The Wooden Horse

Chapter Three

Greenbriar didn’t actually torture their residents. They had Hermes Therapy and Rehabilitation Services do that for them. A short, glass enclosed corridor connected the Therapy company with the nursing home. The beautiful roses lined either side of the thirty feet of walkway, giving the impression that one was being showered in the red and pink flora. The sunshine and colorful view softened the mood and calmed the mind during the stroll. Unless you knew what to expect when you passed through to the Therapy Department. Walter Odell had been there many times, and he didn’t let the beauty fool his mind into losing his trepidity. He was aware that this short stroll through the rose garden led to a world of pain.

“Hey Walt! How’s it hanging?” Brad, the Physical Therapist, sang out when Walter was rolled into the room. Brad was a nice guy. Too nice for Walter. Too…interested….involved…and talkative. It’s the nature of the job. He had to be able to connect with his patients, to gain their trust. So he could fold, spindle and mutilate him till he felt like a limp noodle. Walter liked how he felt after therapy, but he hated DOING it. He didn’t hate Brad, but he hated what Brad made him do. That was pretty close to the same thing for Walter.

“It’s hanging way too low, limp, and hairy, if you MUST know, ya perv.” Walter shot back.
Brad laughed and took over the wheelchair from Bea. He rolled over to the mat, one of Walter’s least favorite places.
“Well, Walt, I can’t do much about that. Sorry. I can help you down here to your back, and see about stretching out that spine a bit, though.”
Brad locked the chair, put a gait belt around Walter, and assisted him to a standing position. Walter made a face. His back twinged, as it usually did when he stood. His knees dipped slightly, but he caught himself. As he steadied himself, Brad pulled the wheelchair away, gripping the gait belt with his other hand. Brad let him get his balance, then turned him gently, facing away from the raised mat. The mat resembled a low, padded table. It was only a foot and a half from the floor.
“OK. Whenever you’re ready.” Brad said in his gentle lover’s voice.
Walt bent down, and his lumbar protested with a shooting pain that traveled down his leg. With a single low grunt, he sat down. Sometimes even the small things are hard. Brad unhooked the belt and set it aside. He placed a hand on Walters upper back, and the other under his knees.
“Ok. Lay back when you’re ready, Walt.”
“You’re gay, aincha Brad? I’m bettin it’s in the job description, huh?”
Brad was used to Walter’s humor. He had a thick skin. That was in the job description, too.
“On my count. One. Two. Three.” Brad raised Walter’s knees, and lowered him down until his back was flat on the table and his legs in the air. Brad stood facing Walter, holding his legs up for him. Walter was looking at the ceiling, in essentially a sitting position. Walter got the fleeting image in his head of an astronaut, ready for blast off.
“You could at least buy me dinner first, Betty”
“Har har, Walt. Now, I’m going to push your right leg towards your chest slowly. Let me know when it hurts.” Brad began to move the right leg. The pain squeezed into Walter’s brain, and came out in his face.
“It hurts, Betty. Stop.”
“Ok. Now, you press against my hand and push back to our starting position.”
This went on until Brad had worked both legs several times. Walter was beginning to sweat. Brad worked him through many more stretching exercises. Walter’s lower back moaned from the inside. It came out in involuntary animalistic grunts. The old man’s mind went back to a distant time when pain was a regular part of his life. When he welcomed the pain, and sought it out.

