Chapter 7

“The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved. Loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves.” Victor Hugo.

Mindy and I were just starting to leave when Tom called us back and asked us both to sit down.

I was wondering what Tom wanted to talk about when he surprised the heck out of me.

Tom explained a few weeks after we first met, Tom had called an old Naval Academy classmate, who was now a brigadier general in the Marine Corps.

“I am sorry for intruding into your personal life, Alan,” Tom said, “but I felt it was important to learn more about the man next door. Especially since Mindy and Sara started spending so much time over at your place.”

“I hope you can understand my concerns?” he asked.

Almost as soon as Tom started talking, I just started looking down.

“Yes sir,” I said, “given the situation, I can understand.”

“He pulled your personnel file, and faxed me some pages,” Tom continued.

“I found out some of what happened in Afghanistan,” he said, “and suddenly I no longer was worried about you or the girls.”

“I have never mentioned any of this to Jennifer, Mindy or Sara,” Tom said. “I assumed if you wanted anyone else to know, you would tell them.”

Tom said after I asked to marry Mindy, he called the general back, and asked if it would be possible to speak to my old company commander from Afghanistan?

The next day Major Ross called Tom. Tom explained I was planning on marrying his daughter, and he wanted to find out more about what happened in Afghanistan, since I wouldn’t talk about it.

“Major Ross told me some more about what happened,” Tom said, “and I invited him to the party.”

Then he had spent a couple of hours last night talking with my old company commander.

“Major Ross told Jennifer and me a lot more about what happened in Afghanistan last night, Alan,” Tom said, “and I think Mindy needs to hear it from you.”

Mindy later said my face turned white.

“What? She needs to hear eight men are dead because of me?” I answered very bitterly.

“Okay, Mindy, your fiancé is responsible for the deaths of eight good men!” I cried out. “Eight men I should have been able to protect are now dead!”

“No, Alan, that is not what I mean,” Tom softly said, “I mean the 43 men who are still alive because of you.”

I just shook my head. I could not look up at anyone.

“Eight men dead, and 25 wounded. That is 33 casualties out of a platoon of 52,” I croaked out in an anguished voice. “I was responsible for them. I was ... I was...”

“Major Ross gave me this book, Alan, and wanted me to give it to you,” Tom continued.

He held the book out to me, but I refused to take it.

“There are 31 letters here, Alan. Written by some of those men who came out alive because of you,” Tom said. “Major Ross called every one of your men he could get in touch with, and asked them to write you a letter or note about what happened in Afghanistan.”

I still refused the book.

Tom handed the book to Mindy and asked her to start reading at random.

“Dear Alan,” Mindy began reading excerpts, “boy it feels strange to call you Alan, but I just wanted you to know I named my first son Alan, after you. I would not be here, I would not be alive, except for what you did. You are, and will always be, my hero. You have no idea how much I have regretted how I behaved around you, and wish there was some way to make it up to you. Because of you I completed my GED (equivalency to a high school diploma), and enrolled in college. I have an associate degree, and am working towards my bachelor’s degree.”

Mindy said it was signed by Staff Sergeant Dan Wilson.

I was stunned. Dan Wilson was one of the men I had always had the most trouble with. He was a tough, inner-city kid who dropped out of high school, who hated authority, who hated being told what to do, especially by what he always called me, “a white cracker.” Why would anyone like that join the Marine Corps? I later found out he had two choices: two years in jail, or four years in the Marine Corps.

Personally, I wish he had chosen jail. He made the absolute minimum effort, and only then grudgingly. He also made it very obvious he hated me, in particular, probably because he was a black kid from New York City, and I was a white guy from the South.

Now he is apparently making a career out of the Marine Corps, attending college, and naming his son after me?

Mindy went on to read dozens of letters, with very similar themes. Apparently there are now at least 20 little boys somewhere out there named Alan. And at least one poor girl with the name Alana.

By the time Mindy had read the third or fourth letter, I was crying.

For the past six years I had assumed all the men, at least the ones who lived, probably hated me for what they must have felt like was my abandoning them.

