The Rockin' Chair (12 page)

Hank kept marching and never looked back. He wasn't about to show any more emotion and break the promise he'd made to himself all those years ago.

John walked out onto the farmyard and stared at the charred eyesore. “It just ain't true,” he repeated in a whisper, and his mind immediately raced back to recall his own version of that terrible night.

It wasn't like Hank couldn't find his own share of problems all by his lonesome. He had shaken more than one hive in his day, leaving the bees more scared than him. Alice had also drawn a few tomato juice baths when the boy set his mind on investigating skunks. He loved tipping cows and once, he even cursed at Alice at the supper table. John remembered the boy's face when he landed flat on his back in the pig trough. “You wanna talk like one, then you can eat with'em,” the old man barked, leaving Hank to ponder the consequences of his loose tongue. Still, no trouble imaginable could compare to the mountains of manure Hank and his buddy George stepped into together. Outside of school, John didn't want Hank around the deviant. But on one horrible night, Hank would defy his wishes once again. The boys' reunion would prove deadly and the very memory brought a queasy feeling to John's insides.

The sun had just gone in for the night when John remembered checking whether they had enough feed to last out the month. It was a quiet night, very still. For a second, he recalled feeling disturbed—as if he'd forgotten something important. Eventually shaking it off as nothing, he started for the house to steal a kiss from his squaw. Again, something stopped him in mid-stride. Turning back, he checked the coops and both barns.
Everything seems fine
, he decided, and went in for his supper and that kiss.

No sooner had he washed behind his ears than the faint cry of horses had him at the window. Like something straight from a nightmare, he could see the orange glow pulsate from the horse barn's loft. “No!” he screamed and fetched his boots. As he hit the porch running, he saw two boys doing the same. Hank was running for the well, while George was high-tailing it home.

It took no more than minutes before the hay-packed barn was engulfed in flames. “Please Lord … no!” John yelled again. Though he tried several times, with the intense heat he couldn't get close enough to free the screaming animals. Through the thick, heavy smoke, he witnessed the cruelest sight his eyes had ever beheld. The horses were kicking up dirt so high that it looked like black rain, while they sent shrills that would haunt his soul for life. Insane with seeing their own destructive end, the animals bounced off the walls. John swore he could hear their bones breaking. As he recalled the brutal chaos, he felt chills travel his spine. Alice, Hank and he did all they could to contain the hypnotizing inferno. As if they were sent from the bowels of hell, those starving flames lashed out at the smoke-filled sky, wanting nothing more than to feed off of the other barn. By some small miracle, that never happened. But by another cruel curse, the horse barn burned completely to the ground.

John did what he could to tuck away the rest of the horrid memory, but not before he pictured Hank's young face one last time. It was the perfect picture of pain. The boy was guilt-stricken, petrified, ashamed and every other emotion that dwells in the dark. As neighbors saturated nothing but charred foundation, Hank approached his father and sobbed something about “a cigarette.” John could barely look at the boy, never mind talk to him. He turned and walked away—never listening to his apology, never granting forgiveness for his sin.
I couldn't listen or talk
. John thought,
I just couldn't do it.
The shrill of dying animals was still ringing in his ears, while the smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Besides, if Hank had listened for once, George would not have been anywhere near the farm. John just walked away and never spoke on the tragedy again. Hank did the same.

That night, John kneeled on quivering knees and spoke to the Lord. “I reckon I could never thank you proper for allowin' those foolish boys to make it out of that barn alive. Ain't no less than a miracle, Father.”

An eerie silence replaced any laughter that had once echoed through the farm. Though there were no funds to replace the livestock, George's stout father brought over two horses from his own barn—a stallion and a mare. John refused at first, saying, “I'm much obliged but it ain't necessary.”

“Please John, take 'em,” the man pleaded, a cigar dangling from his thick lips. “My boy won't sit for a month, I swear it, but I still need to set things right. Take the horses, please.” He shrugged. “It's either here or the glue factory.”

John laughed.

He peered hard into John's eyes and insisted, “I won't take no for an answer.”

With a nod, John reluctantly took the reins. In the end, the offer was accepted, but only because it was intended to redeem his son's sin more than anything else. The horses found their new home in the cow barn.

Not a full month went by when John and Alice were sharing a moment alone out on the porch. Alice stared at the horse barn's charred foundation, which sat right smack in the middle of the land. “I wish we had the money to rebuild, John,” she confessed. “It's a terrible eyesore.”

