Luby untied his tie and cracked open another bottle of Coors Light from the sixer in the passenger seat. “It’s snowing,” he said aloud to no one, “Police don’t pull people over for swerving in the snow; might as well have a few more beers. It was a ninety-mile drive, and snow or no snow, Luby planned to drink the entire six-pack before it got warm. “The funeral was nice.” He said, still talking to the empty truck cab. “But after three, you would think they would have that bugle timing down better.” He turned right at the light and fishtailed slightly. “There’s always a delay between the rifles and the bugle,” Luby argued with the empty passenger seat while taking another pull off the bottle. “No one but you noticed that stuff anyway; let everyone feel like it was a nice service.” He finished the first beer and tossed it out the window with one hand as his other hand grabbed another. “Only one funeral left,” he said sullenly, then contradicted himself. “No! Not yet. You don’t get to leave yet. You deserve to wait.” The snow was turning to rain.
+++
The funny thing about serving in a combat unit in a time of war is how fast the reason you enlisted doesn’t fucking matter anymore. Sergeant Luby had been in Afghanistan about 36 hours when he stopped giving a fuck about the big picture. He didn’t give a fuck about 9/11. He didn’t give a fuck about beating the Taliban, and certainly didn’t give a fuck about helping the Afghan people. Luby studied history in college. He knew the nation’s long, violent history. He knew about the Russian invasion in the 80s and how our own operatives helped the Afghan people develop IEDs and trained them to fight the traditional enemy of the West. He could read the chaotic series of events that marred the region from Alexander the Great to yesterday, and because of this knowledge, he knew he should care. But he didn’t.
Luby was in sixth grade on 9/11, sitting in Mrs. Malsburger’s class while the other two sixth-grade classes filtered into the small room first thing in the morning. He remembered the look on the teacher’s faces and how the usually stern Mrs. Alt kept her hand over her mouth as she spoke to the other teachers, her eyes darting wildly around the room. He remembers Mr. Hoover, the principal, pushing the old rickety metal stand through the door with the 24-inch TV on top, which was generally held for substitute teachers or special movie days. The strangest thing was how no one was talking. It was so quiet as Mr. Hoover plugged in the TV and flipped to the news.
The first tower was hit while Luby was getting off the bus. He heard about it but didn’t really understand what it meant. He watched the second plane hit at 8:03 a.m., along with everyone else in that classroom. The faces confused him the most. He knew all these teachers. He had seen them happy; he had seen them sad or disappointed; he’d seen the angry plenty of times, usually at him, but these faces were new. This was the first time Luby had ever seen an adult afraid. That was the day he decided to join the Army Airborne. But he didn’t give fuck about that anymore.
Three years before, in the recruiters’ office, he still cared about all of it. It always seemed so important to him that he be able to articulate his reasons for enlisting and the current geopolitical situation to anyone who would listen. Luby could tell you about the overall GWOT Mission, the mission of Operation Enduring Freedom, the 82nd Airborne’s mission, and how he and 2nd platoon, Delta Company, 2/505 Parachute Infantry Regiment, fit into the grand scheme. Luby was the Distinguished Honor Graduate of his basic training and infantry school classes, the Honor Graduate of his Airborne School Class, meritoriously recommended for advanced schooling and promotions ahead of his peers throughout his three years in the military. But sitting in that beehive hut, cleaning weapons and watching Family Guy with his squad after their first mission, he decided that none of that shit mattered anymore. The only thing he had to do in Afghanistan was to bring his guys home.
+++
Six hours earlier, during what the army called left-seat, right-seat training with the unit they were relieving, Luby had been dialed in. He set in his security team and assigned sectors of fire for his machine gun teams before returning to the village to brief the Lieutenant. He and the Platoon Sergeant squatted in a mud hut with some local leaders, the interpreter, and the outgoing officers, doing introductions and glad-handing each other. As much as Luby wanted to listen to the conversation and learn, his job was to be outside, watching the mountains and keeping his team focused.