By the time Mindy had finished, she was on one side of me holding my hand, and Jennifer was on the other, with her arm around my shoulder. Tom had walked behind me and also had a hand resting on my shoulder.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” Tom asked.

I didn’t answer for several minutes.

“It was an absolute cluster-fuck,” I finally said, using what seems to be a uniquely Marine Corps saying for something that is, or was, totally, in every possible way, screwed up.

“It was only supposed to be a six-week deployment,” I continued. “Leave the states, fly to Afghanistan, complete the mission, and return home.”

“We spent a month acclimating to the climate, then two weeks in very strenuous practice exercises,” I said.

One of the biggest problems in dealing with the Taliban was you could never actually take on more than a dozen or so at one time. Usually the most you could count on was sporadic rifle fire from two or three insurgents.

Finally, word came down that a big meeting was being planned, deep inside one of the areas controlled by the Taliban.

“There was supposed to be around 150 to 200 insurgents gathered in one place, and military planners just could not pass up the opportunity,” I continued.

“The DoD (Department of Defense) wanted this to be a joint exercise,” I added.

Tom immediately complained, saying from his experience it was always a lot better to let one unit handle everything.

“If they wanted Marines, then let the Marines do, if they wanted Army, then let Delta Force do it, or if they wanted Navy, let the Seals handle it,” Tom said.

I explained we ended up with a reinforced company of Marines, riding in two Navy and two Air Force helicopters. Back up units included Navy Seals and Army Delta Force.

Jennifer asked what a reinforced company was. I let Tom explain.

A normal Marine company is composed of three platoons, each comprised of three squads of 13 men.

A reinforced company includes a special weapons platoon, which includes mortars and other heavy weapons.

“We were supposed to jump to a staging area about five miles away from where the meeting was to take place, then force-march at night to surround the meeting,” I explained.

At daylight, Navy ships were to start bombarding the area, then Air Force jets would come in to provide close air support.

“It was our job to ensure the insurgents didn’t get away,” I added.

“Apparently the idiot piloting our helicopter put in the wrong coordinates in his GPS (Global Positioning Satellite system), because instead of taking us to the staging area, he dropped us where the meeting was to take place.”

“As platoon sergeant I was next to last getting off the helicopter. I had barely exited and just started to deploy my ‘chute when an RPG (rocket propelled grenade) hit the helicopter, blowing it out of the sky. My lieutenant didn’t make it.”

“My flak jacket protected me from most of the shrapnel, but one large piece bounced off my helmet and then the force of the explosion hit me. I was stunned.

“Somehow I must have pulled the ripcord on the ‘chute, because the next thing I knew I was several thousand feet over a crumbling qualat (walled compound), looking down at what looked like hundreds of Taliban. Through my night vision glasses, I could see them firing on my platoon.

“I tried to dump air from the ‘chute, to come in right behind the qualat, but my arms didn’t seem to want to work. Then I threw up all over myself,” hanging my head in shame.

“My men needed me, and I was so scared I threw up!” I almost shouted.

“Alan, those are classic symptoms of a brain concussion. I think the shrapnel and the force of the explosion did a lot more damage than you knew,” Tom said.

“I was just hanging helplessly while my men were being shot at and killed. A few minutes later as I was trying to land, I tried to prepare for the landing, but my legs wouldn’t work either. I hit the fucking drainage ditch, and think I passed out.”

“When I came to, I could hear firing so I knew my platoon was still fighting. I tried to get up, but my leg wouldn’t work. I began dragging myself down to the sounds of the firefight.

“I couldn’t have been more than a mile away, and it should only have taken a few minutes, but instead it took nearly an hour to cover that mile. I think I passed out several more times, and also threw up several more times.

“By the time I reached the back of the remains of the qualat, my men had taken shelter in a wadi (dry riverbed or small valley), and were returning fire, but I knew as soon as it became daylight the Taliban would realize how small a force they were facing and would be able to wipe them out.

“Just before leaving, I had grabbed a Mark 19 and an ammo drum.”

“Jesus, Alan” Tom interrupted, “you were carrying a full pack and weapons, and ALSO carrying a Mark 19?”

Mindy asked what Tom meant.

