ALL IN: Race for the White House (9 page)

“Roger,” trying to make some sense of his rant, “you’ve gotta get some help.”

My brother was a liability to the campaign, to my parents, to anyone who was unlucky enough to be near him. It started the summer Uncle Sam took him from us. That happy-go-lucky kid that hugged us when he left fell back into our arms with a hurt time couldn’t dull when he returned.
 

My father tried so hard to bring Roger back to the way he was, but he wasn’t able to.
 

We all piled into the car and drove to the bus station, excited to pick up Roger. It had been two months since he was wounded in action, and the Army was sending him home. I couldn’t wait to see him.
 

Mom said, “We’ll give Roger his old room and he can go to college. Oh, Ted, it’s going to be so wonderful to have our son home.”

The news of Roger, hurt in a hospital, thousands of miles from home, almost killed our mother; she couldn’t sleep more than a few hours at night and watched the news every chance she got, as if that would bring him home faster. She hollered, cried, sat on the porch, and smoked. She even called our minister to ask the point to all of it.
 

The truth was, the war was dragging on and more and more young men, mostly from poor families, were being sent halfway across the world to fight. Despite many arguments with Mom, our dad refused to arrange for a deferment, so two weeks after his Senior Prom, Roger packed his bags and went to war. Mom never quite forgave the Colonel.
 

More people were protesting at home and demonstrating against the long war. The counterculture and the peace movement were a reaction to the outrage society had over rich old men sending kids to fight in a land they didn’t know, hadn’t heard of, and didn’t understand.
 

Time itself proved the Communist system couldn’t work.
 

When we got Roger home from the bus station, we continued our reunion on the front porch. Mom poured us lemonade and we all sat staring out into the yard. It was late September, and the leaves had turned and were abounding in a mosaic of colors.
 

Roger recounted the horror, sobbing, “I’ve been to Hell, Momma, I’ve been where angels fear to tread.”

Mom held him tight rubbing his head, “Sometimes people need time to get better.”
 

Roger told us he’d first been assigned to a mid-range gun squad. His days consisted of loading high-powered cannons firing into enemy encampments. He could hear the longer-range projectiles flying overhead all day with the shorter range up front. He hated it, especially the talk that villages were shelled. When the army asked him to work on helicopters, he jumped at the chance. It wasn’t until early evening when we felt a chill that moved our conversation into the front parlor that Roger told us of the ordeal of how he’d been wounded in action.
 

He began, “That morning started like every other. Each squad prepares their Huey, going through a checklist to load and prepare for the day’s mission.”
 

“First fuel and ammunition are loaded, small bombs are strapped on, then me and my buddies load in and belt up. Our pilot got the command to go and the engine began its whirring sound... the blades making that familiar rhythmic humming thud.”
 

“Our mission was to fly into enemy territory and empty as many rounds as we could. The enemy sits high in the trees so we spray them with as much metal as we can fire. The noise is deafening as the guns vibrate in our hands. When the end of the barrel glows red-hot, we have to let it cool down for about thirty seconds before firing again.” Roger paused and made eye contact with each of us then continued.
 

“The idea is to keep firing steadily, but not let the gun get so hot it jams. You get a feel for the length of time you can fire and coordinate your cooldowns by listening to the other guns.”
 

“With the four guns, we try to make continuous fire. The problem with Huey’s is they’re big and slow and the enemy can see and hear us coming. It’s a challenge to maintain your nerve; guys freak out all the time over there. I tried not to think we were firing thousands of deadly rounds at human beings. I pretended I was target practicing back at the ranch. I imagined my bullets never hit anyone that didn’t deserve it. I mean, they were firing back at us, I kept that gun hot to stay alive.” On that thought, Roger rocked back and balanced on two legs of his chair with his feet on the coffee table. I was surprised Mom allowed that.
 

“It was hard to fall asleep at night. We didn’t know who we were firing at, and they didn’t know us; we had traveled so far to get to this place. I’d lay awake thinking why are we doing this?”

