© November 1997

Offered with love to our Veterans and their families

I woke up when the mattress shifted, not entirely certain I'd been asleep. When my eyes could focus I wasn't surprised to see Jim sitting on his edge of the bed, head bowed, body tight with tension. I debated with myself for a minute, all my instincts crying out to go to him and hold him, memories of earlier in the evening holding me back. He'd been snappish all afternoon and all night; when we finally went to bed we'd slept apart, lying separate in the stillness. 

I couldn't stay back and let him hurt. To go to him, hold him, help him…it defines who I am. I can ignore that about as well as I can ignore the need to breathe. 

I edged over to him and slid an arm around his waist, pressed my cheek to his back. His skin was hot, almost feverish, but I knew he wasn't sick. Aching, hurting...but not sick. 

"What's wrong, Jim?" Though I spoke quietly my voice seemed almost out of place; loud and shrill in the silence. At first I thought he wasn't going to answer me, he took so long. Then his voice cut through the air, rough and husky with unspoken pain. 

"Do you know what today is?" 

"November eleventh," I answered, cautiously. "Why?" 

"November eleventh...Veterans day." 

"Oh." I shifted upward and leaned against him, wrapping my arms around him from behind. He tensed for a moment, then relaxed into my embrace. I laced the fingers of one hand through his and used the other to gently rub his chest, trying to impart a little comfort. "It bothers you? Veterans day?" 

"Yeah." More an explosion of pent-up breath than a word, and I winced a little at the pain I heard there. 

"Why?" He shrugged, the motion rough against me. "C'mon, Jim. Talk to me." I knew what Veterans day was. You could hardly live in the United States and not know. A day to honor our country's veterans and those fallen in battle and duty. "You want to go to the services today?" The local chapters of the veteran's organizations held services every year at the veteran's cemetary; in the years I'd known Jim he'd never gone...but maybe he wanted to change that now. 

"I can't." 

"Why not?" 

"Because I let them down. I let all of them down." 

He was silent again, body tight under my hands. I squeezed the hand I held. "Who did you let down, Jim?" 

"The men in my crew...Sandburg, I can't talk about this right now, okay?" 

I drew away, heart aching for him. Still carrying that guilt after all these years. "I'm here, if you need me, Jim." 

He got off the bed and stood there looking at me for a long, long time. Finally he leaned forward and kissed me. "I know, Chief. I'm sorry. I'm gonna…go downstairs for a little while." 

"I love you." 

"I love you, too." He brushed another kiss across my forehead, then headed down the stairs. I laid back down and pulled the covers up, tried to go back to sleep in the void left by his absence. 

******************** 

I must have dozed off eventually, because it was daylight when I woke up again. Not the full daylight of a nice kind of day, but the weak daylight you get when the sun is trying its best to shine through clouds. Welcome to late autumn in the pacific northwest. 

Jim was stretched out on the couch when I padded downstairs, his legs crossed at the ankles, TV remote in his hand. 

"Hey," he smiled. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but he was trying. 

"Hey yourself," I leaned over the couch and kissed him, then headed for the kitchen. "Coffee made?" 

"Yeah, but it's a couple of hours old now. You might want to make some fresh." 

I did. I made breakfast too…put some muffins in to bake for us. "Want to talk now?" I asked, settling next to him on the couch. He drew his legs up to make room for me. 

"Not really." 

I leveled a look at him. "Whatever it is, its making you miserable, Jim. Talking about stuff usually makes it better. At least, eventually." 

"I thought your doctorate was in anthropology?" He gave me a glare over his coffee cup, but it was a low-level one, which was my cue to push a little harder. 

"I minored," I tried smiling at him and saw the resultant warmth spread across his face. 

