29 August 2004 – East of Kandahar Airfield, Kandahar Province, Afghanistan

<BOOM!>

Dirt showered down over 1st Squad.

“DJ, go!” yelled Trace Dinkins. DJ hesitated. “MOVE YOUR ASS, DJ!”

That got DJ moving. The AK-47 rounds impacting around him did also, despite the threat from small IEDs scattered through the compound.

DJ’s M-4 chattered, spitting out covering fire as the rest of the squad bounded. 1st poured round after round onto the target house, trying to save the mission. Red tracers made the scene look like one from science fiction. Two weeks of chasing this band of insurgents had those insurgents pinned inside. Now 1st Squad’s premature detection threatened their successful capture. The platoon couldn’t afford to let them slip out the back and disappear again. The other squads rushed to block routes of escape around the sides of the house. DJ vaulted a low wall trying to get behind the building. Ruben Montes followed as backup.

<BOOM!>

A dust cloud appeared behind the wall the pair vaulted moments earlier.

“DOC! MEDIC UP!”

Jeff scrambled to keep up with Terry Nauert as both raced to the wall. Terry fired a long burst from his Mark 46 light machine gun through a window while Jeff scaled the wall and dragged DJ behind cover. Jeff didn’t have to look very hard for injuries. DJ’s left leg below where his knee should be was missing, and the stump pumped blood into the dirt. DJ tried to get up but his motor control was gone. He likely had a concussion too. Jeff tore the tourniquet off DJ’s armor, opened it in a wide loop, and cranked it down around the remains of DJ’s left thigh.

Jeff ripped open the shredded right leg of DJ’s BDUs. A quick scan revealed no other life threats, though a chunk of the man’s right calf was missing. He pulled his rifle into action and cut down an insurgent with a pistol running toward him. The uninjured trio looked for more threats but found none.

“Go, Doc! Get him out of here!” Ruben yelled.

Jeff tightened his rifle to his body. He hauled DJ up and across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. He sprinted for an opening in the wall some fifty yards away. The rest of the squad covered his exit by pouring fire into the house. Behind another wall he lowered DJ to the ground. A pressure dressing over the stump to keep it clean during a detailed assessment. Another over DJ’s right calf to cover the large hole in it. Jeff left the other shrapnel wounds covering the rest of DJ’s right leg alone for now. Cutting open DJ’s right sleeve Jeff scrubbed at the man’s arm to clean an IV site. While he attached the IV line his platoon leader, Lieutenant Snow, ran up with the RTO.

“You need dustoff, Doc?”

“I need it, like yesterday, sir. DJ’s already lost a lot of blood. He’s about to get some blood expander, but he needs the real thing – and surgery – at the hospital.” Jeff started a second line as he was talking.

“You got it. Sushi, switch over to the MEDEVAC freq.”

Ben Suchenski – the RTO – punched in the right frequency setting and handed the microphone to Jeff.

“Kandahar MEDEVAC, Kandahar MEDEVAC, this is Romeo Two Two Whiskey. I have a MEDEVAC request, over.”

“Unit calling for MEDEVAC wait one ... Break ... Romeo Two Two Whiskey send your traffic, over.”

Jeff gave Kandahar MEDEVAC the report on DJ’s condition known as a nine-line. He gave them only the first five lines of the report so they could launch the aircraft. He’d give the rest of the report to the medics on the coming chopper. He gave DJ’s condition as ‘Urgent Surgical.’ The MEDEVAC center read it back to verify they heard it correctly. Jeff confirmed they had.

“Roger, Romeo Two Two Whiskey. Return to three, one, two, seven, seven, and await contact from assigned MEDEVAC asset. E-T-A is two-zero mikes. Copy?”

“Romeo Two Two Whiskey, two-zero mikes, roger. Out.” Jeff turned to his lieutenant. “Now we wait, sir. Chopper in twenty mikes.”

“Right. Back to our freq?”

“Yes, sir. Dustoff will call us on three one two seven seven.”

“You heard the man, Sushi. Jeff, you need any help? We’re secure.”

“Can you spare one of the other lifesavers from somewhere, sir?”

“I’ll get one right over here.”

The lieutenant clapped his medic on the shoulder and jogged away. Sushi stayed with Jeff to help communicate with the incoming chopper.

Norm Oteri ran up seconds later. He turned as pale as DJ when he saw his friend’s condition. He shook off the shock. “Whaddya need, Doc?”

“Help me check for other injuries, Otto. We’ve got less than twenty minutes before dustoff arrives.”

The pair found a shallow shrapnel wound to DJ’s belly, but the jagged metal hadn’t penetrated the muscle fascia protecting the abdominal cavity. The metal piece fell out of DJ’s shirt when they pulled it open. When they removed the dressing covering DJ’s stump to flush dirt from the wound he began to scream.