“It ain't easy workin' around it every day, I can tell ya that,” he said. “Truth is, I hate the constant reminder of that awful night. But as long as that foundation stands, there's always hope of rebuildin'.”

Alice nodded and jumped into his lap for a kiss.

John emerged from the vivid nightmare and walked out to face the old foundation “Stupid bastard,” he muttered, studying the monstrosity. “What the hell did I do?”

Shaking his head, he marched straight back to the farmhouse to find Evan sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of chicken noodle soup and looking at his cell phone. “Evan, your pa's right. I've been selfish with your time. Your folks need some of it too.”

“But Grampa John, it's my choice whether …”

“Please go home, Evan … for me.”

Evan nodded. “Okay. But what about T?”

“Tara will have to stay on for a bit longer. Ain't got no choice on that one.” He shook his head. “I'll go clear it with your pa tonight.”

I
t was a Saturday afternoon and Montana was gearing up for one of its reckless snowstorms. Hunched against the cold, John and his old friend Herbert sat on the front porch playing checkers. John was drinking coffee. Herbert was enjoying a beer.

“Hank gave me a real piece of his mind a few days back,” John said, as he scanned the board. “Truth be told, it was like gettin' kicked in the head by a mule.”

Herbert grinned. “What's the problem … Hank been buyin' the same pigeons over and over?”

Despite his heavy heart, John joined his friend with a grin of his own.

Years ago, when John and Hank raced pigeons together, Hank was purchasing all the birds he could afford from different breeders. Most of the birds would escape, never returning, sending him back out to buy more. John witnessed the naive boy buy the same bird several times before he secretly visited Herbert about the confusion. “Seems that the birds my boy bought from you have flown the coop, sendin' him back to buy more,” he told his friend Herb. “And from what I can tell, he's bought the same bird from you three times.”

Herb slapped his knee in laughter before offering a cold bottle of Miller High Life, along with a sealed envelope containing all the money Hank had spent. “Your boy's good with the birds,” Herb joked, “but not so good with the dollar, huh?”

John shrugged. “Oh, I don't rightly know about that. From where I sit, all the money he's made, he won from beatin' your best flyers.” He took a sip of beer. “If you ask me, I'd say he's done alright for himself,” he added proudly.

Herbert raised his beer in agreement and they had a laugh. Although John shared in his neighbor's good-hearted fun, he never leaked it to Hank. The pigeons were the best thing that ever happened to John and his boy. It finally gave them something positive to share.

John jumped two of Herbert's checkers. “King me,” he told his friend.

As Herb did, he attempted to lighten John's solemn mood. “Well, it ain't any fun bein' kicked in the head by a mule. I can attest to that.” He grinned. “But at least you and your boy are talkin' again … 'cause we both know that ain't always been the case.”

“We're talkin', alright,” John muttered sarcastically and shook his head.

“I just don't get it,” Herb said.

John looked up from the board. “How's that?”

Herb shrugged and, after thinking on it for a minute, he asked, “How old's Hank now, anyway? It ain't like …”

“What's that got to do with it, Herb?” John interrupted, quickly going to his son's defense. “Truth is, age don't make no difference here.” He shook his head. “With me and Hank, it's always been like two bulls buttin' heads … always.”

Herbert nodded as if he understood, though there was no way he could. He never uttered another word and they sat in silence for a while, playing. John had just asked to be “kinged” again when he saw a soldier making his way toward the house. The man displayed no medals nor did he wear a uniform, but from the walk, he was clearly a soldier. “It's Georgey,” John announced.

He looked at Herbert and they both stood to greet him. With the exception of a shorter haircut and older eyes, George looked no different from the day he'd left. His faded blue jeans and flannel jacket were John's first clue.
Somethin' ain't right with him either.

“Welcome home,” Herbert roared. The green duffel bag fell to the ground with a thump. Without checking its contents, John could already tell that the bag was stuffed with some heavy experiences. He started his search with a hug.

George broke the silence. “Grampa John, I just got your letter. I'm so sorry …”

The old man raised his hand. “Sorry for what? You're just in time.” He scanned his grandson's face. Something painful winced in Georgey's eyes. Turning to Herbert, John said, “Herb, if you don't mind gettin' a chair for George, here, I'd be obliged.”

