The Grim ReaperChapter 27: Returning Home free porn video

June 2004 - August 2004

Word came down from Battalion that the rest of Second Brigade would be deploying to Iraq soon. It was expected that they would show up sometime in July, but no dates were available. What they would do then was not known, or at least not known to us down at Camp Custer. Where exactly they would be positioned wasn’t known or might change before they got here. However, one interesting tidbit came out. Fourth of the Fourth was going to get some leave. Over the next few months everybody would be able to begin taking some leave. We had been in Iraq by then for almost six months, with no end in sight, and we were overdue.

The prospect of getting away from Camp Custer for a couple of weeks was intoxicating! It was all anybody could talk about! There hadn’t been any leaves since September 2003, eight months, and we were going stir crazy. Just about everybody had three weeks leave built up and a few even had four weeks on the books, but the only way to get out of here was to get shot or blown up. As nutty as we were becoming, nobody wanted a vacation that way! Hell, even a week at Camp Victory looked appealing to us at that point.

In the meantime, we still had our jobs to do. Dush-el-Kebir had settled down to a certain extent. Over the next few weeks, the battalion kicked in a bunch of doors and questioned people as to what happened during what had now become known simply as ‘The Attack.’ A bunch of people were grabbed and hauled in zip-ties off to Baghdad for questioning. I have no idea if that was useful or if any meaningful intelligence was gathered. One thing that the ground-pounders in the platoon pointed out to the Intelligence people was that the targeting of the compound was too precise to be random fire. The Iraqi unit with the mortars was too good and had taken out key elements of the defense too quickly. The observation post, the roof of the command post, and the vehicle park had all been hit, almost simultaneously, and with a high degree of accuracy. To most of us, that meant two things. These guys had practiced ahead of time, probably someplace away from the front lines, and they had detailed knowledge of our positions. Mortars were an indirect fire weapon, since their high trajectory allowed them to fire over intervening buildings, but they were much more accurate when fired line-of-sight. That was the case with the mortars and machine guns I had taken on directly, but at least some of them had managed to fire indirectly. The vehicle park, in particular, was not in line-of-sight from outside the wall, but it had been hammered. Everything about the mortar and machine gun attack spoke of professional training.

That theory was bolstered when Ali the ‘Terp disappeared the day after the attack. Since his head was not found the next day on a spike in the middle of the road, we were forced to conclude that Ali had been spying for the insurgents all along. Tremendous! It wasn’t like we trusted the Iraqi Army to begin with, but now we couldn’t even trust the ‘trusted’ Iraqis. Battalion sent us a new interpreter, Ali Two, but nobody trusted the guy in the least. Some of the guys began speaking Spanish when he was around them, because he didn’t speak Spanish. My Spanish was rusty, being limited to a couple years of high school Spanish, but I was able to follow along, sort of. If Ali Two did speak Spanish, he was the world’s greatest actor and spy, because what was said about him would have gotten a rise out of a rock!

By the beginning of June, we were back to our regular jobs, mostly. It was like Riley said, we were back to being smiling little yellow ducks in the arcade. Everybody likes to shoot, but nobody ever asks the smiling little yellow ducks their opinions. I ended up with a sprained ankle the second week of June when the Humvee I was riding in hit a buried mortar shell while doing convoy escort on a supply convoy. It simply shredded the tire and axle assembly, and kicked us up and sideways violently, but that was it. On the inside we got bounced around violently, but it only delayed us long enough to stop, rig up a tow, and switch to other vehicles as passengers. We were pretty used to that by then and had it down pat.

I swear, I’d rather go through another attack than ride around in a convoy acting as human bait. At least during an attack, I could fire back. Who do you shoot when your vehicle blows up? It’s kind of tough on the smiling little yellow ducks, though. A guy from Third Squad lost an arm to an IED hit at the end of June.

By the end of June, more details were coming in about the rest of the Brigade. They were mostly going to be stationed in the Baghdad area and west, reinforcing the area we were already in. It was also definite; the Raging Vipers were getting some leave.