Settling into a small break in the rocks, between his two machine gun teams, Luby smiled to himself and thought, “You are finally here, finally in the fight.” The mood was only slightly soured by his counterpart Weapons Squad leader from the 10th Mountain, who was there to walk Luby through fields of fire, terrain considerations, obstacles, and the like, but who mostly smirked with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and chin strap undone, leaning against something.”Anything I should know about this village?” Luby asked the man over his shoulder. “Nope”, came the unsatisfying answer with a long exhale of smoke.
Luby’s radio keyed up, “Multiple military-age males 600 yards my two o’clock,” came the voice. Luby recognized it as Melshing, one of his gunners, and jogged over to his position. “Great Job, Melshing!” Luby said as he slid in behind the position, looking over Melshing’s shoulder. Hinkle, Melshing’s Assistant gunner, had his binoculars to his eyes, fixated on a spot in the mountains. Luby took out his own binoculars and followed Hinkle’s finger until he found the seven men in robes staring back at them. None of the men carried weapons, but one had binoculars of his own, and another had a small radio. Luby called to the Lieutenant over his radio. “Blue Six, this is Blue Four Actual, how copy over?”
“Blue Four actual, this is Blue Seven, go ahead over,” came the reply from Sergeant First Class Lyndsay, the Platoon Sergeant. “Blue Seven, Blue Four Actual. I have seven military-aged males with radios and binoculars 600 yards to your west. Please advise, over.”
“Blue Four Actual, Blue Seven, standby, over.”
“Blue Seven, roger.” Luby looked at his boys. “Keep that gun on safe, Melshing, and don’t take your eyes off them, Hinkle. I’m going to brief the other team while we wait for more info.” Luby stood and moved down the line. He saw Sergeant Billbard heading his way and pointed out the men, so Billbard could brief his squad, positioned to the left of Luby’s. Then showed his second gun team, Big Ginger Little Jones, gunner and assistant gunner, where the men were on the mountain.
The Lieutenant called Luby, “Blue Four, this is Blue Six Actual, over.”
“Blue Six Actual, this is Blue Four, go ahead,” answered Luby
“Blue Four, do you see any weapons, over?”
“Blue Six, no weapons at this time, over.”
“Copy NO weapons. Blue Four, stand down, follow the ROI, over.” A little disappointed, Luby told Ginger to stand down, then jogged back to Hinkle and Melshing, tapping his earpiece when he was in sight of them, making sure they heard the order from the Lieutenant.
“I could have saved you some time there, super stud,” said the 10th Mountain sergeant following Luby. “How’s that?” Luby asked. “I’ve been trying to shoot those guys for 9 months, and I never got the chance; you probably won’t either.” Said 10th Mountain, lighting another cigarette. Luby didn’t say anything. He continued to watch the men. 10th Mountain continued. “That’s the Taliban up there, Sarn’t, sure as shit. But they’re keyed in with the village here; a lot of these families are theirs. See, right now, your LT and my LT are talking big talk about the rules of engagement and how they are committed to making sure the people of this community don’t fall victim to the circumstances around the U.S. being in Afghanistan.” Luby put his binoculars down and looked at the 10th Mountain Sergeant who continued. “The village elders are in there learning everything they can about the ROI right now so they can tell the Taliban what they can and can’t do with us, to stay safe. What counts as a weapon? Are daytime rules different than nighttime rules? Where does our territory end? Will the next American follow the same rules? How close to an American vehicle can they get without being shot?”
“I get it,” said Luby sharply. “So what can I do about it?”
“When we head out of this valley, they’re gonna hit us from that canyon we walked in through,” said the 10th Mountain SGT, nonchalantly. Luby’s interest peaked. “Nothing too big, probably a few guys with AKs poke their heads around a rock and dump a few mags, then disappear into the mountains, just enough to show you nothing you do here matters, “ sighed 10th Mountain.
