Chapter 13: The Black Scrapper

Disclaimer: S. Meyer owns Twilight. This one's for Anto, and leelator.

A/N: This chapter will wrap things up as to Jake's experiences in Iraq. To do that, I have expressly left out any references to Bella's life at home. We all know that she's isolated herself from friends, and basically her world is school and her child. So, let's visit Jake in Iraq, as he will be going home shortly. How's that leelator?

PS: As usual, the glossary is at the end of this chapter.

Warning: Wartime violence is depicted in this chapter along witha single reference to body mutilation that some sensitive readers might find offensive.

Already and I were exhausted; we'd been flying non-stop now for over twenty-four hours. We'd come back from one mission; get to sleep for half an hour just to get roused again to go out one more time. I was so delirious, that I went into dangerous situations with no fear whatsoever. One of our tasks that day was to extract the wounded from Nasiriya. Mac and I were in an Apache to protect what was left of our troops at Ambush Alley.

Our infantry had been given intel that the city had capitulated (surrendered). Someone should have told the residents. There were mines everywhere, and not the IEDs, but EEPs which were more sophisticated and really packed a wallop.

Quil told me later that there was a girl that stood outside a home, and every time she went inside, someone in the house fired at them. Ambush Alley was just that, so the Warthogs were sent and lit up the place. As usual, someone messed up and it was a déjà vu of my first mission. The troops were strafed not once but twice. One of the GIs ran with an American flag to signal them but I guess the Air Force thought it was another Iraqi trick.

There was a house that the guys were told to secure. Everything seemed okay, until someone tripped a wire inside the building that set off an EEP. The whole house imploded. The roof came down on their heads, and the walls were reduced to rubble. Embry and Quil helped retrieve bodies. Embry said he pulled one guy from the wreckage, and in doing so, the soldier's torso came away from the bottom portion of his body. That really shook him up. The helos were literally being loaded with body parts. The work of extraction was pretty grim.

Most of the wounded and dead were on board the helos, but there was one soldier left in that hot spot. The helos were packed with no more room on board. Mac and I hovered over the area, our Hellfire missiles ready to launch. Already radioed, me, "Scrapper Two, LZ hot. Oscar Mike—already. Over."

I couldn't believe they were taking off and leaving that guy on the ground. "Scrapper One. Copy that. Negative. I'm goin' in. Over."

"Scrapper Two. Say again. Over."

"Scrapper One. Check Rog. I'm goin' in. Over and Out."

"Scrapper Two. Roger, it's your funeral. You are one crazy Quileute. Out"

Mac nearly swallowed his gum. "What the hell, Scrapper? We can't take any passengers, you know that."

I had an idea. I grinned at the ol' salt and said, "We can if I'm not on board."

The Apache was a two seater, the pilots sat in tandem, but there were mount points outside the shell where equipment or a person could be strapped securely. It wasn't done very often, but that guy's life depended on it. I was not gonna let him lay there bleeding on the ground, waiting to die.

Mac rolled his eyes. "Young whippersnapper," he growled.

We set the Apache down, and I hopped through the door, yelling for the grunts to put the man in the copilot seat. Mac got out on the other side and strapped me to the ship's hull. I trusted Mac to get me back in one piece.

He flew the Apache at a lower speed despite the bombardment of the AKs. The grunts were firing back, giving us cover. As we lifted from the LZ, I heard the GIs cheering.

When we landed at Anaconda, the hospital staff greeted us, and unloaded our very grateful guest. I heard that he made it. Some of the others weren't as lucky.

Mac untied me. Between the snapping and popping of his gum, he told me, "Son, you about gave me a heart attack. I was ready to hug my horses. Now, get back where you belong." Then he clapped me on the shoulder. "Quite a stunt you pulled, but I gotta hand it to you. Ya' got guts, kid."

The next day, when we were finally able to crash (and burn from the incredible heat), Already was sitting on his cot. There was a scorpion skittering toward his bare feet.

"Don't move," I whispered, holding my trusty .45. There's a sneaky scorpion about to sting you."

His eyes bugged out of his head as he saw the gun trained in his direction. "Hold on—are you out of your mind? You can't even see straight," he yelped in alarm.

