The Severance (3 page)

It took a few hours and a lot of digging, but they finally found the big prize—the mortar tube. It was a 60mm for sure, but Jake couldn’t identify the country of origin. Not that it mattered much.

“These guys weren’t chumps,” Sergeant McBride said, as he rubbed his big hands up the side of the captured mortar.

“No, they weren’t, but they are dead and we’re not,” Jake replied, as he reviewed his list of captured equipment, his voice distorted by a small flashlight in his mouth.

There was a long silence between the two leaders. McBride broke the silence.

“Oh, we dug out one of the guys with three tags from an M-4; one got the guy in the head. Big Joe seems convinced that you shot him.”

Jake shook his head and took the light out of his mouth,

“Big Joe was also convinced that his truck had an ejection seat until you corrected him, as I recall.”

“True, but Bena and Doc also saw you take the guy down. Nice shooting, Sir. Want to get a picture or something?” McBride said, as he handed the mortar tube off to one of Hunley’s men to prep it for transport.

Jake liked to think that McBride was just trying to congratulate him because, despite their numerous disagreements, the sergeant liked him and was glad he was the platoon’s leader. It wasn’t often that people got “confirmed” kills, and an officer getting a kill was unheard of. Jake despised the idea of taking a Facebook picture with a dead guy or grabbing souvenirs at all. Old, long-buried emotions flashed inside him. Killing five men in an air strike was easy for him to stomach, but shooting one guy in the face with a carbine didn’t sit right.

“No, I think I’m good. Thanks,” Jake said softly.

“Suit yourself, Sir,” McBride said, shrugging his shoulders.

Bena approached Jake with the radio on his back, handmic in hand.

“Sir, Battalion says we have two Chinooks on standby for our exfil. They say that they can be wheels down here ten minutes after we make the call,” Bena said.

Bena had already given Jake this same information 30 minutes earlier. The boys were tired and getting cold. Five hours earlier, Jake had told them all there would be no more missions; circumstances had made him a liar. But now they were done. The captured equipment was ready for transport, and Jake had plenty of pictures for Battalion. The bodies were going to be left in place for the Afghan National Police, as was the custom.

“Bena, you a little chilly? Maybe tired a bit? Little hungry?” Jake asked, trying to suppress a smile. It was unseasonably cold for March in southeast Afghanistan.

“Oh no, Sir. We’re fine here. Just making sure you knew what was happening,” Bena replied sheepishly.

“I see, so we can stay here a few more hours?”

“Yes, Sir.” Bena frowned and was about to turn away, when Jake stopped him.

“Bena, call the birds in, make sure LT Hunley’s men know what is going on. Ensure that the birds will drop the guys at the District Center and take us back to Salerno. Let me know when it’s done and they are inbound.”

Bena replied in the affirmative. Jake realized he sometimes forgot that guys like Bena and Big Joe were under 21 years old. Just kids, who still liked cartoons and video games. Kids who fired machine guns and carried grenades. At 26, he was an old man to a lot of his soldiers. Some days he
felt
like an old man. Days like today didn’t help at all

When word came down that the extraction helicopters were inbound, both Jake and LT Hunley’s platoons assembled in two columns, with four men on each side assigned to provide security. This was going to be the last extraction of many for Jake’s platoon and the first for LT Hunley’s.

“Hey Bena, you want to get something to eat when we get back?” Big Joe asked.

“Joe. It’s like three in the morning. The chow hall isn’t open yet,” Bena replied.

“Man, we missed dinner tonight because of that stupid mission and now I’m starving.”

“Joe, I hear what you’re saying but that doesn’t change the chow hall hours,” Bena said.

One of LT Hunley’s men decided to disrupt their conversation.

“Hey, Westbrook,” the soldier sneered at Big Joe.

“My name is Eastman, not Westbrook,” Big Joe replied.

“Whatever. Anyway, I heard from my squad leader that you and the rest of your platoon are some kind of convict laborers or something,” the soldier said.

“We’re not convicts. It’s a rehabilitation platoon,” Big Joe replied.

“Rehabilitation? What the fuck is that?” another of the new soldiers asked.

“I heard you guys are all a bunch of screw-ups,” said the first soldier.

“We’ve all made mistakes,” Big Joe said. LT Hunley’s soldiers began laughing and Big Joe sighed. Big Joe, a physical giant, was always the butt of jokes. A walking punch line. His level temperament was a gift and a curse: in combat, he was unflappable, but in social situations, people walked all over him.

“So what did you do, Westbrook?” one of the soldiers asked.

“My name is Eastman.”

“Whatever you say, guy. Now what did you do?”

“I assaulted a lieutenant,” Big Joe said softly. The one time in his whole life that he’d gotten angry had been the one time that he’d needed to show restraint and had been the one time he hadn’t.

“How ’bout you? What did you do?” another of the soldiers asked Benakowsky.

“Don’t be an asshole, dude. Mind your business,” Bena replied. The soldier was not dissuaded.

“I’m not being an asshole, whatcha do?” the soldier asked again.

“I went AWOL and tried to go to Canada,” Bena answered. His round, dimpled face wasn’t built for frowning. He looked more like a child than a hardened combat veteran.

“How’d you get caught?” the soldier asked.

“I didn’t have a passport. I didn’t know you needed a passport to get into Canada,” Bena replied. The soldiers standing across from Bena and Big Joe cackled in laughter. Bena wasn’t a pushover like Joe, but the first rule in the Kodiak platoon was that the only fighting they were allowed to do was against the enemy. Bena and Big Joe stood there awkwardly, as the other soldiers called them screw-ups and idiots. The rest of the Kodiak platoon shook their heads and grumbled under their breath. They were all used to this kind of treatment. Finally, one of the other soldiers stopped laughing long enough to ask another question.

