Page 1 of Codename: Dustoff
CHAPTERONE
My coming home didn’t look the same as everyone else’s. For those who returned after serving a tour it was warm hugs, shrieks of joy, crying families with homemade signs, and lots of discussions surrounding the first thing they wanted to do now that they were “home.” They were welcomed with the pomp and circumstance which was the expected fanfare. Especially when families have been pining for service members and worrying about them since they day they stepped foot onto that C-17.
Mine however had no warm hugs. Unless you count my family hugging one another in worry. The shrieks—if there were any—would have been in response to the phone call that I’d been airlifted out of FOB Shank, and it was questionable whether I’d survive the transport. The only fanfare greeting me in Germany, I would assume, were the nurses and doctors on standby ready to rush in and stabilize me once I arrived with the rest of the DOs. Dust Offs. That’s what they called us. The lucky ones who danced with the IEDs and lived to tell the tale. We got to keep our tags around our necks. We’d see our families again. Even if we were half the people we were when we’d left.
I’d taken a ride on the air calvary over three years ago. Yet, it still felt like yesterday. Every time I closed my eyes, I could still see my friend’s faces, hear our stupid banter about getting back to base because Garcia got a care package from home. His wife and their church family always sent us the best shit. That box specially had been packed with Little Debbie Christmas Trees and every flavor imaginable of Crystal Light. It was truly like Christmas. Even if it was still six weeks away. We’d been anxious to partake in Garcia’s wealth after our afternoon AOR patrol. I replayed that scene in my head numerous times a day. It was the Groundhog Day-esque dream that greeted me every night when I closed my eyes.
My Recovery Care Coordinator, we called it an RCC, was responsible for my triad of care. She was not satisfied with how I continued to miss benchmarks dealing with psychological recovery and connectedness to my recovery unit—called a Soldier Recovery Unit or SRU. Benchmarks were king in the Army. There was always something you had to be achieving. Whether it was a new designation or rank, or your mental or psychological aptitude.
I met with Pam, my RCC, once a month to discuss these benchmarks. Usually, the meetings were pretty predictable. They went something like this “hey, you’re still below standard for your psychological benchmarks.” I would give her some kind of smart assed reply that would suggest losing all of my friends when our Humvee hit an IED may have something to do with that. The look on her face when I arrived told me this visit would not go like other meetings previous.
She tended to wear her glasses on her head when we chatted and didn’t put them on until she needed to look at paperwork. But when I arrived at her door, they were already on her face, staring into my file. I was greeted with a terse, “Amelia, right on time. Have a seat.”
Her whole office had been decked with Christmas cheer. Something about that grated me. I didn’t know if it was the obnoxious magenta Christmas tree or the twinkle lights that framed a pitiful window overlooking a parking lot and train tracks beyond. It felt off. Like she tried too hard to force a cheerful appearance when the whole building was a black hole of depression and despair.
“Your benchmarks dip lower each time I see you, Amelia.” She held up a hand to stop me from saying anything before I’d even opened my mouth. “I don’t want a maudlin comment about your friends. That is exactly why I’m concerned.”
Pam had really curly, jet-black hair that hung in wild ringlets just below her eyebrows. Some days the curls were defined as if she’d taken special care to style them, and other days, like today, they stuck every which way as if she’d been running her hands through them frequently, like she was at that very moment.
“I don’t know how else to get through to you, Amelia. I’ve tried the soft approaches, hoping you’d come to the realization that going this alone won’t work. I think it’s time for tough love. Suicide rates among vets is at an all-time high. These test scores.” She held up my benchmarks, which showed a steep decline with every monthly check-in. “They’re beginning to head into a territory where I would have the authority to remand you into a mental health facility. I promise, you don’t want that.”
Damn right I didn’t want that. Similarly, I didn’t want her in my business. To be frank I didn’t want any of them in my business.
“Don’t you think I’ve done enough for the Army?” I asked, feeling guilty the second it came out of my mouth. “I think that I should be able to figure out how to cope on my own. I don’t need Uncle Sam trying to control how quickly I am able to deal with anything in my life.”
I point to my useless leg. I was in near constant pain, even this many years later. I wished the doctors would have told me what the rest of my life would look like as they were ordering me to keep breathing, to hold on, that I was minutes away from the hospital.