“Honey, a full pack and weapons meant he was carrying around 70 to 80 pounds of equipment, including water and ammo. A Mark 19 weighs over 70 pounds, and a drum of ammo weighs another 40 pounds,” Tom explained.

“The Mark 19 is an automatic grenade launcher, and is designed as a two- or three-man weapon,” Tom added, “which means he dragged himself and nearly 200 pounds of equipment nearly a mile on a shattered knee, while also suffering from a severe brain concussion.”

Tom just shook his head.

Mindy held my hand even tighter.

“No one was paying any attention to the back of the qualat, which was mostly collapsed. I managed to set up the Mark 19, then opened fire.

“There wasn’t much left of the front of the qualat either, after I finished,” I added, “but soon the remainder of the Taliban began returning fire.

“I was hit twice, and had to withdraw, but the Mark 19 was out of ammo so I just left it.

“For the next 30 minutes we exchanged fire. The remnants of the Taliban force had nearly surrounded me, when my men launched an attack from the wadi.

“A few minutes later, Captain Ross and the remainder of the company showed up as well.”

“But eight of my men were dead, and 25 others wounded. I killed them,” I said, “I killed them.”

“Alan, this was not your fault. If it was anyone’s fault, it was the pilot’s fault,” Tom angrily declared. “Why are you blaming yourself?”

“I always carried my own GPS to make sure we are where we are supposed to be,” I said, “but when I grabbed the Mark 19, I left it behind. It was only a couple of pounds, but I left it behind!

“I wanted to be a fucking hero!” I screamed.

“Like Arnold “Fucking” Schwarzenegger in some of his movies. I wanted to stand up firing an enormous fucking weapon and blow people away.

“If I had left the Mark 19, and kept my GPS I would have known we were at the wrong coordinates and could have canceled the jump.

“My pride and arrogance are responsible for eight good men being killed,” I declared.

While I had been talking, Tom had asked a number of questions, and Jennifer had as well, but Mindy had only spoken once or twice.

Now Mindy dropped my hand and stood up beside me, then began speaking what I thought was a non-sequitur.

“A couple of weeks ago I told you about my silly, school-girl fantasy about how you were supposed to be my knight in shining armor, riding a white horse and would come in and scoop me up and we would live happily ever after,” Mindy said. “It wasn’t until the day we met I realized how silly my fantasy was, because of the pain I knew you had gone through.”

“Alan, look at me,” Mindy asked.

I couldn’t.

“Alan, LOOK at me,” Mindy said again, but in a very different tone of voice.

I gradually looked up until we were staring at each other.

Her eyes were puffy, where she had been crying, but I could see both love and pain in her eyes.

I never saw it coming.

Mindy, who is left-handed, put every ounce of her anger-driven 95-pounds into a slap that nearly knocked me off my chair.

Both Tom and Jennifer cried out, “Mindy!” I don’t know if they thought I would retaliate or what, but you could hear the fear in their voices.

And they were probably quite right to have those fears. Tom, as a former Marine officer probably knew best what kind of training I had gone through in the Marine Corps, and what I was capable of doing. I am sure Jennifer, as an officer’s wife, also knew something about that as well.

I think they both knew if I had wanted to, I could have broken Mindy as easily as I could have broken a twig. And even though both Tom and Jennifer were only a couple of feet away from me, neither could have reacted quickly enough to stop it.

They had no reason for their fears though.

I knew I could no more have raised my hand to Mindy than ... well I don’t know what to compare it to. Perhaps I could no more have taken my hand to Mindy than I could stop the tides, or command the sun and the moon. Mindy could have done anything to me, and I would not have responded with violence.

I might have been hit harder in a couple of bar-room fights when I was younger, but I am not sure. It felt like a mule had kicked me.

“But at least I had the excuse that I was a silly school-girl,” Mindy declared.

Mindy was trembling with anger.

“What is your excuse for your fantasy?” she asked.

Then she hit me again, with her right hand. This time I did see it coming, but did nothing to stop the blow. She didn’t have quite as much force behind it, but it still hurt like hell.

This is the girl who I thought just a few weeks earlier didn’t have an angry bone in her body?

“The knight in shining armor is Sir Alan The Perfect!” she declared, so angry her voice was quivering.