Korengal Valley, Afghanistan October 2007

The sun beat down on the twenty marines, cooking them inside their shells of body armor and fatigues. They pared their gear down to the essentials for the patrol. Extra ammo, body armor, camel backs, NVG’s and a couple of MRE’s in a ditty bag, rifles, radio, grenades, and one MAAWS recoilless rifle. The gear still weighed them down, made every step heavier. The Korengal Valley stretched out before them. The mountains to either side looming over a small, un-flat basin, less than a kilometer wide. The slopes were lush and green, interspersed with rocky outcrops and villages that grew from the sides of the mountains themselves. The valley was beautiful. Unless you had to walk two kilometers of goat trails, snaking along it’s slope, working your way to a town of Afghan Hillbillies that will probably take a shot at you at some point. Other than that, it sure was a beautiful, scenic spot.
The corporal had the point. He was on his second tour here. Everyone thought he was a lifer. He spoke little, had few friends, and always walked point. He had a focus on his surroundings that amazed his fellow marines. He spotted things no one else noticed. A broken branch close to the trail. The types of treads left on muddy trails. The wooden plank detonators used by the Taliban that looked so ordinary until you step on one. The corporal may not be the most liked guy in the company, but he didn’t care. When a patrol went out, everyone wanted Walt out in front.
Walt stopped and raised a fist as he took a knee in the middle of the goat trail. The lieutenant made his way to the corporal from the middle of the staggered line of men. Everyone else knelt and watched their sectors for signs of the enemy.
“Whatcha got corp?” the new lieutenant had only been here two weeks, but already had learned to trust the corporals instincts.
“We need to get off of this trail, lieutenant. This is not smart. We need to be at least parallel to it, working in the bush. Not using the trail is slower, I know, but it’s less likely to be booby trapped.” Walt didn’t even look at the officer. They’d had this discussion before leaving the wire.
“We don’t have the time, corp. The captain said we have to be back before dark. There’s no way we can get there and back working through the brush.” Same answer as an hour ago.
“Then we should’ve left the kop this morning, not after lunch. Sir” Delayed respect for the rank. Walt had a way of calling you stupid, without actually using the derogatory terms. Most marines knew how to do that.
“Yes, corporal, I’m aware. Move on. Take it slow, if we have to, but move out.”
“Yes…..sir.” He stood and waved the column forward as he snaked his way carefully down the trail.
You could see the mountain village easily enough from the trail. It jutted out from the slope, timber and slate rock structures that essentially were a part of the mountain range. The range of hills followed a south west bend, then turned dead south, making one of hundreds of spurs that stabbed into the valley. The little village sat astride the spur, looking straight up the valley towards the American combat outpost. Six sniper rounds had peppered the compound this morning from it’s direction. The captain said check it out. So Walt’s platoon went to check it out. They had air over watch in the guise of a pair of Apache helicopters, but with no eyes on target, they couldn’t engage the civilian town. Collateral damage was always a problem. Boots on the ground would always have a job in Afghanistan.
They were within five hundred meters of the village when the trail turned a little south, following the spur. It dipped noticeably too, going down into a wooded gully. Again, Walt took a knee and halted the patrol. Again, the officer came forward.
“Whats up now, corporal?” The man’s agitation was easy to spot.
“ This is where we need to across, sir. One fire team up the slope, then back to the trail. It’ll give us a scout of the trail, and preempt an ambush if they’ve got one set up. We all go into that gully together, we may not come out the other side. Sir.”
The lieutenant looked at his watch, then scanned the northern slope ahead of the trail. It was the perfect ambush spot. Hard to argue that.
“Agreed. Take Hawkin’s team. When you come back out onto the trail, we’ll follow. If there’s trouble, we’ll lay down a base of fire and you back track to us. Then we’ll call in the birds.”
With a nod, Walt headed back to confer with Sargent Hawkins. Minutes later, Walt was leading them up the slope. The way up was steep, wooded with fir trees, and studded with rocks and crags that were treacherous for ankles. The five men followed Walt, spread out, eyes out, watching for signs of the enemy. Fifteen minutes of climbing, then slowly bending towards the trail. Walt stopped occasionally, listening, watching. Nothing but the sound of birds and the wind through the trees. Thirty minutes of trudging through the wooded slopes finally brought them close to the trail, a little further south than Walt had intended, closer to the village than he wanted to be. He stopped the squad, motioned for them to take a knee. They all scanned the trail through the safety of the trees. Then he saw it. A small piece of wood in the trail, buried. Only a glint of it could be seen from where Walt was, but it definitely looked suspicious. Possible IED. He continued to scan. There. Inside the tree line, actually closer to Walt than to the trail, there was movement. A dirty turbaned head. The guy must be in a shallow depression, or dug a spider hole out of the rocky slope. All Walt could make out was the top of his head. He looked over at Hawkins, pointed two fingers at his own eyes, then motioned in the man’s direction. Hawkins followed his gesture, saw the dude, and nodded silently. Walt raised his weapon and sighted the turban with his 3x scope. As much as he’d love to take the shot, he couldn’t make out a weapon, just a dirty headdress. No weapon, no fire. ROE’s were clear. The guy may have just planted the IED. He may have an AK, just waiting to spray the column after they set of the booby trap. He may just enjoying the scenery. Yeah, right. Walt keyed his radio.