I heard from both Kelly and my parents that hardly anybody back home was amused by my story about driving a truck in Baghdad, though Grandpa had gotten a real chuckle out of it. Then again, he had actually driven a truck during Vietnam, so I guess he was allowed to laugh. It was questionable which of my sins was worse, that I had lied to them about not being in any danger, or that I had managed to get my ass shot off. On the plus side, if my mother was yelling at me, I guess she wasn’t crying.

Mom and Dad, both told me that they had heard from somebody in the Army’s Public Affairs Office, and I was getting the Silver Star. The Army was scheduling a big ceremony at Camp Victory when the Brigade arrived in July. The Silver Star was one of the bigger medals they handed out. The only ones bigger were the Distinguished Service Cross and the Medal of Honor, and the odds were pretty good you wouldn’t be around to receive either one, since most were handed out posthumously. In any case, it was decided that Turner and I would be presented with our awards at a Brigade ceremony at Camp Victory, with ‘representative units’ in attendance from Fourth of the Fourth. At least one fire team or squad would be brought in from all the little fortifications.

Riley Fox opined that since I was a member of Alpha Team, it only made sense that the rest of the team should attend, and Lieutenant Briscoe signed off on that. Privately, Riley and the others told me that seeing me get a medal was almost interesting, but vastly more important was the chance to get to Camp Victory. Not only wouldn’t you get shot at, but they had a Post Exchange and places that you could bathe and get decent food. There were even supposed to be American fast-food joints there! Riley began taking down wish lists from everybody around the place, and promising to return with bulging duffle bags, for only a ‘nominal’ shipping and handling charge. Riley Fox planned to make a profit off the war!

By the end of June, the details began to be known. In July, the rest of the Brigade would deploy to Kuwait and then convoy to Baghdad, much as we had done in December. They would arrive in Camp Victory and be assembled Wednesday, July 20. That would be the date of the award ceremony, and the troops from the Raging Vipers who would be in attendance would be brought in the day before. That would give all of us a chance to clean up, get haircuts and clean uniforms, and otherwise make ourselves presentable. Once again, my friends and fellow warriors informed me that they couldn’t care less about my medals, but they did thank me for arranging to not die prematurely, allowing them the opportunity to get the hell out of Camp Custer at the earliest possible chance. I gave them all the one-fingered salute.

Leaves would begin immediately after the award ceremony. Mid-tour leave, which is what this was classified as, was a solitary proposition. We wouldn’t take leave as a unit or as a sub-unit like a squad or team. It simply wasn’t possible to bring in an entire platoon to fill in for First Platoon for several weeks, and then go somewhere else and do the same thing. No, over the next few months, individual soldiers would be cycled in and out, one from each squad at a time. We’d be doing this all through the remaining summer and fall. During that time, the platoon would be understaffed, but we didn’t care. We needed leave!

Everybody on leave would get two weeks leave, fourteen days, but they didn’t start counting the days until you landed at your home airport. Since it took you two to three days to travel from here to there, and the same to come back here, we would be gone about three weeks. Three weeks not getting shot at like a smiling little yellow duck. By July I would have settled for three days not acting like one of those fucking little ducks.

All that anybody could talk about was their upcoming leave. Now we just had to survive long enough to go home. It would truly suck if you died the day before you went home.

Sergeant Turner and I managed to avoid getting shot up before the award ceremony. He was also getting some leave at that time and was flying home to Watertown to see his family. He was in his mid-thirties, with a wife and three children. He had joined the Army back before the Gulf War, and had served in the Gulf War, Kossovo, and Afghanistan before he landed at Camp Custer. The man must have been a sucker for punishment! Once my time was up, I planned to go back to Matucket and do something peaceful for the rest of my life. Fifty percent fishing and fifty percent making babies with Kelly sounded like an excellent division of my time once I got home.

When July 20th rolled around, Sergeant Turner and I, and the others going on leave, packed our gear and went out to a Blackhawk sent to pick us up. Since we expected to eventually return to Camp Custer, we simply locked our chimp boxes and packed our duffle bags and left them in our squad rooms. We basically took one rucksack as a carry-on bag. Normally you kept one uniform clean and tidy, in case you needed to do something official. The rest of the time you could look like an ass-bag as long as you managed to hit your target. This time, Turner and I were promised that we would be provided with brand new uniforms for the award ceremony.

