Dire Wolf: a Novel

me."

Chapter One

If history repeats itself, and the unexpected always happens, how incapable must Man be of learning from experience.

George Bernard Shaw

Seeley Lake, Montana, fall of 2010

Goddammit, Donald Raymond Morgan, quit beating that dog! The neighbors will call the cops on us!

Shut up, this damn dog needs the beating. He’s killed his mother. Where am I going to get another Presa Canario bitch here in Seeley Lake, Montana? Then he muttered to himself, Jesus, must be in women’s genes to use your full name when they want to give you a ration of shit. Goddamned witch, always telling me what to do. I’ve half a mind to turn this dog on her.

Wanda, get me another beer!

God, this man is absolutely helpless. Don, you said that we would get rich raising these attack dogs. That you were going to sell them to your Aryan Nation buddies. We ain’t got shit left, Don. What are we gonna do? We can’t make the rent. We have no money, and that dog of yours is eating us out of house and home.

Wanda, I just don’t know. The dog ain’t like his mother. He’s much bigger and meaner. Doesn’t have that Mastiff face like he’s supposed to have. He blends in pretty good with the background until he moves. I just don’t know what we’ll do. Hunting season starts next week. Maybe I’ll take him with me and just leave him.

I’ve got to tell you, Don, I’m more than a little scared of that animal. He’s always watching, and you’re right; he blends in so well that if he doesn’t move, he kinda disappears. Maybe we need to get jobs in Missoula or something until we can get our feet back under us.

Okay, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll put him in the kennel in the back of the pickup and haul him up into the high country and let him loose. I’ll go somewhere else to hunt, though; he’s a mean son of a bitch.

How are you going to get him into the kennel? He would eat you if given half a chance.

I have a plan, Wanda; I’ll drug him, and then drag him into it. You have any of that OxyContin left?

There’s a couple in the medicine cabinet.

Good, next weekend I’ll take care of him.

Well if you do, shoot that SOB; I have a bad feeling about him.

I’ll think on it some. Don’t like the thought of killing him; just let nature take care of it.

I’ll break these two pills into fourths and put it into some burger and feed it to that son of a bitch. That’s right, boy, wolf it down. Should only take a few minutes before he starts to feel it. I’ll get me a beer and drink it while the downers work on him. God, there he goes, flat on his face. Lord God this mutt is heavy. Must be a hundred pounds, and he’s still a puppy. Gonna get a hernia putting him in the back of the truck. Let’s see, lift him up there, then get the portable kennel and put it into the truck and then push him in.

Don, where are you gonna let him out? Can’t be too far, ‘cause I don’t know when he’s gonna wake up. I think you should haul him into the Jaco Cut.

Nah, too many people will be out hunting. I’ve a place in mind up by Hidden Creek. Cold morning, lots of clouds, maybe he’ll freeze to death.

He got in the truck and began driving. "God, I might have to shoot him if he wakes up. I’m not opening the kennel door if I even think that animal is awake. Okay, here’s the turn-off. I’ll drive about a mile up this dirt road, turn off of it, and drop him in that spot I shot the doe two years ago. Jesus it’s cold; must only be ten degrees or so out here. Let me poke him; good, the dog is still asleep. I’ll just push the cage out onto the ground. If he wakes up I’ll just leave him in the cage and leave. Crap, cage cracked! At least he’s still asleep. Open the cage door, and jerk this guy out. Man is he ever asleep. Opening the truck door, Don pulled out his hunting rifle. Boy, I know Wanda will ask me if I shot him. I just can’t do it; if he stays asleep, he’ll freeze and never wake up, so nature will have run its course with him. Shells for this rifle are at least two bucks each. Nah, I’ll just leave him and the cage, too. I’ll tell Wanda that I shot him while he was in the cage and he wrecked it as he flopped around.

Chapter Two

"When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plain

And the women come out to cut up what remains

Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains

An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.

Go, go, go like a soldier...

