CHAPTER THREE

Visits to Old Friends

Like a chorus of tap dancers with soft, wet shoes, the raindrops pitter-pattered along the smooth safety glass windshield, dropping at rapid, but even paces. Rivulets of clear water danced along the even surface, breaking apart with each following drop, then mixing together into another stream and winding down the slight slope of the angled glass. It was a soothing sound, calming and quiet, matching the tone inside the car and the feelings in each man’s head. The green sedan proceeded at an even pace to match the tapping of the precipitation, maneuvering through the winding streets with a calm ease, rolling with the corners and obeying each posted speed limit as it popped up on the too familiar rectangular signs. With graceful skill, the foot of the driver pressed and eased with time, moving the vehicle along at a constant rhythm, not too fast, but not too slow. It was a pace that the driver was not accustomed to, nor was his passenger, especially considering whom the driver was. But this wasn’t an Army Jeep careening towards their next mission; this was a plain olive drab Buick passing slowly through the Virginia streets, heading towards its predetermined destination, but not in any hurry to do so.

The weather wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t beach weather either. Gray clouds blocked out the bright yellow sun that had shone only yesterday. Almost as if the sky was mirroring the moods of the two men in the car, the day had become dark and quiet, no blinding sun or raging storm, just a quiet, soft patter of rain to dampen the day just a little. The man in the back seat glanced out his window at the passing buildings and the scattered pedestrians walking here and there, with raincoats and ponchos pulled tight over their heads trying to avoid the unavoidable act of nature that dropped all around them. His eyes were narrow and bright blue, not inquisitive and piercing as usual, but a softer muted tone, more thoughtful and considerate. These travels always had that effect on him. His surroundings were familiar, but not necessarily comfortably so. Not like going home, more like going back to school after graduation. An eerie preeminent feeling of bad times gone by with only more to come in this locale. A little nugget of guilt and doubt lodged deeply in his gut as it always did on this trip, but still he made the voyage, at least once a year. It was a little early for his annual pilgrimage, but he just felt the need. He had to go. With a slight lurch the car slowed as a clueless pedestrian dashed across the road with little regard to the passing traffic. She waved a callous hand at the driver and he shook his head before proceeding, still at the constant pace.

“Almost there, Sarge,” the driver said softly, glancing back at his passenger. The man in the backseat nodded, but did not look back.

“That a good thing?” he asked, running a hand through his buzz-cut hair.

The driver chuckled and shrugged slightly. “For us, sure. Not so much for the guys we’re going to visit.”

“Good point.”

The words dropped and silence engulfed the car again, with only the spattering rain to interrupt it. The car turned slowly to the right, taking the corner smoothly and easily, with no squealing of brakes or usual swerving that the driver was usually using to his utmost advantage. He could drive well when he wanted to. Green, bushy trees loomed over the small green car as it proceeded towards its destination, the branches and leaves reflecting off of the glossy, wet metal and glass surfaces. Down this side street the pedestrian traffic had slowed significantly and the car picked up speed to match the increased limit. Another turn, and the lump of guilt began to burn and churn slowly in the Sergeant’s stomach. This burn traveled through his body and settled in his right shoulder, which throbbed uncomfortably. The soft blossom of pain rippled out through his chest and neck, not enough to worry him, but enough to remind him of his frailties, and to remind him that he was here and why. With another smooth turn, the looming trees gave way to a broad expanse of road, with traffic hurtling through it. The passenger looked up at the sign reading “Memorial Drive” as the car turned and merged with the other traffic into the wide, busy street. With a soft push, the driver’s foot pressed down on the gas pedal, throwing some more power to the engine to keep up with the passing cars. Just up ahead, their destination loomed as the cars around them slowed their approach. Their official plates let them coast through the paid parking area and they slowed to a stop as they approached the rear entrance, and then turned slowly left, towards the grounds. The guard nodded at them as they passed through, even as he took down their plates while the dark green car headed towards the “official entrance” for the large monument. Parking was sparse, but the driver eased into an open space, his lightly bearded face betraying his turbulent thoughts. With a soft sigh, the sedan rocked back into its stopped position as the engine rumbled quiet, and then cut off completely. The silence was all but deafening in the soft, rainy afternoon.