The one thing that those of us going on leave didn’t take was our weapons. Those we locked up in the armory, and we flew in a Blackhawk to Baghdad unarmed. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Nobody went anywhere without their weapon. You rolled out of the sack, and the first thing you did was to check to make sure your weapon was at hand, and then you dressed. I felt naked.

Everybody stared as we landed at Camp Victory. The place was simply a beehive of activity and seemed to grow by the day. I had no idea how much money we had thrown into this place since we got here, but it was simply one gigantic supply depot after another. Hospitals, temporary barracks, training facilities, civilian areas, stores and shopping malls - it had everything! The base was built around the Baghdad airport. The craziest part was that just outside of the base, in Baghdad, was the most dangerous place on the planet. The road between the Baghdad airport and Camp Victory, and the Green Zone housing the government in the center of Baghdad, was twelve klicks of sheer death, with daily bombings and shootings. They called it Route Irish and I heard that at least an entire battalion was tied up just keeping the road open.

The awards ceremony was scheduled for 1100. It was more than just Turner and me, of course. Anybody due for some sort of recognition had been brought to Baghdad for the ceremony, so we had a few guys getting Achievement Medals, Commendation Medals, and Bronze Stars, too. The ceremony was held in an open area near some headquarters buildings, and they had a small stage set up already. There were probably three thousand soldiers in attendance, mostly Polar Bears and Golden Dragons, with the Raging Vipers to one side. It went in order of importance, so the Commendation Medals and Bronze Stars went first. Finally, it came down to Turner and me. We were hiding off stage, like the others, and when our names were called, I glanced at him. He nodded and stepped out, and I followed.

I had already seen the printed version of the commendation. They followed a formula when writing them up, Turner told me. They listed your name and rank, your position and unit, and a date. Depending on just how high the award is, the specifics would vary. For instance, for my Army Commendation Medal with V, it had simply specified a date range from January through March of 2004, which was when they handed it out, and the reason for the reward was simply ‘valorous action during Operation Iraqi Freedom.’ The bigger the medal, the more specific they got. In this case, for the Silver Star, they got very specific.

“Private First Class Graham Reaper, United States Army, distinguished for exceptionally valorous actions to the United States with First Platoon, Alpha Company, on the night of May 19-20 2004 during Operation Iraqi Freedom. Private Reaper’s platoon was assaulted by company-strength insurgent elements. The surprise attack wounded or killed all the officers and soldiers in the main defensive position, exposing the platoon to intense fire and ground assault. Only Private Reaper was able to get into position to engage the insurgents. Private Reaper engaged and destroyed four mortar and machine gun positions while sustaining serious wounds; his defense allowed the remainder of the platoon to regroup and repel the assault. Private Reaper’s actions are in keeping with the finest traditions in the military service and reflect distinct credit upon himself, Joint Task Force Iraq, and the United States Army.”

Turner’s read pretty much the same, except his mentioned taking command of the platoon and repulsing an assault on perimeter defenses. One other glaring difference was that Turner managed to pull this off without getting shot up; I would really have preferred not getting shot! It was nowhere near as enjoyable as you might think!

Regardless, we marched out and a Brigadier General, the Assistant Division Commander, pinned our medals on. After that there were some pictures and salutes, and then it was over. We left the stage and prepared to go on leave. The rest of Alpha Team and the other guys not going on leave were going back to Camp Custer.

It was a complicated process and took a long time. After the awards ceremony we were given a few minutes to clean up and then trucked over to Baghdad International Airport, which was right next door to Camp Victory. From there we were loaded onto a C-17 and flown to Ali-as-Saleem in Kuwait, which was the place we had all flown into back in December. That wasn’t too bad a flight, but it got silly. We were trucked over to Camp Doha, also in Kuwait, and dropped off our body armor and anything we weren’t taking home, putting it into storage and getting a receipt for it. Then we got trucked back to Ali-as-Saleem. Why this couldn’t all be consolidated at Ali-as-Saleem, I had no idea. At that point we went into a security lockdown and baggage check, so none of us might be tempted to smuggle anything back to America. We never left the Army’s custody before it was flight time.