So-oldier~of~the Queen!"

from Rudyard Kipling’s The Young British Soldier

Kandahar Province, Afghanistan, fall of 2010

You know, some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed. The sun hasn’t even put a hint of light over the hill yet, dark as the inside of a cow. Here we are, driving up to our point of departure, on a mission to save the hearts and minds of the locals from the evil Taliban. As a Special Forces A-Team, we mostly operate on our own and get the job done with audacity, since we really can’t overcome the enemy with firepower. The teams are twelve-man units, with a captain or senior lieutenant in charge. For the most part we’re all average-size guys that are built for speed and endurance. On the other hand, most of us could shoot the balls off a fly at a hundred yards. The exception is our lieutenant. First Lieutenant Barker is a really big guy, played fullback for Georgia Tech. We call him Bubba, just to piss him off. Wouldn’t want him after me; he runs the forty in like five flat, and can bench three hundred and fifty pounds. My name is John Johnston, I’m the team medic. But like everyone else on the team I’m cross-trained in weapons, engineering and communications. As you can imagine, we’re closer than a band of brothers. Most of us have nicknames, picked up to embarrass or humiliate, but once adorned, are loved by the bearer of the name. Mine is Feather, because once my mother sent me a dream catcher with feathers on it. My team probably gave me the name because I took the feathers off it and put them in my hat. I would have put them in my hair, but you know, army haircuts are not conducive to wearing shit in your hair. As I’m part Native American, it could be worse; they could have called me Tonto.

Afghanistan is not what the media portrays; it’s worse. Hotter than hell in the summer, freeze the balls off a brass monkey in the winter, with people that just want to be left alone. The Afghan people have been invaded since Alexander the Great, and have driven out or absorbed all of them in time. Tough hombres, tribal as all get-out, willing to put aside internal hates just long enough to band together to drive the invader out, then go back to killing one another over slights that might have happened two hundred years ago. In small groups or one-on-one, the Afghan people are good folks, but have an almost unnerving ability to get spectacularly angry over an insult that we may not even have been aware of. So when dealing with these folks, it’s always best to one, be polite; two, let them lead the conversation; and three, remember the cultural training, you know, like don’t touch them with your left hand. You guessed it; in a land without a hell of a lot of paper, you wipe your butt with your left hand. Big insult.

Today, we’re going up to watch a Buzkashi match between two of the local towns. We went to one of these last summer, but really had a hell of a time figuring out just what the rules were. Buzkashi is kind of like polo, but instead of a ball they have this gutted goat that has been beheaded and the legs cut off at the knees. They then soak this bad boy for a day in cold water to toughen it up. Seems like there are ten guys on a side, but only five can be on the field at the same time. The field is a quarter of a mile on each side. The riders are called Chapandaz, and are older guys, like maybe forty. Seems that the young guys don’t have the skills yet. After watching it, the rules seem to be pretty loose; hitting, whipping, kicking etc. is the norm. They don’t tie the goat to the horse or to themselves. They ride like hell, beat on each other and throw the goat into a circle. Game can last more than a day, and they really get into it. Horses are well trained, and stop and stand by the rider if he falls off. I guess the horses are really expensive, ‘cause only the rich guys seem to have them. Whichever team wins gets a cache of rifles or a pot full of money. The big deal for us is that the Taliban prohibits the game. You can imagine the angst if our government prohibited Monday Night Football, so encouraging them to play these games helps win their hearts and mind. I patched up a bunch of banged-up heads and set a few broken arms the last game we went to. Didn’t seem to slow them down much, as they got right back into the game with their splints in place.

Feather, don’t you ever get tired of sharpening that axe?

Ah, Redneck, I only do it when I’m bored. Besides, this isn’t just any old axe. This here is a Gränsfors Bruk hunter’s axe. Hand-forged in Sweden, just a foot and a half long, it even received a design award from the Swedish Society of Crafts and Design. Besides, it’s really a hatchet, not an axe.

Well, Feather, why don’t you get one of those tomahawks? They would be better in a fight, and could still be used as an axe.

Well, Redneck, I might be part Indian, but I don’t plan to fight anyone with a hatchet. That’s why God made guns. Us civilized boys just shoot each other and don’t get into that hacking and chopping stuff you rednecks seem to love so much.

