The Soldier's Return

Chapter 11

Later, when the candles had been blown out and the cake demolished, she moved around the living picking up the scraps of wrapping paper, bits of ribbon, discarded napkins and other trash that had been left behind. The boys were gathered around Bob, who sat on the sofa and read aloud from Harry Potter. Toby was asleep in the spare room, in the crib that had been set up there since the first grandchild was born, and Ashley was being cooed over by the two Cindys. June and Chrissie were chatting in the kitchen as they put dishes away, and her two brothers were on the porch arguing amiably about college football. This had always been her favorite part of a family gathering, when everyone was relaxed, comfortably tired, full of good food, celebrating the end of another happy occasion.

She moved into the hall in her search for abandoned cups and glasses, and saw her father and Matt engaged in serious conversation in the den that opened off of it. They were silhouetted against the uncurtained window, dimly lit now as the sun set and the night drew in. She could see that their stance was almost identical: feet slightly apart, arms crossed over their chests, shoulders back. It was, she knew, the way soldiers stood, and it occurred to her suddenly that in some ways Matt had more in common with her father than either of his sons or his son-in-law. She took a step or two closer, not wanting to disturb the conversation but undeniably hoping to catch a word or two of it. She suspected they were talking about war; her father had seldom discussed his combat experience but she guessed that he would speak of it more readily with another vet.

"We were there twenty-two months before we rotated back," her father was saying. We saw a lot of action." There was no braggadaccio in the words; he was simply stating the facts.

Matt was nodding. "I've read about that. They called you the "Golden Brigade."

"Yeah, I don't know why. There's nothing Golden about war, but I guess you know that as well as anybody, son."

Matt nodded. "Yes sir."

"How were you injured? Do you mind my asking?"

Usually Matt minded a great deal when this question was posed, but his son's grandfather had earned the right to ask. "Not much to tell. IED went off, took my leg, bloodied me up pretty good." The older man looked at him keenly, sensing that there was more to the story than the younger man's casual tone would suggest.

"Internal damage?"

"Lost my spleen. My lungs took a while to heal." He shrugged. "We were lucky sir. A lot more guys survived than did in your war. They'd come up with a lot better ways to treat combat wounds, and usually we were able to get them out pretty fast. I was in Germany 24 hours after I was hit."

"But you lost some guys, too. Guys you knew."

"Yes sir." Matt's face was pale now.

"And you feel guilty about it."

Matt could only nod. He was moved not only by his memories, but because the older veteran could understand so easily and well what he was experiencing.

"You feel like it was your fault they died."

Matt nodded again. "It was my fault. After I got hit, they were trying to get me out. They loaded me in the truck and got hit by a sniper. They were perfect targets; they had to expose themselves to get me in."

Doug nodded. "And they knew they were exposing themselves."

"Well, yeah."

"And you would have done the same thing for them."

"Yes sir. Of course."

"So it was just the way it went down. You made it, they didn't."

"It should have been me."