“From the chopper it looked like the villages below were inhabited by the poorest people in the world. What had they done to bring the wrath of the most powerful nation on earth down on their heads?”
 

Roger looked at each of us shaking his head, “Thou shalt not kill, except when Uncle Sam says so. When I was lying in the hospital, I felt like I deserved the pain for what I did, for being part of the war.”
 

Mom told Roger, “God forgives soldiers who have fought for their country. He has the most amazing love and forgives us what we are forced to do. I don’t know why they sent you there, but I do know the Good Lord has brought you back to us, which is our blessing. We need to be thankful.”
 

I smelled a whiff of Mom’s famous apple pan doughty baking in the stove. She had popped it in the oven to make Roger feel a little more at home. My mouth was watering at the thought of tasting the caramel glazed crust Mom made from her own secret recipe.
 

Mom excused herself to fetch us all a slice. When she returned, she was carrying a tray with four slices of warm pie and a pitcher of her fresh squeezed lemonade.
 

Roger began telling us what happened the day he was wounded. We all sat spellbound listening as he recounted the horrible events.
 

“We had finished a run through the country. Flying back to base, Huey’s in formation, when our ammo got low. It was a typical afternoon - a bunch of kids firing machine guns strapped into a killing machine, heading back to reload.”
 

Roger continued, “Out of nowhere we took heavy fire. I felt three quick stabs like hornet stings go into my leg. I heard the deafening whirl of the copter’s engine as it began to slow; the pilot was yelling into the radio as we fell out of the sky. The cabin smelled of burning grease, the kind Daddy uses on his tractors, and black smoke was billowing all around me. I must have passed out for a second because all I remember is spinning and hitting the ground hard.
 

“A minute later, two of our Huey’s circled back around to empty their guns into the long grass and trees up the rise from where we were.
 

“I remember thinking
these guys can’t have much ammo left
.
 

“One of the choppers got hit and disappeared in a swirl of black smoke crashing over the rise. I turned my torso, wrenching my body to look, but I couldn’t see it. All I saw was a fireball climb into the sky... then a second later, I heard the deafening sound of my buddy’s helicopter exploding. My mind was numb from fear, but I imagined them burning.
 

“The other Huey came around and landed about a hundred yards back from us. I could hear the rapid fire of their guns returning fire over our heads into the rise. Our guys were making an all-out effort to keep the enemy from coming on us. Then the guns were silent.”
 

“They must have run out of ammo because everything got real quiet. I could hear my own heart thudding in my chest and with every beat, my leg pulsed with searing pain. My wounds were gushing and I realized I was drenched in blood and sweat. I called out, then I heard one of my buddies cry out ‘mama’. Or, maybe it was me.”

“I was thinking of you, Mama.” Roger looked over at the woman who had given us the warmth and comfort of the purest love we’d ever known.
 

“I wanted
you
!” Roger was speaking as though he and Mom were the only ones in the room.
 

Our mother, teary-eyed, moved close to Roger and gave his forehead, one of her gentle kisses - the kind she used to give tucking us in at night. Over Roger’s head, with her eyes fixed directly on her husband’s, my mother shot a look of defiance that said ‘my boy’s not going back.’
 

Dad had been quiet but nodded back to her and said to Roger, “It sounds like you had a hell of a wreck son, what happened to the other guys?”
 

“I was the only one they dragged out of there alive, Daddy. The pilot and all the rest were dead. The crew from the second Huey made their way to me, loaded me on a gurney, and dragged me, low under the bullets whizzing over their heads, back to the chopper. I remember feeling such a relief; the last thing I heard was the whirling of the blades as the engine was starting up. I passed out and woke up in a field hospital behind the lines. The doctors saved my leg, but those three shots sent me home.”

Dad said, “We’re damn proud to have you back.”

“Daddy,” Roger said, “All I could think about, lying in that hospital bed, was how brave those guys were to come back. Low on ammo, that first chopper fired into the hill to keep the Cong from taking me. Bravery that got them killed.”