It looks like you might have some trade, Feather; here comes Bubba with that interpreter and a bunch of folks.

Feather, the boy was run over by a horse. He’s unconscious and bleeding like crazy.

Sir, have them lay him over here and I’ll see what I can do for him. Cleaned up the head wound; just tore a strip of scalp up. No broken bones. I started to stitch up the head when the interpreter started trying to tell me something he thought was important. I asked the LT to get him out of my face while I worked. Finished up; twelve stitches, so not too bad. Put a gauze bandage on it and snapped an ammonium carbonate capsule under his nose, which got the desired result of waking his ass up. The guy was a teenager, maybe fourteen or fifteen. He would have a headache for a while. Gave him some Tylenol and sent him out with some of the guys that carried him in.

The LT had the interpreter in the middle of a pack of Afghans. Seemed that one side was against the other with the LT in the middle. We seem to know when one of our own is in trouble; the team just appears. So it was this time. Redneck kind of sauntered into the middle of the pack, which allowed the LT to disengage with us around him and all those other people still screaming at each other.

LT, what in the hell was that all about?

It seems that the young man was being accused of throwing himself in front of the horses in order to cause the visiting team to drop the goat. The hometown guy is pissed because we treated the boy without his permission and says we should have waited for the elders of both villages to decide whether or not the accusation is true. The interpreter is pissed because we didn’t listen to him and I pulled him out of your face without so much as a please and thank you. Let’s get him out of the middle of this, apologize to everybody, and make like a tree and leave. Redneck, get Abbas out of that screaming match. We need to apologize, and I need to ask him how.

Yes, sir; Come on, Abbas, we need to leave. The LT needs to ask you some questions.

Get your hands off me!

Well shit, Abbas, I thought we were doing you a favor, touchy bunch of bastards. Abbas, we need to apologize for this mess. What can we do?

We need to leave without saying anything to anyone.

Jones, bring that radio over here.

I’m right behind you, sir.

Jesus, Jones, don’t do that. That mind-reading crap creeps me out.

Romeo 29 we need a pick-up at point delta in three hours.

Roger Whiskey 61, we’ll be there. Be advised the weather forecast has changed. The snowstorm that was holding to the north is now moving and is expected to be on your position in several hours. Make haste.

Roger Romeo 29, Whiskey 61 out.

Okay, guys, let’s go. We have a storm coming. Redneck, you got point. Let’s get to point Delta on the same path we came in on. I want to be there in three hours tops.

LT, we need to slow it up some; Abbas can’t seem to keep up.

Well, why the hell not?

I don’t know, LT, he’s just moseying along."

Well, Feather, have him move up here with me; I’ll keep him motivated.

Come on, Abbas. We’re only thirty minutes from our objective. We need to get there before it really starts snowing hard. Redneck, why have you stopped?

LT, I think I just heard a horse. Give it a minute. Hold up, Abbas.

It’s like time has slowed to a standstill. I see the shell casing jump from Abbas’ pistol as the barrel of my M4 is rising. Thank God I shoot rifles left-handed, as it barley gives me an angle on Abbas. The shell casings from my rifle jump across my vision. The weapon is set on a three-round burst. I see the bullet strikes, two in the center of mass, with the third hitting him in the head. Abbas is falling with the LT. Jesus Christ the son of a bitch just shot the LT. All hell is breaking loose, Abbas’ shot must have been the trigger for the ambush. I hear Redneck screaming: Ambush! Ambush! Push through! The team responds like it’s on autopilot; lots of firing, and rushing the enemy’s position as I respond to the lieutenant.

I kick the pistol out of Abbas’ hand, out of training I guess, as he’s really dead with a big piece of his face gone. As I kneel over the LT I can see that he’s still breathing, head’s a mess though, lots of blood. I gently remove his helmet to judge the wound. Too much blood, so I pour water over his head to wash some away.