"Hey, I can shoot the eye out of a crow a mile away." I weaved the gun around erratically.

Closing his eyes, Already winced, waiting for the stray bullet to shoot through his foot. I ran over and squashed the creepy little bug with my combat boot.

"Open your eyes, Dale, I was just kiddin'. The gun isn't even loaded."

He rocked back onto the cot relieved, his head hitting the pillow with a thud.

"Just wait, pal. Just wait," he threatened.

To say we slept like the dead was a gross understatement. Nothing could have awakened either one of us.

Already woke up before I did, and I saw him sitting at the table scribbling away in his journal. As I moved to sit up, he wrote something in big letters on one of the pages, and put it beneath our artificial holiday tree. He was standing in front of the thing, staring at a picture of Pam. It was only two weeks away, and we had a few packages under the three footer. His wife had sent us some decorations to cover the branches, and some presents to put under it. My dad had sent me some gifts too. I knew it wouldn't be much, but I really didn't care about that. It was a reminder of home, and gave me a happy feeling.

On the other hand, Already was gettin' teary-eyed, thinking about his wife and unborn child.

"Cheer up," I joked, "you still got me."

"Yeah, well, you don't do anything for me. And Pam's a lot prettier."

Already was called out to deliver some grunts to another hot spot, while Mac and I scouted out an area where the Iraqi artillery was hiding. I got back and learned that Already's helo got shot down. I volunteered Mac and me to find him. Bazooka went with us.

We found the wrecked Black Hawk easily, and then spotted Already, and Smokey nearby. Dale's red hair caught my eye. They were lying naked on the ground, covered in blood, their severed heads set up on pikes. The enemy had shoved Smokey's ever present cigar between his teeth in one final grotesque gesture. Already's body was sun scorched, and the two of them had the head of their penis' cut off. I threw up what was left of my breakfast, then collapsed on the ground, crying. I couldn't stop.

Bazooka and Mac took their heads down off the pikes, and loaded their bodies into the helo. Trying his best to calm me, Bazooka spoke softly. "C'mon, Scrapper, they're gone. There's nothing we can do but to honor their memories." He held me in his arms until I could find the strength to move.

Mac did most of the flying to Anaconda; I was useless at that point. By the time the body bags were zipped up though, I had stopped crying. I was now madder than hell. I was gonna live up to my nickname, god dammit!

That night, I pushed myself to gather up Already's personal effects. I was removing the gifts from Pam to send home to her and knocked his journal off the small table where the tree sat. Picking up the journal, I started to read about our time together, what he thought about his war experiences, and most of all, his devotion to his wife. The last page, he had written that very morning. I read the big letters in his scrawl. They practically jumped off the page, starting up my tears again. "Call Pam tonight."

Christmas day was bittersweet. I unwrapped a box full of different brands of chewing gum from Mac. My dad sent me some stationary, envelopes and stamps—I guess he was trying to tell me something. Quil, Embry and I had made a pact not to exchange gifts. We would send the money we would've spent on gifts for ourselves, home to our families.

I had sent Dale's presents for me to his wife, Pam; I didn't have the heart to open them. I did keep a framed picture he gave me though. It was a picture of the two of us in front of our beloved helos. I didn't want to forget him. Last of all, I tore the paper off my gift from Pam. It was a dream catcher; the sight brought tears to my eyes once more.

After Christmas, I got a new roommate—well an old roommate actually. I was saddled with Martha again. I didn't mind so much this time; he had mellowed some.

Ten months went by, and I had to admit, my life was definitely not boring. After leaving here, I wouldn't be afraid of goin' to hell, 'cuz, let's face it the heat was untolerable, there were bugs that interrupted my sleep—when I finally got some— and there was enemy artillery goin' night and day. Rockets and mortars made their way over the HESCOs. It was a wonder none of them landed on my head. Jeez, there were even occasional firefights right at the gates. And that my friends, was my harbor in the desert storm.

When I left the shelter of the HESCOs at Warhorse, there were people waiting and determined to blow me and the other pilots out of the sky. I was getting so jaded that I didn't care anymore if I got shot at or not, and as a result, I had quite a few scars as mementoes. Things were heating up all around us; it seemed like it would never quit.

