Recall to Arms Page 8

work, but the urge passed. He just kept driving.

  Some hours later, he turned west on Interstate 10 toward Tallahassee and followed the sun until dusk. Somewhere in the Florida panhandle, the idea of stopping at Mobile, Alabama started formulating. He’d never been there, and it was a good driving distance for the first day. Growing up near Gettysburg, he had an interest in civil war history, so Mobile Bay became his destination. In the early evening, he checked into a cheap motel in Spanish Fort on the eastern edge of the bay. That night, he walked to a nearby barbeque shack for a rack of ribs and a couple beers. He returned to the hotel less than an hour later.

  The room had an ancient Phillips television that only seemed to show southern religious channels, so he read a pamphlet on local history. Spanish Fort and its neighboring Fort Blakely had been the last forts to surrender before Union forces captured Mobile. The battle of Spanish Fort actually occurred after the surrender of the confederate forces at Appomattox Courthouse. He found the history fascinating. That night, exhaustion, beer and uncertainty about the future provided the framework for the best night’s sleep in months. His routine was broken and his mind went into hibernation, at least for a few hours of rest.

  The next day he drove into Mobile and followed a visitor’s map to various historic sites. The area had a rich military history from the Revolutionary war, through the war of 1812 and the civil war. He followed the “Battle of Mobile Bay” trail until nightfall, and stayed in another cheap motel. He hated the nights, fearing that demons would return and he rarely slept soundly.

  That second night out of the Army, the nightmare returned, and it was always the same. He was back behind the wheel of a big truck in the desert. He was driving hard, trying to get his men to safety. Bullets ripped at him again; then, a massive concussion jolted the truck nose-high, encased in sand and smoke before crashing to the ground on its left side. Peter was stunned, as though a grenade had exploded below his seat. His head was ringing while the world spun around in slow motion. After impact, it took several seconds for him to fight through the haze of semi-consciousness. His mind registered silence. He crawled out the back of the smoldering cab, falling onto the hard ground. Face down with grit in his mouth and choking in a fog of dust. He could taste the sand. His mind was numb and his limbs tingled. He could only hear the ringing in his ears, and remembered nothing of the moments before. Debris fell all around as he instinctively pulled his M9 Berretta from its holster. Then everything went black as a rifle butt smashed his head.

  Sometime later, the dim ebb of dawn jabbed at his eyes as he lay on the ground with his head half buried. It felt split in half. Lying immobile, the smells of war registered as flying insects crawled in his nostrils and ears. Rolling slightly, he saw bodies lined up along the ground beside him. Enemy troops were scavenging everything from his men. Most were stripped, and some were still alive, moaning. A gun blast near his ear rattled him when he recognized Razzaq standing over a body. He saw him shoot the soldier twice more and the death spasms that followed. Peter tried to scream but his mind and body were not synchronized.

  Several more shots tortured his ears. A Syrian soldier in rumpled fatigues stripped dog tags from around the neck of each corpse. Some of the Americans refused to die easily and were shot three or four times. Reaching Peter, Razzaq saw the hatred and anguish in the Captain’s eyes. With a smirk, he said something in Arabic while Peter closed his eyes and gripped the earth, bracing for the end of life. Several seconds seemed like an eternity, but nothing happened. Razzaq left him alive with his dead comrades.

  The Syrian trucks departed quickly as a faint red glow brightened on the eastern horizon. Peter drifted between levels of consciousness before struggling to move. Wounded, stripped, unarmed and without communications, he crawled to each man. They were all dead. Consumed in remorse, he stood awkwardly and began stumbling southward. Sun baked his back, but he was too numb to feel it. he had no concept of time when he heard motor noise and voices in the distance. On a rise, he saw vehicles and helicopters waiting. The sight deepened his despair when he realized how close they had been.

  He moved, stumbled and fell, and a soldier ran toward him, while someone yelled to stop; but the man kept running until he reached Peter. The Private was probably nineteen, like many infantrymen. Tears flowed from the young man.

  “There was a lot of shooting, but the Colonel wouldn’t let us help. Though tears, he continued, “We all wanted to help, but he made us hold. We wanted to help!”