“What’s he yelling?”

“Gibberish, Norm. He’s concussed. I’m going to give him some Versed to calm him down.”

“Why not pain meds?”

“Opiates can raise intracranial pressure. Benzodiazepines don’t and the Versed is also an amnestic. He won’t remember a damn thing about the injury or transport after I give it to him. He’s lost a fair amount of blood so we probably don’t have to worry about his ICP, but his pressure’s too low to add opiates to benzos. The combo might drop his pressure even more. I don’t want to take the chance.”

“Hey, Doc,” Sushi called, extending the radio mic to Jeff.

“Dustoff Seven One to Romeo Two Two Whiskey, over.”

“Norm.” Jeff handed Norm an infrared strobe and pointed where he wanted it placed. “Dustoff Seven One, Two Two Whiskey. We are marking the west edge of LZ with an IR strobe. I say again: marking west edge of LZ with India Romeo strobe, over.” Jeff described the LZ and the unarmed medical chopper set down two minutes later. Armed escorts circled overhead. Jeff, Norm, and two of their platoon-mates carried DJ’s stretcher to the waiting chopper. The chopper’s flight medics took Jeff’s brief report and climbed inside. Jeff jogged back to the platoon as the chopper flew off.

“He gonna be alright, Doc?” 2LT Snow asked.

Jeff shrugged. “Above my pay grade, sir. Norm and I gave him the best care we know how to. The flight crew and the docs at K-town will do the same.”

“Good enough. Our ride will be here in ten. Let’s get ready to get the hell out of here.”

“Where’s he headed next?” Rick asked while he and Jeff watched the Air Force C-17 loaded with wounded claw its way into the sky.

“Landstuhl. Probably Walter Reed after that. He’s looking at a long rehab with his good leg as it is, never mind the one he’s missing.” Jeff sighed. “When are we getting the hell out of here?”

“To go back to Bagram? About two weeks.”

“Not frikken soon enough,” Jeff muttered.

“It’s not like that area’s a vacation spot, either.”

“I can do without an op every night, Rick.”

“You and me both, brother. At least there we’ll catch a night off once in awhile.”

They made their way back to their tent. One of their fellow Rangers there sat on his bunk rubbing at his neck as they reentered.

“How you doing, Monty?” Jeff asked.

“I’m okay, Doc,” Ruben Montes answered while continuing to stretch his neck. “Nothing eight hundred ibuprofen won’t take care of.”

“More? You go easy on that stuff. You start shitting blood and it’s time to back off for a few days.”

“A decade and a half of medical training and that’s your advice?” their platoon sergeant asked. “‘Back off if you start shitting blood?’”

“You wanna butt out, Rick? This is a private, patient-provider type of discussion here.”

“I think one of my guys passing out in the shitter falls under things I need to know.”

“He hasn’t passed out yet so, no, you don’t need to know unless and until he does.”

“Anyway, you said you think DJ was distracted, Monty?” Rick asked, changing the subject.

“Definitely, Sarge. Normally he would have spotted that IED, but that skank from home told him she was pregnant just before we went out on the mission last night.”

“Why would that distract him? Didn’t you tell me your girl’s pregnant, too? You haven’t lost your focus.”

“Roma’s going on four months pregnant, Sarge. She told me just before we came down here last month. She and I got it done before we deployed. The skank told DJ she was one month pregnant, the stupid bitch. Unless DJ took a flight home and came back without us noticing, someone else’s plugging her.”

“Wonderful. Jody’s got his girl and gone,” Rick muttered, paraphrasing a line from an old cadence.

“Someone keep an eye on Terry,” Jeff cautioned. “He’s gonna be lost without his partner in crime.”

“Never thought I’d miss this place,” Terry Nauert muttered when they walked into their old tent at Bagram.

“Home sweet home...”

“Right, Doc,” Trace snorted. “I’m surprised they still don’t have those plywood B-huts finished.”

“I’m glad they don’t, Trace.”

“What?”

“We need to get the job done and get the hell out of here. The last thing we need is to start getting comfortable here. That’s just inviting mission creep.” Jeff sighed. “Rick, when are we getting the new guy?”

“Should be here today or tomorrow.”

“What’s his name again? Alphabet?” Nauert asked.

“Har, har, Terry. Blajewski, if you must know.”

“Wait, who did this kid blow?”

“Still not funny, Terrence,” Rick replied, crossing his arms.

“Hey, guys?” Lieutenant Snow called while stepping into the tent. The platoon snapped to attention but he waved them back to at ease. “There’s a USO show tonight, a concert. I grabbed tickets for everyone while I was over at the garrison office, if you guys are interested. Lord knows you deserve it after the past month.”

