The World Played Chess (55)

Today was worse.

I stared at EZ, a Black kid from Georgia. We called him EZ because everything about him was EZ. He was never in a rush to do or say anything. “Take it EZ,” he’d say all the time and usually with a bright smile. EZ had boyish features, a square jaw, an EZ smile. That’s how I’ll remember him. “Relax. Take it EZ.” EZ’s real name was Eric Johnson. I know this only because I read his dog tags when we removed them, put one in a bag, and taped the bag to his wrist so EZ can be processed as a KIA. He’s forever young now.

EZ stepped on a booby trap, a hand grenade, they think. Booby traps, Bouncing Bettys, toe poppers, ambush mortars. They’re everywhere we hump. Every day, another guy loses a leg. If he’s lucky, that’s all he loses. The unlucky ones, like EZ, buy the farm. If it’s a mortar, several marines may buy the farm. We heard of a 250-pound buried bomb taking out an entire platoon.

You think, I’m lucky. I can still walk.

But then you wonder how far you’ll make it before you trip a wire or step on a Bouncing Betty. How far will you get before they blow up an ambush mortar, then cut you down with machine gun fire and RPGs? It gets so that you don’t want to take that first step. You don’t want to lift your foot off the ground for fear you’ve triggered an explosive. You want to stand in place. Stay safe.

Except you can’t.

Saddle up. Move out.

It’s mentally draining, not knowing with each step you take.

EZ had been humping directly in front of me, our line spaced three meters between marines for just this reason. When the explosion detonated, I thought it was incoming. The ground exploded, and EZ’s body flew upward and to the left. I fell backward from the force of the blast, though most of the energy went the other direction, as did most of the shrapnel. Marines in front of EZ and behind me got hit, though not too bad. They’re the lucky ones. They’re going to the rear for a little R & R. Some may get to go home. I didn’t get a scratch. Not a mark on me.

I grabbed my rifle and scrambled for cover until Cruz came down the line yelling that it had been a mine, not incoming. I rushed to EZ. His eyes were open but his whole body, what was left of it, twitched. The death throes. So much blood. I didn’t know what to do. The corpsman came forward, tying off tourniquets, stuffing holes with gauze, and pumping EZ full of morphine for the pain. I held EZ’s head and talked to him. I could see his eyes. I could see his pupils. He didn’t look at peace like they tell us. That’s just more bullshit. He looked scared.

“It’s okay, EZ,” I said. “You hang in there. They’re going to fix you up and send you home and you’ll take it EZ.” I kept looking in his eyes. I thought it was better than looking at the wounds spurting blood. And then, I saw a wisp of smoke in EZ’s eyes suddenly evaporate, like fog dissipating, and I knew EZ was gone. His body no longer twitched. His chest no longer rose and fell.

His spirit had left his body.

I saw his spirit leave his body.

We called for a dust off and we loaded EZ and the wounded onto the chopper, but we never acknowledged EZ was dead. We never do. We make believe EZ is one of the lucky ones, that he’s going home to his family. We say, “Take it EZ,” as the chopper lifts and departs. It’s easier that way.

Saddle up and move out.

I humped. I didn’t think about the fact that I didn’t take any pictures. I thought about something else. I thought, Did EZ’s mother feel something in that moment when his spirit left his body? Was she standing at the sink filling a glass with water while looking out at the backyard where her son played football with his brothers and feel a loss? Did she double over in pain, drop the glass in the sink and shatter it? Did she cut her finger on one of the sharp pieces and watch blood flow down the drain? Did she know it was her son’s blood? That his blood and his spirit had departed this world, that her baby boy had just died?

Did she know?

Will my mother know?





Chapter 15


February 19, 2016

Elizabeth wanted Tadich Grill to be a surprise on Mary Beth’s sixteenth birthday, but the confrontation with Beau had spoiled that part. We still had the car surprise, however, when we got home.

Our daughter, our baby, sat across the booth at Tadich with eyes as wide as her smile, in part because her big brother sat beside her. Beau had made the decision on his own to attend.

It wasn’t anything Elizabeth or I had said. His sister’s words had impacted him, and, with time to calm down, he knew he was being selfish. I was proud of him. He had made the right choice. He even had a present for Mary Beth, some gadget she could plug into the lighter of her car and listen to her music on her phone. The only thing Beau asked was that he be allowed to check the score of the basketball game on an app on his phone. Chris had also agreed to text Beau with updates. As it turned out, Serra was no match for SI this year, and no cheering section was going to change the outcome. The Padres were down twenty at the half and never got closer than fifteen. Chris’s final text summed up the night.

We sucked. You made the right choice. Wish I went with you to Tadich. Bring me home a steak. Ha! Ha!

Tadich did not disappoint. We had crab and scallops, filet mignon, and Caesar salads. For dessert we ate rice custard and baked apples, and the waiter had the chef specially prepare an off-the-menu dessert for Mary Beth, a chocolate brownie topped with vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce, something she would routinely ask for when she was a little girl.