Chapter 69: Going Home

That was basically the end of the craziness. From Chicago we flew home for a long weekend. Monday, we flew back to New York, and I went on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, which proved interesting. Stewart was on the liberal side of the spectrum, but he always showed a lot of respect to the soldiers even as he crucified the politicians who got us into Iraq and Afghanistan. Most of the interview was the standard questions, but at the end he asked me something nobody else had asked.

Stewart: “Sergeant, do you think we are winning in Iraq?”

Me: “I don’t really know how to answer that.”

Stewart: “I’m not trying to be condescending, but it’s a simple question. Do you think we are winning in Iraq?”

Me: “If I have learned one thing, it’s that nothing is simple about war. You tell me what winning is and I’ll tell you if we’re winning.” (Stewart tried to interrupt; I held up a hand to stop him.) “Please, let me finish. You asked if we are winning. Winning means what? For a general, winning might mean one thing; for a politician, it might mean something else; to a diplomat, winning might mean a third thing. I was a squad leader. Winning to me was a lot more low-level. Winning to me meant getting my guys home. That’s all it meant to me, nothing else. My mission that night was to hold my position at all costs, and that I accomplished. As for getting my guys home, at that I failed miserably. The Army gave me seven men and told me to take care of them, and five died that night, and I will have to live with that the rest of my life, so I don’t know if that was a victory.”

Stewart: “Sergeant, I apologize for any pain I have caused you. To me, you are a winner.”

That pretty much stopped his questioning, and he thanked me for my service and the show ended. Backstage, Kelly wrapped her arms around me in a hug. Stewart apologized for making me uncomfortable, and I just told him the truth, that it was something I was going to have to deal with, but it was something that I could deal with. Then we went to the hotel, and I had a few more drinks from the mini-bar than I should have. Major Posey took this opportunity to leave our company; since Kelly wasn’t going to be on camera or doing interviews in the future, she was no longer needed. She and Kelly had a girls’ night out on Monday, and then she was gone the next morning.

Tuesday morning it was back to CBS, not for any interviews, but to speak to the people at 60 Minutes. NBC and Dateline had decided not to do a special on me, but CBS wanted a big night of The Grim Reaper Show! Since I wasn’t going to be on camera, we could all dress in civvies, at least I could. Atheringdon and Fong were still in their uniforms. We ended up speaking to a producer at CBS named Joe Houseman, who was going to run things. It seemed that the designated reporter, Scott Pelley, actually left all the grunt work up to the producers, dropping in at the last minute to be the on-camera face for everything.

60 Minutes was planning a big show based on me. God help us all! It was explained that they ran three segments during each show, and I was the tie-in to all three. It was going to be their season premiere, to air in September. The first segment would be on the actual battle at Outpost Whiskey, with interviews with me, Givens, and Montoya, as well as the two pilots of the Apache. They planned all sorts of graphics to show what happened and focused on the combat and getting the Medal from the President. The second segment would start with me, but then immediately focus on PTSD in Iraq and Afghanistan vets, highlighting problems with the VA hospital system. The third segment would start with me, and then focus in on the Matucket Police Department, and the changes that had or hadn’t occurred since the riot. It was an ambitious plan.

Both Atheringdon and Fong looked concerned at all this. They motioned me to the side. Lieutenant Colonel Atheringdon said, “The first part sounds fine. It’s the other two sections we are going to have problems with.”

Fong added, “If you are going to say anything about the VA or your department, you need to give this some real thought!”

I nodded. “This is a lot more than I had expected.”

Atheringdon continued, “We can’t have you in uniform complaining about the VA.”

“Well, somebody needs to say something. The VA sucks!”

“I don’t care. We can’t be having the Army complaining about the Veterans Administration.”

I gave them both a hard look. “You two don’t have to deal with them. I’ve buried guys who got lost in the system. I owe it to them to tell the truth, them and the others out there waiting on them.”

“Sergeant...”

“I’ll make you a deal. If I say anything about them at all, I won’t do it in uniform, and I will explicitly state these are my opinions only,” I said. Too many good men had been forgotten by the bureaucrats.