“All Blue, this is Blue Seven, Blue Six and I are headed out, prepare to move, over”, Platoon Sergeant Lyndsay called over the radio. Twenty minutes later, Second Platoon was moving back up the road they had come in on. Luby and his machine gun teams walked in the middle as usual, with the Lieutenant and RTO behind Billbard’s first squad. “Sir, my shadow says we are going to get hit by those guys who were watching us when we walk through that canyon a mile up. Should we take up another route or put some air support on standby?” Luby asked the Lieutenant. “My shadow said the same thing,” said the LT, trailing off while he messed around with his kit. “Great,” said Luby, “If we pull off the trail here and loop around this knob, we can punch out with second squad to cover any…”. The Lieutenant cut him off. “No, we are going out this way.” He was not interested in a discussion, but Luby’s face convinced him to elaborate. “If we change our route every time there is a rumor that we may make contact, then we are letting the bad guys know they can affect our routine and our movement, which undermines our control in the area.” Amazed at the reasoning, Luby simply nodded and faded back into his position. He worked his way over to Melshing and then to the Ginger, letting them know they would be in contact and to stay ready to return fire. “How do you know that, Sergeant?” asked Little Jones, his eyes wide. “Just a feeling,” Luby said, electing not to explain the insane reasoning behind walking his men into an ambush.
Thirty minutes later, the ta-ta-ta-ta of small arms fire split the afternoon, and dust jumped into the air out of the loose soil around Melshing and Hinkle. From behind Luby, the Ginger let loose a long burst into the hills with his M240, followed quickly by the rest of the Second Platoon. Luby ran to Melshing’s position, but Samson, the medic, was already there. Samson had been a mortician before the war and liked to joke that no matter what happened when you got hit, he could handle the necessary next steps. He was chubby and balding, but good-natured and always right where he needed to be. Samson, Melshing, and Hinkle dove off the path into some bushes and were trying to get the gun to a high enough elevation to return fire. Before they could, the Lieutenant waved his arms and shouted, “Cease fire!” The shooting from above had stopped, and it was clear the Lieutenant wanted movement back to base to continue. Behind Luby, Sergeant Sins from Third Squad was already moving a team into position to bound up the hill and strike back, but the Lieutenant waved him off.
Back at the base, Luby watched Meshing and Hinkle, sitting next to Little Jones and the Big Ginger, eating MREs and oiling their guns, laughing at the crazy situation the officer they called Peter Griffen had gotten himself into, like nothing had happened a few hours earlier. Luby thought about Melshing’s mother.
Mrs. Melshing had been Facebook messaging every leader in the company for months when she stumbled upon the newly promoted Sergeant Luby from the Ozarks of Missouri. The Melshings were from Northern Arkansas, and Mrs. Melshing thought she had found an advocate for her son in Luby. Not yet understanding the situation or life, twenty-two-year-old Sergeant Luby responded to Mrs. Melshing politely and courteously, befitting a non-commissioned officer in the 82nd Airborne. Mrs. Melshing and Sergeant Luby communicated about once a week on the status of her son.
Private George Melshing was a sweetheart of a kid, 6’6” with 50-inch shoulders and the heart of an angel. He never raised his voice or complained. The kind of soldier who waves at the MPs when he comes through the gate just to be nice, the boy seemed custom-built by God to carry the machine gun. He was also a simple child. Had he grown up in a time period without Laura Bush in the White House, he would undoubtedly have been left behind. When the deployment orders came through, Mrs. Melshing’s messages grew increasingly panicked. She was terrified for her son and demanded that he be placed under Sergeant Luby’s command. Luby explained that he had no control over that, but assured Mrs. Melshing that the leadership team had her son’s best interests at heart. When Luby brought it up to his Platoon Sergeant, Lyndsay dismissed it as a trap Luby had fallen into and said under no circumstances would he ask the commander to transfer a soldier based on the Facebook request of that soldier’s mother. That seemed like solid advice to Luby, so he let the matter drop. A month later, Luby’s company commander got a call from the battalion commander, who had just received a call from the brigade commander, who had just received a call from the division staff. Luby was immediately called into the commander’s office. Apparently, after learning that Private Melshing had not been reassigned to Sergeant Luby, Mrs. Melshing had taken it upon herself to call her senator, who in turn had started a riot at the Pentagon that landed newly promoted Sergeant Luby in the commander’s office.