“Thanks, sir,” Rick answered for the group. 2LT Snow was sharp for a butter bar. He let the NCOs manage the minor details of the platoon while he kept his eyes on the big picture. He also took care of his Rangers. “Who’s playing tonight?”

Jeff smiled when he heard the answer.

“They put on a really good show.”

“That they did, Rick,” Jeff replied. “Not my normal kinda music for the most part, but you can tell they love to play.”

“Not your normal kinda music? You mean because it’s from this century, Doc?” Nauert asked.

“You’re cruising for a bruising, Terry.”

“You know, Doc, we coulda been through the line and back in our tent by now if you’d’ve let us get up by the stage, rather than having us stand in the back.”

“Is it past your bedtime, Terry? You don’t have to stand in line to meet the band, you know? You can always head back by yourself.” Terry smirked at him but didn’t leave.

“Why did we stand in back anyway, Doc?”

“We weren’t ‘in back,’ Stan. We were in the middle of the arena near the soundboard, remember? Acoustically, that’s the best place to see a concert.”

“‘Acoustically’ that place was like a cardboard box!” complained Shawn Engle, one of Enos’ machine gunners.

“So think about how it would have sounded standing somewhere else. Turn around, guys. We’re finally at the tables.”

That night’s band sat behind a series of tables signing autographs. Progress through the line was slow due to the number of photos they also allowed the service members to take. The band couldn’t say no to requests from their country’s fighting men and women.

Jeff shook hands with members of the band, thanking them for coming to Afghanistan to play for the troops. They in turn thanked him for putting himself in harm’s way in their name. Jeff made his way down the line of tables collecting the signed pictures until he reached the lead guitarist’s table.

“Who should I make this out to...?” the man asked, his question fading when he looked up and recognition dawned.

“With as long as you played tonight and how many photos you’ve probably signed by now, I’m surprised your hand hasn’t fallen off yet, you dried-up old has-been.”

“Wha ... wuuh...”

“You always this articulate these days, George, or you still dealing with jet-lag?”

George Adler stood, came around the table, and wrapped the man he considered his savior in a bear hug. His eyes watered while he slapped Jeff on the back over and over. Jeff’s platoon and the other servicemen and women stared at them in shock. The two friends separated smiling at each other.

“You look good, George. You lose some weight?”

“A little,” George said, smiling again. “Kelsey’s got me on a diet. What about you? Did you swallow a set of weights or something? You look even bigger than when I last saw you in 2001.”

“I had to show these kids I could keep up,” Jeff replied while hooking his thumb at his platoon.

“George?” Kelsey Goodacre asked as she stepped up to the two friends. She slipped her arm around George’s waist. He did the same to her in return.

“Kels, you know the Jeff I always credit with saving my life? This is him!”

The gawkers’ shock grew when Kelsey Goodacre, the biggest crossover artist in American music, pulled Jeff down to kiss him on the cheek and give him a hug. The trio looked back at the now-stalled line when she released him.

“I should let you two get back to work,” Jeff said.

“You think you’re just gonna show up like that and disappear again?” George protested. “How many of your friends are here with you?”

“My whole platoon. About forty of us.”

George looked at Kelsey who nodded before walking away.

“Was it something I said?”

“Actually, Jeff, yes it was. She’s going to find our senior production assistant so you and your platoon can wait for us where the after party’s supposed to be. Like I said, you’re not getting away that easily.”

“I can’t believe you know George Adler!” Rick said shaking his head five minutes later while they waited for the band.

“I’ve known him for ten or eleven years, Rick, but haven’t seen him since the summer of 2001.”

“How’d you meet him?”

“It’s classified.”

”’Classified?’”

“I’d rather not violate federal law by telling you. George can if he wants when he gets here.” The platoon stared at him in silence.

George, Kelsey, and the rest of the band stepped into that silence a minute later. More back-slapping followed their arrival. Jeff introduced the platoon before sitting back down.

“How are Keiko and the kids?”

“They’re good, George, thanks. It’s been tough getting by with only the occasional sat phone call and emails, but Keiko’s been trying to keep me up-to-date.”

“Any recent photos?”

“Most are back in our tent, but I’ve got one of our whole family from before we deployed in my pocket here.”

“The kids are so big! How old are they now?”

“We deployed before Sabrina’s birthday in June. She just turned six. The boys turned seven in March.”

“Keiko hasn’t changed.”

“Are you kidding? Her parents still look the same as when I met them in ‘89! She won’t change if she lives to be one hundred!”