At that point it was time for us to go back to the United States. We were loaded onto a 747, a chartered commercial flight that did nothing but fly soldiers back and forth. Everything was coach class, but we didn’t care. It was clean and air conditioned and the staff on the plane treated us like we were traveling royalty. There was no way the plane could fly direct from Kuwait to the States, so we would get a three-hour refueling stop somewhere along the way. We were informed that this flight would stop at Lajes in the Azores before continuing to Dallas-Fort Worth. From there we would get a regular ticket to fly to wherever we were going on to. In my case I would fly from DFW to Atlanta. At that point my fourteen days would start. When I returned to Iraq I would reverse the process, though I might route differently along the way.

That flight home was something else! It was a military flight, so they picked the highest ranking officer on board, a lieutenant colonel, as our detachment commander, and a command sergeant major as the NCO in charge. It didn’t matter. They must have loaded a ton of food on that plane. They were constantly feeding us - meals, snacks, desserts, and just about anything else you could imagine. No booze, though, since it was an official military flight, and we were in uniform. That was a total no-no, and we had to sign a DA-31 leave form swearing that we wouldn’t drink in uniform.

Once home they didn’t care if you drank the county dry, as long as you did it in civvies.

The flight home took the better part of two days. Eventually I landed at Hartsfield in Atlanta. From the time I got off the plane, I had fourteen days before I had to report back to Hartsfield and turn myself over to the Army. Otherwise, my time was my own. I could go home, get drunk, go cross-country, or spend two weeks in a whore house. Nobody cared as long as I showed up back at the airport two weeks later.

I didn’t have much luggage, just a carry-on bag with my toilet kit and a spare change of clothing. I hadn’t brought any souvenirs back from Dush-el-Kebir. It certainly wasn’t a place I wanted to reminisce about. We got into Atlanta about 0900 on Saturday morning. My family was supposed to be waiting for me, but even if they couldn’t come, I wasn’t too worried. I could always take a bus to Matucket. Just being back in the United States made me feel good.

I didn’t have to worry. As I came into the terminal, I saw a big sign held up on a stick, saying ‘Welcome Home Graham!’, along with a bunch of Mylar balloons. “There he is!” screamed a female voice. I started moving that way, and then just dropped my bag as Kelly launched herself into my arms. “You’re home, you’re home!”

The traffic in the airport flowed around us, but nobody seemed to mind. My family showed up next, and Mom was just about as bad as Kelly, hugging me and crying. My father and brothers were a little more sedate. I simply shook their hands. Mom took one look at me and said, “You’re so thin! Don’t they feed you?”

“Mom, nothing is as good as your cooking, because you cook with love!” I answered, laughing.

“Oh, that is just awful!” complained Dad. “Who writes your material?” He pointed at Jack. “Grab your brother’s bag and let’s get out of here.”

Jack picked up the duffle bag and asked me if that was it. I said I didn’t have any checked luggage, so we could go. Dad led the way out, with Mom and Kelly flanking me. Everybody was asking questions, too many for me to coherently answer. I did learn that there would be a barbecue at the house that evening, and the entire family was coming over. Outside of the airport it was already in the high-eighties, and clear, with a prediction for temperatures into the nineties and maybe a thunderstorm later. Compared to Iraq, the place was a refrigerator. I didn’t mind at all.

I asked my brothers what they were up to. Bobbie Joe was taking all the advanced classes he could. He was one of those genius kids like Kelly and planned to go to a good college. Jack was going to be a senior in a few weeks, still chased girls around, and was now one of the biggest stars on the team. Last year’s quarterback, Randy Thibodeaux, had gotten a football scholarship at Penn State, which had been looking for a backup quarterback. That made three Division I athletes on the team I had gone to State with before joining the Army, and Jack was undoubtedly going to become the fourth, assuming he didn’t get hurt. No wonder we had taken State! Jack thought some of the other guys on the team were just as good, so they had a good shot this year at going to the playoffs again. My little brother was now two inches taller than me and fifteen pounds heavier, and still growing. The little bastard wasn’t so little anymore!

