Fictionalized, based on a true story.
Thirty minutes until boarding and Trevor Kilkenny had his eyes on the guy seated across the waiting area. Hair cropped close, high-and-tight. A polo shirt snug across a hard chest and flat belly. At his side, a duffel in MARPAT camouflage. Trevor’s final point of observation: the guy was in a wheelchair and had no legs.
Jenny looked up from her magazine, saw Trevor’s gaze locked on, and followed his line of sight. “What is it, hon? Something the matter?” she said. Trevor glanced to his wife, and tipped his head in the direction.
“The young guy over there, in the chair. I’m pretty sure he’s a fellow Marine.”
Jenny closed her magazine and leaned into Trevor’s shoulder, looking across the waiting room. “He’s got the look,” she said.
“I feel like I should go over there. You know, talk to him. But, Jesus. He’s… I mean, what would I say? How would I even start?”
Jenny slid the magazine into her carry-on and turned back to Trevor. Her eyes roamed his face for just a moment. She placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle shove. “Just go over there, Trev. You’ll know what to say.”
Trevor looked at Jenny with a mix of appreciation and sadness, stood and walked reluctantly across the waiting area.
The young man stiffened and straightened in his chair as he saw the older man approach. Trevor spoke on his assumption and greeted him, “Afternoon, Marine. Mind if I cop a squat?”
“Yeah, sure enough, sir. Park it,” he gestured to an open seat. “‘Scuse me if I don’t get up.”
“Trevor Kilkenny,” Trevor said. “Captain.” And extended his hand.
“Mike Lewis, sir. Sergeant.” The two Marines shook on it.
“I was sitting over there with my wife,” Trevor pointed across the room toward Jenny, who gave a smile and shy little wave. Mike raised a slow hand in return.
“You looked like you were traveling alone so I figured I’d come over and say howdy. Where you headed, sergeant?”
“Home, sir. Indiana.” Mike said. “I’ve been at Walter Reed for the last 10 months and I’m finally getting some leave. They’re fitting me up some legs. For now, I’m doing the Charles Xavier thing,” waggling the wheels of his chair.
“So, who were you with? What’s your story?” Trevor gestured toward the place where Mike’s legs would have been.
“Lima Company. 3[SUP]rd[/SUP] Battalion, 8[SUP]th[/SUP] Marines, sir. We were in Nawzad, north of Lashkar Gah in Helmand. All mud-brick houses and alleyways, mountains to the southwest and east. The locals had beat feet and weren’t nobody in there but Taliban. We were tasked with pushing them out.” Mike paused, “It was rugged. They had it all mined up. When the Brits and the Ghurkas were there before us, they called it ‘Apocalypse Now-zad.’”
Jenny walked over with their carry-ons. “You boys mind if I join you?” The two Marines looked up and Trevor said, “By all means, hon. This is Sergeant Mike Lewis. Sergeant, my wife, Jenny.”
“Ma’am,” Mike said.
“Pleased to know you, Mike.”
“Go on, sergeant,” Trevor said.
Mike described the day: Lima 3/8 moving through the town, house by house, alley by alley, all under cover of artillery and mortar fire, and close air support from Apache gunships and F-18 Hornets.
Mike’s day ended when an RPG hit the wall 10 meters from their position, taking Mike’s legs and the life of his platoon leader. As Trevor listened, a feeling of recognition began creeping on him.
His squadron had been in Iraq in 2003. By the end of it, Trevor realized that he wasn’t able to remember much. Big picture stuff, sure. Major evolutions, broad strokes, got that down fine. But the detail, the day-to-day stuff, dates, people – all lost in the friction and fog and the frenetic pace.
When he went to Afghanistan with Marine Fighter Attack Squadron 232, the Red Devils, Trevor told himself he wouldn’t make that mistake again. He reached past Jenny for his carry-on, and pulled out his journal: dates, mission numbers, who he flew with, who was lead and who was wing, weather, coordinates, ground units the squadron flew in support of. All of it.
“Sergeant Lewis... Nawzad… What day was it? What was the date?” He figured if a guy lost his legs, he’d be pretty damn sure of the date.
“It was 3 April, captain. 3 April 2009,” Mike said.
Trevor opened his journal and flipped the pages and came to April 2009:
“3 April: Nawzad. Four-flight: me, Buzz, Hooter, and Sasquatch. Close air support covering 3/8.”
He turned the journal around and handed it to Mike. “Better call me Trevor,” he said.