So on another rotten day, we landed in a hot LZ, but then when were these zones ever actually secured? We were picking up the mounting casualties again outside Falujah—under fire, what else. As usual there were not enough helos to fit all the wounded. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted two tall dark men walking toward the helos, holding up a sagging man. They were too late. The sh** was coming in from all directions. Mac and I were in our Apache Longbow firing off missiles right and left. Who knows if it did any good?

A man emerged from a tumbled down house with a shoulder held RPG (a Rocket Propelled Grenade Launcher), walking toward the LZ. Those babies could literally put an end to my flying permanently. The helos still on the ground were obviously antsy about the RPG and were ready to take off. They could get lit up at any moment. We couldn't fire at this guy, he was too close to the grunts, and he seemingly was impervious to their bullets, the lucky devil. I was so tired of this freakin'sh**!

"Scrapper One. I'm bringin' in that wounded guy. Over."

"Scrapper Three—Negative. Oscar Mike, Scrapper One. Over." It was Metcalf.

"Scrapper One. Charlie Mike. I'm goin ."

"Scrapper Three. Copy that. Break. Over."

The commander was now on the radio. "3-6 Actual. Oscar Mike, Scrapper One. Do you copy? Over."

"Scrapper One. Check Rog. I'm goin in. Over and out."

"3-6 Actual. Negative, negative—" I turned off my radio.

Mac grabbed my hand as I swooped down. "I can't let you do this. Do you have a death wish? This is plain suicide."

I looked him straight in the eye. "Trust me, Mac. When this bird hovers, get out, and run for Metcalf's ship. I'll take it from here."

Mac left the suicide mission and hopped on board Metcalf's Black Hawk. The helo spun out like a bat outta hell. I turned the radio back on, I was gonna need it. I heard it crackling, and made out, "Way to go Scrapper…. That is one Crazy Indian …. They should rename the Apache, The Quileute…."

The man with the RPG got in close range. The GIs were pouring it on him, and his aim was off—weaving to dodge the fire. He still narrowly missed my baby. The Apache was in autopilot as I ran to help the man the two soldiers were dragging along. Scanning their faces, I recognized Esau and Embry. The wounded GI was none other than Quil. I lifted him up in a fireman's carry and zigzagged back to my helo, laying him down on the deck. Once I got behind the controls, I veered away sharply, heading toward Anaconda. When the Longbow reached 11,000 feet, I turned it over to autopilot again, and let it hover while I put a pressure dressing on Quil's gut wound.

"Hey," he said, smiling. "You're such a show off, ya' know that?"

Grinning back at him, I answered, "Yeah, and you're one lucky SOB."

As soon as I landed back at Warhorse, I got called on the carpet for my reckless behavior. Captain Fairfax—aka, 3-6 Actual—stood in front of me, shouting, but I could see that he was having difficulty suppressing a smile. "Do you realize you put the whole entire mission in jeopardy? Pilots could have been killed, yourself included—not to mention the loss of that damn Longbow."

He let out an exasperated sigh. "So, you got your buddy to the hospital in time, huh?" He looked away for a minute, then back at me. "Okay, look … No more stunts like that one, Black." Then he gave me a fist bump. "Way to go, Scrapper. I'm proud of you, son. Now go get some chow."

We saluted each other; I executed an about face sharply and walked to the mess hall.

As I entered the building, several of the 1st CAV nudged each other. One of them yelled, "Woo hoo, The Black Scrapper has returned, unscathed."

There was a smattering of applause and some of the grunts looked around wondering what was goin' on. I was too tired to care. I grabbed some grub and sat down to eat.

The next time I got to my assigned Black Hawk, I noticed that someone had painted the words, Black Scrapper on the hull. When did they find the time—and the paint?

I had been to see Quil for a few visits. He was still recovering from a bad belly wound. The surgeon told him he would've been a dead man if he had to wait for another dust off to show up. The silver lining to this was Embry had been a frequent visitor and hit it off with one of the nurses. He was in love. He tried without success to double date with me, but I just couldn't do it. I was still grieving over Dale. Besides, my date would have been the same girl I mistook for Bella, and I was already in enough pain. Esau happily went with her in my stead.

