And Yesterday Is Gone (39 page)

His disillusioned old eyes were almost hidden under leathery wrinkles; his growly voice was only getting deeper with age.

“Why do you want to go to some hellhole across the world to get your ass shot off? Find some excitement closer to home. You won't get my blessing, and if you go, don't come back here—if you ever come back at all.”

I called Juan, hoping that he would understand.

“Got a minute?”

We met at a little coffee shop near the newspaper office. I figured I'd just been fired so I laid it all out for my friend.

When I first started to tell him, he laughed. Then, judging from the look on my face, he realized that I was dead serious.

“Steve, you can't mean that. What about Rica and the kids? You've got a good thing going here—why go halfway across the world to get involved in a war that means nothing to us? Please reconsider. Don't go, please don't.”

That night after dinner and the kids were asleep, I carefully approached Rica with my intentions.

“What the hell are you thinking of? Yourself? Sure isn't your family. Why? Why are you doing this?”

How could I explain?

“I'm going to call Ma,” Rica stated firmly.

Before I could intercede, she was on the phone with Ma, raging.

“Put him on now,” Ma told Rica.

“Steve, you cannot do this to your family—it's insane. Promise me you'll forget this foolishness. You're working too hard to think clearly. Bring Rica and the kids and come down to the ranch for some rest for a while.”

“Talk to you later, Ma,” I said as I hung up the phone.

Two days later, J.W. called. “Steve, if you're fool enough to do this, you'll need a lot of paperwork to prove you are an accredited journalist for this paper. My nephew is a pilot on one of those transport cargo planes. He could probably help you with transportation. Here is his name and phone number. I told him you'd call. Take care, Steve… and come home.”

When I picked up my papers from him, there were tears enough for two.

Doubts rose up in the night to torment me. I knew the war would be dangerous, but that knowledge blurred with my determination.

What of Rica and my kids? What if anything should happen to me? I agonized at the thought that some other man would become a father to my children, would comfort my wife, his shoes under my bed. After all, Rica was a beautiful woman. But I comforted myself with the knowledge that nothing, of course, would happen to me.

We seldom quarreled, but I knew this final round was coming very soon.

In the light of day, I rationalized. Rica had everything she wanted. She had wanted a fine house, she got it. Children I couldn't give her, but I gave her all my support. Now she had the girls she wanted. They were everything to me, too, but I had wanted her to be happy. I had wanted her to have her dream. And she had it: a lovely home, children, a husband who denied her nothing, who loved her.

Now what of my dream?

I appreciated what our life was. My mother, Sis—how I loved them. Our beloved friends in Pacific Heights, the man I loved as a brother, even my fire-snorting old boss who sometimes thought I hung the moon…sometimes.

But there was a piece missing in this jigsaw puzzle of my life. There was something else. Yes, there was—there had to be.

I wanted one last fling in my life. Then I would come home and once again the last piece would fit and we would all live happily ever after.

Over the following days, I got my gear ready: lots of film, notebooks—everything I could think of that I might need. Packed in a duffle bag, I left it in the garage.

The girls cried and I made extravagant promises. Billy thought of it as an exciting adventure and wished that he could go. My only supporter.

Rica alternated between tears and recriminations, finally to language I'd heard only in the newsroom.

“Rica, darling…”

“Don't darling me.”

“I promise I'll be gone only a month and I won't leave the base.”

“Don't lie to me.”

“Rica…”

Two days later I got a message from John Owens, J.W.'s nephew. “I'm leaving on Tuesday at five a.m. Call me if you're coming with me and I'll give you the details.”

Coward that I was, late Monday night, I sneaked to the kitchen to call a cab. Waiting, I tiptoed to the girls' room and pulled their blankets up, kissed Sarita, smoothed the hair from Babe's face and whispered, “My girls, I love you the most and the best.”

My girls were sixteen, almost young women now. Sarita, outgoing, with a vivacious laugh and dancing feet, was a carbon copy of her mother. My “Babe” had Juan's unmistakable stamp upon her and yet was still “Daddy's Babe.” My beautiful girls.