In a moment of clarity, Roger asked, “Why are we letting guys fight on the ground when we have those jets that can do so much damage and then get the hell out of there?”

We all shook our heads. I didn’t have the words to answer. We sat late into the night listening to the crickets through partially opened parlor windows, curtains whisping from the mild breeze, our only light glowing from candles flickering on the windowsills.

Looking back now, I realize the army sent us back damaged goods, and there had been nobody to complain to really. We all wanted to believe the illusion, that Roger had returned to us, but he never really let himself come back. For years, Mom and Dad tried to fix Roger. They’d take him to see doctors and specialists and we’d get our hopes up, only to have our dreams dashed on the rocks after the eventual meltdown, Mom usually hysterical, Dad bailing their son out of a jam. The colonel had a lot of friends and influence and, over the years, he set Roger up in various jobs and business ventures. Things would get close to normal for a while, but would eventually turn bad.
 

The time Roger met Evelyn was different. She was special, I thought if anyone could bring him back from the war in his head she could. Evelyn was a sweet girl with shoulder length hair, kind brown eyes, a cute little laugh, and a great big smile. I remember her hair was a shade of red that looked almost fluorescent when the bright sun hit it.
 

She was a dancer in town, and Mom started off calling her
Bimbi
behind her back. I don’t think Mom realized how good that girl was for Roger. She quit dancing soon after they met and Roger moved out of the house and into her apartment. Evelyn was fun to be around; she would jump on my back, hug me really tight, and say ‘give me a horseback ride little brother’. I’d carry her as long as I could, and when I’d get tired, we’d flip onto the couch.

I could see why Roger loved her. She was pretty and kind. When she was around us, we were more fun. I couldn’t wait for her to come by and I’d walk around the house, hoping out loud that she’d visit. Evelyn was always the first to laugh and if I didn’t get her jokes, she would jump on my lap and tickle me until I did.
 

Mom eventually came around saying, “Evelyn’s good for Roger, a little crazy, but she’s got a big heart.”
 

“She’s a little wild, but marrying her would be the best thing for him,” Dad would always answer.
 

I was plain in love with her. I thought it would be great to have her as a permanent part of the family. I remember thinking she must love her kids an awful lot to have tattoos of them, one on each arm. Only a good mom would do that. Evelyn became a best friend to me and taught me about girls. We kept it secret so we didn’t upset my mother.
 

Mom planned the wedding for the spring - it was really quick, with Roger being back only 7 months. We all had our hopes up so high! Dad built Roger a stately home on the far end of the ranch, with a small barn big enough for the ponies he bought for the kids.
 

“Nana Mabel,” the kids would call out when they visited us, riding the miniature Shetlands named Mustang and the Red Baron. Mother quickly fell in love with the children.
 

One morning, a few months after the wedding, I came down for breakfast and saw Mom crying by the stove. She told me Evelyn had gone. Taking few things, she stole away with her kids in the middle of the night - something about Roger drinking himself to death. It wasn’t Evelyn’s fault and we all knew it.
 

Dad sent some men to find her anyway to ask what happened. They didn’t have the heart to bring her back.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The next morning was my sixteenth birthday and I half awoke to the sound of an angry cricket trying to finish his nighttime song. The sun made its first attempt to peer in but was not strong enough yet to bathe the room in light. The early birds had taken up the chorus. I pulled the sheets around and rearranged my pillow for the last minutes of heaven before I had to get up. Roger was finally home and I could relax.
 

I dozed off and when I awoke the room was awash in light. The kitchen radio was playing. Mom was humming along while cooking breakfast. It sounded like she was back to her old self. Her pleasant way had hardened while Roger was away. It was nice to hear her happy again.
 

I smelled freshly brewed coffee, bacon, and scones baking in the oven. Mom was glad to have her boy home and safe. I was thankful to be waking up in the softest bed in the world, and thinking about how lucky the four of us were to be back together. I like the time between five and seven in the morning best to lay in bed and daydream. I got dressed and made my way downstairs.