“What keeps you guys in line?”

“The battalion commander said if we performed well he’d give us General Discharges Under Honorable Conditions instead of the Bad Conduct and Other than Honorable Discharges,” Big Joe answered, before Bena could stop him.

“So they’re letting you off?” the soldier asked.

“Well, no. The commander told us we’d get some of our veterans’ benefits, but no G.I. Bill. But it’s the best deal we could get,” Joe answered. The other soldiers laughed harder. One of them pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

“Please don’t smoke out here,” Joe said.

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because the Taliban can see the cherry for miles around. It’s really dangerous,” Joe said.

“Are you fucking stupid? We killed all the Taliban out here,” the soldier said and took a long drag. The burning end of the cigarette glowed even brighter.

“You’re going to get us in trouble,” Joe said meekly.

“Don’t be a freaking Nancy, West—” Suddenly from nowhere a gloved hand snatched the cigarette from the soldier’s mouth and crushed it. In a flash, the soldier was nose to nose with the hand’s owner.

“Eastman, his name is Eastman!” the man barked.

“Huh?”

“I said his name is Eastman! Now say it!”

“Say what?” the soldier said, voice trembling.

“Are you fucking stupid? Say Eastman!”

“Eastman.”

“Call him anything other than Eastman and I’ll knock your fucking head off, get it?”

“No, yes! I won’t mess his name up again!” the soldier said, taking a pigeon step back. The other man wasn’t finished.

“Now, what my large friend here failed to mention is that there are more than six goddamn Taliban in this fucking country. They are everywhere and always watching, and for a group of guys that spent its first firefight in a fucking ditch, you talk a lot of shit! Do yourself a favor and shut up!” the man said, sticking his index finger in the soldier’s face.

Then he turned and gave Joe a gentle pound on his front ballistic plate.

“You doing all right, Joe?”

“I’m all right, Sir,” Big Joe replied.

“Don’t let these jerks pick on you. You did a brave thing tonight. They give you any more shit you come find me, okay?”

“Yes, Sir,” Joe said and the man walked off toward the front of the formation.

“Who the hell was that?” the soldier asked, still trembling.

“That was Captain Roberts. Our platoon leader,” Bena replied casually.

“Our platoon leader doesn’t talk like that,” the soldier remarked.

“Yeah, well, that sucks for you,” Bena said.

Jake fumed as he walked to the head of the formation. Fortune had never smiled upon Big Joe. The gentle giant hadn’t always been Jake’s soldier. He’d previously been assigned to another battalion in the rugged Logar province with a young platoon leader fresh out of West Point, when his vehicle had been struck by an improvised explosive device. Everyone, including Jake, had heard the whole story. How Joe had refused to shoot the wounded platoon leader as several Taliban approached, even as his officer had begged Joe to kill him. While the officer wept in fear of being tortured and killed, Joe had found a weapon and fought off the enemy. It was only by luck that Joe and the lieutenant were rescued by a CH-47 transport helicopter that just happened to be passing through the area. But later, when Joe told the truth about his part in the battle, he was branded a liar by the brass. Jake looked back at where Joe stood patiently in line. Joe had tried to play fair, but got nowhere. Conversely, when the lieutenant lied about what had actually happened during the battle, claiming he had been in command throughout,
he
was awarded a Bronze Star for gallantry under fire. Joe, present at the award ceremony, lost his cool and attacked the officer. This bought him an express flight back to Afghanistan and an assignment to the Kodiak platoon.

“You’re such a sweetie,” McBride said, as Jake walked up to him at the head of the formation.

“If you think you can smooth talk your way past second base, forget it. You’re going to have to buy me dinner first,” Jake said hoarsely.

“Well, I do have reservations at the chow hall,” McBride said.

“That works for me,” Jake replied. He noticed that LT Hunley was staring at him. He obviously wanted to talk, but couldn’t work up the nerve. If Jake hadn’t known better, he would have said Hunley was about 14 years old.

“How long you been in the Army, Lieutenant?” Jake asked.

“Seven months. How long have you been in the Army, Sir?” Hunley asked.

“Four years,” Jake shot back. The younger officer appeared shocked at his answer. Officers with four years of service didn’t normally still lead platoons. Some of them commanded companies or held higher-level staff positions. Jake could read the confusion in Hunley’s eyes and chuckled.

“My career has hit a few bumps,” he said.

“Do you mind if I ask what bumps?” the lieutenant asked, sounding slightly bolder.

“I absolutely do mind,” Jake said curtly. McBride rolled his eyes and turned back toward Bena, who was holding his radio handmic in one hand. Bena made eye contact with McBride and indicated with his free hand that the birds were two minutes out.

“Two minutes, Sir,” McBride said to Jake, ending his awkward conversation with LT Hunley.

In the distance, Jake could hear the sounds of rotor blades spinning. Like the soldiers in his platoon, Jake had sins that he carried around in his heart. He was going to leave those sins in the cold Afghan mountains and never look back, or at least that’s what he hoped. It felt good to hope. Jake smiled. For him, this was the end of the war.

Jake hated heights and could barely tolerate flying in military aircraft. So, according to the indecipherable logic of the Army, he was a perfect candidate for the 101st Airborne Division. What better officer for the “World’s Only Air Assault Division” than one who got airsick just looking at a Chinook?