“My mama gave me this Bible when I was a kid,” Chewy said to me. “Day I got baptized.”
He cradled a battered leather Bible in his lap, staring at it like if he looked at it long enough it would speak. It was small enough to fit into a pocket and the supple brown cover was stained.
We were sitting in the fading light of day in the shadow of a mountain, a small fire before us. As far as I could see along the road, there were troop carriers, armored vehicles, and beside them many soldiers. Our column was stopped well north of Salt Lake City.
“I gave it to John Luke. He carried it with him everywhere,” Chewy said. “Now I can't even read what Momma wrote inside.”
“I'm sorry,” I said. “He was a good boy. A good man.”
“That he was. And his blood is all over his Bible. There's somethin' in that.”
He choked, a strong man battling with his pain. “Now this is all I've got of him.”
“He died defending you.”
We both knew I'd given the order.
“I know it. I raised him to be a warrior like his daddy.”
“There's nothing I can say, my friend. I know it hurts more than anything can.”
“I should have listened to his mama.”
I waited him out. The smoke from the fire was good and clean. It was stronger than the smell of diesel exhaust.
“She wanted him to raise tobacco in a greenhouse. Her family knew tobacco.” He chuckled to himself, his eyes far away. “She wanted me to get out and become a farmer.” Chewy poked the fire with a stick, watched as the end of it caught and flamed. “But not me,” he said. “Old Charles was gonna be a soldier like his daddy and granddaddy and that was that.”
He caught me grinning.
“Yeah. Charles,” he said. “One Ranger, one riot.” He gave the Bible another long look, then set it down on top of his ruck, careful to not let The Word touch the ground. “I thought the Army was great. I got paid to shoot and jump from planes. They sent me to Afghanistan. I got to shoot at terrorists and call down air strikes. No problem.”
He unlaced his boots and took them off with a sigh, then removed his socks and hung them to dry from a rock next to the fire. “Little John Luke, before he could hardly walk, was runnin' around with toy guns. Wanted to be like Daddy. His mama didn't care for it too much, but secretly, it made me proud.”
I knew exactly how he felt. Ryder could already shoot almost as well as I with his .22. Crystal never argued about it, but the night I'd given Ryder the rifle, she had banged pots and pans and cupboards and clomped around the cabin until I decided to go for an evening walk.
“Then the world gets blown to hell. I'm a soldier, that's not gonna change. So I figured when he got old enough, I'd let him come with me so I could, you know, keep an eye on him. Keep him safe.”
“Right.”
“And he was good at it. He didn't get stupid attacks. Proved himself.”
“He was disciplined. I saw it. One of our best men.”
“But I did a hell of a job keeping him safe, didn't I? My one job as a father, the most important thing, to protect my child. And I bring him with me to war. Sweet Jesus.”
He reached into his smock and removed a small silver flask and took a slug. “One second I'm hollerin' at him for another belt for the SAW, we're taking fire from everywhere, and the next he's down. Last thing he heard from me, I'm screaming for him to get his ass in gear. My boy's dying and I'm yelling at him 'cause I'm out of ammo. Oh my God.”
His great bulk was wracked with sobs that came without sound. He took a long pull and offered the silver flask to me. I accepted.
“There is nowhere safe,” I said. “Nowhere anymore to hide.”
“Some safer'n others,” Chewy said. “I don't know how I'll tell his mama. Hopefully I'll die first so I don't have to see her face.”
I cringed at that and took a swallow of the moonshine. It was sharp and mean, but there was a spreading warmness in my belly after the drink. I had not truly faced my wife. We grieved together some, but she was so busy looking after me, and I was so involved with myself, that I had not looked her in the eye and felt her torment in the way I would have to. I had not let her give me her pain and allow it to crash against me.
“I keep seeing him in diapers, running around with this stupid toy gun and saying 'Daddy, you're dead! I shot you,' and me not really thinking about it, shooting back at him with my finger and making a sound like an explosion and telling him 'No I shot you!'” I passed the flask back to Chewy and stared into the cherry embers of our campfire.
“Do you have any other children?” I asked.
“Yeah. Another son. He's only five. And do you know what he's doing right now? He's running around with a gun, trying to be like his brother. Like Daddy.”
“When we get home maybe you teach him about tobacco.”
He snorted. “I don't know a dang thing about farming. Best thing would be, maybe, if I never make it back. Then he'd know.”
“Crap.”
“No, really. He'd grow up fresh. Understand what holding a weapon really means. Know his old man and his brother never came back from it. Do something, anything else, 'cause he knew it.”
“A boy needs his father.”
“That's the point, I guess,” Chewy said. “A boy needs his father to show him how to be a man. What will Jacob see? A father who knows how to kill with a gun. Like my old man. He was a hero and I wanted to be him. I don't want that for Jacob. Let him be a farmer. I'd rather he lives a long life than die for what? For land? For whatever the hell it is we're fighting for? Tell me what it is! 'Cause I don't know anything that's worth it. How much blood do I have to give? I've given one son. I refuse—” He took a long slug, wiped his eyes with his wrist and looked up at the sky. “Your daughter Grace, right? Wouldn't you have given anything to spare her—”
“Careful,” I said.
“Two guys in green. Two fathers, that's what we are right now. Friends. Brothers. I ain't prying or pushing and you know it. I'm raw and you're hurt and that is what it is and it's awful. And maybe tomorrow I'll take a bullet meant for you or maybe you'll take one for me. And maybe we don't care anymore ‘cause of what we already lost, I dunno, or maybe we do.” He huffed and took another sip of white lightning.
“Sorry,” I said.
“What I mean to say is, wouldn't you give the world if you could have kept her from it? If you could have shielded her?”
“Of course.”
“Seems like we.... like there ought to be a way. We're just not seeing it clear. I never really thought about it like this before.”
“I know.”
“People think they get it but they don't. They think they know but there's no way they can. I had too many friends after The Fall who lost everyone. I thought I knew what they must have felt. I believed I could put myself in their place. It's impossible. I didn't know how lucky I was then.”
“You can't really know the pain until it's yours,” I said. “Someone can try to explain it, but....there's no telling it.”
“I told them to have faith. I told them ….” My friend scrunched his eyes to the world. I threw some branches onto the fire.
“I said God is good and merciful and He has a plan, even if we don't understand it,” Chewy said. “I dug graves. So many graves. All part of God's plan.” He dug a wad of tobacco from a pocket and put it into his mouth. “This is His plan?” he roared. “This is it? God asks Abraham to sacrifice Isaac at an altar and demands the blood of the son? Then takes it? That's not the ending I remember. But it's the one I've got. The one we’ve all got.”
Chewy stood and kicked the fire, took another swill from his flask, and grabbed the Bible from its perch on the ruck. “Here's what I think about His plan,” he said. He tossed the blood stained Bible at the fire.