Fort Lewis - Day Two

As the day begins the dense fog of early morning in the Pacific Northwest turns to sunshine.

The fog slowly lifts from the landscape and floats inland. Silently the white cloak lifts from the hillsides. Little wisps of white curl around the tops of the trees like mare's tails. And then vanish.
The day dawns bright, clouds behind the solitary mountain off in the distance look like mountains in the sky themselves. Mount Rainer draped in a shawl of pure white snow blends almost ghost like into a late autumn sky. The air is crisp and clean with just a faint scent of pine.

He had tapped my shoulder in the darkness of the hotel room just ten minutes before and said, "Let's go." And so we went. It was time to take him back to Lewis.

I had already decided to wait. To wait and not ask any questions. If he wanted to talk about his experiences I'd let him do so at his own pace - or not at all if that was the case.

And we talked a little during the ride to the Fort. Not long stories really - just a father and son chatting as they drove. Hearing what he had to say I realized again how very lucky we were that he was there in the car talking to me. So thankful that things hadn't turned out differently.

The conversation is almost matter-of-fact. Like it's no big deal. But there had been so many close calls. So many times we were just millimeters away from a different chain of events.

One story sticks in my mind. An early morning mortar attack on the FOB (Forward Operating Base) in Mosul. The first mortar round strikes nearby as they wait for the days orders. None of the men milling about the Strykers wearing Kevlar. The first impact and explosion, very nearby, sends men scrambling for their vehicles, their Strykers. He slides into the drivers seat and rises up to grab the handle to close the hatch. Just then a second mortar round impacts directly in front of his Stryker - directly in front of him. "Whump" it explodes in dust, dirt and jagged flying metal. No bright red flames, no blinding flash like the movies - just dirt and dust.

With a buzz metal hurtles through the air in all directions. One piece of shrapnel speeds directly towards the raised hatch - faster than the blink of an eye. And before he can slam the hatch shut the hot metal strikes him in the right ear. It hits only the edge of his ear but begins to bleed profusely.

"No big deal" - he says.

"Really just a scratch" - he says.

He even finds the piece of metal on the floor of the Stryker later in the day and throws it away. Only a scratch.

He hadn't actually said it, but I knew we were both thinking it. Just an inch to the left could have been fatal. Or at the very least, could have proved life transforming. An inch, maybe less, could have meant the difference between sitting with him in the car just then and not sitting with him ever again. Thinking about that possibility causes my heart to constrict in my chest even now.

He laughs - sort of a chuckle. Smiling that smile I know so well, that sparkle in his eye. Purple Heart? Yeah, right. He didn't even mention it to his superiors. He says that injuries like this disgrace the medal, they take away from the respect a recipient of the medal deserves. But an inch could have meant the medal would have been awarded to him posthumously and that's something neither of us would have wanted.

Then out of the corner of my eye I see him reach up and lightly touch the small scar on his ear. We drive on towards the Fort - both lost in our own thoughts.