his blood. He was dead. I didn’t even have a chance to try and stop the bleeding. I sat there at his side almost paralyzed with shock.

          Mathews and I patched Mickey up as best as possible. I carried Scott on my shoulder and Mathews carried Jr on his. Between us, we supported Mickey helping him to walk the two miles back to base camp, barely talking the whole way back the grief yet to fully set in. We had just been joking and talking and now we were carrying our dead and wounded. The reality was crazy and senseless.

          I had known Scott since our freshman year of high school. We met in world geography taught by a football coach who didn’t care what we did so long as we didn’t make too much noise. I helped him get in shape for the Army. We enlisted together, went to basic, AIT, and jump school together where we both met Angie. When we completed out training the three of us were stationed in the same unit together, it was a fluke. We went to Bosnia together twice, assigned to the same platoon the first time and the second he was assigned to my platoon after I made Sergeant.

          We were on our second tour in Bosnia when he was killed. I was granted permission to accompany his body back to Texas to be buried at Fort Sam Houston Cemetery in San Antonio. I could hardly look his mother in the face when I saw her and the rest of his family during the burial services. I knew his family very well; I had spent several evenings having dinner with them, several holidays, birthdays and family gatherings with them at Scott’s invitation. He was like a brother to me, and his family an extension of mine.

          I didn’t cry that day, but I have cried since. I miss him. When he died it was as if a part of me died. Scott wasn’t blood, but he was family. When I gave his grave my final salute that day it was like saying good-bye to my brother.