Herbert nodded. “I'll go fetch it,” he confirmed and turned to George. “Don't you dare go nowhere. I'll be right back. I don't wanna miss none of your stories.”

George took over the checker game. Unless Grampa John threw one, he'd never once beaten the old man at checkers and was happy for the opportunity. Between moves, it was obvious that Grampa John was trying to get the skinny on everything. “Wanna tell me 'bout it?” the old man asked.

For the first time ever, George couldn't meet his grandfather's gaze. He swallowed hard and was preparing to respond when his grandfather roared, “I reckon all you can do with some pain is allow it its due time.”

Grampa John never raised his voice. George's head flung up at the wrongness of it.

The old man grinned. Looking the pain square in the eye, Grampa John continued. “It's true. Whatever it is that ails ya … and I can see it's deep, it'll take time. That might not make you feel any better now, but trust me, boy, the memories you want to fade away will, and the feelins' that come with 'em will leave ya even faster.” With that, he jumped George's last checker and stood. “Game over,” he said. “And if I ain't mistaken, only time's gonna be enough to bandage this one up.” He patted George on the shoulder. “But I'm here when you see fit to talkin'.” He grinned again. “You go see your folks yet?”

George shook his head.

“Then you best get yourself over there. They're dyin' to see ya.”

George wasn't through his nod when Grampa John stepped into the house.

George felt relieved that Grampa John didn't persist in his quest for knowing. Even though he'd been able to lock away the hideous pictures in his mind for weeks, the wounds were still fresh. He reached to grab his duffel bag when he noticed how many of Grampa John's checkers remained on the board. With a chuckle, he shook his head. “That old man's something else,” he muttered.

The door opened again and, as if perfectly timed, Herbert returned with a kitchen chair. “Got time for one more game?” he asked hopefully.

George nodded and reset the board. “Sure, Mr. Manchester. Time is the one thing I do have.”

George's second foot wasn't past the bunkhouse threshold when Hank pushed his chair away from the kitchen table and jumped to his feet. “Ain't you a sight, Georgey!” he gasped. “Just look at you!”

Those words nearly made all the pain worth the trouble—but not quite.

Elle and Evan attacked George like a swarm of honey bees, stinging him with slaps on the back, kisses and proclamations of love. At one point, Lila was introduced and brought into the celebration.

“Where's Tara?” George asked.

“Over at Grampa John's,” Evan answered.

Hank walked over, grabbed George by the shoulders and shook him back and forth. Coming from Pa, it was the most intimate hug in the world. “I'll be,” Hank squealed again and again. “I'll be …”

George couldn't imagine a better compliment coming from the frigid man.

On a mismatched set of gas station dinnerware, the five of them ate supper like a family again. George shared his adventurous tales, careful not to include any of the tragic details that stole away his sleep.

In flight, Sergeant George McCarthy and his four-man squad were briefed on Afghani customs, as well as the strengths and weaknesses of their adversary—the Taliban. They were also strongly reminded that America was counting on them. Right off, George understood. He loaded his weapons and prayed, “Father, please give me the strength and courage to serve with honor. Walk with us, Father …”

Under the cover of a moonless sky, they jumped into the roughest mountain terrain in the world. Scattered by the darkness, George went straight for a communications check. One by one, Danny, Brad, Cooch and Private Brady Alexander checked in. They had all made it and were now sitting just outside a known Taliban training camp. Using his call sign, “Pigeon Claw,” George issued a six-digit grid coordinate in code and ordered, “Rally within the hour. Last man in makes supper.”

At the base of a small mountain range—much less majestic than the mountains back home—the boys set up camp while George studied the map.
This isn't going to be an easy mission,
he decided.
There are no landmarks to guide our way.
George cleared the net and called command, advising them of the location to drop the vehicles. It was also imperative that the allied forces know their exact whereabouts. Nobody wanted to be awakened by a “friendly” bomb. Equipment and supply checks were conducted, while chemical detectors were placed out on the tight perimeter. Not one ranger closed his eyes that night. The black sky screamed with the occasional Allied war bird, while the ground trembled with Taliban vehicles. They were close enough to smell the enemy, so George abandoned the idea of rest and decided to put the boys right to work. Their mission was simple: being America's eyes in Afghanistan, they were tasked to identify and locate Taliban forces. After collecting data for intelligence purposes, they were to call in coordinates and take a few steps back. The U.S. Air Force would gladly do the rest.