George Melshing had a secret until that call from the senator. Staff Sergeant John Melshing, killed when his vehicle was hit by an improvised explosive device near Kandahar in March 2009, had a wife and sixteen-month-old girl, both now living in Northern Arkansas with Mrs. Melshing who, as much as she tried, could not convince her younger son not to enlist after high school. Terrified that she was destined to lose both sons in a country she didn’t know existed ten years before, Mrs. Melshing’s plea to her senator was so moving that he could not help but put in a call to the appropriate committee leaders, who called the Pentagon, which moved Private Melshing into Luby’s machine gun squad. Luby hadn’t appreciated the gravity of the situation at the time. But now he couldn’t escape the thought of having to fly to Arkansas and explain to Mrs. Melshing that her son was dead because the Lieutenant wanted to prove a point, and Luby couldn’t convince him that it was a bad idea. “Fuck the Taliban, fuck Afghanistan, and fuck these fucking corrupt ass locals,” Luby thought. He stepped out of the squad’s hut into the cool night air. Luby crossed himself and looked upward, in a manner more threatening than prayerful, “I will kill one-hundred innocent Afghans if it means all my guys get to come home. If there is ever a question of pulling or not pulling a trigger, if it means my guys have a better chance of coming home, I will pull the trigger, damn the consequences.”
For six months, SGT Luby lived by his promise. When in doubt, air it out, he’d say to his team. So far, the strategy was working. Luby was not well-liked among the command team, but he was still not technically a war criminal. Luby was always careful to stay within the rules of engagement, but in his mind, if the Taliban could bend the rules to fight him, then he could bend the rules to keep his people safe. If there was a defensible reason to play the situation out safely, Luby took it, utilizing to the fullest extent possible the mantra that “Soldiers will not be held responsible for actions taken based on how the situation looks in hindsight but how the events appear to unfold at the time.”
+++
Luby’s squad was mounted in vehicles, which was great because it gave a few guys extra sleep. The team had been on non-stop missions for weeks, mostly on foot through the mountains. The last time they had vehicles, it had been winter, and the heaters felt amazing to everyone but Hinkle and Little Jones, who had drawn the short straw as gunners. After that one mission, driving in the snow for six hours, the squad grabbed dinner at the chow hall: turkey and loose corn. Little Jones was shaking so bad from residual cold that there was no corn left by the time he got the spoon to his mouth.
It was summer now, and Luby was in the south, back in the fighting season. His was a convoy security mission and should be uneventful, but Luby kept his guard up anytime they went through Kandahar. The team was in two trucks. Luby as the vehicle commander, Hinkle in the driver’s seat, Ginger on the gun, and Samson the medic sleeping in the back. Luby felt anxious as he watched the vehicle in front of them. Inside were Little Jones driving, Melshing on the gun, waving to the locals they passed, and Sergeant Sins from Third Squad in command. Sins knew what he was doing, but Luby liked to keep Melshing close, especially in Kandahar.
The convoy moved through the area at a good pace, making their turns and keeping their distances. “This is how it should be by now,” Luby thought. “We’ve been in this country for almost a decade; the locals should know not to get too close or to try and merge with the convoy.” He knew it would get worse, though, the closer they got to the city. Traffic would build up, and their twenty vehicles would just make it worse.
“Can you pass me that Gatorade bottle?” Ginger asked over the vehicle’s internal comms system. Hinkle passed up an empty bottle through the gunner’s hatch where Ginger’s hand appeared below the seal to accept it. “What did I say about dipping in the vehicles?” Luby scolded over the comms. A few weeks ago, Hinkle had been spitting in a cup, and the convoy took some pot shots from the hills. Ginger swiveled the turret to return fire and kicked over the almost full spitter, which baked in the heat. As hard as the crew scrubbed, there was no getting that smell out, so SergeantLuby had banned all dipping in the vehicles. “I’m not actually in the vehicle, Sarn’t.” Ginger replied, “All the spit will remain outside the vehicle.”