“Amelia.” She took her glasses off and set them down next to her computer. “No one is trying to control the speed of your recovery. We’re all here—I’m here—to be the stopgap to preventing you from spiraling down to place where no one can reach you, and you believe there’s only one way out. I convinced your SRU to give you eight weeks.”
She handed me a folded piece of paper with the name and address of a resort in a tiny mountain town called Barren Hill.
“There is an amputee support group there. It’s the only one I could find within ninety minutes of your house. I’m sorry it isn’t geared specifically toward vets.”
I folded the paper and put it in my jeans pocket. She could pound sand if she thought I was going to sit around talking about my feelings every week. I would figure this out on my own. Stop at the library or something and get some self-help shit.
“This isn’t an option, Amelia. You have to check in and have an assignment slip submitted for each of the eight sessions. They must be concurrent. You may not miss a session unless you clear it with me first. And I’m telling you, if you plan to call me because you don’t want to go, it better be for a damn good reason, or I’ll ask my friends in MP to pay you a visit and escort you to Thornhill. If you aren’t going to fight for yourself Amelia, I’m going to fight for you.”
* * *
“You must be Amelia!” A woman in a chef’s jacket scurried towards me. Hearing my given name used by strangers still felt foreign. Even after all this time. It was probably for the best though. Sanchez was attached to too many memories I was desperate to forget.
“Welcome! I’m Gemini Tate.” She extended her hand and shook mine with the enthusiasm of a Disney cast member. “There is coffee over there on the table, lunch is buffet style just inside the door, and there’s water and iced tea on each table. Here’s your nametag—they require everyone to wear them.”
She continued to fuss, handing me various pamphlets along with a folder and badge. “We’re excited to have another member. This is a small group. Mammoth Slope and Barren Hill are truly underserved by the greater community so any time we can get a fresh face attending, we roll out the welcome mat!”
Gemini Tate appeared to have all of her limbs. Maybe though, she had a prosthetic under her pants. I guess I shouldn’t judge. She could easily have moved into acceptance and was living her life to her fullest.
“We heard from the V.A. they were sending someone our way. I still can’t believe this is the closest amputee acceptance group in the greater tri state area. It’s just a travesty that our veterans are not treated better. Especially after all you’ve done. Or seen. Or god, all you’ve sacrificed.”
“Are you the one that signs off on my attendance forms?”
I didn’t need to talk to anyone about sacrifice. Or what I’d seen. Especially not to some cracked out cruise director desperate to dial up my level of engagement to full blast.
“Me? Oh, no. You’ll need to see Henry or Elyse inside, they’re both wearing yellow lanyards.” She held up her hands with an uncomfortable chuckle. “No. I’m just… Well, you see—” She appeared lost for an explanation, though it was surprising to me she wouldn’t have whatever her sales pitch was at the ready for the newcomers. “I’m simply the one who saw a need and had the means to fix it.”
I nodded and flipped through the kumbaya bullshit she’d handed me.
“You can go inside.” She finally released me from the responsibility of chit chat. “They’re probably getting started.”
Gemini the Cruise Director hadn’t been kidding when she said it was a small group. With me, there were six. All of whom were deeply immersed in conversations when I walked in.
“Amelia? Nice to meet you.” The man saluted me first, then shook my hand. Just what I needed was to be singled out from the onset. Aside from the fact that I wasn’t an officer, and presently wore jeans and a T-shirt, and not anything that would identify me as a former member of the military. “I’m Henry Jennings, this is my co-leader, Elyse. We’re so glad to have you here. You can take a seat at either of the tables, but we’d love for you to introduce yourself to the group first if you don’t mind.”
Of course I’d have to stand in front of the “class” and give my spiel.
“Name’s Sanchez. Um, Amelia Sanchez. I’ve been an amp for going on three years. This was the closest support group to me.”
“Well.” Henry rocked back and forth from heel to toe, waiting seemingly for me to say more. There wasn’t anything else I cared to share. “How about we go around the room and you all can introduce yourselves to Amelia?”
Eight weeks. That was how long I’d been told I needed to attend. Honestly, latrine duty at Shank seemed like the better option.