Bubba, you are one lucky SOB. The bullet had caught the rim of his helmet and simply followed it around his head, cutting his scalp as it went. Scalp laceration started over his left eye and exited over his right ear, with a small piece of his right ear missing. I unbuckled his web gear and opened up his shirt. Sure enough, a bullet had missed his armor and there’s a hole between his left nipple and his side that’s blowing bubbles. He must have twisted toward Abbas just as he pulled the trigger. I rummaged through my medical kit and found a small piece of foil. I taped it over the hole with hundred-mile-an-hour tape. And you thought duct tape was only good for household chores. Man, will that sting when they rip it off at the hospital. I hear Redneck in my ear bud calling for me.

Redneck, I have the LT, will need a medevac as soon as I get him to the vehicles.

Feather, do you have an infrared strobe?

Roger, let me set it off.

Feather, I’ve your position. The team is about a hundred and fifty yards out. The bad guys are between us. We have indications that there are more coming down the canyon behind you. You need to get out of there.

Roger that, I’ll move down this gully which should put me within thirty yards of you.

Okay. They have fucked with the bull, and the bull is now going to fuck with them. Thirty seconds later one of the team’s HUMMWVs jumped the berm leading into the canyon, but got high centered. Redneck was almost immediately on the Browning M2 .50 Cal, tattooing a ribbon of death in the familiar three-to-five-round bursts.

I buckled the LT’s web gear back on him and started to drag him by the shoulder strap head-first behind me as I low-crawled down the gully. The gully ended abruptly about a hundred yards out. Maybe I would luck out and it would dog-leg toward the team’s position. My knees and elbows were singing to me. God the LT was heavy. If it hadn’t been snowing, I probably couldn’t have dragged him at all. After ten minutes of fear from listening to the bullets crack over me and swearing as the LT seemed to catch on every little imperfection in the ground, I finally got close to the bend in the gully. I could hear multiple AK47s firing. Quick as I could I looked around the corner, and there were three ragheads basically just spraying bullets at the HUMMWV. Since there were three of them, I couldn’t just lean around the corner and start shooting, as at least one of them would get turned around enough to shoot me. I had to wait till at least one of them was reloading. In our discipline, the one reloading always called it out if we were together, so the other team member would space his shots so that we were not both reloading at the same time. Not so here; these guys were just spraying and praying.

I rolled to a firing position just as one of the guys ran dry. He ripped the magazine out and was fishing for a new one when I shot the two that were firing. He turned toward me, but had not charged the rifle when I sent him to visit Allah. I crawled around the corner and dragged the LT to where the three Taliban were laying. It was coming down so hard now that I could see the muzzle flashes of the fifty Cal, but could barely pick out the HUMMWV. Crap, I’ve lost the earbud to my intra-squad radio. I call out on the mic without being able to hear: Redneck, I’m thirty yards out! I cannot hear your response! Lay down a field of fire except at your two o'clock position, as I’ll be rushing from that direction. Almost immediately the volume of fire increased. Someone over there had a squad automatic weapon load with tracers, as there was just a sheet of tracer fire dancing over the terrain to my right. I peeled the LT out of his web gear, grabbed him by the arms and lifted him into a fireman's carry over my left shoulder. Should have done more squats at the gym. Standing up, I started to run. Jesus he was heavy. Lord, if you just get me across the next thirty yards I’ll go to church for the rest of my life. Pretty soon my breath was coming in rasps. I couldn’t hear the firing anymore, just the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. God, so close; I can make out the individual features of the team. I feel like I’m running through molasses. My legs don’t want to pump up and down. I can hear the guys cheering me, their arms reaching for me. I started to fall; the LT was almost getting thrown as I went down. As I fell I began to roll while still quasi-vertical. I saw a young man with a dressing on his head, a tube on his shoulder. I heard Redneck screaming: RPG! RPG!" when the world became encased in yellow light brighter than the sun, then darkened into oblivion.

Redneck was out of the HUMMWV, grabbing Feather’s web gear. He dragged him over the berm, while Jones pulled the LT behind the HUMMWV. Ah, Jesus, Feather, you’re a mess. Help me get him into a HUMMWV. Let’s get a tourniquet on that leg before he bleeds out. Careful of his head, ‘cause it looks banged up pretty good, too.

Captain, we’ve got to get these guys on a medevac or we’ll lose them.