“Where Valor Proudly Sleeps,” the Sergeant said softly, glancing around.

“Want some company, Sarge?” the driver asked as his passenger hooked his fingers around the handle of the back door.

“That’s all right, Clutch. I won’t be long.” The back door squeaked open as the Sergeant slid from the back seat and set his polished black dress shoes on the wet paved parking lot. The door slammed shut behind him as the driver turned his attention to the radio, but thought better of it, rolling his window down instead. Off in the distance, the soothing, yet unsettling drum of taps rolled over the green hills of Arlington.

Master Sergeant Conrad S. Hauser stepped from the car, pulling his long, green trench coat over his slim frame with one hand. His right arm remained in a sling, which wrapped over his shoulder, resting over a thin, but definitely present neck brace, which was at least mostly covered by the green coat. The Sergeant lifted his chiseled chin and glanced over the green hills, each one dotted with white rectangular gravestones marking the hundreds of graves in this solemn place. Soft rain continued to pelt his short blonde hair as he breathed in the musty wet air from the smell of acres and acres of wet grass. Even on the sunniest days the sky seemed to get a little grayer every time he visited Arlington National Cemetery. The little nugget of guilt was now a large, jagged boulder in his stomach, his mind battling itself inside his head as he walked slowly through the paved pathway. Duke, “Top Shirt” of the G.I. Joe Team, supposed he should be glad. There must have been some reason why he was here and so many of his comrades were not, but he could not honestly think of any. He was an accomplished military man. A good soldier and arguably an even better leader, but all of the men and women who had passed before him had such potential inside. Even Mangler, that cocky kid from the desert had the capacity for leadership in him. If he hadn’t, he would have never made it into the Joes in the first place. Rainwater splattered his scowling face as he trudged on; towards the same place he always visited on his yearly travels. It wasn’t the only stop he usually made, although it would be today. Today was a special trip. One that he had felt the need to make, for a long, long time now. His eyes scanned the grassy hills, and although the areas were all posted with signs, he didn’t need the directions to know when to veer from the path and walk softly over the green, matted terrain. His left hand was stuffed in his left coat pocket as his right one dangled from his limp arm like a slab of raw meat, a useless limb, reminding him of the conflict only one month passed. At times, the Cobra Island Incident had seemed like just yesterday, but at other times it was a lifetime ago. At this moment, it seemed like another lifetime altogether, something that hadn’t really happened, only in dreams. But as the cold reality of the thousands of graves and the rolling hills, which would have been truly, truly beautiful if not for their ghastly purpose, drove home the fact that it had really happened, and for some, its repercussions would be eternal. Even if the graves had not conveyed that meaning, the lingering numbness in his neck, chest and shoulder served as a constant reminder. Duke longed for the day he could be free of the cumbersome bandages, slings and braces, but it would probably be at least another month. He went through tireless physical therapy day after day after day, and was getting better, but still had a long way to go. With a jerk, he stopped walking, the absurdity of his thoughts finally getting to him. Had he actually been griping about another month of physical therapy? Whining about a hurt shoulder? Cold blue eyes rolled slowly over his surroundings; the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s grave, the Arlington House. How could he? His mind demanded. Such trivial problems compared to what surrounded him. Pain. Loss, death, and suffering. He was griping about a hurt shoulder. Duke closed his eyes, exasperated and already exhausted, although he had been here for but ten minutes. Arlington had that effect on him. Every step he took, the place drained him; sucked the life from his very bones, making him question his leadership abilities, and question his very life. The Sergeant supposed it was mostly due to the seven men who lay here as a direct result of a mission that he led. That feeling would never leave him, he decided, no matter how many times he came here to cleanse his conscious. Doc, Breaker, Crankcase, Crazylegs, Heavy Metal, Quick Kick, and Thunder. There were more before then, and many more since, but those seven were the ones that lingered. Those were the ones under his direct command. The ones he got killed. There was no prettier way to put it than that. Duke lifted his head which had lowered through no power of his own as the rain drops picked up their intensity slightly and rolled over his short cropped hair and down his slim, chiseled features. A single drop shimmered off of the tip of his nose, and then finally dropped as he stood there in the rain, framed by the showers. His breath came in uneven gasps, and more pain seared through his neck and shoulder. Water ran over his face, but he wasn’t sure if it was rainwater or the salty reservoir of his own tears. He tried to walk forward, but suddenly could not, held still by an unbreakable wall of ghosts, phantoms and pure guilt. As the hand touched his shoulder, he turned reflexively, his fists clenching softly.