Quil got out of the hospital the following week. The idiot had a free ticket home, but he wouldn't take it. He didn't want to break up the (now) foursome. So he was back on the line a bout a month later.

Every day was more of the same; explosions, uncertainty, fighting an enemy with no battle front and no real face. They had no uniforms to signify who they were. The enemy could be anyone, anywhere. And he was—scattered all over the Iraqi terrain. The Iraqi civilians were just as troubled by them as we were.

Mac had retired while he still could, and I got recently teamed with Bull Metcalf. We had made an uneasy truce, setting our differences aside and directing our animosity to our mutual enemy. And, so one morning, Bull and I were finished dropping off the troops—just a typical ass and trash run.

We were flying fast and low when out of the blue, an RPG hit us broadside, cutting the fuel line, and damaging the electrical system. The sparks flew in all directions; the live wires snapping and crackling. We were going down fast. I looked over at Bull—he had taken a hit to the side of his face. He was crumpled behind his controls, dead. This was it, I was going to die too. Somehow, I was resigned to my fate; I felt a calm wash over me. Reaching over quickly I grabbed my radio; amazingly it was operational. I radioed Martha who had taken off just before me. I didn't want those bastards to desecrate our bodies or remove them from the site. My dad deserved to have my remains in a body bag at least.

"Scrapper One. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! I've been hit. I'm goin' down. Bull is dead. I repeat, Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! Over. Out."

The helo dropped like a rock. An Iraqi somehow got a hold of a 50 mm gun; my rotors his target. I hurriedly unstrapped my harness, ready to jump, when we got to about ten feet. Tumbling out of the careening vehicle, I hit the dirt, twisting my ankle, prior to a tuck and roll. Damn, I could feel the freakin'metal plates slipping inside my chest armor too. Just when I needed it the most.

There was little cover aside from a few bushes and a low crumbling wall, but I had to get away from the hurtling machine. I hobbled, trying desperately to avoid the impending crash. As I moved toward the wall, I got hit—three times in my right leg and thigh. Then one pierced my shoulder near my neck, another just behind my shoulder, and damn it all, my left lung where the plate had slipped. The next thing I knew, the Black Hawk exploded on impact, orange flames engulfing it along with thick black smoke.

The blood was pouring out of the wound at my neck, and I couldn't breathe. I stopped in my tracks as another bullet thudded, then ricocheted off my chest armor; the force of it knocking me to the ground. I put my hand over my neck attempting to stanch the flow of blood, but I felt my eyes getting gradually dimmer. I expected the insurgents to pounce on me at any minute, but it didn't happen. I almost wished it had; I would rather die quickly.

I was lying there in a pool of blood waiting around for death to take me away. I didn't fear death, but it was hard knowing I would die alone in the desert, far away from my home and loved ones.

I don't remember how long I lay there, but I had the stupid thought that I wanted someone to remove my armor. The crushing weight was unbearable. It was pressing down on my lungs which were screaming for air, and hurt like hell with every gasping breath I took. Then my thoughts invariably turned to Bella, the only other woman I truly loved besides my mother. I swore to myself that if I got out of this alive I would find her again, if nothing else but to get some closure.

My life was ebbing away, my eyes beginning to close, when I heard the rotors of a helo in the distance. A few minutes later, Quil, Embry, Esau and several other grunts were at my side. My two best friends supported me as I tried to walk, but my knees buckled, I was so weak. So, Bazooka brought out a litter to carry me. Some of the GIs went to the wreckage and retrieved the charred remains of Metcalf and loaded his body on board. It was a tough assignment as the vehicle was smoking, the flames still burning in places.

Inside the helo, the first thing I said was, "I can't breathe, guys. Will someone please get this freakin' armor off of me?"

The armor was gone in a flash, and my uniform top was cut off with scissors. Embry applied a dressing to my neck while Bazooka started an IV infusion. The rest was a blur. I guess I must've passed out, 'cuz when I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. A blood transfusion was dripping into a vein in my arm, and there was a tube hanging out of the side of my chest. A hose was attached to it and a little plastic suitcase to collect the blood. The doc said my lung had collapsed, so I had to keep the container with me until it re-expanded.