“Jeff,” Kelsey broke in, “we usually have something to eat after a show. There’s plenty of food coming. Would you and your friends like some?”

“Thank you, Ms. Goodacre...”

“Kelsey,” she insisted.

“Kelsey. You won’t hear any of these Rangers turn that down, that’s for sure!”

The Rangers mixed with the band and crew in the buffet line, laughing and joking with them. When they found seats around the room, Terry kept the seat next to him open. One of the crew went to sit in that seat.

“I’m sorry, that’s for...” Terry stopped mid-sentence. “Two weeks. You’d think I’d remember by now,” he muttered.

“How long have we all been together as a unit, Terry?” Stan asked. “Plus this is the first time we’ve had the chance to let our hair down since we put him on the plane.”

“Yeah.”

“Who was the chair supposed to be for, Jeff?” Kelsey asked.

“Our friend DJ. Dieter Joachim Schultheis.”

“What happened to him?”

“He lost a leg to an IED blast while we were in Kandahar last month.”

Many of the band and crew blanched at Jeff’s blunt, matter-of-fact statement.

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Should be, Kelsey,” Jeff shrugged. “Norm and I got him stabilized and on a chopper after the blast. Docs at the hospital down there made sure he was stable, did some surgery on the stump of his left thigh and the hole in his right calf, and then shipped him out to a military hospital in Germany. He’s looking at a long rehab stint at Walter Reed Hospital in DC.”

Silence descended on the people in the room.

“My God...” Kelsey whispered while wiping a tear from her eye. “The sacrifices all of you make...”

“Ms. Goodacre, DJ is my best friend but he wasn’t the only person deployed to this country to make a sacrifice,” Terry said gently. “There are people in this very room who have also sacrificed, and I’m not counting myself or my fellow Rangers.” He leaned forward in his seat. “You, you and your band, the crew, you all have sacrificed to come here and play for us. Sure you can draw comparisons about the sizes of our sacrifices, but being here has cost each of us something, or will.”

“I hope it won’t cost anyone else here too much,” she replied.

“‘No easy hope... ‘“ Jeff muttered.

“Here he goes again,” Josh laughed, giving the guys a small smile.

“What’s that?” George asked.

“It’s Kipling, right?” Toby Blom, the drummer, asked.

“Exactly,” Jeff said, surprised. “From his ‘For All We Have And Are.’”

“Who?” George asked.

“Rudyard Kipling,” Blom explained. “A British writer known for many different kinds of works – journalism, poetry, prose, short stories, even children’s books – at the end of the Nineteenth and start of the Twentieth Centuries. The story Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was itself an original part of The Jungle Book, which he also wrote.”

“He was known informally as ‘The Poet of the Empire’ at one point,” Jeff chimed in.

Blom nodded. “I studied English Literature in college, but dropped out to play music. I remember that one from a class on how writing is used to sway opinion. Powerful.”

“What’s the line you were thinking of, Jeff?” George asked.

Jeff ignored the smirks from his fellows and quoted the entire stanza:

No easy hope or lies
Shall bring us to our goal,
But iron sacrifice
Of body, will, and soul.
There is but one task for all
One life for each to give.
What stands if Freedom fall?
Who dies if England live?

“He’s a barrel of laughs, isn’t he?”

“Wish in one hand, shit in the other, and tell me which one fills up first, guys.”

“Mellow, Doc. Mellow,” Rick laughed. The other Rangers joined Rick’s laughter. The musicians did also, but with a nervous edge to it.

The time in the band’s company started to wrap up on that uncomfortable note. The Rangers posed for a picture with the band, collected the t-shirts which were offered, and filed out of the room. Jeff lingered to say goodbye to his old friend.

“It was good to see you again, Jeff. You’ve got a lot of good things waiting for you at home. Be careful.”

“Trying my best, George. Trying my best. Any chance you can send a copy of that picture to Keiko? I won’t tell her we ran into each other here so you can surprise her with both the photo and the email.”

“That’s the miracle of digital photography, Jeff. It’ll be in her inbox before she goes to bed tonight, probably before you go to bed.” George paused. “Don’t let this place change you too much, Jeff. I didn’t want to say anything in front of your friends, but there’s an edge to you now I didn’t see before I left Boston.”

“I’m trying there, too, George. I can see that edge myself, but can’t really do anything about it right now. I need to have that edge to survive here.”

George didn’t have anything else to say. He slapped his buddy on the back before they parted.

The up-armored Humvees crept down the wide, dry riverbed. They carried 2d Platoon closer and closer to their objective in the pitch black. The only thing which might give them away now was the noise from their muffled exhausts and the crunch of their tires. The drivers, Rangers from the battalion support company, stayed with the vehicles while 2d Platoon crept away.