“Other people can make mistakes. Other people can get drunk and give up their virginity to someone they don’t even know because they were mad and Sir Alan The Perfect can forgive them. Other people can make mistakes and sleep with dozens of men and Sir Alan The Perfect can forgive them,” she declared, still trembling with anger.

“But Sir Alan The Perfect is so perfect he can’t forgive himself.”

Then Mindy started talking very softly.

“I love you so much, Alan, and it is killing me to see you like this. I didn’t fall in love with someone who is perfect, I fell in love with you!

“I am not a Marine, Alan, but I am a Marine’s daughter. I probably know a lot more about the Marine Corps than you or Dad realize.

“Daddy probably doesn’t know this, but I learned from him what SNAFU was when I was about six. Situation Normal, All Fucked Up! I didn’t realize exactly what all those words meant at that age, but I knew, even then, it meant if anything can go wrong, it will go wrong. Situation Normal, All FUCKED UP!” she screamed.

“I have also read enough military history to know battle plans usually don’t even last beyond the first few minutes of a battle.

“So if Sir Alan The Perfect had just left the Mark 18 (Tom interrupted, ‘Mark 19’), Mark 19 and taken his GPS everything would have been perfect?”

“What if the GPS stopped working? Has that ever happened?” she asked.

At first I didn’t answer, and when Mindy raised her hand I flinched, but she just caressed my face, where her palm print was still rather vivid.

“Alan?” she asked, in a much calmer voice.

“Yes,” I finally admitted, “it has stopped working before.”

“Dad, what was the report on the enemy KIAs?”

I think Tom was surprised Mindy knew about the enemy Killed In Action report. I know I was.

Even I was surprised when Tom said it was over 150 enemy KIAs. And most of them were from the Mark 19 grenades.

Now Mindy gently held my head in her hands and pressed it against her stomach.

“If you did not have the Mark 19, and had tried to take on that many Taliban,” she softly asked, “how long would you have survived with only an M-16? And how long would your men have survived? And would any of us even be here now, trying to plan our wedding?”

As the truth finally, finally, hit me I began crying again.

Mindy sat in my lap and held me through another prolonged session of tears.

By the time I had myself under control I was even more amazed that this tender slip of a girl, who also packed a hell of a wallop, could love me so much. Could understand me so much!

Tom and Jennifer had left to go to town. They knew we needed some time alone.

Mindy and I read through the book Major Ross had left for me, and it was so incredible to read what my men had written.

I know I am no hero. I just tried to do what I could to protect my men.

Mindy did have one question about one of the letters.

“All the other letters are addressed to Alan, or Staff Sergeant, but one letter was addressed to “Indy,” she asked. “What’s up with that?”

I could feel my face turn red.

Mindy could see my embarrassment.

“Okay, Alan, tell me,” she demanded, “you know I am going to find out sooner or later.”

That letter, I explained, had been written by my best friend, Archibald Arnold Armstrong, or “Triple-A,” as everyone called him.

“We went to Boot Camp together, we went to Advanced Infantry Training together, and we went to Parachute School together. In fact, during our first four years in the Marine Corps, we were practically joined at the hip.”

“While going to Parachute School in Georgia, I bought a hat,” I said.

“What kind of hat?” Mindy asked.

I could feel my face turning red again.

“An Indiana Jones hat, like in the movie,” I explained. “I even bought the same kind of whip, and really became very good with it.”

Mindy thought that was hilarious. Even funnier than hilarious. She was laughing so hard she was crying.

“We became ‘Triple-A’ and ‘Indy,’ like a wrestling team or something,” I said, with a rueful grin.

By the time Mindy stopped laughing, she asked if I was ready to walk home, I told her I wasn’t sure.

“Are you going to hit me anymore?” I asked, rubbing my face. Then I grinned slightly.

Mindy started laughing again and said “only if you start acting like Sir Alan The Perfect again.”

I told her there was only room for one perfect person in my house, and I thought she was it.

“I am not perfect, Alan, but I love you so much I could not stand to see what you were doing to yourself,” she said.

