Caruthers - Northwest of Eden

Northwest

of Eden

YANCY CARUTHERS

Copyright 2014 Yancy Caruthers

Cover Art by Sam Reeves

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1497397286

ISBN-13: 978-1497397286

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my grandfather, Donnie O. McGuire, although for all of my life, I knew him as Pappy. An Army veteran of the Battle of the Bulge, he served along with 16 million other Americans in World War II. Pappy was a cook in an Artillery battery with 9 th Army, and was awarded the WWII Victory Medal, the European-North African Campaign Medal with three service stars, and the Good Conduct medal. None of us have ever been able to figure out that last one. Pappy died in 2010, and was the only member of my family to ever really understand. I hope he was the last one.

CHAPTER ONE

Midnight, for the third time today.

I heard a drum beat, but it wasnt the plane. The rhythmic thumping was the beat of Metallicas Unforgiven, which has been trapped inside my skull with the rest of my thoughts for at least one full rotation of the Earth. I tried to remember the words, but they werent visible through the muddy monologue.

The plane was a DC-10, owned by some airline in Europe or maybe the Middle East. My backside has had a short-term lease for the past 27 hours. Yesterday, it smelled like oranges in here. Now, the smell of feet refused to evade my nostrils. On the overhead monitor, a tiny pixilated airplane hovered over a map. The nose of it almost touched a small x, labeled Kwt Cty.

Im pretty sure my butt was asleep. It occurred to me that whoever invented airline seats should be shot. I extended my left leg into the aisle, then turned sideways and did the same with my right. It didnt help. I rolled my shoulders a couple of times and turned around to scout out the state of the latrine. No one waited, so this was my chance.

I retrieved my left boot from the aisle and put it on. As I cinched the laces sharply, for a second I thought my feet were sharing my boots with a handful of thumbtacks. The laces were an inch wider than usual. That was nuts my feet arent supposed to swell, Im not old. At 36, there were days that I felt it. In war, there are days that everyone feels it.

I stood for a moment with both hands on the seats as I waited for the blood to return to my head. The bathroom line had already grown to two, so I started working my way back, hand over hand. Almost everyone was asleep. Two rows behind me, Staff Sergeant Tom Hartley rested his head on the window at an odd angle, his mouth open. A few behind that, Captain John Myers looked up at me and raised his head slightly in acknowledgment, but didnt speak.

I remembered looking at my sleeping children when they were little, and wondering how they could possibly sleep in such odd positions, one leg through the rail, or butt in the air with face shoved into the mattress. The cabin was like that, a giant day care center at nap time, soldiers jammed into their seats, arms and legs everywhere. Yet, they slept like stones.

I kicked an unlaced boot back out of the aisle as I made my way back to my seat. A handful of people were awake now, as the engines had changed pitch with descent. Some stared out the windows at the blackness, the same blackness which had bored me yesterday. I had no desire to look at it.

Hospital waiting rooms are quiet with apprehension. So are planes full of soldiers heading to war.

Tom grabbed my arm as I went by. His eyes were wide.

Theres something on the wingsomething! He said, in his best William Shatner, glancing out the window with feigned paranoia.

Dude, you got some drool on the side of your face. I indicated by rubbing the side of my cheek.

So sir, youre telling me that my attempt at humor fell flat because of a hygiene issue? He asked seriously.

That sums it up, I nodded flatly, as I sat back down and buckled in. A dry retort was so much easier for me to to pull off when I was sleep-deprived. My right hip protested as I pulled my leg out of the aisle. The flight attendants were passing through, checking overhead bins and seat belt compliance.

Something looked different about them, and it occurred to me that the aprons they wore were clean and empty. On my last military flight, they all wore pins and medals that had been given to them by returning soldiers, placed haphazardly about their smocks. Someone must have made a stink over it, as the wear of such things by civilians is sacrilege. I was okay with it. They had done it to honor us. The ladies I watched now worked their way through the boots and bodies, checking seat belts and tray tables. They smiled blankly, and avoided eye contact. I wondered if they were regulars. Did they think about their passengers? Did they wonder which ones might not make it back?

One of them spoke to Captain Rob Ukleya, our company commander and the man in charge of the nuts and bolts of getting us from the airfield to the base camp.

Baggage detail will get off first, he announced as he stood up. I had volunteered for that duty, so I didnt listen much to the rest of his instructions. I was sure it was pretty routine anyway get off the plane, get on the bus, wait for a long damn time at every step of the process for no apparent reason. Got it.

The plane touched down smoothly and eventually rolled to a stop. I picked up my satchel full of papers, and saw that Tom was standing, meaning he had also volunteered to schlep the baggage. Both of us had enough rank to escape it, as I was a Captain and he a Staff Sergeant, but instead of ordering some of the junior guys to do it, Captain Ukleya had just asked for enough guys willing to do it. Thats the kind of guy he is soldiers want to work for him. Hes one of the good ones and everyone knows it.

I stood in the aisle, waiting for the door to open. Id like to say that the cabin bristled with life, but it didnt. My comrades moved like zombie extras in a bad horror movie, smacking into each other with bags and briefcases, eyes open, but not looking at anything. A few of them slung their M16s, and I noticed that the lady behind me, a Lieutenant Colonel, had not yet removed the blocky red muzzle attachment which allowed the rifle to fire blanks while we were in training. It wouldnt be needed here. Training was a distant memory - all the bullets here were real.

Maam, you should take off your blank adapter, I suggested.

She replied rather condescendingly. No one has told us to do that.

Are you kidding me? I thought. You are a lieutenant colonel in the United States Army, and you need to wait for someone to tell you that they dont shoot blanks in a theater of war?

Hartley stood behind her, his eyes large. He drew his hand across his throat while mouthing no silently.

Id just rather we not look stupid in front of a thousand other troops, I replied.

Hartleys movements were now exaggerated, as though he was trying to guide the airplane to a halt with his hands. He shook his head slowly and made the cutoff sign again.

Were just reservists, the lady replied again, still condescending.

Dear God! We were reservists a few months ago, but in looking around, I think were all doing this full time now, and we wear the same uniform as the rest of the guys who do this all the time. Being a reservist is not an excuse for being stupid, so pull your head out of your ass, colonel. Lives will depend on you soon, and God help them.

I wanted to say all that, and I wish now that I had, but I listened to Hartley, and just shook my head. Im pretty sure I bit my lip at least twice before allowing the conversation to die. I backed up to whisper to Rob.

Boss, it appears that you might need to actually tell a few people to take the blank adapters off and pocket them. If we get off that plane with those on the end of our rifles, the unit is going to look like a bunch of dumbasses in front of the active duty folk.