I know, First Sergeant, I have a request in. The weather has them grounded. We’ll have to get them to the strike camp. We have to get these assholes off us or they’ll just finish the job while we’re loading up the vehicles.

Captain, I’ve Spooky 11 on the horn for you.

Spooky 11 this is Romeo 6 over;

Romeo 6, we cannot make out your position through the storm. If you can mark it for me, we might be able to provide some support.

Roger that, we’re at position delta, map grid 135797, danger close.

We have you plotted, we can see the target on thermal. Spooky 11 is inbound. Keep your heads down 105 in support, on the way, call for effect.

Over the sound of the storm, the sound of four screaming turboprop engines could be heard, a succinct mark, mark then the sound of the 105MM auto-cannon firing through the clouds at the unseen enemy below.

Okay, guys. Those people over there will either charge our position or retreat up the canyon; everyone up on line. Redneck was back on the fifty as the shells from the gunship began to impact; he tapping out the rhythmic pattern of a well-fired machine gun.

Spooky 11, on target lay it on them.

Romeo 6 roger, 25 mike mike in 10 seconds.

With the sound of a giant tearing a piece of sheet metal in half, the 25MM cannon wound up towards its six-thousand-rounds-a-minute rate of fire. Each of the shells was point-detonating, with a hundred rounds a second that hit with the sound of a thousand fire crackers going off.

First Sergeant, load them up.

Roger, sir. You heard the man; let’s get out of here! The team fell back to the remaining vehicles as Redneck tossed a thermite grenade into the high-centered HUMMWV. With a flash and a blast of heat the HUMMWV ended its life, burning fiercely.

Spooky 11, we have disengaged.

Roger, Romeo 6, one more circle and we’ll break contact.

Spooky 11, thanks for the help, Romeo 6 out.

Captain, we have Flat Iron on the horn.

Flat Iron this Romeo 6, we need immediate medevac for two WIA.

Roger Romeo 6, we’ll need a tactical beacon set up before I can launch a bird.

Romeo 6, Whiskey 29, we copied that transmission and are setting up the beacon.

Thanks, Whiskey 29, break. You copy, Flat Iron?

Roger that Romeo 6, expect pick-up in 40 zero mikes.

Roger, we’ll be waiting. Whiskey 29, send out the DD-form 93 on the following to higher, Staff Sergeant John Johnston and First Lieutenant Gavin Barker; mark both as VSI.

Roger, Romeo 6, beacon is up and running.

Roger Whiskey 29, we’re ten mikes out.

Romeo 6, we have Flat Iron on short final.

Roger Whiskey 29, we see him.

As the helicopter settled, the door sprang open and two corpsmen rushed out from beneath the rotor, carrying a stretcher. As the HUMMWV slowed to a halt, Redneck opened the rear clamshell door and helped get first Feather, and then the LT pulled out so they could be carried to the helicopter.

Captain Rogers ran up to the pilot’s door as the pilot lowered the window. I owe you guys a bottle of whatever you drink.

Captain, we’ll collect the next time you’re out of the woods. Where’s your medic?

He’s one of the wounded.

Well, we’ll have to manage then; we’re a man short. Loaded, sir.

All right, Captain, we’ll be seeing you around. Captain Rogers walked out from under the rotors as the pilot pulled pitch and the helicopter took off into the storm.

Chapter Three

"Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid."

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, Morning Staff Meeting

Okay, now for Staff Sergeant Johnston.

Well, sir, we cleaned up his amputation. The guys in country did a pretty good job. Besides the loss of the left leg below the knee, he had several large lacerations from which we removed some shrapnel. His most serious injury, though, was a thumb-size rock. It was in the occipital, penetrating about one inch into his head. I thought that we would lose him as he started to seize from the swelling. In any case, we removed the rock and a two-inch diameter piece of skull. We had to, in order to remove the fragments of bone, as well as to alleviate the swelling. We’ve started him on antibiotics. We’ve maintained the coma for the time being. We’ll check his inter-cranial pressure in eight hours to see if his pressure is coming down to normal. I would suggest that if his pressure drops, we transport him to Brooke, as he’ll be in for a long convalescent period.