The Rangers detected a dog before they crossed the open field between the riverbed and the compound, one placed as an early warning system. Their designated marksman ‘neutralized’ it with a suppressed rifle from a distance. The Afghans didn’t have an ASPCA the Rangers would have to worry about.

1st and 2d Squads would be the assault team this night. They slipped into the building undetected. The team captured that night’s target without incident, without anyone inside waking before they wanted them awake. Still, Murphy’s Law being what it is, the Rangers didn’t get away unscathed.

“Medic up, base of the first floor stairs,” was the calm radio call.

Jeff dashed inside to find three Rangers standing around a fourth.

“This isn’t a good place to try and take a nap, Stan.”

“Kiss my ass, Doc,” Mauer groaned from the floor. Stan’s left shoulder hung at an odd angle. His nose bled, also misshapen. Through his visor and the dust on Stan’s face Jeff could see the man was pale.

“What happened, Stan?”

“One of the mud stairs crumbled as I was coming down and I lost my balance. It’s okay, though. I broke the fall with my face.”

“Ticketmaster, you on, sir?” The lieutenant’s call sign changed after the concert. The enlisted Rangers only used it on missions and never inside the wire.

“Right here, Doc. What do you need?”

“A Humvee cleared and brought up for a casualty on my foldable stretcher, sir. Leg and shoulder injuries from a bad landing.”

“Two minutes and you’ll have it.”

“Roger. Thanks, sir.” Jeff looked up. “Otto, start getting Stan’s gear off, carefully. His shoulder’s probably dislocated.” Jeff pulled out a pair of trauma shears to cut the leg of Stan’s BDU trousers.

“Can I go back in, Coach?” Stan tried to joke.

“Be about six to eight weeks, kid. Your face will scare children for longer than that, unfortunately.”

“That’s nothing new.”

Jeff nodded. “You’ve got a broken nose and dislocated shoulder at least. The way you’re gasping every time I move this foot I’m guessing you broke your ankle, too.” He looked Stan in the eye. “Your boot has to come off. We’re gonna start an IV and give you some pain medicine first, but then I’ve gotta be able to check your ankle and foot with my own eyes. I have to make sure you’ve still got good blood flow there.”

“Mrs. Mauer’s little boy ain’t gonna argue with that plan, Doc. The ankle’s already effing throbbing!”

Jeff heard the Humvee pull up outside while he worked but kept getting Stan ready to move. He and Norm Oteri prepped their buddy for the almost twenty-five minute ride back to Bagram. Once Stan’s ankle was splinted, wrapped, and he was flying high on pain meds, Jeff nodded to the others. They carried Stan out to the waiting vehicle.

“Someone tell the Highway Department their road sucks,” Stan muttered during the ride. Jeff patted his good shoulder.

An hour later Jeff stood at a light box studying an X-ray of Stan’s right ankle.

“Classic fracture-dislocation,” a familiar voice said.

“What’s up, New Hampster? Haven’t seen you in a while.” Jeff shook Mickey Kasperson’s offered hand.

“Oh, you know, I’ve been out and about doing good works at the behest of our benevolent leaders.”

“Hmfph,” Jeff snorted.

“One of yours?” Mickey asked while nodding at the image.

“Yeah, one of our fire team leaders. Took a tumble down a bad set of stairs tonight. Broke his nose and dislocated his shoulder in the fall, but this ankle is what will keep him sidelined for about two months. Stan’s lucky we aren’t still using traditional NVGs or landing face-first with those in place would have snapped his neck.”

Mickey nodded. “You guys get out of Kandahar in one piece?”

Jeff shook his head. “One of my combat lifesavers lost a leg. Needless to say he’s back in the States now.”

“Sorry,” the fellow medic said, placing a hand on Jeff’s shoulder. “Hey, what’s this I hear about you getting private face time with Kelsey Goodacre and her band? That’s one hell of a rumor!”

“No rumor, Mick. I met her lead guitarist, George Adler, in ‘94 when I was still a basic EMT running 9-1-1 calls. A friend and I helped him get back into music.”

“I hear that your buddy says you saved his life, too.”

“Can’t speak to that, Mickey. Hippo laws.”

“You mean HIPAA?”

“That too.”

“Hey, the chow hall should be open by now. Buy you breakfast?”

The new kid wouldn’t stop chattering. The anxiety he showed before his first mission, the one following Stan’s injury, disappeared when he hadn’t made any mistakes. None that anyone had seen at the time, that is, but he was making one now. And earning a nickname.

“Hey, Blowjob!” Terry Nauert called down the length of the tent. “Shut the hell up, would you?”

“Huh?” Blajewski answered.

