Chapter 38: Casualties of War

Disclaimer: S. Meyer owns Twilight

Jeez, that Metcalf sure knew how to push my buttons, every last one of them. I would bet a fortune that he was the notorious bully of the schoolyard—always pickin' fights or provoking them. I could see now, why Already never mentioned his wife in public. If Bull got wind of it, no tellin' what trash he'd speak about her. He had something nasty to say about anybody and anything. I pity the foolish girl that might marry him, but like Bella said, maybe the right girl could tame the beast. Hooh boy, how I'd love to see that day.

A week went by, and I did my best to keep clear of the jerk, but I was bound to run into him at Mac's retirement party on Saturday. I was not looking forward to it. I was used to Mac; he was steady and reliable, easy to talk to. He always lent an ear when I had a problem to discuss, and he was never one to judge either. He was my rock; I really liked the old guy.

The next time we hopped into our Blackhawk, he bandied about the subject of who I'd be teamed up with next. "You know your two La Push pals are making bets as to who will be sitting in this other seat after I'm gone. Rumor has it that it's Martha, at ten to one."

Ready ... set ... eyeroll. "Oh god, not Martha."

Mac chuckled, and took another couple of chews on his ever-present gum. "You could do worse. Fairfax could pair you up with Bull."

"Bite your tongue, MacKenna. I'd rather be tortured by Iraqis."

"Hey, Scrapper—don't even joke about something like that. It could happen."

"Just kiddin'."

He leaned sideways and lightly thunked me on the helmet with his gloved fist. "Yeah, well this ol' salt couldn't stand it if my adopted son got captured by the enemy. So, stay clear headed, and out of harm's way, you hear? One close call was enough. I nearly went through a whole case of Wrigley's, worrying about you—young whippersnapper."

"Sure, sure, Pops."

"Pops," he grumbled. "He called me, Pops."

I ginned at him. Jeez, I was gonna miss my ol' mentor. He was with me since day one, and every step of the way since.

That Saturday, we were all clustered around Mac, slappin' him on the back, and toasting to his well-earned retirement. When the crowd at the officer's club started to thin out, Mac took me aside. "Didn't you tell me that you live in Washington State?"

"Yeah, right on the coast."

"Well, I'll be ... It looks like I'll be moving there too. My son's living out in Sapho, so maybe I'll see ya sometime."

"That'd be great, Mac."

"I'll look forward to meeting that new bride of yours. Well, I guess this is goodbye then." He shook my hand. "Good luck to you, Scrapper. It's been my pleasure."

I stepped back, snapping to attention, and saluted him. "Sir."

He saluted back, and sauntered out the door.

I was on the tarmac early in the morning, in time to wave as he boarded his plane to return home. From there I went to see Fairfax. God-dammit, he gave me my newly assigned co-pilot—Steve Metcalf. I fumed all the way back to the mess hall.

By the time I got there, I had cooled down some. Then, I even smiled. I bet Bull is pulling his hair out, ha! He hates my guts.

Already patted the seat beside him. "What's the matter with you?"

Setting down my tray, I said, "New co-pilot assigned to me."

"No kidding, already? Man, that was fast. But, please ... tell me it's Martha."

"Sorry, it's not. What's it to you anyway?"

He scooped up a fork full of hash browns, and held it half way to his mouth. "Well, your buddy, Embry gave me great odds. He was sure it was going to be Martha."

"Didn't your momma ever tell you that gambling is a sin?"

"Every Sunday." The potatoes finally made it onto his tongue.

He chewed and swallowed, and pointing his fork at me stated, "You know what I would do if I were you?"

"Enlighten me, already."

"I'd go to his choo choo, and bang out some sort of a contract. Think of it as a peace treaty."

"Yeah, right. Easy for you to say. His fist has never met your face yet."

"That's because I don't antagonize him, like you do."

I arced my head. "Puh-leeze ..."

Dale lightly tapped the bottom rung of my chair with his boot, tippin' it. I grabbed the lip of the table top to avoid toppling over.

He snickered, and smirkin' at me, said, "You feeling all right there, pal?"

"No thanks to you."

Just trying to help. Hoo hoo, gotta keep you on your toes if you're gonna have a Bull fight."

"Jeez, thanks bunches, Dale."

"Hey, what are friends for?"

I did just what the man said. I strolled over to his CHU, and rapped at the door. He stood there in the opening, bare-chested, dressed only in his briefs and a scowl. I'd never seen him out of uniform before, not even in the showers; I always stayed clear of the brute. Hooh boy, the guy was built like a brick wall. I was a pretty big guy myself, a head taller than him in fact, but Bull was massive; even his muscles had muscles, which by the way, he flexed—I'm sure, to intimidate me. Did a good job of it too.

"What the hell do you want, Scrapper?" he snarled.

The first thought that entered my mind was: Please don't hit me—Bella loves this face. It has enough scars mapped across it as it is.

I sucked it up, and proceeded with my mission. "I just came over here to talk to you. Can I come in?"

"No—say what you have to say right here, then leave."

Shifting my weight to my right foot, I chose my words carefully. It was obvious that he knew about Fairfax teamin' us up, and I was not about to antagonize him any further. So, I told Metcalf that we needed to bury the hatchet. "Look, Steve—"

Bull cut me off. "That's Metcalf, to you. Only my friends ..." he hissed through clenched teeth, "... call me Steve."