Mom kept asking about my wounds, and I told her that I was just fine, and that I had only been dinged up a little. “It was no worse than when I played football, Mom.”

“Grim, I love you dearly, but even I know there isn’t any shrapnel in football!”

“Well, I’ll let you check me out when I get home and put on some shorts. I am just fine. Believe me, I got hurt worse here in Matucket than I did over there.”

Coming home felt a bit strange. Things had changed around the house. For one thing, my good old buddy Duke was missing, chasing leftovers off in doggy heaven. There was a new resident however, named Rex the Wonderpup, a very small black-and-tan puppy. He came over and sniffed at me, and then licked my face when I picked him up. The other thing I noticed was something that I had seen before. Jack had completely taken over our bedroom. I didn’t even have a bed there anymore. “Where am I supposed to sleep?” I asked him. I half expected to be told I was on a cot in Dad’s office for a few days.

“We’ve got that covered,” he answered.

“Yeah,” added Bobbie Joe. “Just leave your bag here for the time being.” Kelly was at the door and looking into the room. Bobbie Joe saw her and wagged a finger at her. “You can’t be in here. Knowing what might happen here would be a traumatic blow to my adolescent development.”

She laughed. “Give me a break!”

Jack said, “Wow! That word-of-the-day book is really paying off!”

“Out, all of you. I want to change.” I had flown home in a DCU. I needed to change into something that didn’t remind me of the Army.

Jack showed me where my clothing was hidden, and they all took off. I scrounged up some clean clothes and dug out my toilet kit, and then streaked down the hallway to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later I felt human again.

I went downstairs to find the others hanging around the kitchen. “So, where am I sleeping tonight?” I asked.

“At Grandma and Grandpa’s,” answered Jack. I gave him a curious look, and he explained. “You know they have a sort-of apartment over the garage? Last week, when we knew you’d be coming home, Grandpa had me, Bobbie Joe, Dave, and Jerry clean it up.”

I was on the verge of protesting, but I stopped with my mouth open. That made an awful lot of sense. Grandpa and Grandma owned an old farmhouse over on the west side of Matucket, towards West Springs, and it had a detached garage with a room over it. Over the years they had basically rebuilt the farmhouse, and the room over the garage became an apartment. Grandpa had told me once that both Dad and Uncle Dave had lived there at different times when they were in college or as bachelors. Even Grandpa and Grandma had lived in there once while part of the main house was being rebuilt.

The best part of all was that it had a separate entrance from the main house. I could take Kelly there and be able to spend some quality time with her. I looked over at her. She was wearing jeans and a blouse and simply looked amazing. “Good idea!” I said.

Since I had come down the stairs in shorts and a t-shirt myself, Mom decided that now was a good time to check me out for my wounds. By that time everything had healed up, but I still had some scar tissue on my legs and arms. “What happened to your leg?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

She pointed at my right thigh. “Your leg. What happened?”

I looked down to where she was pointing. She was pointing at where I had picked up some shrapnel during The Attack. “That would be a shrapnel wound. I picked it up during an attack.”

“And your arm?” she asked, pointing at my left arm.

“Same thing, or a bullet. We’re not really sure.”

“Where else have you been hit?”

I touched my forehead and said, “I caught something on the helmet, which caused the edge to cut a crease here.” Then I tapped a few other places I had picked up a few dings. You could tell in some cases because the skin there still showed some pinkish scar tissue.

My mother was not at all happy with my explanation, nor with my assurance that things looked worse than they really were. For once, my brothers kept their mouths shut and simply listened. So did Dad, though I noticed him watching me carefully. I kept the discussion very generic. I didn’t want to go into any details.

It got a bit uncomfortable. When lunchtime rolled around, I said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think I want to just drive around for a bit and go to a McDonalds. When do we need to be here tonight?”

“Five would be good,” answered Dad.

“I’ll be here by then.” I stood up and held my hand out for Kelly. “You got your car?”