“You all right, sir?” the young man asked, dressed in his own dress greens. He was a young one, his whole future ahead of him.

Duke forced a smile through the rolling water and chuckled slightly.

“I’m fine, troop. Just wallowing in a little self pity.”

The young man smiled. “See a lot of that here, Sergeant,” he said, glancing at Duke’s rank insignia etched into the sleeve of his green shirt, exposed underneath the long trench coat, which was slipping off slowly. “But, these boys don’t want that. They don’t want pity for you or from you. Just the fact that you’re here is enough for them, sir.”

Master Sergeant Conrad Hauser smiled again, a little more broadly this time. “Wise beyond your years, kid.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Duke turned and proceeded towards the small collection of stones, the ones he visited every year. He turned as he walked away. “Do me a favor, kid,” he said softly.

“What’s that, sir?”

“Don’t make your folks go through this.”

The young man smiled a wide, wise grin. “Don’t plan to, sir.”

“Good man.”

Duke continued on for a few yards, and then stopped before the row of graves, all together, but with no identifying marks other than the names and whatever quotes were desired. No mention of ranks, awards, stations, or services, only a name and a small memento of their time on Earth. The Sergeant halted before the first nine graves; General Flagg and Mangler were the first two, followed by his team in the Emirate of Benzheen. Through a cloud of red pain, he lifted his slung right arm and saluted stiffly, his smile fading slightly as he faced the men who had trusted him with their lives. Had he let them down? His self-pity receded slightly and he assured himself that he didn’t as he snapped off the salute and continued on. King, Owen was next. Sneak Peek. Then Battleforce: 2000, a name that seemed a whole lot less ominous now than it had when they had commissioned it for their top-secret technological research and development team. Evidently, it hadn’t been too threatening to Cobra as they had bombed the whole team into oblivion while they navigated through the oil tanks of Benzheen. Dodger had been the only survivor there. Again, the leader of the team left alive to wonder and to stew about whose fault it was and what he could have done differently. The world did indeed work in mysterious ways, Duke decided as he passed by the grave for Cool Breeze, another cocky kid in another desert, with the same fate as Mangler. The Sergeant continued his solemn walk, passing by a couple more graves, including Tracker’s and Ghostrider’s, casualties of the latest conflict with Cobra. Just one of many; too many, which included a very long list of the dead. Duke thought back to Thomas Arishikage, better known as Storm Shadow. He could have had a grave here for his courageous duty in Vietnam, and for his service on the Joe team, but it was Snake Eyes’ wish to have him taken to Japan and buried in the Arishikage family cemetery in the proper ceremonial fashion, so it had been done. Stopping suddenly, the Sergeant looked down at the one stone he had come to see. The destination he had driven hours to visit. He had made special plans before his annual journey to come and see someone special. Someone who he should have visited before now, because now it might be too late. There was the slightest tug in his heart and throat as he read the gravestone solemnly.

Hart-Burnett, Alison, R.

1963-1995

Born to Serve

Born to Love

Taken too soon

Into His arms

He forced back a flood of tears merely looking down on the small gray stone. His normal cold, hard features melted slightly under the warm heat of emotion, but the rock solidness of his control kept them from melting completely and hardened them back up to their normal chiseled form. He dropped down into a crouch in front of the grave, running a hand over the wet, cold rock. His fingers traced over the outlines of the etched letters of the stone, very cold, very hard, and very final.

