Chapter 1: Pain
“I understand your reluctance, Brian, but let’s begin anyway. What do you remember about that day, leading up to the explosion? . . . Brian? Brian, are you going to talk with me?”
The gaunt young man lifted his head slowly, even painfully it seemed, as though disturbed by a trespasser while wallowing in some infernal depth. “Only because I have to, Dr. Kinzer.” Then, though weary with repeating his story, he began it again. “The weather was mild that day. In fact, not bad at all. So different from the heat and wind and blowing sand of previous weeks. Those are the things you remember about Iraq. The sand cuts right through you and the heat smothers you. Makes you delirious at times. But by that day we thought we’d already seen the worst.”
“Fallujah had been liberated the day of your injury, isn’t that correct?”
“The day before, actually. We were feeling great. Operation Phantom Fury had been a success. The first time we were alone, I hugged Vince and we laughed about it. What a relief, we thought! At last, we had a victory next to our names. A solid victory. That’s what we’d come for. That’s why we had suffered together in that damned Iraqi desert.”
“Then what happened, after your private celebration?”
“Our driver had the Humvee rolling right along, taking us back to base. Dodging a few potholes, but nothing bad. Nothing that would make us stop. We were two vehicles back of the troop trucks in our convoy.”
“Is that because the trucks were slower?”
“Right. Slowest go up front, to set the pace and not fall behind as they would if they were in the rear. Still, we were in a hurry to get back, to report on all we had done. We had come over this same road going to Fallujah with no problem, so going back should have been no problem as well.”
“How many were with you in the Humvee?”
“Five of us altogether. Two in the front and three in the back. I was sitting directly behind the driver.”
“Was Vincent Gallia sitting with you?”
“No, he was up front. We didn’t sit together in situations like that. If we did, guys would talk.”
“What do you mean talk? Talk about what?”
“They’d say we were getting special privileges that allowed us to buddy-up all the time, so I told Vince to sit in the front . . . And that’s what got him killed.” Brian’s voice trailed off, becoming frail and thin, so Dr. Kinzer bent forward to hear him better.
“Is that when the explosion occurred? On your way back to base?”
“Yes . . . ,” Brian answered softly before suddenly flaring up. “You know that already, don’t you? Isn’t it all contained in that file you’re holding? I’m sure it is. I’ve already told enough people. Why do I have to tell you? I’m tired of it all!”
“I understand your impatience, Brian, but I need to hear what happened from you.” Dr. Kinzer remained calm, adding in a sympathetic voice, “We sometimes recall important new details when we retell a story, so please tell me what happened next.”
“After a while there was no traffic coming toward us. Not something you notice right away. Then the lead vehicle must have slowed down, and soon the convoy stopped completely. We thought there had been an accident that had blocked the highway, but in combat zones you can never be sure. Just like Dad used to tell me about Vietnam—friend or foe, you never knew which was beside you. After we’d been sitting there for a few minutes, I told our driver to get out and see what was wrong. He climbed out of the Humvee and started up the line of vehicles toward the front because he couldn’t see anything from our position. Vince climbed over into the driver’s seat in case we had to start up again before the driver returned. Suddenly, there was a flash and roar up ahead of us. All sorts of debris were thrown up. You couldn’t even recognize what any of it was. And before any of it could begin to fall, there was another flash, closer than the first. And then before any of us could even move, a third. White heat, I remember searing heat. Like nothing you can imagine. Like the sun had just risen up, right beside us. The Humvee lifted up—and then nothing. I don’t even remember it coming down.”
“These were IED explosions?”
“Yes, three mortar rounds buried under the highway. Detonated remotely by someone who could see us or had received a signal. The wreck ahead of us had been staged to make the convoy stop in the target area.”
“Do you remember the rescue?”
“No, not really. I only remember the Humvee being on its side, passenger side down—and a terrible, terrible pain below me--and . . .” Again, Brian’s voice trailed off, anguished by now.
“And what else? What did you start to say? Brian, are you listening to me? Brian?”
Slowly, Brian resumed his story. “. . . and Vince in front of me. I could see Vince. The explosion had thrown him against the passenger door. And now his face, his beautiful face, was gone . . . just a mass of torn flesh and oozing blood. That’s the last time I saw him, if it was him. It was like one of those creatures being torn to shreds in scenes from hell by—who is that painter?”
