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Chapter 18: A Tale of Two Generations: Part I
 By Jim Caple |
Previously at 24 College Avenue: After graduating last spring from State College and the ROTC program, 24 College alumnus Katie Maynard is now serving overseas in the war. . . .
Katie pressed the bandage hard against the thigh but it was no use. Blood continued to flow from the wound.
“How . . . bad . . . is it?’’ Seargent Kent Woodway asked, his voice so weak it was barely a whisper.
“I’m not gonna lie to you – you’re not going to be able to play in the game tonight,’’ Katie reassured her friend. “But don’t worry. We’ll get you patched up and you’ll be enjoying three weeks R&R on the beach in Mubai before you know it.’’
This was a lie and they both knew it. The insurgent’s bullet had pierced Woodway’s femoral artery and he was bleeding to death. Without immediate medical attention his survival chances were slim. And given the circumstances, there was little chance of reaching a doctor any time soon.
Katie’s unit had been on a routine support job in what had been the safest part of the city. There had been no insurgent attacks or suicide bombings since November and the residents were beginning to go about their normal lives again. Thanks to increased attention to repairing the infrastructure, there was even electricity 12-14 hours a day. Vendors were back on the streets, selling falafels and kebabs from their carts to workers who were slowly returning to work. People dined in the cafes at night under candlelight that gave the whole neighborhood a hint of romance. The peaceful scene may have been isolated from what went on in the rest of the city but for the first time since Katie had arrived here for the war, she felt there was hope for the future.
They had been assigned to a sanitation detail helping repair a sewage line that had burst during the night. Sewage lines broke all the time – due to UN sanctions they had fallen into disrepair before the war and the invasion only worsened the situation – and swift repairs were crucial to maintain the residents’ worn patience. Fortunately, the dirtiest work was left to the city workers -- all Katie’s unit had to do was ride in with their Humvees and provide protection. Still, the stench often became overwhelming in the heat even from a distance.
When the work was done late that afternoon, Katie’s Humvee was the last of the four vehicles pulling out and returning to base. As they cruised down the boulevard, she and Woodway talked about their softball game scheduled for later that evening. The company league reminded her of intramurals back at State College. But while the intramural league was fun and a great bonding experience – her ROTC unit had won the championship and the coveted t-shirts that went with it – this league was absolutely crucial to morale. It was one of the few things that provided a feeling of normalcy in their deployment, and when Katie was fielding balls at third base and firing them to Woodway at first, she could almost forget she was at war in the desert thousands of miles from home. She even felt safe on the field, a feeling that she never experienced any other time.
“You still owe me a beer for grounding into that doubleplay last week with the tying run on third base,’’ Katie reminded Woodway.
“Hell, it wouldn’t have been a doubleplay if you had taken out the second baseman.’’
They were just about to follow the other three Humvees onto Peace and Prosperity Bridge when there was an enormous explosion in front of them. The bridge groaned, sagged briefly, then collapsed into the river, taking the other Humvees with it. Debris rained down on Katie’s Humvee and a 300-pound concrete block dropped onto the hood, smashing into the engine block and shattering the windshield.
“Oh my God,’’ Woodway said. “This is bad. This is very bad.’’
Katie’s ears were ringing so badly that she could not hear the civilians screaming in terror. She could only see their open mouths, their knees collapsing to the ground, the blood pouring from their chests, their legs, their heads.
“Get out! This Hummer is toast!’’ Woodway shouted, giving Katie a shove with one hand and throwing open his door with the other. “We’re a sitting duck in here. We’ve got to get cover!’’
Katie was out in a second, racing behind the remains of a blownup Peugot near the river. Woodway was right behind her. As she dove for cover, she couldn’t help wishing she had something other than a French car to hide behind, something big and heavy like an American SUV.
Specialist Elliott Baywas firing his 50 millimeter machine gun from the Humvee turret when sniper’s bullets shot into his neck, decapitating him. A 20-year-old from Chico, California who joined the army to pay for college, Bay was the shortstop and the best player on their softball team. Katie said a quick prayer for him as she fired her rifle in the direction of the sniper’s bursts.
“Get the hell over here!’’ Woodway screamed at Private Jackson Park and Corporal Madison Hill just before a rocket-propelled grenade struck in front of them, killing both instantly. Park was the team’s pitcher. He was 42. He had a wife and three kids and unerring control on the mound. Hill, 27, was the catcher and had finally summoned the courage to ask his girl friend of five years to marry him just before being shipped overseas. They had planned an outdoor wedding in Minnesota when his tour of duty was over.
“Damn,’ Katie said. “Damn. Damn Damn.’’
There were so much blood, so many bullets and so many explosions that Katie wasn’t sure how she, Woodway and Specialist Stewart Street managed to scurry to an alleyway across from the river but they had somehow. Woodway had been searching for any sign of American troops when the sniper’s bullet struck him in the thigh.
Specialist Street provided cover at the alley entrance while Katie dragged Woodway out of the line of fire. She reached for her supply bag and pulled out all the bandages she could, applying them to the wound to stop the bleeding. It was no use. Blood soon soaked her arms up to the elbow. She heard Woodway whisper, “Mom,’’ and then his eye rolled back behind his eyelids.
“&%$#!’’ Katie howled.
She had never cursed in her life prior to coming over here. Katie had been proud to serve in the war. She was a staunch supporter of the President and his goal of bringing democracy to the region. But too many of her friends had died – beginning with her old ROTC captain, killed while she was still in school – and there seemed to be no end to the war in sight. No peace. No democracy. Just death, death everywhere. This neighborhood had been the one ray of hope for Katie and now it had exploded just like everything else.
“I wish I was home,’’ she cried as she searched for Woodway’s pulse. “I just want to go home.’’
Katie had a sudden image of 24 College Avenue with everyone sitting around the TV watching a Red Devils game. This was the annual weekend for State College’s big crew races and the first spring parties. She was wondering what the old gang was doing at the house when a mortar exploded in the alley and the shrapnel ripped holes all over her body.
# # #
“Hey, I got an email from Katie this week,’’ Josh yelled across the dining room.
“What?’’ Steve shouted back.
“I said I got an email from Katie!’’
“What? I can’t hear anything with the music!’’
“I SAID, I HEARD FROM KATIE!!!’’
“HOW’S SHE DOING?’’
“GREAT! SHE SAYS THINGS ARE FINALLY BEGINNING TO LOOK UP OVER THERE! AND HER SOFTBALL TEAM IS WINNING!’’
“WHAT?!!”
Josh laughed. “NEVER MIND! WANT ANOTHER BEER?’’
Steve nodded and the two headed toward the porch, weaving their way through the students crowding the house’s annual spring party.
“Look at that!’’ Josh said, grabbing Steve’s arm. “Jenn is doing a kegstand!’’
“Hey, and check it out! Mandy is wearing that halter top again.’’
Josh grinned. “Is college great or what?’’
Next: A Tale of Two Generations, Part II
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