“Why can’t you just spit over the side?” asked Hinkle. “He can’t spit far enough.” Doc’s voice chimed in from the back seat. “For all his strengths, The Ginger has notoriously weak lips.” Doc continued making a dick-sucking gesture. “Just keep that shit out of the truck,” sighed Luby. After all, who was he to take away one of the few pleasures out here, he thought.
“Blue Four, this is Blue Seven, over,” the radio keyed up on the main channel. “Go for Blue Four,” replied Hinkle. “Blue Four, this is Seven. Blue Five says he is chewing dirt back there. At this next turn, I want you to drop back and take up rear security. How copy, over?”
“Aww fuck don’t let him do that to u,” complained Ginger on the internal comms. “I just rode rear security yesterday.” Luby agreed with Ginger. Not so much because he hated eating dust in the rear as much as he didn’t want to get too far from Melshing and split his team. “I know, Ginger, but unless you have a better excuse, I’ve got no logical reason to question this.”
“Blue Four, this is Blue Seven, confirm last, over”, SFC Lyndsay sounded impatient. “If anybody has any suggestions, let me know now,” Luby said, looking around the truck for any reason not to take the rear. Nobody said anything. Luby finally replied. “Blue Seven, this is Blue Four, I copy all. Pulling over at the next turn over,”.
Luby watched Melshing’s back get farther and farther away as Hinkle pulled over to wait for the convoy to pass. “Lord, keep him safe,” Luby thought, watching him go. The convoy passed, and Blue Five sped up in another lane to take Luby’s previous spot. Sergeant Bilbard waved as they passed, and Luby gave them the finger. Ginger swiveled the turret to cover the rear and swore under his breath as Hinkle pulled in behind the last truck. “Blue Seven, this is Blue Four, we are assuming rear guard now, over,” Luby said into the radio. As expected, the rear was filthy. Dust caked on Ginger’s back, and bits of it fell through the turret hole in clumps. Bits of it blew around the interior, leading all aboard to mask up with balaclavas or bandanas.
Approaching the center of Kandahar, traffic backed up, the convoy crawling at a snail’s pace. It was all routine, no reason to be anxious until something gave them a reason. Ginger threw candy to the kids on the side of the street. Hinkle smiled and waved from behind his four inches of bulletproof glass. “Fuck these people,” Ginger said over internal comms. “The second we stop giving them free shit is the second they start shooting at us; not one of them out there would piss on us if we were on fire.” Doc, looking disgusted, said, “Preach.”
“Hey, Sergeant, I got a bus behind us breaking the 100-meter rule,” Ginger said calmly. “How bad is he breaking it?” Luby asked. “He’s flirting with the line, probably nothing,” said Ginger. Luby keyed his mic, “Keep an eye on him and don’t be afraid to hit him with a pen flare; keep me apprised of the situation.” Ginger came back, “Yup, Roger that.”
The convoy crept street by street. Ten minutes later, Ginger keyed up again. “This guy in the bus is at like seventy-five meters.” Luby, still calm, asked, “Did you try waving at him to get back?”
“Yeah, I don’t think he gives a shit about my waves,” replied Ginger. Luby was calm, but inside, he was thinking about the dump truck loaded down with explosives that merged with a convoy and then detonated, killing a few Marines a month before in Kabul. “Send a pen flare at him but aim high enough to miss. I don’t want to get stuck with a bill for his windshield or some shit.” Replied Luby. “Roger, standby…. Pen flare away…. Yeah, he just hit his brakes hard; he is back at 110 or so,” laughed Ginger, relieved. Luby knew the dump truck was on his mind as well. “Good job, Ginger. Fuck that guy.”
Doc was asleep again, with his head leaned back at an odd angle, and his snores droned on in the internal comms background. Fifteen minutes later, the convoy was stopped. Not a great situation, but not uncommon for this time of day. “Fuuuuuuck.” Thought Luby, thinking more about Melshing than his own truck, “Let’s just get this one done and go back to the mountains.”