Joe Jansen: Nawzad Rendezvous
Thirty minutes until boarding and Trevor Kilkenny had his eyes on the guy seated across the waiting area. Hair cropped close, high-and-tight. A polo shirt snug across a hard chest and flat belly. At his side, a duffel in MARPAT camouflage. Trevor’s final point of observation: the guy was in a wheelchair and had no legs.
Jenny looked up from her magazine, saw Trevor’s gaze locked on, and followed his line of sight. “What is it, hon? Something the matter?” she said. Trevor glanced to his wife, and tipped his head in the direction.
“The young guy over there, in the chair. I’m pretty sure he’s a fellow Marine.”
Jenny closed her magazine and leaned into Trevor’s shoulder, looking across the waiting room. “He’s got the look,” she said.
“I feel like I should go over there. You know, talk to him. But, Jesus. He’s… I mean, what would I say? How would I even start?”
Jenny slid the magazine into her carry-on and turned back to Trevor. Her eyes roamed his face for just a moment. She placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle shove. “Just go over there, Trev. You’ll know what to say.”
Trevor looked at Jenny with a mix of appreciation and sadness, stood and walked reluctantly across the waiting area.
The young man stiffened and straightened in his chair as he saw the older man approach. Trevor spoke on his assumption and greeted him, “Afternoon, Marine. Mind if I cop a squat?”
“Yeah, sure enough, sir. Park it,” he gestured to an open seat. “‘Scuse me if I don’t get up.”
“Trevor Kilkenny,” Trevor said. “Captain.” And extended his hand.
“Mike Lewis, sir. Sergeant.” The two Marines shook on it.
“I was sitting over there with my wife,” Trevor pointed across the room toward Jenny, who gave a smile and shy little wave. Mike raised a slow hand in return.
“You looked like you were traveling alone so I figured I’d come over and say howdy. Where you headed, sergeant?”
“Home, sir. Indiana.” Mike said. “I’ve been at Walter Reed for the last 10 months and I’m finally getting some leave. They’re fitting me up some legs. For now, I’m doing the Charles Xavier thing,” waggling the wheels of his chair.
“So, who were you with? What’s your story?” Trevor gestured toward the place where Mike’s legs would have been.
“Lima Company. 3[SUP]rd[/SUP] Battalion, 8[SUP]th[/SUP] Marines, sir. We were in Nawzad, north of Lashkar Gah in Helmand. All mud-brick houses and alleyways, mountains to the southwest and east. The locals had beat feet and weren’t nobody in there but Taliban. We were tasked with pushing them out.” Mike paused, “It was rugged. They had it all mined up. When the Brits and the Ghurkas were there before us, they called it ‘Apocalypse Now-zad.’”
Jenny walked over with their carry-ons. “You boys mind if I join you?” The two Marines looked up and Trevor said, “By all means, hon. This is Sergeant Mike Lewis. Sergeant, my wife, Jenny.”
“Ma’am,” Mike said.
“Pleased to know you, Mike.”
“Go on, sergeant,” Trevor said.
Mike described the day: Lima 3/8 moving through the town, house by house, alley by alley, all under cover of artillery and mortar fire, and close air support from Apache gunships and F-18 Hornets.
Mike’s day ended when an RPG hit the wall 10 meters from their position, taking Mike’s legs and the life of his platoon leader. As Trevor listened, a feeling of recognition began creeping on him.
His squadron had been in Iraq in 2003. By the end of it, Trevor realized that he wasn’t able to remember much. Big picture stuff, sure. Major evolutions, broad strokes, got that down fine. But the detail, the day-to-day stuff, dates, people – all lost in the friction and fog and the frenetic pace.
When he went to Afghanistan with Marine Fighter Attack Squadron 232, the Red Devils, Trevor told himself he wouldn’t make that mistake again. He reached past Jenny for his carry-on, and pulled out his journal: dates, mission numbers, who he flew with, who was lead and who was wing, weather, coordinates, ground units the squadron flew in support of. All of it.
“Sergeant Lewis... Nawzad… What day was it? What was the date?” He figured if a guy lost his legs, he’d be pretty damn sure of the date.
“It was 3 April, captain. 3 April 2009,” Mike said.
Trevor opened his journal and flipped the pages and came to April 2009:
“3 April: Nawzad. Four-flight: me, Buzz, Hooter, and Sasquatch. Close air support covering 3/8.”
He turned the journal around and handed it to Mike. “Better call me Trevor,” he said.
Joe Jansen: Nawzad Rendezvous