Fong sighed, and Atheringdon nodded. Fong said, “No uniform.”

I nodded. We went back to the others in the room. “Here goes. If you want me to talk during the section on the VA, I won’t wear my uniform, and I need to explicitly state that the opinions I am expressing are mine and not the Army’s. Is that clear?”

Houseman smiled, “Clear. That’s not an issue.”

“Next, I won’t speak in the third section unless you clear it with my bosses at the MPD. I have to live and work in that town. If they give me permission, fine. Otherwise, no deal.”

Houseman nodded. “I don’t blame you. We can contact them for you.”

“Let me make this clear. If you are planning on doing a hatchet job on the MPD, I won’t be part of it. I understand there were problems in the past, but that was before I joined the force, and I will not be part of running them down.”

He nodded slowly at that. “That is not our intention, but if we discover problems, we won’t be hiding them, either.”

“Just don’t expect me to say anything derogatory, at all. I like what I do. We have good people and a tough job. I’m not saying things are perfect, but things have improved,” I replied. I was going to have to talk to my bosses back in Matucket about that!

After that we got into the details of the attack on Whiskey. They had a surprising amount of information already, including videos of the attack taken by drones, as well as photos from the next day. The Army must have opened the vaults. They even had a name-redacted medical report detailing my wounds. I was plopped down next to a graphic artist who had already created an overhead map of Whiskey and the outlying areas. He had me go through the attack, pointing on the screen to where everybody was at each moment, and where and when they had been hit. Ultimately it would be rendered in color and done in 3D, like a giant video game. As painful as it was, I had to admit, it was damn impressive!

After that, we were done for the day. Houseman would be in touch and set up an interview schedule with Scott Pelley, as well as review the final reconstruction of the battle. We took off and headed back to Matucket. Fong left at that point, so it was only Kelly, Atheringdon, and me left. The next, and basically final, part of the publicity tour would be to return to Fort Benning, where I would meet up with Jose Montoya and tour his training command and do a meet-and-greet with a lot of brass.

When I got home, I called the station and asked to speak to Captain Crowley. He set up an appointment on Thursday, July 29. That morning I went back to the station and was waved inside. I got a fair ration of shit about being famous, and I just smiled and waved it off. It wouldn’t bother my friends, and the assholes would still be assholes. Soon enough I would be yesterday’s news.

“Welcome back, Officer Reaper, or is it still Sergeant Reaper,” said Chief Jefferson.

“Probably Sergeant Reaper for the moment. Tomorrow I am going down to Columbus to do a tour of Fort Benning and see an old buddy, but that’s just about it. After that, I think they are going to cut me loose and give me my walking papers again. Then I can come back to work here,” I answered.

“That would be good, Grim,” said Crowley. “You said you needed to talk to us about something.”

I nodded. “I don’t know if you’ve heard this yet, but 60 Minutes is planning on doing a big piece on me. This is all their idea, not mine. They want to do a section on me in the Army, a section about the VA, and a section on the MPD. No way am I going to cooperate with that unless you tell me I can, and I have no intention of running down the department.”

Crowley’s eyes widened at that, and he looked over at the Chief. Jefferson nodded and said, “Yes, I was contacted by them the other day. I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“Chief, this was their idea, not mine. They told me they wanted to show the differences, if any, between now and back when there were problems. I told them I was not going to be involved in a hatchet job, but I don’t control what they are going to do. I did explain to them that was all before I got on the job, and even before I came home from the Army. I can’t talk to them about that stuff because I wasn’t here then.”

Jefferson and Crowley looked at each other, and Captain Crowley threw up his hands in exasperation. “They’re going to run a story no matter what. If he’s involved, we at least have some input into it,” said Crowley.

Chief Jefferson rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Damned if we do, damned if we don’t.” To me he asked, “You’ll keep us informed?”

“Totally, sir!” I promised. I needed the grief like I needed a hole in the head.

He snorted and waved a hand. “Enough of this foolishness. When are you coming back on duty?”