Billy had spent the night in Pacific Heights.

As I left, I looked back at this huge part of my life that I was putting on hold. I tucked the letter I had written under the coffeepot where Rica couldn't miss it, then added a P.S.: “I promise to come home.”

After paying the driver, I walked toward the biggest plane I'd ever seen. John intercepted me as I was halfway across the runway. Taking my duffle bag, he said, “Glad you're early. I was hoping to get an earlier start. Go over there to the flight crew,” he directed and motioned to a group of men near a large pile of boxes. “Give them a hand. Then carry a box into the plane and stay in the crapper until we're off the ground.”

When I joined the men, one welcomed me with “You got here just in time—we're almost done.”

Laughing, I carried a box, followed a man who carried the same and watched as he delivered it to the fellow waiting, standing in the doorway of the plane's belly. I brought two more boxes, and then went up the steps with another in my arms. Depositing that, I retreated to the crapper.

I sat down on the stool and promptly fell asleep. I hadn't had much rest at home since I had been holding down our big chair due to the hostile reaction to my announcement.

I was awakened by a thunderous knock on the door.

“Hey, are you alive?” came the copilot's irritated voice.

I could tell the copilot was not impressed by my presence, but he eventually warmed and we talked with the pilot off and on for about eighteen hours as the flight crew played cards and slept.

I was thrilled beyond words. My mental notebook was bursting.

“We'll set down shortly. Where are you off to?”

“The field hospital near the First Battalion of the First Calvary Division.”

“We can probably get you a lift. Some of this stuff is for them.”

My luck was running strong, I thought. See? I was meant to do this; everything is going perfectly.

When that big cargo plane rolled to a stop, all I could see were camouflaged men and khaki-colored sand—and lots of both, and big trucks and every kind of equipment. I was about to get into a waiting loaded truck when an officer approached me.

“Hey you. Who are you and where do you think you're going? What are you doing here? This ain't fucking Disneyland—no tourists allowed here.”

I stood up tall, my heart pounding. Oh no, not now.

Looking him dead in the eye, I said, “I am an American citizen and I am an accredited journalist for the
Bay City Chronicle
in San Francisco. I have a right to let my readers know what is going on in this country, and I have a right to be here. I've been cleared by top authority.”

J.W. would have been pleased by that promotion.

The driver of the truck was revving his motor.

I added, “I know my material will be subject to military approval and I respect that. If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with Major Alfred Myers.”

I stepped past him and climbed into the truck. He gave me a baleful stare and waved us off.

My luck was holding, I assured myself.

From the youthful truck driver, a young kid who didn't look much older than Billy, I learned enough about the war to fill a book. He dropped me off right in front of the field hospital.

I walked inside and asked for Dr. Alfred Myers and waited a moment. Then a voice boomed, “Cowboy, where's your horse?” Standing as big as a mountain, Alfie's arms enveloped me.

My dream was coming true.

“You got here just in time. This war is about over. The Iraqis are about done, deserting back into the desert. The fires are burning at seven hundred oil wells, and four hundred million gallons of crude oil have been dumped into the gulf to keep the Marines out. Of course, there's still some last-minute, last-ditch fighting.” He paused. “But they are at a big disadvantage with old, very poor equipment, poor training and not much motivation. And our men, excited about our new armored tanks and Humvees, thermal site lasers, and rangefinders, are eager to use them. Rumor has it that we're pushing the Iraqis down to the last tank.”

He put his arm over my shoulder. “You should get some incredible pictures of the oil wells, especially at night.”

I felt my state-of-the-art camera dance with anticipation.

“We haven't had many casualties, thank God, but let me show you what a mine can do.”

I followed him to the back of the tent. On a stretcher lay a body. Alfie pulled the blanket back. The body was that of a young man who had no legs, and some of his internal organs were exposed in the torn abdomen. His bloodless hands were crossed on his chest as if in prayer.