"C'mere," he said, setting his cup on the table. I moved over next to him and took the hand he offered. "I've had a... problem...with Veterans Day since I got back...from Peru." He spoke the last word very softly. So softly I wasn't certain at first I;d heard it. "I know...I know here," he tapped his head, "that the...chopper crash...wasn't my fault; I know I did all I could do. But in here," he tapped his chest, "that's not good enough. It still feels like my fault." 

A shudder tore through him then and I let go of his hand to pull him into my arms. He shivered and shuddered, but didn't say anything else. I spoke quietly into his neck, where my cheek was resting. "Tell me about them," I said. "Make them alive again." 

"What?" 

"Honor their memory; honor them. Tell me about them and make me see them." 

He shuddered again, then began to talk, quietly at first, his voice gaining strength as he spoke. He told me about Mendoza, the twenty-year old rookie on his team, who had a fiancée who couldn't know how he died. Hutchinson, the lieutenant who'd been his right hand from the time he assembled his team. Cooper, his communications man. Marcelle, his weapons expert. Batriste, a friend who'd been in basic training with him. Gunnison, who'd given up field training to be on Jim's team. Max Spiner who'd been first a good friend, then his lover, who'd died in his arms three days after the crash. 

Both our faces were wet when he was done talking. I held him tightly as the sobs ripped through him, my own heart breaking for him, but determined to be as strong as he needed me to be. 

When the storm eased somewhat I drew back cautiously, eyes searching his face. He looked worn out, his normally vibrant eyes dull.  

"It still hurts, Chief," he said, whispers of a sob lingering in his voice. 

"I know it does," I whispered, drawing him close again. "It will for a while. But you needed to get that out. They're at peace now, Jim...and now you need to let go and do the same thing." 

"I try," he started, hesitating. "I know that I'm not to blame, but it was my operation...I should have...I don't know how to heal. I don't know what to do." 

"Why don't you go to the ceremony today? Maybe that would help." 

He shook his head. "Only two are buried here," he began. 

"Then that's two you can pay your respects to. Who's here?" 

"Batriste…and Max," he whispered the name and I sighed. 

"Jim, it's okay. I don't begrudge you the lovers you had before us. I know that makes it that much harder to do...but, man, you owe them this. You owe yourself this." 

"I'll think about it," he said quietly, moving out of my arms to stand up. I watched him go back upstairs, respecting his need for privacy now. 

******************** 

I wasn't surprised when he came back down the stairs a couple of hours later; what *did* surprise me was that he was dressed in full Army dress uniform. The dress uniform of an Army ranger. He cut an impressive and imposing figure in the greens I didn't know he still had; black beret placed cockily on his head, rank and crest shining. 

"Jim?" 

"I'm going to go," he said, his voice still hesitant. "Will you come with me?" 

"Do you really need to ask?" 

He shook his head. "Get dressed then." 

I rushed through my shower and dressing. Each time I checked he was still sitting stiffly at the table, staring into nothingness. We left about thirty minutes after he had come downstairs. 

The drive to the cemetery was quiet. I didn't know what to say and he obviously didn't *want* to talk, so I left it alone. I've learned over the years that its sometimes better to let Jim have the quiet he needs than to push it just to fill a void. 

The memorial service had already started, but Jim didn't head toward the small crowd. Instead, he veered off to the right, picking his way through the small, white headstones. I followed at a discreet distance, there for support, but not really a part of this. 

We stopped at a small headstone that looked no different from the others, and he turned to me. "Here," he whispered. I nodded and stepped back a couple of steps. He knelt next to the headstone for several long minutes, his lips moving. I didn't even try to listen; whatever he was saying was sure to be intensely private. 

The rain had started again shortly after we got there, and I found it oddly fitting that the heavens would cry with him and for him during this. Jim had just climbed to his feet and was looking around when the low, mournful sound of a single trumpet broke through the air. He looked back at me briefly, then turned around and snapped to attention. 

We stood there in the rain, with the hauntingly beautiful sounds of Taps flowing around us, a single salute offered in love and memory for those who'd given everything. 

~finis~

Mickey M.

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