  Shuffling upward, Peter saw Briggs near the line of trucks. he’d known officers afraid to take career risks; but he’d never known a senior officer to stand fast while soldiers died in front of him.

  The young soldier helped him forward, toward the imaginary border, and then screamed for a medic and water, helping the Captain down onto the sand. Exhaustion and pain overtook Peter for a few seconds, before his resolve boiled over one more time. In seconds, a canteen was stuck in his mouth and a corpsman was working on him. He took one gulp and looked back to the north. He could barely move, but pushed himself to his knees. He got to his feet when Briggs approached declaring, “My god that was really something. You made it!”

  Peter looked at Briggs with hatred. He pushed past him and stumbled to the nearest HMMWV. Grabbing the windshield support, he pulled upward to the driver’s seat as Briggs ran toward him yelling, “What do you think you’re doing!”

  “Rangers don’t leave men in the field!”

  “You can’t go into Syria! I order you to stop!”

  “Fuck you! Shoot me! If you get in my way, I’ll kill you COLONEL!”

  Briggs started screaming orders, but no one listened. Peter yelled louder, “Men, I have dead soldiers out there and I need help!” Briggs jumped about in protest, but several men joined in a column of HMMWVs back into Syria, following his footprints.

  When they got to the site of the massacre, everyone was silent. The men formed around Peter. “Let’s get my men.” They could see how their comrades had died. The dead were treated with extreme care while being lifted in to the backs of the trucks. The soldiers all felt the shame of holding a mile away, while these men were methodically murdered in cold blood. They all had tears in their eyes, Peter more than anyone. These men had been his brothers.

  Sometime during the Alabama night, his mind cleared and he fell asleep.

  In the morning, he was poorly rested, but found a temporary job advertised for the convention center nearby. It was his first civilian job since high school. For several weeks that followed, Peter worked quietly around the other laborers and tradesmen setting up and tearing down exhibits. The work paid enough to cover his meager living expenses. After a while, he’d seen the sites, and decided to head on to wherever he was destined to go. Once again, with no location in mind; he just took the nearest interstate out of town, I65 north.

  For several months, he ambled north, stopping and working in Nashville, Louisville, Indianapolis, and finally at the Cary Country Club. he’d seen a newspaper advertisement while stopped for breakfast in Cary one spring morning.

  The club wanted grounds keepers. Like the other jobs, Peter was hired immediately. He was a gulf war veteran, and had a quiet confidence that suggested trust and confidence. Again, he kept to himself, but the club manager became interested, and gave him considerable freedom with no more responsibility than he wanted. He decided to spend all summer at Cary. Two weeks after starting, he asked the manager if he could sleep in the small equipment shed hidden on a hill in trees and brush not far from the clubhouse. He didn’t want more money, just a place to live cheaply. Everyone thought he was odd, but the staff liked him so he was given permission to stay on the property.

  He wasn’t able to be anonymous among the other workers for long. An incident occurred at the end of his second week that endeared Peter to the head groundsman, when the weekly paychecks were dispersed in the cart shed. One of the labors b
ecame upset about his wages and began yelling at his boss in Spanish-laden English, “Hey man, you’re fuckin’ cheating me again!”

  The boss, Steve, responded, “What do you mean Garza?”

  “I got only thirty hour’s pay man!”

  “You got paid for the hours you worked.”

  “I worked all week, like the rest of these putas!”

  Steve answered, looking straight at Garza, “No, you didn’t. I checked your crew all week, like you was warned.”

  “So, what! You think you can push me around in front of my compadres!”

  Steve was small and older than Garza, and experienced enough to try to tone down the dialogue. The Mexican was formidable and used his “machismo” to intimidate. The boss could account whatever hours he wanted, even if Garza was leaving the job during the day, but he wasn’t going to cut the big Mexican any slack. Garza had been very close to being fired for dereliction before, and was now forcing the issue.

  “Look Garza, if you want to talk, let’s go in the office instead of yelling out here.”

  “Yo man, the only place I’m goin’ with you is to get a fuckin’ check for ten more hours, or we can see who the real boss is!”

  “Garza, I’m not gonna continue this.”