“This damn bus is back, and he’s inside of ninety meters, Sarn’t,” said Ginger, more annoyed than anything. “Well, we’re stopped, so I bet he’s just impatient. Wave for him to stop.” Luby sighed. “He’s not stopping; he’s still creeping up.” Said Ginger, narrating the situation. “If he gets to eighty, hit him in the grill with a pen flare,” said Luby. “Roger prepping pen flare…Pen flare away…. Good effect on target,” Ginger Joked. “He’s stopping.” Luby answered, “Sounds good, buddy. I’m going to call this up, keep an eye on him.”
“Blue Six, this is Blue Four, over.”
“Go for Blue Six,” answered the deep voice of Big Jones, the Lieutenant’s driver. Poor guy was massive and covered in Grateful Dead tattoos, but he couldn’t do much more than drive the LT around. Never could shoot all that well. “Blue Six, this is Blue Four. I’ve got a bus approaching the rear, breaking the hundred meter rule, break, I hit him with two pen flares, and he stopped, break, just keeping you aware, over.”
“Copy that Blue Four, Follow the ROE!” responded the LT. “You’re going to get in trouble again,” laughed Hinkle. “Well, fuck, rules are rules, Private, there’s a fine line, and I don’t cross it,” Luby replied seriously. “No, Sergeant, not even a toe over the line.” Hinkle giggled girlishly.
“Sarn’t Luby, this bus is back at eighty, still creeping up on us.” Said Ginger. No hint of humor in his voice. “Ok, Ginger, attempt to wave him off and point that .50 right at his windshield,” Luby answered in a slow, measured tone. The crew was serious now, and Hinkle put both hands on the wheel. Luby thought he looked so much like a high school kid with weed in the car when a cop pulls in behind him, the way he studied the side view mirror. “Blue Six, this is Blue Four. That bus is still coming. Be advised, I will follow the ROE over.”
“He’s at seventy yards now,” said Ginger. Just a hint of fear in his voice. He wouldn’t have been able to hear it if he didn’t know Ginger, but Luby could tell. “You got this, Ginger. Stay calm and rack that .50 again to let him know.”
“Blue Four, this is Blue Six, how close is he, over?”
“Blue Six, he’s at sixty-five meters and ignoring all attempts to communicate, over.” He switched microphones. “Ginger, if he gets closer than fifty meters, shoot the road in front of him, and if he doesn’t stop immediately, shoot him,” Luby said seriously.
“Blue Four, does he look threatening, over?” Luby scoffed. “Looks like an Afghan bus driver, Sir, over.” Ginger whispered into the mic, “He’s at fifty-five, Sarn’t.” Luby keyed the radio. “Blue Six, bus is at fifty-five meters, I am preparing to engage, over.”
“Inside fifty, Sarn’t,” Ginger called louder than usual.
“Blue Six, please advise, over.”
“FORTY-FIVE, SARN’T,” Ginger yelled.
+++
Doc’s head jolted forward from the recoil of the .50 caliber machine gun shaking the truck. He pressed his face to the window, but couldn’t see shit through the dust. The internal comms were a mess. Luby was asking for a status, Hinkle was trying to raise the Lieutenant, and Ginger was trying to talk. All of it at once.
Luby grabbed the Doc by the shoulder, “Doc, stay in the vehicle.” Blue Five and Bilbard rolled up alongside Blue Four as Luby got out with his M4 raised. Doc couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Luby was yelling at something without lifting his head off the rifle. Blue Five had the 240 up and pointing behind them, but no one was shooting. Luby was on comms with the LT while Doc and Hinkle looked at each other, not talking, just listening. “Blue Six, this is Blue Four. Bus has been engaged and is stopped at forty-five meters break. I have civilians fleeing the area. Request 360 security to check the bus, over.” Blue Six wasn’t answering, and Sgt Luby wasn’t getting any closer than he already was to the bus.
“Ginger, what’s happening?” asked Hinkle. “I shot the ground, I swear.” Replied Ginger weakly.
“Blue Four, what do you mean you engaged the van? Are we in contact? Give me a status report!” The LT screamed into the radio. He must not have heard Sergeant Luby, Doc said to Hinkle. “Ginger, what’s going on back there?”