For several nights I had a recurring nightmare—not the usual type that vets suffering from PTSD got. It was this dream that I was picking up dead bodies at an LZ. One of the bodies was a familiar little brunette. As I pulled her from the pile, I looked into her lifeless eyes. The sight would always bring me to my knees. At that point, I would wake up in a cold sweat, panting in agony. I had to see her after I got home; that's all there was to it. I had to make sure she was all right. Jeez, it was hopeless; I was lying to myself. I wanted in the worst way to see if she could possibly love me like I loved her—like I still loved her.

Sometimes I felt the pain from my heart was worse than any of my injuries. It was a funny thing—having my heart broken was like lying here with a cracked rib. It looked fine on the outside, but with every single breath I took, the pain was excruciating.

The story of my rescue came in bits and pieces from several people. It turned out that Martha went back to the same LZ and asked for volunteers to come get me. My three buddies jumped at the chance along with Bazooka, who was serving as their medic. I definitely would no longer feel annoyed with Martha.

In three weeks, I was back inside my Choo choo, but I was grounded for six more damn weeks. I was relegated to teaching the fresh cherries about the different modifications of all the helos. There were bets goin' on that I wouldn't ever pilot a helo again after that scare. Hooh boy, were they wrong. As soon as the doc gave me clearance, I was sailing into the blue once more. I was a Quileute warrior; nothing was gonna stop me from doin' my duty. I owed it to my people, my country and my deceased comrade, Already.

The day arrived when Quil, Embry and I were on a troop carrier on the way back to Washington. There was a big celebration the night of our arrival, but truthfully, I just wanted to sleep. My friends and acquaintances oohed and aahed over all the decorations I'd been given. I didn't care about them much, I put them in a box for my dad. Maybe some day I'd take them out and show them to my children if I ever had any.

True to his word, Quil was mobbed by the girls and he was not shy about showing off his battle scars to impress them. Embry on the other hand was patiently waiting for his nurse to come home to Oregon—only one state away, the lucky dog. He was saving up for a ring in the meantime. And me? I wasn't interested in any of these girls. My head was here, but my heart was away in the Southwest, the Grand Canyon state.

Two weeks after arriving, I got a notice of a special training session at Fort Huachuca, Arizona. I was invited to go and share my expertise with some new troops. What a coincidence, I was planning a trip to that neck of the woods anyway. I decided to visit Pam while I was there. She was living in Mesa, Arizona, with her sister. Since I would be in the vicinity, I would pay a visit to the little brown-eyed girl that left my heart in such a sorry state also. Maria had given me her address and wished me luck.

I bummed a ride with a military plane heading to Phoenix, and from there to Davis Monthan AFB. An Air Force shuttle took me the rest of the way to the base.

. . . . .

The following week, after the training ended, I hitch-hiked from Phoenix to see the wife of my buddy. A small, pretty woman with ash-blonde hair opened the door as I stood behind the threshold. Pam looked just like Already described her. She recognized me from photos he had sent her, and smiled. "Oh. My. God. You're Jacob Black—come on in."

We were talking for quite a while over some herbal tea, when her baby started to cry. She got up to get the child out of the crib in the next room, and handed her to me. The kid had big blue eyes and copper curls all over her head. I grinned at the wiggling toddler, and shook my head.

She was a cute little thing. I rumpled her curly locks. "Red hair, just like her daddy."

I glanced over at Pam. "I'd like to have children of my own someday, even if I have to adopt a couple of them."

Pam stood up suddenly. "Oh, before I forget, I have something for you."

She came back to the kitchen table and laid out the Christmas presents I had sent back to her. She took the baby from me. "Go ahead, open them. He got them for you."

One of the gift-wrapped containers was a box of red hair dye. I started to laugh, and Pam looked at me quizzically.

"Inside joke," I told her. "I guess you had to be there."

The second was a dog tag he had made up for me so I could wear it along with my own. I picked it up, attaching the tiny chain to the longer one around my neck. Suddenly, I felt like it was time to go. I didn't want to get all misty-eyed in front of her, so I stood up, turning in the direction of the front door.