Okay, Major. Let me know so we can arrange transport.

All right, let’s discuss Lieutenant Barker.

We have removed the bullet, which was right up against the heart. During this process we also performed a bypass, as the bullet damaged one of the arteries. The artery we repaired was almost totally occluded, so he was not far from a heart attack. He’s in such good shape it must be a congenital defect, and he’ll probably need additional surgery. If his ribs weren't like railroad ties he would have been killed. I think that we should send him to Brooke with Johnston. He’ll need a lot of additional testing to determine a course of action that makes sense. Johnston was the field medic that plugged the wound; did a good job. I cannot believe that he carried Barker. Barker has got to be twice his size.

Well, Major, I’ve had a couple of calls now from their battalion commander. Guy was almost rabid about these two. Johnston will be getting a medal beyond the Purple Heart. Barker was shot in a green on blue incident, pretty hard to believe that they both survived.

COLONEL, MAJOR ADAMS HERE. Johnston’s pressure is dropping.

Okay, Major, I’ll get the transport lined up. Will he be conscious?

No, we’ll keep him in a coma until he gets to Brooke.

How about Barker?

Well, Colonel, he’s awake. Kind of confused, but he’s ready for transport as well.

Polson, Montana

Lucinda, I’ve a doctor’s appointment this morning. Could you please send an email to the staff that the morning meeting is cancelled?

Sure, Mr. Johnston. I hope you get over whatever you have. That cough is pretty bad.

Yeah, me too. Charley Johnston had hair that was prematurely gray, a little taller than most but otherwise an average-size guy, with a potbelly forming from spending too much time behind a desk. Quick with a laugh or story, he was loved by his family and admired by his employees. Going to the doctor was on his list of things to be avoided, but he knew that his wife Linda would nag him until he saw one. He thought that he could get a gold star from her this time by beating her to the punch.

Step onto the scale, Mr. Johnston. You’re down twenty pounds since you were here several months ago for your physical. Have a seat here; the doctor will be with you in a few minutes.

Yeah, right, wait in the waiting room, wait in the office; a doctor’s office is a lesson in patience.

Hi, Cora; what seems to be the problem, Charley?

I don’t feel at the top of my game, and I’ve a cough that has lasted two weeks now.

Well, let me check you out. Your temperature and blood pressure are normal; take off your shirt so I can listen to your lungs. Deep breath, another, and one more. Charley, your lungs sound pretty clear. Charley held up one finger as spasms of coughing prevented him from answering. Charley, listen to me; have you ever had a chest x-ray?

Not since I was in the army, Cora.

Okay, let’s do one. That cough sounds really dry. I want to make sure you don’t have something else going on in your lungs. Charley followed her into an adjacent room that had the x-ray equipment. Take your T-shirt off, and back up against the grid. Okay, just a second. We’re done. Put your T-shirt back on and go back to the room we were in. I’ll be there in a few minutes, after I get the film. Cora came back in a few minutes, looking at the x-ray film. Charley, we have a problem, Cora said, as she put the film on the light box. You see these white-looking small spots? These are usually tumors, but to be sure we need to do an MRI, and if they’re still there, then we’ll do a biopsy. What’s involved? I’m sure you understand what happens in an MRI. For the biopsy they’ll insert a needle into one of these and then send it to the lab, where they’ll decide what kind of cells they are. I guess we’ll have to set an appointment. How does next Tuesday look?

Just a second, let me look at the calendar on my phone. Looks clear to me; okay we’ll set it a 9:00 A.M. Just a second, Cora, my wife’s calling me.

MRS. JOHNSTON, MY NAME IS MAJOR MILLER. Are you sitting down? If not, please do. I’m calling to let you know that your son John has been injured in Afghanistan, and is currently en route to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. I’ll be your Casualty Affairs Officer. Mrs. Johnston, are you there?

Just a moment, Major, I’m trying to understand.

That’s okay, Mrs. Johnston.

Major, is my son going to live?