I wasn’t going to argue with Mindy, but I knew even if she wasn’t truly perfect, she was still, in the title of the Alabama song, “Close enough to perfect,” for me.

I told Mindy I now really realized what Julie had said in my dream, and now I truly understood how much I needed her.

“I know, Alan,” she quipped, “but don’t forget she also said I am smarter than you are!”

For once, I had nothing to say in response to that!

We walked home, and Mindy took charge of the lovemaking for the rest of the day. What a glorious, wonderful day!

The next week, Tom and I filled out all the paperwork for me to join the American Legion, VFW, DAV and other veterans’ organizations he and Jennifer belong to.

And I also finally, officially, and mentally accepted membership into perhaps the most exclusive club in the world. There are fewer than 90 members still living – The Medal of Honor Society. I still don’t think I did anything even remotely heroic, but if you want to read about some REAL heroes, then you can find the web site at Medal of Honor Society.

A few days after that, I finally couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to know.

“Princess, why did you hit me so hard? Not hit me, I understand that, but hit me so hard?” I asked.

“Something Dad once said,” she answered.

“Your Dad told you to hit me?” I inquired, somewhat stunned.

“No,” she laughed. “He was telling us a story about his grandfather, who lived on a farm. Back in those days, they used mules to plow fields. My great-grandfather apparently had a mule who would work all day long. But only after being forced to start. My great-grandfather used to say first thing every morning he had to hit him hard over the head with a big stick to get his attention.”

“You are comparing me to a mule? I asked.

“Well ... you were acting like a first-class jackass,” Mindy retorted, with a gentle and loving smile. “If the horse shoe fits...”

“ ... wear it, yes I know.” I answered.

I didn’t say anything for a few minutes.

“And the second time?” I finally asked.

“Alan, I have never hit anyone ... ever. Not even when Sara would be driving me crazy. I was so scared hearing you tell about Afghanistan and how you could have been killed, then so mad at you for the way you were acting...”

“To tell you the truth ... it actually felt good to be able to hit someone who needed hitting as much as you did that day,” she answered. “In fact, it felt so good ... I wanted to see if it would feel as good the second time, but my left hand was hurting too bad, so I used my right hand.”

Again, I didn’t say anything for a few minutes.

“And how did it feel the second time?” I asked.

“Alan, let’s just say don’t ever make me that mad at you again, and leave it at that!” she declared, then she kissed me.

“Now, take me to bed and screw my brains out!” she insisted.

All I could say was “Yes, Ma’am!”

A couple of days after that Mindy told me her Dad had actually spanked her hard on at least three or four occasions.

“Every time he would always say ‘now this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you,’ and I used to think that was the dumbest thing I had ever heard,” she said.

“But now I understand what he meant,” she concluded. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

I started rubbing my face where she had slapped me.

“No, I STILL think it is the dumbest thing I have ever heard,” I said.

Then I smiled and gently pulled her against me and gave her a long, hard kiss.

“But you definitely got my attention that day!”

“When you love someone all your saved up wishes start coming out.” Elizabeth Bowen

Now that Mindy and I were officially engaged, it was time to plan the wedding.

I am a simple person, with simple tastes.

I wanted to get married the next day – you know, visit a justice of the peace, say our vows and enter blissful married life.

Jennifer said it would take at least a year to plan!

I protested it took the Marines less than a year to plan the invasions of Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima AND Okinawa during World War II.

We finally compromised on three months.

The first month passed with a whirlwind of activity. I heard wedding terms I had never heard before, and I still don’t know the meaning of most of them. I have no clue what a Biedermeier is, but it sounds like a really painful disease.

What few suggestions I made were, unfortunately, met with an icy silence.

Really, what is wrong with putting an Atlanta Braves logo (my favorite team), and other logos on the back of tuxedos? NASCAR drivers do this sort of thing on their race uniforms, and it COULD be done in good taste.

I mean I am not talking about big, gaudy logos. The Braves would pay (I checked), and I am sure the florists, the caterers, the printing company preparing the invitations, and others would be willing to contribute in order to have their name highly visible.

This would all help offset the cost of the wedding. Tom thought it was a good idea.