“Nobody wants to effing hear it! We’ve been over here doing the job for months already, and we don’t need to hear how you passed KINDERGARTEN the other night! I know I’ll be more impressed if you make it through the next few weeks by listening to your team leader and not stepping on your dick!”

“Screw you, you big dumb prick!”

Jeff intercepted Terry when he sprang from his bunk and steered him outside.

“C’mon. Time for a walk.”

Terry stopped under the platoon’s canopy. He started pacing and taking deep breaths. “Chatty Kathy better clip his damn string before he wakes up with a broken neck,” the big man muttered to Jeff.

“What put a bee in your bonnet, Terry? The kid’s been here four days. I think we were all a little excited like that at one time.”

“‘A bee in my bonnet?’ Geez, Doc, I already kid you enough about being old...”

Jeff smirked at him. “Yes, Terry, a bee in your bonnet. A burr under your saddle. Your knickers in a twist. Now, what’s put the ass in your hole today?”

“I still haven’t gotten an email or anything from DJ, Doc. I’m worried about him. You know he’s my best friend. In reality, he’s more like the brother I never had. Mom and Dad are gone. I’ve got no siblings, no other family. It took all of a week before he was family.”

“Which was why you two were so good at getting in trouble together. You were being brothers. Acting like you were kids together, just twenty years late.”

“Yeah.”

“George told me the band’s gonna be in the DC area at the beginning of October and again in early December. Richmond then Landover, Maryland. They’re going to stop at Walter Reed both times they’re nearby. No press, just the tour’s photographer. They’ll make sure they see him one of those times, if not both.”

Terry smiled a little. “He listened to her music whenever he could. I hope it cheers him up.”

“Hey, fellas,” Ruben Montes called while stepping out of their tent. “Thought you might want these if you’re gonna be out here any length of time.” He held up their rifles.

“Thanks, Monty.”

“You gonna be okay, Big Guy?”

“Yeah. Doc and I are gonna take a walk over to the Boardwalk and keep talking this out.” Terry shrugged. “I’ll talk to the kid when we get back.”

“He seems like an okay guy,” Ruben said.

“I’m sure he is. He doesn’t deserve to get beat up like that.”

Terry Nauert took Radoslaw Blajewski under his wing after that talk. The son of Polish immigrants was sharp. He possessed the skills needed to hang with his new unit. Terry helped him navigate joining an already-deployed platoon and tried to share what he’d learned over his previous deployment. The new guy kept his original nickname, though it was normally shortened to ‘Blow.’

Blow proved to be another good fit in the platoon. He took his position of rifleman seriously when they were outside the wire. Inside he fit right in as Terry’s cut-up sidekick. A week after the pair straightened out their differences Jeff returned to the tent from the hospital. Jeff noticed Terry and Blow at the opposite end of the empty tent. They were whispering back and forth, pointing, while looking outside.

Jeff crept down the length of the tent, expecting to be discovered at any moment. The pair never heard him. Jeff picked up the two objects waiting on a table behind the other two Rangers. He cleared his throat and they whirled around.

“Terry, Terry, Terry,” Jeff sighed while shaking his head. “If you’re gonna teach the kid, teach him right, huh?” He looked at each of them. “You geniuses forgot to set rear security. I mean, c’mon, Terry! That’s like one of the first lessons they teach at the Infantry School!” He looked at the roof of the tent. “What am I going to do with you two? Wait! I know!”

He smashed a shaving cream pie into each of their faces.

“Negative reinforcement! Don’t think you two will forget this lesson any time soon, will you?”

“No,” Blow said, spitting out some shaving cream.

“No,” Terry agreed.

“No. Remember the Seven Ps boys: Prior Proper Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance.” Jeff walked out of the tent trying not to laugh in their faces.

“We should have been wearing our eye protection,” Blow pointed out to his mentor as the shaving cream began to sting his eyes.

“So, your Sox swept the Angels.”

“Yeah. Didn’t see that coming honestly, Rick. Mike Scioscia’s teams are always tough and well-coached, like this year. I thought the series would be a full five games. I’ll take it, though.”

“Schilling gonna be okay?” Red Sox ace Curt Schilling injured his right ankle fielding a ground ball in the first game of the American League Division Series between the two teams.

“I hope so. We’re gonna need everyone healthy bod, to beat the Yanks.”

“How do you think they’ll do?”

“If it were any other team I’d say they won’t have any problems, but it’s the Yankees. It’ll go seven games again this year. Hopefully they won’t tear my still-beating heart out of my chest again.”

“When does the ALCS start again?”

“The 12th. Gotta love when your team’s season stretches into October.”

