Despite all the honors and the inspiration of commanding troops in battle, those quiet moments with John had been the highlights of his life, imparting to his son the essence of leadership as the General understood it. And as the General had phased into retirement, John had grown from a boy to a young man. The General and Suzanne attended every event associated with it — high school football star, honors graduate. The pretty girlfriends. Acceptance to West Point. Through it all, leadership and determination had been John’s hallmarks.
The General would never forget that brisk autumn afternoon at Michie Stadium, back-dropped by the variegated colors of fall, and at the center the gloried gridiron on which he, himself, had played. For four quarters John, undersized linebacker that he was, had battled valiantly, making tackle after tackle as Notre Dame had slowly ground outmanned Army into the turf. But in one glorious moment, John had met the Notre Dame All-American halfback and Heisman Trophy candidate head-on in the open field. Just the two of them, man-to-man. Without hesitation John had knifed into the bigger man, picking him up in a classic tackle to dump him on his ass. The Corps of Cadets had broken into a roar. The great halfback had gotten up to pat John on the helmet, showing his admiration for John’s great play.
A fleeting smile broke through the General’s shroud of depression. Everyone respected his boy — from West Point through his career as US Infantry officer, where he won accolades and commendations in a career spanning from 2nd Lieutenant to Lieutenant Colonel.
Then Iraq…
During the full military funeral at West Point, the General had been presented with his son’s posthumous Medal of Honor. It had taken every measure of his self-control to avoid a complete breakdown as the Medal had passed into his hands. Afterward Hap Henderson, who once had served under the General and was now a three-star himself and commandant of West Point, had invited him for a private conversation in his office.
“He was an outstanding officer in every respect, Dave. An early promotion to a full bird was already in the works, and his first star was to follow not long after.”
The General had lowered his head to stare into the empty shell of what could have been.
“You have every right to be proud. Not only was he one of the most talented and courageous under fire the Army had, but he was driven by a calling to live up to the legend of his father. It led him to strive beyond what his peers would never dream of doing — even the best of them.”
Hap had pursed his lips sadly.
“Today too many of our young officers have learned to play it safe. They’ve learned how to game the system to get early promotions. But never John. He got up every morning determined to be the best soldier he could be.”
Hap had paused reflectively.
“The only criticism that might be made is that John was always reaching, always taking one step more than caution dictated. But others would say that was what put John on the path to greatness. After all, it was the quality that made his father one of our great leaders, from his beginning as one of the Third Army platoon leaders that Patton so loved to Korea and then Vietnam.”
The frigid, ravine-riddled landscape thirty miles short of the Yalu had flashed into the General’s mind. His thoughts had quickly turned back to John. Later he’d left Hap’s office with an unsettled feeling. The account of John’s combat death hadn’t rung true to someone as battle-experienced as the General.
Commanding the first battalion to reach the outskirts of Baghdad, John had led a reconnaissance into the city. Most battalion commanders would have ordered a unit commander to do that, but he’d had to see the ground himself. According to the official account, the company had been surprised by a clever ambush. As he’d courageously led his men out of trouble, he’dbeen picked off by a sniper, saving their lives but losing his own.
The General had it from inside accounts — retired generals still sat in at the command tables — that during the first entry into Baghdad, the Iraqi troops had been totally disorganized and running for their lives. Hardly able to organize a clever ambush. Perhaps later, when the insurgents became organized, but not when John was killed.
The General paced from the window to his desk and back again as if he were on sentry duty. For days after his audience with Hap, he’d asked himself again and again, “What really happened?” His suspicions wouldn’t rest. So he’d called an old friend, Rubio Martinez, who was now Deputy Secretary of Defense for Manpower, to ask a favor.
After warm greetings, Rubio had sat back at his desk to pull John’s folder in front of him.
“Are you sure you want to go on with this, Dave? Sometimes the pain isn’t worth it, and there’s nothing in John’s record but accolades and honors, a soldier his father can take great pride in.”
The General had nodded stubbornly. “I want to know how my son died!”
Rubio had stared hard at the folder before opening it. “I know you won’t share this with anyone.”
“It says Top Secret on the cover, Rubio. Of course I’ll keep this to myself.”
Briefly the General had thought Rubio would refuse to go on, but he’d slowly opened the file.
“It was friendly fire, Dave. Nobody believed an American unit could have penetrated Baghdad so quickly. But John often amazed people by how far he could advance…and communications were chaotic when we first reached the city.”
Instead of going home, the General, half blinded by grief, had headed for a pub under the Whitehurst Freeway in Georgetown that he and Suzanne had often visited in their younger days. He’d taken a stool at the bar and, mindless of the consequences, put down one vodka martini after another until he’d fallen off the stool. The manager had called the owner, who, remembering the old warrior well, had helped him to his car and then driven him to a nearby hotel to check him in. He had been helped to the room, where he’d fallen head-first into a black maw, spiraling ever downward into a bizarre realm where he stood in the shoes of a little boy, but as himself as a grown man. He moved among variegated and contorted mounds of sand shaped like mountains of the moon where every direction looked the same. He was hopelessly lost. No way of ever getting home.
Wailing in terror, he found his way to a path that ran along the face of a cliff which he climbed, ever higher, until the path narrowed to a ledge just inches wide, ending in a bend one step in front of him. He clung to the rock for all his life, staring from his precipice into empty space. He’d been here countless times, blocked by the precipitate cliff, unable to go forward, unable to go back.
Abandoned.
About Ron Torrence