“Hey, Lady,” he said quietly, the words almost choking in his throat. He bowed his head softly as if it was disgraceful to cry in front of the emotionless rock. He cleared his throat.

“Sorry it took me so long to get here. Yeah, I know I visited the other boys every year, but…but it was just too hard to see you. I know it’s no excuse. It was hard on everyone, Ali. I’m sure you know that, you can see that from where you are.”

He drew a deep breath and looked around. No one stood nearby; no one watched or paid any mind. This was a common occurrence here. Even in such a tender moment, Duke was remiss to show such a vulnerable side, yet it be something to be taken advantage of by the enemy. As ridiculous as it sounded, Sergeant Hauser was a lifelong soldier, trained to be paranoid to a fault.

“As you know, it really hit Dash the hardest…that’s to be expected. But we’d won the war. Cobra had been stopped and Destro was on our side. So we thought, anyway. That’s what was so unexpected. The casualties had been counted and everything was done and finished. And then this. I can’t explain it, Lady…I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to, I couldn’t do it justice.”

His eyes scanned around at the surrounding graves as he drew another breath. Flowers scattered the green grass and landscape. Duke hadn’t brought any flowers. Lady Jaye wasn’t that type. She was one of the guys.

“Ali…listen to me, okay? There’s a reason I came. Yeah, I know it was way beyond time for me to visit, but still…as always, there are other reasons.”

Although he was talking to a spirit rather than a person, Sergeant Hauser had to think about his words. Had to make sure to talk wisely.

“In this last battle…this last war. One more war out of too many to count, Ali. Some times I wonder if it will ever stop. But, anyway…this last battle on Cobra Island, Dash got shot. Got shot pretty bad, actually. Hit in the back by The Baroness from what he said. He seemed okay…he was conscious, but barely, when we loaded him in the Tomahawk. Lifeline took real good care of him on route to the Flagg. He had even regained consciousness a little bit once we got him to medical.”

The G.I. Joe Sergeant stopped for a second to compose himself. It had been a month, but the memories were still painful.

“But, Ali…something went wrong. Way wrong. He’s unconscious, Lady. Like he just lost the will to fight it. He’s been out for over three weeks and the docs don’t know what to do about it.”

Duke stood slowly, his aging knees groaning with the movement. Tears welled up in his eyes as he considered his next statements.

“Th…they want to terminate life support, Ali. He’s got no next of kin, and no family to speak of. You were all he had, Jaye. He was nothing without you. I know that’s where he is right now. He’s trying to get up there, isn’t he? Trying to be with you?”

The floodgates of tears burst from the thin dam of his eyelids, and he shut them tight to avoid it, but it was no use.

“Lady, please. It’s not his time, hon…it’s not, and you know it. He has unfinished business down here. The team needs him…I…I need him! He’s my friend, Jaye as well as a fellow trooper. Everything I’ve been through, he was right beside me the whole time! And through this…this thing with you…he withdrew. Wouldn’t let anyone close. Not even me. He must have thought that no one cared. But he was wrong, Alison! He was wrong! He wouldn’t let us close! It wasn’t our fault!! It…it…it wasn’t MY FAULT!!” he slumped suddenly towards the ground, falling to his knees, and catching himself on the gravestone with his extended hands. His head lowered to the cold rock as the tears flowed like the rain from the clouds over his cheeks and spattered onto the freshly mowed grass under his bent knees. He glanced over at the small grouping of seven gravestones a few yards away, and was suddenly aware that he wasn’t talking about the same thing any more. He drew in another deep, long breath and turned his lowered head back to the stone.

“P…please, Alison. We need him. Send him back to us. Send him home.” Duke lifted his head and set it on his crossed hands on top of the wet gravestone. A hand pressed to his shoulder softly and Duke nodded, as he felt the familiar squeeze.

“C’mon, Sarge. Time to go home.”

Duke nodded, cleared his throat, and walked side by side with Clutch, back towards the green sedan, under the gray haze of a rainy afternoon.