Bob McCarty Writes

Below is Part Two 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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One day later on the other side of the world, the day started off ordinarily enough for Larry Kastens. After returning home after completing another eight-hour shift at King Chemical, he opened the day’s mail and heated up a frozen pizza for dinner. If all went well, he would finish all the chores he had failed to complete during the previous weekend.

Mowing nearly two acres of grass would come first. Anything else he could finish before succumbing to fatigue or mosquitoes would be “icing” on his cake. As best Kastens could figure, he had two and one-half hours of daylight left unless the sun decided to shine past 6:30 p.m.

Thoughts about the day completed and the days ahead filled his mind as, for nearly two hours, Kastens used the noise and vibrations of his riding lawn mower’s engine to dissolve the stress of yet another day at the office. After finishing his lawn, he decided to tackle the ten-feet-wide strip of grass that separated the front edge of his property and the blacktop road that ended perpendicular to his driveway. Technically, it belonged to the city, but they seemed to forget about mowing it more often than not.

Then it happened. As Kastens completed his first northbound pass at a leisurely three miles per hour, his attention was drawn toward a car he saw – then heard – approaching his once-rural Effingham, Ill., home from the North. As the only resident living at the end of a two-mile-long stretch of blacktop that protruded like a finger from behind the town’s new Wal-Mart Super Center, Kastens knew anyone driving down “his” road was either lost or looking for him.

While he preferred the former, Kastens suspected something else. Something that wasn’t good.

The car came closer, and the sound of its engine grew louder. Kastens’ stomach turned back flips as the picture in front of him began to develop.

“Blue government sedan,” he whispered to himself as he began to lean against the truck’s now-open driver’s-side door. “Please, God, don’t let this be like in the movies.”

The 55-year-old chemical plant worker who, moments earlier, had been anticipating an uneventful evening in front of his television stood in disbelief for what seemed an eternity as the vehicle approached.

“Not like the movies,” Kastens whispered to himself, now able to see the shadowy outlines of two individuals in the front seat of the car as it came within a quarter-mile of his property line. “Please, not like the movies.”

Another couple of minutes passed before Kastens found himself staring at two men dressed in Air Force blue suit-and-tie uniforms who, unbeknownst to him, had left Scott Air Force Base in Belleville, some ninety minutes earlier.

Both were lieutenant colonels sporting silver leaves on their shoulders and specialty insignias on their chests. The taller of the two, Lt. Col. Joe Michaels, wore a silver maintenance’s officer badge on his left chest, just above four rows of ribbons earned during a 19-year career and a name tag on his right chest. The other, Lt. Col. Adam Galbraith, sported a shiny chaplain’s cross above two rows of ribbons on his left chest and, of course, a nametag on the the other side.

As the unwelcome visitors parked their vehicle in the driveway just a few feet behind his pickup truck, Kastens noticed a third man in the back seat who looked like he worked in a hospital. With that, his heart began to race. Somehow, he knew.

“Sir, are you Mr. Lawrence Kastens?” Colonel Michaels asked. After receiving the slightest hint of a nod in response, he continued, looking the father straight in the eyes.

“Mr. Kastens, the Chief of Staff of the Air Force has asked me to express his deepest regret that your son, Joshua L. Kastens, was killed in action in Iraq on April 2, 2007.”

He paused momentarily upon seeing the expression of disbelief on Kastens’ face, and then delivered the remainder of the bad news.

“Your son died heroically while attempting to rescue a fellow American – a fighter pilot,” he continued, “who was forced to eject from his aircraft and found himself surrounded by enemy combatants.

“Despite being struck multiple times by enemy fire, he completed the rescue and saved the downed airman’s life before succumbing to his own wounds. Your son was a hero, Mr. Kastens. The Chief of Staff extends his deepest sympathy to you and your family in your tragic loss.”

Stunned and unable to make sense of the man’s words, Kastens couldn’t think of anything to say in return that would justify his effort. Instead, he turned slowly, opened the front door to his home and walked inside, his legs weak under the weight of the news he had just received. It seemed the sun was going down, both on this day and on life as he had known it.

Sensing Kastens might require help, MSgt. Sam “Stuff” Stufflebaum climbed out of the back seat of the vehicle clutching a black medical bag and followed the two officers as they walked alongside the grieving father.

Previous experience had taught all three of the men to be ready at all times to support distraught family members with whom they had to share this kind of news. Though today’s recipient didn’t collapse physically as many had done in the past, he appeared he might collapse in other ways. And who could blame him.

For casualty notification officers, it was always difficult to determine the appropriate time to make an exit, especially when the person they notified was alone and without relatives or supportive friends by his side. By the looks of things, their stay at Kastens’ home would not – and should not – end soon.

“Is there anyone you need to call, Mr. Kastens, to let them know about your son?” Colonel Michaels asked. It seemed a good question – the first of many the he would ask that day.

“I need to call his mother, but I don’t know where she is,” Kastens said.

“Is she at work?” the colonel responded. “Maybe we can call…”

“We divorced 23 years ago, and I haven’t seen or heard from her since,” Kastens answered, aware of the fact that his unexpected guests didn’t know much about his home life.”

“Is there anyone else?” Michaels continued, leaning forward from his spot opposite Colonel Galbraith on the living room sofa.

“No, Josh was the only family I had,” the distraught father replied, “all I had.”

“Do you have any church friends, anyone we can call?” Galbraith asked, digging, hoping to unearth at least one person whom Larry regarded as a friend or confidant.

“No,” the distraught father replied, his eyes communicating a nonverbal that said, “Back off with that religious stuff!”

Galbraith, the staff chaplain assigned to the Air Mobility Command Headquarters at Scott Air Force Base southeast of St. Louis, understood exactly what Kastens had said and didn’t say.

Colonel Michaels took that nonverbal dagger aimed at the chaplain as his cue to re-enter the conversation and introduce “Stuff”.

“Mr. Kastens, this is Sergeant Sam Stufflebaum,” he said, motioning to his left where the noncommissioned officer in charge of the base hospital’s day clinic sat next to the chaplain. “He’s here to help you if you need it.”

Kastens acknowledged the sergeant’s introduction with a barely-detectable nod, but said nothing. It was the type of response Colonel Michaels had seen before.

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 Three <<

To read other SCRATCH OFF posts, click here.