Jeff’s happiness at the extended Red Sox season didn’t last very long. Curt Schilling’s pronouncement that he looked forward to ‘making fifty-five thousand people from New York shut up’ was his attempt at sports prophecy. His performance in Game One of the 2004 American League Championship Series was nothing short of erratic. The Yankees pounced all over the normally sharp pitcher. They led six-to-nothing after five innings, eight-nothing after six. The crowd ate it up.

In contrast, Yankees ace Mike Mussina threw a perfect game through those six innings. He shut down the Sox until the top of the seventh inning when they exploded for five runs. They closed the gap to one run before the Yankees pulled away and won ten-to-seven.

Game Two proved to be a classic pitcher’s duel between the other Sox ace Pedro Martinez and Yankees pitcher John Lieber. Martinez made only a mistake or two, but that was enough for the Yankees to take advantage of and score. They won again.

Jeff watched Game One in dismay, often pulling his Red Sox hat low over his eyes to block the painful images of his team’s struggles. He was somewhat relieved a mission kept him from watching Game Two live. He shook his head watching the ‘highlights’ after a nap.

Unfortunately Game Three was still in progress when they returned from another operation two nights later. The Sox were getting what his father would call ‘shellacked.’ Annihilated would be Jeff’s word for it. The Yankees must have needed to supply the umpires with extra baseballs the way they were hitting them around and out of the park. They took a three-nothing series lead after winning nineteen-to-eight.

The mood in Boston, and all of Red Sox Nation, was somber after the loss. One member of the local press called the game an ‘official death sentence.’ Another writer asked of the nineteen-to-eight score ‘why not nineteen-eighteen?’ in reference to the year the Sox last won the World Series – 1918. Painful as 2003 was, this was worse. No baseball team had ever come back from being down three games to none in a series.

Jeff refused to play the part of a fair-weather fan. The morning after another mission he parked himself in front of the television to watch the end of Game Four. His heart sank upon seeing the Sox losing four-three, but he kept the game on. Mariano Rivera shut down the Sox in the eighth, then came back for the bottom of the ninth.

The game’s commentators of course brought up how Rivera had never blown a playoff save against Boston. Rivera then promptly walked the first batter of the ninth, Kevin Millar. Dave Roberts came in to pinch run for Millar. Roberts was an absolute speed demon.

“He’s going,” Jeff commented to the others watching with him. “First chance Roberts gets, he’s stealing second.”

The Yankees knew Roberts would run also. Rivera threw to first three times trying to pick Roberts off before batter Bill Mueller saw a pitch. Roberts broke for second on the first pitch Rivera threw home. Yankees catcher Jorge Posada fired a strike to second as soon as he could. The throw was high and to the left field side of second. Derek Jeter pulled it in and slapped down the tag. All of Boston held its breath.

Fenway Park erupted when umpire Joe West signaled Roberts was safe. Even with the slow motion replay Jeff had a hard time telling if Roberts had, in fact, been safe. Two pitches later the park erupted again when Mueller lashed a single up the middle, scoring Roberts to tie the game. Rivera kicked at the ball, trying to knock it down and keep Roberts at third, but it bounced into center.

The teams battled back and forth without scoring until the bottom of the twelfth. Boston left fielder Manny Ramirez led off with a single, putting him on first as the potential winning run. Designated hitter David Ortiz came to the plate next. Four pitches later Ortiz sent Paul Quantrill’s offering soaring high into the mid-October night.

The Boston fans went batshit crazy when the baseball left Ortiz’s bat. When it landed over the right field fence and out of reach they went absolutely insane. The disappointment and shock from the rest of the week evaporated in that one, cathartic moment. The ignominious sweep they thought Yankees fans would hold over their heads for years was avoided.

Jeff’s reaction mirrored that of the fans at the game. He sprang from his seat when Ortiz connected.

“GO!” he yelled. “GET OUT!”

When he saw Yankees outfielder Gary Sheffield had no chance to catch the deep fly ball, Jeff started yelling himself hoarse. Other similar cheers echoed across the base. Jeff collapsed to his knees, exhausted from watching the end of the five-hour game.

“Shit, is it always like that?” Rick asked, as he was only a casual fan of baseball.

“When these two teams play? Yeah,” Steve Cunha answered for the wrung-out medic. “You’re lucky if one of their games lasts less than four hours.”

“And they’re playing again tonight?”

“Yep, another elimination game.”

“What do you think Boston’s chances are?”

“Now that New York let them up at home with their backs to the wall? The Yankees better take the Sox out tonight or they’re in trouble.”