“You want to drive?” I nodded and she dug out the keys. “Let’s go. See you guys later,” she told the others.

We did go to a McDonalds, but immediately afterwards, we drove over to my grandparent’s house. Neither were there, but when we went up to the apartment, I found a key on the counter in the kitchenette and a note telling me to behave myself. There was also a six-pack of beer in the fridge, and a bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter. “God bless Grandpa!” I exclaimed.

“I hope you didn’t bring me over here so we could drink beer!” said Kelly.

“Not hardly!” With that I pulled her slowly over to the bed. “I have been thinking about you since the moment I learned I was getting some leave.”

“I don’t want to let you go!” she told me, coming closer and wrapping her arms around me.

“Don’t worry. I won’t leave you. We have fourteen days together, and I don’t plan on being out of your sight the entire time,” I told her.

“I just want to hold you, Grim. Don’t let go. Just hold me.” She began crying, shaking with the sobs.

Every fiber of my being wanted to rip Kelly’s clothing off and ravish her there on the floor, but I resisted. I just stood there and held her in my arms until she calmed down again. Then she pulled me over to the bed and we made very gentle love there. Okay, the first time was gentle. The second and third times were a little more animated. At that point I was wiped out, and simply lay there, with Kelly snuggling against me.

“God, but I have missed you!” I told her.

“I guess so!” she answered with a giggle. “Is this the plan for the entire time you’re home?”

“You say that like it’s a bad idea,” I replied. Now that Kelly was over her attack of nerves, she had settled down nicely.

“I think that’s a little ambitious, even for you, Grim.”

“Maybe you should have gotten your father to buy you some of those little blue pills. Think he’s using them?” I teased.

“Oh my God, I don’t even want to think about that! No, no, no!” She sat upright, and I simply studied that perfect body. “He’d kill me if he knew what I was up to.”

“It’s not like he doesn’t know what we’re up to. Where is he this weekend? Are you going to be able to stay over tonight?”

“He and Mom are in New York this weekend, but they’ll be back next weekend.” She climbed off the bed. “I need to take a shower, and then we need to go back to your house. For some reason, I’m starving!”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up. “I’ll wash your back.”

That didn’t really work out so well. The bathroom in the little apartment was a three-quarters bath, and the shower was very, very small. It was not a two-person model. Kelly took the first shower, and then I took the second. We put on our clothes from earlier. Kelly eyed my scars again. “You have to stop this, Grim. You have to get out or get a different job or something,” she told me. “It’s too dangerous.”

I had known this would come up, either from her or my mother, but I didn’t know if it was an argument I could ever win. “Kelly...”, I started, but then I stopped. “Kelly, I can’t do that.” She looked to be about to argue, so I held up a hand to stop her. “Please, let me finish.” I went to the kitchenette and brought back a couple of cold beers. “Kelly, what I do is important. Yes, it’s dangerous, but it’s important. When I don’t do my job, people die, men die. My job is to keep that from happening. The night that I got most of these hits was a very bad night. Four men died, and another dozen of us were wounded. I wasn’t the worst hit, not by a long shot. What we do there is very dangerous, but it’s the job I said I would do, so I have to do it.”

“What happened that night? You haven’t really told us, just that there was an attack, and you were slightly wounded. Slightly! Those were your words, not mine. Now, tell me everything. What happened?” she asked.

So I told her. I sipped at my beer and told her what happened, and what I had done during The Attack. When the beer ran out, I opened another round. Kelly listened to it all. I even told her how at the end, when they found me on the roof, how I thought the hajjis had overrun us and I was reaching for my pistol and my knife when Riley got to me. I told her who had died and who was wounded, and what had become of them. By the time I finished I had gone through three beers and was just staring off into nowhere, thinking back on that terrible night.

I came back to reality when Kelly reached over and took my hand. “Grim, you there?” she asked lightly.

I looked back at her, but I wasn’t smiling. “You wanted to know what I do. Here’s what I do. I kill people. I am a professional killer, and I am very good at my job. You put me on a machine gun and give me a target, and people will die. If I don’t do that job, my friends will die, so I do that job very well. How’s that for a job description?”