I turned my head, my stomach rebelling, but I made a desperate effort to keep everything down. Alfie pulled the blanket up.

“Are you gonna faint?”

“Of course, I'm not gonna faint. Do I look like I'm gonna faint?”

“Yes. Don't go outside the perimeter.”

“This is where we put the dead and the ‘expectants.' Those are the ones we expect will die immediately. When we have to choose quickly between those we can save and those we can't, it's a horrible decision. The ones who are alive but need immediate, extensive surgery are airlifted to a hospital in Landstuhl, Germany, in a special cargo plane.”

As we walked back, he said, “There is a huge armored convoy of tanks and Humvees going down the Iraq-Kuwait highway to clean up Kuwait. The Iraqis have mostly gone. Now that you shouldn't miss. That will be the end. You should be able to get enough pics and material there that you'll never have to work again. But you'll have to figure a way to get into one of those tanks. Act cool and keep that camera out of sight; it won't be easy.”

“I will, if I have to buy it,” came my cocky response.

“You can sleep in my tent. Did you bring a sleeping bag? The sand fleas will eat you alive.”

I slept soundly that night despite the sound of far-off guns, and dreamed of ways to get into that front tank. I was here and I was safe and heaven could wait.

A day later, there was a tremendous amount of activity—looked like an anthill that had been disturbed. I tried to sneak a few pictures without much luck. A big guy noticed me and said, “Get your ass in gear, soldier. This ain't no picnic.”

Somehow Alfie had found me a camouflage uniform, but my longer hair betrayed me. I heard snickering as I walked around. “Pretty Boy” was the nicest thing they called me.

Since it was an open secret, I knew the big push was going to start early in the morning when the 1st Marine Division, 1st Light Armored Infantry would head for Kuwait City. I couldn't sleep—excitement was at fever pitch.

Alfie embraced me and gave me his Kevlar vest. “Cover that camera and don't take chances. When we get back home, we'll have a party that will make the Fourth of July look like an ice-cream social. Take care.”

I had never been so excited in my life—nothing mattered to me today but going to Kuwait in that tank.

Loading started at daylight. I edged my way up to the big tank. Watching my chance, I climbed up to the turret and pushed in close behind another guy.

“Hey, you stupid asshole. This ain't your ride out.”

I was shoved out so fast I thought maybe I had sprouted wings. But it was only a size-twelve boot. Shit.

Taking another tactic, I walked boldly up past a guy waiting to climb up. He said, “That you, Mickey?”

“Yeah,” I grunted and figured I had it made.

“You ain't Mick. Who the hell is this shit-for-brains? Don't even know his own name.”

Again I got a rough shove and sprawled in the sand. I started to panic. I was going with this damn convoy if I had to ride on the roof.

The Humvees were loading their last men. Slipping among some guys who were bullshitting each other, I elbowed in and crowded between two soldiers, then put my head in my hands and held it down.

“What's the matter with you?”

“I'm sick to my stomach. Leave me alone or I'll puke all over you.”

“Oh, shit, just my luck to sit next to a puker.”

The column was moving and picking up speed. I raised my head to look out the little slit from which the guns worked.

“Hey, who the hell is this?”

“Dan Smith. O'Brien gave me orders.”

“That son of a bitch throws his surplus off on us like we're not already sardines.”

The men all talked at once—arguing, chatting about all the fun they were going to have in Kuwait, cursing the crowded quarters and O'Brien.

We had been on the road about two hours. It was hot, noisy and stank of sweat and worse. I put my face up to the narrow slit and up ahead I saw a good-sized hump of dirt, probably knocked out from a bomb blast, with a little depression behind it. I drew in a breath of fresh air and my seatmate said, “Sit down, stupid. This ain't no sightseeing tour.”

It was then that a deafening boom split the air. There was sudden, shocked silence. We all lurched forward as the brakes were floored.

Then someone—the driver?—screamed hoarsely, “Oh my God, the lead truck is blown all to hell. Must have hit a mine. Oh my God, there goes a tank.”

Voices clamored all at once.