Within four hours, they made their initial enemy contact and George called in his first coordinates. Allowing them a twenty-minute buffer for safety, the whining buzzards swooped in to claim their prey. The Taliban fired wildly into the sky, sending up a barrage of all they had, but it was such a futile attempt at survival. Panic overwhelmed them, while the allied pilots took their sweet, torturous time with the easy kill. George thought,
I wish they would just drop the hammer and be done with it
. From Hellfire to Tomahawk missiles, they finally unleashed their rage. Pounds of TNT were slammed right into the enemy's face, erupting into a ball of fire that looked like it traveled a hundred miles into the sky. Sometimes making a second and third run, the flyboys left behind nothing but remnants of bone and fragments of steel. George and the boys carefully reconned the area. The morbid sight was enough to upset a cast-iron stomach. Walking through the path of destruction caused by his one call, to his surprise, George was barely affected.
The Taliban are the enemy and the men who died are wearing uniforms,
he reasoned.
We're soldiers and the rules are clear on both sides—kill or be killed.
George actually felt good about saving the lives of Americans who would follow.

Life in the mountains was the truest test of survival. When the relentless wind blew, the mercury dropped off the thermometer. And the nights were colder than any winter Montana had ever seen. They traveled light so food was carefully rationed. Even the dirt was a constant problem. It was as fine as powdered sugar and inescapable in all aspects of their existence. They ate it, slept with it—even bathed in it. And there was no such thing as privacy. They constantly covered each other, so even when they defecated an armed guard was posted at their backs.

Secretly, George missed the correspondence from home. Though other servicemen in Afghanistan were showered with supportive letters from home, the 4th Battalion conducted only covert operations. No one could know where they were exactly—no one.
For all anyone knows, I'm stationed in some Quonset hut, playing ping-pong.
George postmarked fabricated letters filled with white lies and had them sent out whenever they crossed paths with other units. Each letter was intended to quell his family's worries. He doubted Grampa John bought a word of it.
That old man's tuned in to a higher source.

There was no room for the simplest comfort in the mountains. Maintaining the edge meant staying alive and there could be no mistakes. Every second in Afghanistan was a hazard to their health. Their fierce adversary—the Taliban—was out hunting, too.

One night, the squad searched an area and happened upon two Taliban scouts doing the same. In swift response, both Afghani fighters were on their way to Allah's paradise before ever feeling the deep scratches on their necks. The key was not to fire a round and attract any unwanted attention. George's men used their knives and followed protocol. As one Taliban soldier lay gurgling on his own blood, Danny suggested, “We should amputate a finger before he dies.”

George stood horrified. As Taliban religious beliefs denied their enemy entrance into heaven unless physically whole, black ops insisted—when possible—that body parts be removed prior to any killing, but George wouldn't hear of it. The mission was top priority and there was no time to dabble in psychological warfare. Besides being inhumane, playing masochist was just a waste of time. George had no need to respond. His eyes said it all. The squad moved on.

Two weeks into their service in Afghanistan, the squad also crossed the bloody path of the British S.A.S., England's own version of Airborne Rangers. Their mission called for more ruthlessness. They worked in teams of three and hid right out in the open by wearing Taliban uniforms. Their main task required them to infiltrate enemy convoys from the rear and silently slit throats all the way to the front. And from the look on their smug faces, they thoroughly enjoyed their work. George didn't care for them. Although they accounted for more kills in Afghanistan than any chopper that flew, he never met a single one he cared to see again.

For many months, Sergeant George McCarthy and his four men of the 4th Ranger Battalion represented their country with honor. They called in numerous enemy air strikes and assisted America's precision bombing with hand-held laser guidance systems. That always meant getting up close and personal with various Taliban targets. They also saved the lives of several dying children who had tripped over the improvised explosive devices, or IEDs, that littered their back yard. The Army, however, didn't recognize the compassion. It was merely considered extra work.

At one point, even Mother Nature wanted in on the action. A devastating storm blew through Afghanistan, shifting enemy troops and enabling the rangers to move in even tighter. George and the boys reported everything they saw. With the nightly firestorms raining down on their pathetic adversary, the Taliban forces were severely worn down. Only the units forced to dig in—some of which had been maimed by their commanders—stayed put.