“Give me another week, sir. They’ve got me going down to Columbus tomorrow. After that I have to wait on their paperwork.” I glanced at my watch, which had a date function. “Probably two Mondays from now, what’s that, the ninth or tenth, I can be back.”

“August 9^th,” answered Captain Crowley. “You’ll be back by then?”

“I’ll clear it with the Army. I will be so glad to get loose of them.”

“Okay, but before you go back on patrol, you ride with somebody for a few days to make sure you haven’t forgotten what you’re doing out there.”

I smiled and nodded. “Fair enough, Captain.”

“And as soon as we can after that, you’re heading back to Forsyth. You’re in the next Basic SWAT class.”

“Yes!” I exclaimed.

Both men smiled at that. “Get out of here, Sergeant. Do your stuff with the Army and get back here,” said the Chief.

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” I popped up and headed home.

Kelly and I had a quiet night, and then met with Atheringdon in the morning. From Matucket it was a bit under two hours down to Columbus and Fort Benning. Along the way, Atheringdon asked me what I remembered about Benning from when I had gone through Basic. While he had been to Benning during his career, he had done so as an officer, so our outlooks had been considerably different.

On the plus side, Benning was a very practical sort of place. While I had my dress uniform and medals packed up, most of what I would do only needed clean ACUs. I could tuck the Medal in a pocket and wave it around as needed. Saturday night there would be a formal dinner with the senior brass, and at a major base like Benning that could mean up to a Major General in attendance. For that, Kelly packed a couple of nice dresses, but for the rest of the time she could dress relatively casually. Of course, Kelly hanging around an Army base, even in casual clothes, would be more than most trainees could handle.

We were met at the main entrance to the post by a light bird from the Base Commander’s office, who saluted me - still strange no matter how often it happened - and directed us to follow him to the Main Post and McGinnis-Wickham Hall, where we would begin the publicity tour. Meeting us was Major General Ferriter, along with most of his staff. Also present was Jose Montoya, probably yanked from his training platoon for the fun and games.

Despite the immense courtesy and respect shown to me, it was obvious who was in charge. General Ferriter outlined the plans they had made for the weekend. Friday would have an informal lunch, followed by allowing us to unpack where we were staying, a house normally reserved for visiting generals, and which came with a small staff. That evening there would be a formal dinner at one of the dining facilities on the base. Saturday I would get a tour of the base training facilities and have a chance to talk to many of the drill sergeants training new soldiers, as well as meet with the soldiers that Jose was training. At the end of the day there would be another, somewhat less formal dinner, and Sunday we would head home. Jose commented to me that Juanita would be at the dinner that night, and that she planned to take Kelly shopping in Columbus on Saturday; I gave him a quick thumbs-up for that idea.

It was an enjoyable visit. The house we were staying at was something that dated back almost a hundred years, and was much, much larger than the two of us needed. It was pretty obvious the Army treated its generals well. It’s good to be the king. Dinner that evening was formal, but we both knew that was going to happen. It was also big. Benning was a much bigger post than Drum, and in addition to training the Infantry, it also trained the Armor and the Airborne. Everybody important had to come by, shake my hand, and most important of all, get a picture. I listened to several speeches telling how wonderful I was, and I limited any remarks I made to various thank-you’s and I-appreciate-being-here’s and not much else. Privately, I told Kelly that if I had said what was really on my mind - that if I had known what I was getting into, I would have stayed working in the feed mill - I would probably have ended up in the stockade! She smiled and nodded and told me to keep my mouth shut.

Saturday was a lot less formal. I wore ACUs and combat boots and tucked the medal in a breast pocket in case anybody wanted to see it. Jose brought Juanita and their children around and Kelly joined them. I rode with Jose and Atheringdon over to Sand Hill to meet my tour guides. That proved to be a light bird in the 19^th Infantry Regiment, the main formation that handled infantry training. We concentrated on the Second Battalion, which was where Jose’s platoon was, Second Platoon, Company B, Second Battalion, 19^th Infantry Regiment, 198^th Infantry Brigade. It wasn’t any different than what First Platoon, Company A, First Battalion had been like, which is what I had trained in. Different barracks, different dining facilities, different training ranges, same red Georgia clay!