I had some copies done of the pictures of Dale and me, and the one in front of the Black Hawks. I reached into my rucksack and handed two sets of them to Pam.

"One set for you; one for your mom."

Pam took them from me, gazing at the likenesses. "Thank you for coming," she said, and started to cry.

I held her, rubbing soothing circles on her back. Whispering, I assured her, "You know, he really did love you."

I winked at her. "Goodbye, Pam. You take care of yourself and that little one now, you hear."

Letting go of her, I stepped back and gave her a salute and cut. She returned the salute, and smiling through her tears, closed the door.

Walking a good while, I agonized over what I would actually say to Bella when I got to her home. Then, I thought to myself, Screw it. I'll just let my heart do the talking for me.

From Mesa, I thumbed a ride to Tempe. Surprisingly, I had no trouble finding the Swan residence. I walked up the path leading to the house and stood outside the entrance, hesitating. Was I doin' the right thing? What if she didn't want to see me? I pushed all those thoughts aside, took a deep breath and rang the buzzer.

An angel with long wavy hair the color of mahogany came to the door. At first she seemed oblivious, not really paying attention to me. Then as she tipped her face up past my chest, her chocolate eyes grew wider, reminding me of an innocent doe. My pulse quickened at the sight of her. My god, she hadn't changed a bit; she was still as beautiful as ever. We stared at each other for a minute, not uttering a sound, and I knew then that she realized who I was. I heard a rustling noise and a small boy, who looked about two years old, ran up to her, pulling on the leg of her jeans. She lifted him, setting him on her hip.

Nodding her head, she addressed me in a feather-soft voice, "Jacob."

Without thinking, the familiar words just tumbled out of my mouth. "Hi, Beautiful."

The boy smiled at me, and that smile already had me under his spell. Leaning down, I took his little hand, shaking it, then looked back up into Bella's solemn dark eyes. I asked the inevitable, "Yours?"

She glanced down, averting her eyes from mine. "Yes." It came out almost as a whimper.

I guess I should've realized that she'd be married by now. I sighed, feeling crushed. It was my turn to look away, so she wouldn't see the disappointment reflected in my face.

"You're married then."

Fiddling nervously with a stray lock of hair, she smoothed it behind her ear and answered quietly, "No."

I trained my gaze back to her; our eyes locking again. "You didn't marry the father of your child?"

She seemed to be having trouble getting the next words out. "I couldn't, Jacob."

Now I was really confused. She had a child but refused to marry his father. I couldn't fathom it. What happened? "I don't understand, why the hell not?"

She peered into my eyes as the tears started to form. "I couldn't marry one man, when I was still hopelessly in love with another."

I exhaled sharply, and in a more aggressive tone, blurted, "That's it, Bells. We've gotta talk. Can I come in?"

Glossary:

Ambush Alley: This was an actual area that was crawling with insurgents

Warthog: A super fast Air Force jet (A-10 Thunderbolt) equipped with missiles to take out armored vehicles, etc.

IED: Improvised Explosive Devices that detonate remotely. These were generally homemade.

EEP: Explosively Formed Projectile. These were made in Iran, professionally. They spewed molten copper that could pierce most armor.

Check Rog: I understand your message.

Oscar Mike: Let's go, we're finished here.
Hug your Horses: A phrase used by the 1st CAV. They had horse emblems on both shoulder sleeves of their uniforms. When they were in a tough situation, they would "Hug their Horses!" and continue bravely into the fray.

LZ: Landing zone.

Mayday: A distress radio call used by aviators and seamen, signifying a life threatening situation. It is repeated three times. It derives from the French, venez m'aider, meaning come help me.

3-6 Actual: Call sign of the commander. Whenever Actual is spoken after the call sign, it is the commander on the mike.

Scrapper One: Jake's call sign; denoting which pilot is speaking, before receiving or transmitting a message.

Break: Hold on, I'm getting info for you or someone to talk to you.

Charlie Mike: I'm continuing the mission.

Ass and trash run: Carrying troops or equipment from one place to another.

PTSD: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

Salute and cut: A fast, crisp salute as opposed to one that is held and dropped slowly at a funeral.