Bob McCarty Writes

Below is Part Three of a series of posts I’m sharing with readers of this blog today. A change of pace from my usual writings on humor, politics, culture and capitalism, this series represents the first few chapters of a book I’ve been writing for several months. It draws from my background in the Air Force as well as from my experience in politics and public relations. I hope you enjoy it, and I look forward to your feedback.

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SCRATCH OFF

By Bob McCarty

Copyright © 2008 Bob McCarty, L.L.C. All rights reserved. Any reproduction, publication or broadcast
or other use of this document without the express permission of Bob McCarty, L.L.C., is prohibited by law.

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An aircraft maintenance officer whose less-than-perfect vision had prevented him from earning a pilot slot upon graduation from Texas A&M, Colonel Michaels had performed this “additional duty” on nearly a dozen occasions since the post-9/11 launch of Operation Iraqi Freedom. It took priority over all other duties outside of emergencies and those rarely arose. He suspected being single had something to do with him being called upon more often than his married counterparts. But that didn’t bother him. In fact, he thrived under this kind of pressure. The fact that Kastens had absolutely no one to lean on for support in the way of a wife, other kids or any extended family only added to his challenge.

A rare breed among maintenance officers, Colonel Michaels had earned a PhD. in psychology and had supervised hundreds of people – most of them younger than himself – during his first ten years in the Air Force. Now, as a squadron commander during wartime, he spent what he believed to be an inordinate amount of time counseling young airmen.

When those airmen were deployed to locations across the Middle East and Southwest Asia, it was their wives who showed up outside his office door. For those efforts, he told himself on many occasions, he deserved at least an honorary degree in social work from some prestigious university. With or without it, however, he knew his counseling experience would come in handy on this day.

“Josh must have meant a lot to you,” Colonel Michaels offered, hoping to illicit a response – anything – from Kastens.

“He did. He was everything to me,” he replied, his voice barely audible as he choked back what he knew would be a wave of uncontrollable sobs and tears.

“I understand, Mr. Kastens,” Colonel Michaels said. “It’s okay.”

A bond, albeit a loose one, began to form at that moment as he watched Kastens slowly give in to his overwhelming need to cry.

“Even I have someone,” the colonel thought to himself as he walked over to a spot beside the front porch-perfect rocking chair into which Kastens had settled. Putting his hand on Kastens’ shoulder as a friend would, the Air Force officer’s thoughts continued to drift to his 76-year-old mother’s health. In maintenance officer terms, she was slowly slipping out of MICAP – or “mission capable status” — and no miracles of maintenance could save her.

Kastens sobbed and cried for five minutes, maybe longer, and then, somewhat abruptly, he stopped. With his eyes closed, he began rocking. As he did, he rubbed his thumbs into the chair’s wooden arms, into deep depressions his thumbs had worn into the Brazilian Cherry wood during many previous rocking sessions. This, it appeared, was his place of refuge, the place where he went to relax and recharge. Never before had he needed this place more than now.

Sergeant Stufflebaum remained inconspicuous, realizing he would likely not be called upon to provide medical assistance on this day. While Air Force protocol dictated that a medical technician be part of the notification team, it also specified that the technician remain in the vehicle or maintain a “low profile” unless summoned by one of the officers to provide assistance.

Several hours passed and few words were spoken as Kastens continued to rock. With their host’s tacit approval, the uniformed visitors helped themselves to ice water in the kitchen, ever-mindful of the fact that they were the last people on earth this man wanted in his home.

Some 14 hours after they arrived, the sun had risen to the point where it was shining through the picture window into the living room where the four men had spent most of the night. All realized it would now be okay for them to leave. Before they departed, however, they left an official death notification letter along with information about how someone from the Air Force Casualties Office in San Antonio and from the Mortuary Affairs Office at Scott would contact him soon to discuss disposition of his son’s body and other related matters.

Colonel Michaels also left a 3” x 5” card upon which he had written his name and phone numbers where he and the chaplain could be reached anytime – today, tomorrow or a year from now, assuming they remained in uniform. That wasn’t in keeping with protocol, but both officers had agreed that they would borrow a page out of the Marine Corps playbook whenever they went on notifications together. After all, when it came to being family, few organizations epitomized the concept better than the Corps.

As they walked out the door, Kastens acknowledged their departure, this time with a slightly-more-noticeable movement of his left hand. At the same time as it conveyed the messages “thank you” and “goodbye,” the gesture said, “Please leave.” He wanted to be by himself and try to process the news they had delivered. Alone.

As the three men walked back to the government-issue blue sedan in which they had arrived, Kastens slowly tore the card they had given him in half. He knew he would never try to contact them. He preferred to handle things on his own.

A few minutes passed and Kastens, now alone, began reliving in his mind the many good times he had shared with Josh over the years.

He remembered four-year-old Josh not understanding why his mother had left without saying goodbye and how, every year on his birthday, he asked if his mother would be coming to see him. She never did.

He remembered making the decision to sell their house in town, full of memories, so they could buy a five-acre farm, a place where they could start fresh, on the outskirts of town.

He remembered the day when 13-year-old Josh watched television news footage of Army Rangers battling Muslim rebels on the streets of Mogadishu and asked why other soldiers didn’t rescue the pinned-down Rangers.

He remembered the day, some four years later, when Josh told him he was going to join the Air Force after high school and become a pararescue jumper – or “PJ.”

“What in the world is a PJ?” he had asked his son.

“PJs are the guys who rescue pilots who’ve been shot down,” Josh answered, explaining that he learned about them while watching a cable television program about elite units in the U.S. military. “They’re the guys who rescue the heroes.”

By becoming a PJ, Josh believed he could prevent a recurrence of the wrongs he had seen take place in Somalia so many years earlier.

Finally, Josh’s dad remembered the promise he had made to his son in one of the many letters they had exchanged during Josh’s most-recent tour in Iraq. It was the most important promise he had ever made at Josh’s request and one he never imagined having to keep: If the unthinkable happened and Josh didn’t return from Iraq alive, he had promised his son he would do everything within his power to prevent the United States from settling for defeat against Muslim extremists in Iraq, Afghanistan or anywhere.

A tall order for one man. But it was a promise he would keep forever, until it was fulfilled or until he had died trying to keep it. After all, Kastens was a man of his word.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 Bob McCarty, L.L.C. All rights reserved. Any reproduction, publication or broadcast
or other use of this document without the express permission of Bob McCarty, L.L.C., is prohibited by law.

>> Part Four <<

To read other SCRATCH OFF posts, click here.