My idea of a “tailgate wedding reception” with hamburgers, hot dogs and polish sausage was also shot down by Jennifer. Tom kind of liked that one as well.

From that point on she just glared at me whenever I tried to make a suggestion, and kept complaining about my “idiotic, juvenile ideas!”

And do you really need 27 different bridesmaids all wearing (expensive) matching dresses? What about matching blue jean cutoffs (Daisy Duke cutoffs) and halter tops? Preferably with no tan lines.

Wisely, Tom offered no opinion on that one.

Sara, who IS going to be one of the bridesmaids, loved the idea and offered to privately model one for me, after assuring me she had NO tan lines.

I think someone needs to have a long talk with Sara.

And No, she can’t go with us on the honeymoon!

Somehow, in all this confusion, I “forgot” to have a long overdue discussion with Jennifer about my college degrees.

That point was soon rendered moot however, the day Hurricane Jennifer blew into our house. And no, I am not talking about a meteorological event.

Tom was on a business trip, and what I didn’t know was Jennifer had trouble sleeping at night when Tom wasn’t around.

Piqued by my innocent little comment at the engagement party that there was probably a lot about me she didn’t know, one sleepless night she decided to start checking up on me on the Internet.

I didn’t know until then how little privacy we have in our lives thanks to the Internet, and how much information is actually available if someone is willing to put forth the effort to find out.

All I knew is one moment I was sound asleep, and the next moment our bedroom door nearly came off the hinges as someone was screaming, “Where are you, you lying bastard!”

As I have previously mentioned, when Mindy sleeps she always manages to push all the covers down to the foot of the bed during the night. And, since we were “enjoying” ourselves during said previous night, we were both absolutely, buck-naked. Thankfully not nekked, but naked.

For those of you who have never had the pleasure of hearing, or reading anything by the unfortunately deceased, but still great Southern humorist Lewis Gizzard, naked means “you ain’t got no clothes on,” while nekked means “you ain’t got no clothes on, and you are up to something.”

Mindy and I had been nekked during the night, but now we were just naked.

Mindy immediately asked her mother what was wrong, while trying to untangle the sheets and pull some type of covering over us.

“Wrong? Wrong?” she hollered, “I will tell you what’s wrong. It is this lying bastard there, your ‘purty as a red pup in a speckled wagon’ lying, no good...”

While Jennifer briefly appeared to be running out of words, Mindy quietly tried to say, “Mom, it’s actually a speckled pup in a red wagon.”

“Screw the pup, and screw the wagon too,” Jennifer exclaimed.

“Mindy, did you know this lying, good-for-nothing bastard has two college degrees?”

“Yes, Mom, but it is actually three degrees,” she answered, which was about as helpful as pouring gasoline onto a blazing house.

Unfortunately Mindy also added the fateful words “Everyone knows,” into the conversation as well, which Jennifer did not immediately pick up on.

“Three! Three! What do you mean three? What’s the third?” Jennifer demanded.

Not knowing which of my degrees Jennifer had actually found out about, Mindy explained that it was English, History and Literature.

When Jennifer asked why Mindy had never told her, I tried to explain Mindy had only found out two months ago, and I had made her promise not to tell.

Jennifer then went into a rant that would have made a Marine Corps drill instructor blush!

I won’t even try to repeat all the language she used, but will just relay the gist of her tirade.

Here she was, simply trying to find out a little more about the man who was going to marry her first-born child, and someday, God willing and if he lives long enough, which was very doubtful, be the father of her grandchildren, and what does she find?

That he has been lying ... lying ... about being an uneducated, redneck hillbilly for two years!

At some point during this rant, apparently a little light bulb went off as Mindy’s earlier comment about “everybody knows,” finally registered.

“Wait,” she said, “you said ‘everybody knows.’ Does that mean Tom knew also?”

I think Mindy knew if she answered truthfully, she was signing her Dad’s death warrant. Unfortunately Mindy is so innocent and pure-hearted her expression and eyes gave her away.

“Tom knew and didn’t tell me!” she exclaimed. “Well, I am supposed to pick him up at the airport this morning. Yes, I will pick him up ... and break him into little pieces. Then I am coming back for you,” she declared, looking directly at me.