“Workhorse Three, this is Workhorse One.”
“Workhorse Three on. Report.” The lieutenant sounded impatient. So, what else is new?
“Got a possible IED in the trail, about six meters past the bend. Also, trail is being observed by at least one local. No weapon in sight, but under cover. Advise you follow my route. Over.”
A long pause. Walt could sense his lieutenant sighing.
“Will do. Stay put, and stay frosty. Workhorse Three, Over and out.”
So Walt and Hawkins settled in to wait on the rest of the platoon to circle through the woods to them. In the meantime, they watched Dirty Turban guy. Ten minutes, then twenty went by. They began to pick up the noises from the fourteen men walking in the trees. Few men could walk these hills in complete silence, but it was impossible for an entire platoon to walk through them without being heard. Then Walt saw them. Not the platoon. The four Taliban just fifty meters to his left and down slope. They heard the lieutenant and his men, too. They were orienting a PDM light machine gun towards them. The gun must’ve been oriented towards the trail, until they’d heard the men in the woods. Walt had only spotted them because they were re-positioning to fire up the slope.
Damn, I’m stupid. Stupid and blind, Walt thought to himself. He motioned to Hawkins, who followed his gaze with widening eyes as Walt used hand signs to tell him to have his squad fire at the machine gun crew on his first shot. Walt brought his rifle back up and sighted on Dirty Turban. Weapon or no, he was going down.
Three, two, one….Bam! Dirty Turban exploded and became Bloody Turban. In the next second, Hawkin’s squad fired down into the enemy machine gun crew. They got off a burst towards the lieutenant’s direction before going down. It was a “mad minute” of heavy firing. The marines pouring deadly lead into the enemy, the enemy disappearing into the mountains brush. The marines stopped firing. Cordite and wisps of smoke permeated the air around the marines. Silence fell. Then a moan carried across the distance, coming from the platoon’s direction. Walt keyed his mic.
“Workhorse Three. Engaged a machine gun emplacement that was deploying your direction. Do you have casualties? Over.”
“One, get over here! Broken Six!” That was the call for “man down”.
“Roger. Out.” he turned to Hawkins. “Take your squad and check that PDM squad, and that observer. I’m going to link up with the platoon and see what’s what.”
As soon as he got close to the platoon, he knew it was bad. There were two guys down, with the medic working on the lieutenant’s mid-section, and a private with a chunk out of his shoulder laying next to them. The officer’s face was pale, the blood from three heavy caliber holes already draining from his body as the medic tried desperately to steam the tide. The medic was losing the battle. Pressure bandage soaking up blood fast, the officer looked up at Walt.
“I … should’ve got off the trail …. you were…” gurgling noises followed by silence told Walt the man was dead.
The patrol came back to the kop with one wounded, and one dead. They’d killed five Taliban, but it didn’t feel much like a victory. It sure wasn’t to the lieutenant. The officers body stowed in a bag and carried the entire two kilometers over Walt’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He refused to let anyone else touch him. In Walt’s mind, it was his fault. He should’ve insisted the platoon get off the trail earlier. He owed it to the man to carry him home. It was a long way back. Walt’s back hurt. He didn’t know it would hurt for the rest of his life, but he was still glad it hurt. The pain was his own punishment for still walking and talking. It was Marie all over again.

Greenbriar Nursing Home, The Present Time

“Walt, stop. Hey man, seriously. Stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Brad had a hand on Walt’s back, rubbing circles quickly, trying to get Walt’s attention. The old guy was on the stationary bike, peddling at a pretty good pace. He had been for twenty minutes. Walt opened his eyes. The sweat stung as it poured off his forehead. Brad was both worried and impressed. He assisted Walt off the bike and helped him back into the man’s wheelchair. Walt was exhausted.
“I think you’ve done enough for one day, Walt.” The therapist admitted.
“What, you late for a date with your boyfriend?” The old man was gasping for air, but still had enough oxygen to take a jab at Brad.
“As a matter of fact, yes. And I’m not missing it because you want to have a heart attack on me, Walt.” He responded.
They both got a small laugh from that while Bea wheeled him out of the therapy room, and down the rose-lined corridor back to reality.

Author: Kevin Stone

Kevin Stone aspires to write stories that you will enjoy. I hope to tell tales of the Stone Family that all generations may to come may read. I'll also write stories of all kinds, true and fiction, just for you to enjoy. View all posts by Kevin Stone