“I shot the ground,” whimpered Ginger.
“Doc! Need you now!” called Luby from outside, calm but frustrated. Doc made eye contact with Hinkle for a brief moment before opening his door and rolling out, keeping his M4 up, pointed behind them. Doc moved around the hood of the vehicle, trying to keep it between him and the bus. When he came up behind the passenger side and could see past Luby, the bus windshield was coated in red paint from the inside. Logically, Doc knew it wasn’t red paint, but his mind told him it was. “Ginger says he shot the ground,” Doc yelled into Luby’s ear while he stood next to Sergeant Sins. People were running all over, screaming. Some were still pouring out of the bus’s open doors. Luby put one finger up and held his ear to listen to the radio better. “Blue Four, this is Blue Seven. I am leaving Blue Three and Blue Six to guard the convoy. Blue One, Two, Four, and Five will provide 360 security momentarily. How copy, over?”
“Blue Seven, this is Blue Four, good copy over,” Luby responded.
Doc was the second one in the bus, behind Luby. The driver had taken a burst of .50 through his abdomen, and the passenger was missing his right leg above the thigh. Doc went to work on the passenger while Luby relayed the 9-line MEDEVAC to Blue Six. “Tourniquet,” Doc called, wrapping the fabric around a greasy stump that used to be a thigh.”15:42, “ replied Sins, but it didn’t matter.
“Best I can tell, Ginger sent a single burst into the road in front of the bus, but it must have ricocheted up into the driver’s seat.” Luby was explaining the situation to SFC Lyndsay. “You can see the marks on the road.” Luby paused. “It’s just bad luck, but we followed the ROE explicitly.”
SFC Lyndsay nodded without any reaction. No one spoke for a minute. “Hell, you just can’t tell; this guy might have had this bus rigged with old artillery rounds or something and taken out the last few vehicles of the convoy and half these civilians,” growled SFC Lyndsay. “What the hell was he in such a hurry for?”
“Might’ve had to poop,” joked Sergeant Luby. Nobody laughed.
“Look, you make sure Ginger knows he didn’t do a damn thing wrong. He is a hell of a machine gunner, and he is keeping us all safe on this one. I will take care of everything with the LT, then I will come by and tell him myself tonight,” SFC Lyndsay said. He clapped Luby on the shoulder as he started back to his own vehicle. “Do you think Ginger actually shot at the road, and it ricocheted?” asked Sins, still standing next to Luby and Doc as Lyndsay walked away. “Who gives a shit?” answered Luby before walking away. “Come on, Doc, let’s load up.”
For the rest of the ride, the vehicle was silent, except for Sergeant Luby talking to Ginger, reassuring him he had his back and that he had made the right call that if anyone was to blame, it was him, because he ordered the shot. Doc listened from the back seat but didn’t say anything. He was thinking. In the past six months, everyone knew Luby played it fast and loose with the rules, but they went along with him because they knew he was keeping people safe. Somehow today felt different. Every few minutes, a small sobbing noise crept across the comms from Ginger, alone in the gunner seat. Nobody said a word.
+++
Ginger put a gun in his mouth two years later. He was sitting on his bed in his underwear in his Indianapolis apartment. Luby, still in the Army, commanded the Honor Guard at his funeral. Melshing, little Jones, Luby, Doc, and Hinkle all attended the service. They had a beer together at the wake and told old stories, the fun kind.
When Hinkle crashed his Mustang into a concrete embankment going 110 mph eighteen months later, they all met again. Again, Luby commanded the honor guard. Hinkle’s BAC was .15 at the time of the accident. His civilian friends told Doc that whenever Hinkle got drunk, he became another person. He talked to people who weren’t there and, jokingly, whispered that it was past due.
A year later, Doc got out of the Army. He worked the day shift, 7 AM. to 7 PM, as a nurse at a rural Hospital in western Kentucky. Called in to cover a friend’s shift at six in the morning, he was exhausted. He hadn’t slept well since the bus. He wrapped his SUV around a tree on the side of the highway on his way home from work in the cold morning mist. He wasn’t drinking. He wasn’t high. The police said he just fell asleep at the wheel.