“Do you mean Bosch? Hieronymus Bosch?”
“Yes, I think so. That seems right. I remember too that I couldn’t hear anything. I was on top of the guys who were in the back with me. I could see their mouths moving but no sounds were coming out.”
“You had been deafened by the explosion? Is that what happened?”
“I guess so. Later, I could hear again, but my hearing is still not what it was. We must have been real close to the third shell that exploded. . . . But the rescue—you asked about the rescue—I don’t remember that. The pain must have been too great. I think I passed out. Seeing what was left of Vince is the last thing I remember in the Humvee.”
“What is the next thing you do remember, after the rescue?”
“The Medevac copter taking me to Bagdad. I recall a little of that—the chopper’s sound and motion. But even that’s just a blur. I recall thinking we were going home, Vince and I, just going home. Everything was going to be okay. We’d be heroes, coming home from the war, just like we’d planned. But now I know it was only the morphine.”
“What do you remember next that you know was real?”
“An Army doc telling me my legs were gone. Had to take them, he said and said it blunt as hell, too. That was real. I started to sit up, to look, I remember that. At first, I thought what he said was only in a dream. A nightmare that would pass. I would come-to, and everything would be okay. I’d have my legs and Vince would have his face. But I couldn’t even make myself look, I just couldn’t. If I looked, I thought, the doc would be right. If I didn’t, everything would still be okay. Then I asked him about Vince. He told me two guys had injuries but would be okay. But what about Vince, I asked him again. Was Vince one of those two guys? Was Vince all right? Was he still alive? He was still alive, wasn’t he? I kept asking that until the doc shook his head and said, “No.” Then I quit.”
“What do you mean, exactly, when you say you quit?”
“I didn’t want to hear anymore and didn’t want to see anymore. The real-me wasn’t a whole person anymore. The dream-me was okay. The dream-me still had a future. Was going home. Would get into politics. Would run for office and win. All just as we had planned, Vince and I—and Dad.”
“Similar to what your father has accomplished? Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, just like Dad coming home from Vietnam. But even better—going faster and farther. I had a beautiful wife to help me, just as he had. And a cute little son to hold up to the cameras and kiss. Once I had been that son. And I had a faithful partner. The dream-me was a guaranteed winner.”
“Do you mean a partner in addition to your wife?”
“Yes.”
“Who was that?”
“Vince, of course. My partner was Vince.”
“And now? What will the real-you do?”
“Not one damn thing. The real me just needs to go away now. The real me is wasted.”
“But that can’t happen.”
“Why not? Why can’t it happen? It happens all the time in the real world. Who says it can’t happen? Who says I can’t just go away? It should happen. What should be, must be.”
“Then why won’t you make rehab happen? You can still have a good life. Rehab could turn everything around for you and your wife and son. You still feel a responsibility to them, don’t you?”
“Bullshit! You must be at least the fiftieth person to tell me about the rehab miracle—and at least forty of them have been Rita!”
“That’s because she loves you and she’s worried that you’re not yet in rehab and on your way to that good life you want.”
“How do you know I can have a good life? Huh? What makes you so damn sure?”
“Because others have done it, some with even worse injuries than yours, difficult as that may seem to you now. You have no injuries at all above the knees. Your medical team says that you’re nearly ready for discharge, that their work is almost done.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong, Dr. Kinzer, and so are they. I’m different. The guys you’re talking about are all just GI Joes. Warehouse workers back home. Nothing more than clerks and mechanics and delivery guys with ugly wives and fat kids. Nothing big changed for them. But me, I was going to be a political star, dead certain. And so I fell much, much, much farther than any of them did. I had a beautiful wife and a son and a great future. And a solid political family behind me. I would have been a star in no time with Dad’s help—and Vince’s support.”
“You still have support. And that successful life can still be yours, but only if you’ll try for it. Don’t you owe that to your wife, your son, and yourself?”
“No—no! You’re wrong! All that belongs to the dream-me who died in that damn Humvee—with Vince. I’m only that person now in dreams. The morphine-me. And when I’m in that place, Vince is still there with me. And we’re happy. We’re going home. The IED didn’t explode. And all these troubles—they just step aside for us, like we’re royalty. Just as troubles should.”
