12

WHAT BETTER WAY TO FIND those needing reeducation than at a VA center? Here at Hot Springs facility, the government nearly closed it, but enough folks put up a fuss they had to keep it open. There were just too many people wanting the facility to remain just like it is. Including me. This is the only medical center for veterans in the southern Black Hills, and I truly enjoy the ride through scenic forests and wandering roads. I love seeing the occasional Big Horn ram scaling a granite wall, and now and again I have to slow to allow buffalo to wander across the road in Custer Park. It’s almost as if I was on a mini-vacation when I visit here. Almost.

A light breeze off the creek begins to chill me and I stand, strolling under the porch that runs the full length of the front of the facility. I nod to a nurse bending over an old man in a wheelchair as she tucks his blanket under his legs, and I greet a stooped-over old man with a WWII insignia on his crumpled ball cap.

I enter the building and make my way to the waiting room, no one paying me any attention, no one giving me even a second glance.

A middle-aged man bumps against a Navy man, teetering him, nearly knocking him down, not apologizing. Not acknowledging the old man’s Korean War service if his cap is any indication. He turns and gives the old vet a sideways glance and nothing more.

An officer!

I can spot them even across a crowded room like this, their arrogance seeping through their very pores—too good for common folks. Too good for the enlisted men and women who helped them during their times of service. My jaw muscles clench and unclench, thinking back to what an officer did to my family. Not this officer. Not like Captain Sims whom I met that cold October day in the restroom at the Sheridan VA Center.

I shudder recalling just how close I came to being caught. I had followed Sims into the head on an impulse and confronted him there. Why no one heard the commotion, why no one came into the restroom as I was choking Sims out I can only attribute to my incredible luck.

God was watching over me.

God knew I had to right a terrible wrong.

I drove back home that morning, checking the rearview mirror, expecting a cop to stop me. But none did. And when I arrived home, I sat alone in the dark room recalling the feeling, the ecstasy that pulsed through me as Sim’s tongue—thick and blue and swollen—lolled out of the side of his mouth a moment before he died.

Since then, I have been more measured in my hunting techniques. Since then I have patiently waited—as I wait now—to make sure no one follows me into the restroom after the man who nearly knocked a hero down in passing.

An officer.

I fight to control my anger recalling that first week after returning to the states. The Army had assigned me to an artillery unit… an artillery unit, for God’s sakes! I was a Ranger. I didn’t want to leave that MOS. I enjoyed it too much. “A change of MOS to field artillery will be a way to transition from your Ranger life,” the executive officer had told me. “It will be easier for you to get your college degree if you’re not away on missions for weeks at a time.” The XO had been right in one regard—artillery allowed me to be available nights to attend college classes.

I pause at the door to the restroom and glance nonchalantly around, checking one last time before entering. I won’t be long inside. My job will take less than a minute.

I am not what happened to me, Carl Jung once said. I am what I choose to become. He was right—I choose to become what I am.

And I will choose to send that officer to the big induction center in the sky.