I can’t tell you that, Mrs. Johnston. We know he was alive when they loaded him on the transport. The process is, Mrs. Johnston, that when the medical community informs us that he’s conscious, we’ll give you a phone number that you can call and talk to him. Sometimes they’ll just stabilize him and then transport him to Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, Texas. As soon as we know I’ll be calling you again. Besides the telephone number, we’ll provide round-trip transportation for up to four individuals to travel to Landstuhl, and we’ll provide both meals and lodging for as long as your son is hospitalized. If he’s transported to Brooke Army Medical Center, we’ll provide the same service to San Antonio, Texas. In addition to myself, an officer from your son’s unit will contact you about having his personal effects shipped to your house. The army and the United States appreciate the service that your son has rendered. Are there any questions for me?

Is there a number that I can reach you at, Major?

Yes, are you ready to copy? Mrs. Johnston, you may call me at any time. As soon as I know more I’ll be calling you with the information that I’ve.

Thank you, Major.

Good bye, Mrs. Johnston.

In a sobbing voice, Linda called her husband Charley at work.

Mr. Johnston’s office.

Lucinda, I need to talk to Charley.

Mrs. Johnston, he’s not here. He went to the doctor. You’ll have to call him on his cell.

Charley, can you come home right now? I need you.

What’s wrong?

Never mind; I’ll be there in a few. Linda rushed to Charley just as he was closing the door. Charley, John has been injured in Afghanistan.

How bad? How do you know?

The Casualty Affairs Officer, a guy named Miller, called a few minutes ago. He said that John was being taken to Landstuhl, Germany to the army hospital there. He said he would call as soon as he knew more; all he could say was that John was alive when they put him on the transport.

Babe, you know John is a pretty tough guy. They don’t take sissies in the Green Beret. I guess we’ll just have to wait until this guy calls us back. If we don’t hear something by tomorrow, I’ll call him and try and get this sorted out.

MAJOR MILLER, THIS IS COLONEL WOOD in Landstuhl calling about Staff Sergeant Johnston.

Yes, sir.

Have you made contact with the family yet?

Yes, sir, I made the initial contact yesterday.

Good, I need to call them with the medical information about their son.

Here’s their phone number, sir.

Thanks, Major.

Mr. Johnston?

Yes, this is he. How may I help you?

Mr. Johnston, my name is Colonel Wood. I’m a surgeon at Landstuhl, Germany at the army hospital. I’d like to discuss your son’s injuries.

"Let me get my wife, Colonel, just a second. Linda, it’s the army, come listen, he called, setting the phone to speakerphone mode and setting it onto the coffee table.

Colonel, we’re here. Can you hear us?

Yes, I can. Mr. and Mrs. Johnston, your son John has been grievously injured. He has lost his left foot, which was amputated between the knee and the ankle. He has numerous lacerations from the explosion. His most serious injury, though, was to his head, where we removed a stone that had become embedded in his skull. John is currently in a medically induced coma and is being transported to Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, Texas. He should arrive there in the next eight hours or so. Major Miller will be making any arrangements to travel to Brooke for you, and will call in the next hour or so. Mr. and Mrs. Johnston, your son saved the life of a fellow soldier, who also is traveling to Brooke with John. We have found that support from the family greatly aids the healing process. Please take advantage of the arrangements that Major Miller will be happy to make for you. Do you have any questions?

Colonel Wood, will our son have his full mental capacity when he wakes up?

Mr. Johnston, we cannot be sure. The stone was lodged in the lower portion of his skull in the back. An inch or so lower, and John would have died. As it is, with head injuries we cannot determine their long-term impact until there has been weeks of testing. While he recuperates with his leg, he’ll get a myriad of tests to determine if there is any permanent damage. So, the simple answer is that at this time we just don’t know.

Finally, Colonel, will John be discharged from the army?

Mr. Johnston, my feeling is that yes, he will.

I guess that’s all the questions we have for now. We’ll wait for the major’s phone call. Thank you for calling us; we’ve been on pins and needles since yesterday.

You’re welcome, Mr. Johnston. Good bye.

Charley! Our poor boy! Linda sobbed. Charley held his wife to comfort her, choking back his own grief, but comforted in that it could have been much, much worse.