Luby wasn’t in the Army anymore. He went to Doc’s wake but was afraid to approach the casket. Most of the active-duty soldiers didn’t recognize him anymore. Instead of standing in the formation, Luby stood to the side of the group, alone in the fog, stamping his feet to stay warm in the half-inch of snow. As the service wrapped up, Sergeant First Class Lyndsay waved him over, but Luby faked looking at his watch, tapped it while making eye contact with Lyndsay, and walked back to his car, pretending he had an appointment to get to.
Pulling out of the cemetery, Luby stopped and picked up a six-pack of Coors Light. He put it in the passenger seat and smiled while he buckled the seat belt around it. Luby pushed the shifter into drive and pulled out of the station, pointing the old truck east, back to Missouri. “You gave up everything about yourself to keep them safe, and what good did it do you?” he asked himself in the rearview mirror. He opened the first beer and took a long drink. “You might have been a Sergeant Major or even an officer one day if you had kept on the path you started down.” He paused. Took up the other side of the conversation. “There you go again, making it about yourself. Your friend is dead; can’t we just leave it at that and be sad for a while?” Finishing the first beer, he answered himself, “What do you think this is for?”
Luby untied his tie and cracked open another bottle of Coors Light from the sixer in the passenger seat. “It’s snowing,” he said aloud to no one, “Police don’t pull people over for swerving in the snow; might as well have a few more beers. It was a ninety-mile drive, and snow or no snow, Luby planned to drink the entire six-pack before it got warm. “The funeral was nice.” He said, still talking to the empty truck cab. “But after three, you would think they would have that bugle timing down better.” He turned right at the light and fishtailed slightly. “There’s always a delay between the rifles and the bugle,” Luby argued with the empty passenger seat while taking another pull off the bottle. “No one but you noticed that stuff anyway; let everyone feel like it was a nice service.” He finished the first beer and tossed it out the window with one hand as his other hand grabbed another. “Only one funeral left,” he said sullenly, then contradicted himself. “No! Not yet. You don’t get to leave yet. You deserve to wait.” The snow was turning to rain.
“All that effort, all that purposeful, deliberate anger you made yourself feel to keep everyone safe, and look what you did. Everyone is dead anyway, and you lost the war.” He looked at himself in the rear view. “Not everyone is dead,” he muttered feebly. “That’s right, Melshing is still alive, great job, Sarn’t Luby!” He congratulated himself sarcastically, “Last I heard, he is a greeter at Walmart!” He muttered, “There are worse ways to live,” and finished another beer. “You wouldn’t know.” He countered his own point. “Melshing was the best of us. He kept his innocence through it all and never lost his sense of service and patriotism. He deserves to be alive,” Luby argued, angry at himself and this bizarre conversation with no one. “That’s right, the rest of you kind of got to liking the bad things, didn’t you? Made little jokes about it,” he said to himself. “All that praying and talking to God while you did the devil’s work. You should have known that when you do evil for good reasons, it’s still evil.” Luby took a drink. “It wasn’t evil, it was war, and things just happen.”
Luby sighed. “Ginger shooting himself didn’t just happen; those little sobs over the radio that you never talked about didn’t just go away. And poor Hinkle sitting there white-knuckling the steering wheel, looking to you for how to act, you think he thought those things just happened?” Luby replied to himself. “What happened to Ginger and Hinkle wasn’t my fault.”
“Compelling argument; that defense should rank right up there with ‘I know you are, but what am I.’ Tell me, Sergeant Luby, do you think it’s a coincidence that Doc Samson was asleep when the bus happened, and couldn’t sleep since? You are going to sit there and pretend he didn’t mention to you, multiple times, that he thought if he had been awake and could have gotten to the bus sooner, the passenger would have lived? Who knows? If the passenger lives, maybe The Ginger is still here today?”
The truck fishtailed again. Luby let off the gas, letting it roll back under control while he opened his last beer.
“Maybe”.
Dedicated to those who serve, those who have served, and those who paid the final price for their country.
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