The 5 p.m. Eastern Standard Time start time for Game Five translated to 1:30 the next morning in war-torn Afghanistan, only sixteen hours after Game Four’s end. Jeff parked himself in front of the television ten minutes before the game began. His duties for the coming day were already complete, having been taken care of after the previous day’s game. Both Rick Mendoza and 2LT Snow were okay with Jeff watching the game. They knew he’d be ready for the mission scheduled twenty-six hours later.

Jeff tugged at the Red Sox hat perched on his head while watching the end of the pregame show. He wore it all through Game Four and almost slept with it on after his team’s surprising victory yesterday. As a former superstitious baseball player himself, he almost wore the same clothes – including the same underwear – as the previous day to hold onto the good luck from Game Four. The stench of stale sweat and swass dissuaded him from that course, however.

The Red Sox jumped out to an early two-nothing lead in the bottom of the first, but the Yankees scored a run of their own in the top of the second. The Yanks surged ahead with three runs in their half of the sixth, but an Ortiz solo home run – his second homer of the game – and a Varitek sacrifice fly in the eighth tied the game at four.

Strings of zeroes hung from the scoreboard on the Green Monster in left field after that, stretching out to the fourteenth inning. David Ortiz stepped to the plate with two out and two on. He battled Yankees pitcher Esteban Loaiza until the tenth pitch of the at bat. Ortiz fought off an inside pitch, breaking his bat and punching a flare into short center. Boston centerfielder Johnny Damon raced in to score from second base to secure the win. The Red Sox mobbed their designated hitter when he stopped at second base.

“Shit, I’m too old for this,” Jeff gasped after dropping back into his seat.

“I can’t believe the Twins let Ortiz go,” Cunha muttered. “He’s a beast!”

“The Yankees had ‘Mr. October’ in Reggie Jackson. One broadcaster’s already calling Ortiz ‘Señor Octubre.’”

“Game Six in The Bronx tomorrow. Schilling still supposed to pitch?”

“As far as I’ve heard, Steve. I hope he’s healthy and sharper than in Game One.”

“This game lasted almost six hours! Any bets on how long the next one will be?”

“Nope.”

Choppers once more sped through the night to deliver 2d Platoon to its target. A two-hour hike brought the Rangers from the LZ to their objective. Once the assault began the choppers would be on standby, ready for extraction any time the platoon needed it. The long walk kept the element of surprise in the Americans’ favor, or so they hoped. The target compound was too narrow for choppers to land in, the wall too high for a hover at optimum fast roping altitude. A field across the dirt road from the target would serve as the extraction LZ, but wasn’t suitable as an LZ to start the raid.

Reaching the entry doors to the compound undetected was a testament to the Rangers’ skill and patience. To their surprise they picked both doors’ locks and entered without breaching charges. Down the halls they crept, closing on the objectives inside.

Explosions shattered the stillness of the night. Hearing screams from wounded on operations was nothing new for the platoon, but the screams came from them this time. They’d been lured here by counterintelligence, possibly by a mole inside the camp. Now they were paying for their overconfidence.

“VIPER! WE’RE COMPROMISED! EMERGENCY EVAC NOW!” Rick barked over the radio.

“Viper copies! Five mikes!”

Uninjured Rangers charged through the kill zones, wiping out resistance inside before more explosives detonated. Insurgents waiting for them set off the explosives, rather than trip wires or pressure plates. The survivors gunned down bad guys reaching for more triggering devices.

Jeff, moving in with 2d Squad that night, placed tourniquets around the stumps of newcomer Ivan Gilchrist’s upper arms in the aftermath of the explosions. This was the nineteen year-old Ranger’s first – and now last – mission.

“Otto, you okay to stay here with Ivan until the guys return?” Jeff asked after bandaging a deep, but not serious, laceration to the man’s thigh.

“I’m good, Doc, thanks. Go ahead.”

Jeff nodded. Uninjured Rangers from 2d Squad would return soon after dealing with the enemy. He and Emilio Reyes moved off with their rifles at the ready. They stalked through the now-quiet building until they rounded a corner. There they found Rick Mendoza kneeling in a hallway next to a prone figure. The rest of 1st Squad stood around with looks of shock on their faces. Jeff signaled ‘friendlies’ to Emilio and lowered his rifle.

Jeff knelt next to Rick and the Ranger on the ground. He reached to roll that Ranger over and begin his assessment. Rick stopped him by grabbing his arm. Jeff looked at his platoon sergeant.

“Rick, I need to help whoever this is!”

“It’s Terry,” Rick croaked while looking at the figure in front of him. He looked like he’d aged fifty years in the last fifteen minutes.

“Let me help him!”

Rick grabbed his sleeve tighter when Jeff tried reaching for Terry again. He looked at his platoon medic and friend with eyes full of pain.

“You can’t, Jeff. He’s dead.”