Parts of the day proved quite interesting. First Platoon was scheduled for training on the M-249 Light Machine Gun at one of the firing ranges. We got out there and Jose asked, “Still remember how to fire one of these?”

“Christ, Jose, it’s been over three years! I’ll probably drop it on my foot and then shoot a general or something.”

“I like the way you think,” he replied, which made me laugh. “You’d better still be able to shoot. I’ve got a hundred riding on a bet.”

“You idiot!”

“Remember when you showed Givens how to shoot?” he laughed.

“Yeah, I also remember I took a twenty-five percent cut of Riley’s winnings,” I replied.

He just laughed and immediately called his trainees around. “Listen up, Second Platoon! I have here today somebody special. This is Sergeant Graham Reaper, also known as ‘The Grim Reaper.’ There is a reason he is called that. Sergeant Reaper, would you care to show these trainees what is in your pocket?”

“Yes, Sergeant Montoya.” I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out the Medal of Honor. I held it up so everyone could see it, and a murmur went through the crowd. I wasn’t sure how much these kids knew about me or what happened over in Iraq, or if they were a bunch of completely clueless numbnuts like I had been back then. “In case you guys don’t know what this is, this is the Medal of Honor. I don’t know if you were aware of what has been on the news recently, but President Obama presented me with this earlier this month, for a battle known as Outpost Whiskey. Sergeant Montoya was also present in that battle and received both the Bronze Star and the Purple Heart. That was his second Bronze Star and his third Purple Heart. When the Army is selecting soldiers to train you, they are sending you the best!” I handed the medal to one of the trainees to the side and said, “Pass it around, give everybody a chance to look at it.” The kid stared at it like it was the Hope Diamond.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Jose. “The Battle of Outpost Whiskey occurred on the night of June 6^th, 2007, when a battalion of Iraqi insurgents attacked Third Platoon, Alpha Company, Fourth of the Fourth. One of the three Iraqi companies attacked Outpost Whiskey, where Third Squad was stationed. Of the eight of us there that night, only three of us survived.” There were some more murmurs and light gasps. “One of the reasons for our survival is that Sergeant Reaper, our squad leader, had thoroughly trained us in every weapon at our disposal. Each of us was rated as Expert in all the weapons we had, including the M-249 Light Machine Gun. I have asked Sergeant Reaper to give a demonstration of the capabilities of the M-249 when used by a true artist. Sergeant Reaper?”

“Thank you, Sergeant Montoya. It is a pleasure to serve with you again. I hope I can live up to that introduction.” Jose handed me an M-249 and some ear plugs, and then led me to the firing line. The Range NCOIC was standing there with a radio in his hand and watching closely. I smiled over at him. “I am probably about to make a huge ass of myself, since I haven’t fired a machine gun since I left the Army. Could you give me a target to zero in on, please?”

“Sure thing, Sergeant Reaper. A hundred yards?”

“Please.” I put the ear plugs in.

A steel target popped up a football field away, and I looked over at the NCOIC and nodded, “Sergeant Reaper, assume your position!” I stepped into my lane. “Sergeant Montoya, issue the ammo!” Montoya handed me the ammunition box, but I simply held it. “Sergeant Reaper, you may now load and charge your weapon!” My old training took over, like I was back in Iraq, and I loaded the belt, brass to the grass and female end first. “Ready on the right? Ready on the left? Ready on the firing line?” Everything seemed ready. “Sergeant Reaper, you may fire to zero your weapon.”

Everything about the moment felt right. It reminded me of when I carried Precious on my first tour. I lifted the machine gun and put it to my shoulder, and it felt just like old times. I took a breath and sighted in on the target, and just caressed the trigger. BLAM! A single round went downrange and slammed into the center of the target, causing it to fall backwards. I smiled to myself and nodded to the NCOIC. “I’m zeroed, Sergeant.”