"Okay, Metcalf, then ... Look, I know we haven't been the best of buds these past few months."

With a menacing glower on his face, he shot back, "No ... really? I'm shocked you would think that."

I tried not to, but a sigh escaped anyhow. "But warm fuzzies aside, we should be one in purpose, working together for the welfare of the other men. Like I told you before, we're officers, and should act as such. And not to worry, we don't have to be buddy-buddy outside of the chopper."

"You got that right. Stay out of my way, if you like the way your nose looks. I promise I won't slug you one when we're in neutral territory."

Looking him in the eye, I put out my hand. "Are we agreed then?"

"I guess, but you're still fair game in the mess hall or anywhere else, for that matter," he grumbled.

He gave me an ugly sneer, as I shook hands with the jerk. I only hoped the treaty would hold, or my last nine weeks would be hell.

Dale and I shot the breeze for a while before he had to take off. Smokey was bangin' on the CHU. "Sheeee-it, youngin', let's git on down the road. I hear there's a war on." That country twang got on our nerves, especially since his voice was like gravel.

Dale grabbed his helmet, and shouted to the old hillbilly. "All right, already. Keep your shirt on. I'm coming."

I met Bull out on the landing field. He had our orders for the day. We got onboard my fav Blackhawk and were on our way to pick up some troops outside of Kirkut. That first run wasn't so bad. Metcalf kept his mouth shut at least.

We'd just gotten back, and I was ready to strip and shower when a runner came from Fairfax' tent with a message for me. "Hey, Scrapper—bad news. Osborne and Stover got shot down. Captain's banking on you, Metcalf, Rigby and Nelson to find him, on the double. They're somewhere out near Nasiriyah."

I booked it to the helo, Bazooka climbed in after me, followed by the crew chief and two gunners. Bull was last to arrive. When we were finally airborne, he turned to me and said, "I'm sorry about Dale. I know you two were pretty tight. I never was too fond of you, but Dale was an alright guy."

Martha and Nelson spotted the wreckage before we did, and all of us noticed a group of Iraqi soldiers nearby. We didn't see any sign of Smokey or Already, so we figured the insurgents probably had them. I radioed Martha, "Scrapper one. Goin in. Give us cover. Over."

"Rigby 4. Check rog. Over and out."

Martha landed close to the dead chopper, and his gunners started firing on the soldiers, laying down cover for us.

I got out and left Bull at the controls, the gunners and Bazooka right behind me. The Iraqis didn't waste any time; the bullets started flying in our direction immediately. The four of us fired back—even Bazooka—and two of their men fell. Then all at once, Smokey and Dale came running toward us; they must've let them go.

They got halfway to our position when several shots rang out. I saw Already hit the dirt, face first. Smokey, on his heels, was the next to crumple.

My medic and I raced to our wounded comrades, keeping low to the ground. I flipped Dale over, holding him in my arms; his breathing was ragged, and blood was bubbling up through the jagged openings in his body. "I knew you'd come, Scrapper," he whispered.

"Shh, don't talk now. You just hold on. I've got to get you on that chopper."

I swiftly dragged him back to our rear position; Cavasos did the same for Smokey. The gunners took up their posts, and began raining bullets on the enemy while Bazooka and I loaded our men onto the Blackhawk. Metcalf didn't wait, and took us up just as another wave of Iraqi troops arrived. Martha was on our tail in the next instant.

Smokey had passed out, while the crew chief applied pressure dressings to his injuries. Cavasos and I were hurriedly attending Dale, who unfortunately was still conscious. I was kneeling beside him when he reached in his pocket and pulled out a letter for his wife. "I know I'm not gonna make it, and I need a favor. Can you give this to Pam for me?"

He reached for me; the letter in his hand. "Please, promise me that you'll do it."

"Don't talk like that. You're gonna give it to her yourself. You havta see that baby of yours."

His voice got weaker. "I don't think that's going to happen. I'm shot to hell, Jake. Now promise me."

"Okay ... I promise."

Dale dropped the envelope. "Here, take it." He sighed, and then winced with pain. Cavasos was quick to give him a dose of morphine.

"Nine weeks, only nine more to go."

He let out a short laugh, and stated to cough, red fluid dripping from his lips. "An ass and trash run—a stupid ass and trash run."

I couldn't hear what he said next, so I leaned my head down; my ear to his mouth. "Take care of that new bride of yours, huh ... Cherish her, and keep her close. I love you, Scrapper ... it's been ..."

"It's been what, Dale? Dale ...?" There was no answer. I pulled away, and saw that his light blue eyes were staring and glassy. "Bazooka," I shouted. "Help me!"

His heart beat was absent. I started CPR, but Cavasos stopped me. "He's gone, Scrapper. That's not going to bring him back. He's lost too much blood. I'm sorry."

I sat back heavily. I couldn't believe it. Already was gone! I absentmindedly slipped the letter in my pocket, and scooted closer. Drawing his head and shoulders onto my lap, I lifted him up, cradling Dale in my arms, and rocked him gently. "I love you too, buddy," I murmured.