Recollection of Sangin

[This story contains references to Post-Traumatic Stress, suicide, mental injury, and combat. Reader discretion is advised.]

“Who’s that, Daddy?” My daughter looked up at me with big green eyes, full of her typical childlike curiosity. I pulled the slightly faded polaroid out of the picture book we were thumbing through and showed it to her a bit better.

“I’m not sure, kiddo.” I studied the picture to try to make out the face, but the quality wasn’t very good. It was me and another guy in desert combat uniforms and plate carriers with our helmets off. We were sitting on a low mud wall in front of a poppy field, the pink flowers were blooming behind us in the distance. I had on normal shades, the other guy was wearing his issued ballistic eye protection and wore an American flag bandana to hold back the unruly mop of hair hanging over his forehead. I was holding my M4 rifle with both hands, the other guy was holding a M249 light machine gun over one shoulder and giving the bird to the camera with his free hand, his lips twisted in a massive toothy grin. I flipped the picture around and looked at the back. “Dean and me, Sangin, 5/9/2011,” was scribbled in black map pen. Shit, of course it was Dean. How could I forget?

“That’s Dean.”

“Who’s Dean Daddy?”

“Uh, he was a friend of Daddy’s in the military.”

“Was he a ma-ean, too?”

I looked at the picture again. The emblem that looked like a knight chess piece was centered on the identification patch on his plate carrier. A single pointed stripe with crossed rifles under it was next to it.

“Yeah, he was a Marine.”

“What were you doing in the picture?”

I tried to think back, and I could feel a headache start to pound away at my brain. Cripes.

“I don’t know honey,” I said as I put the picture back in the photo book and shut the cover. “I think it’s bedtime.”

“But Daddy, I’m not tired!” Her little whiny voice was cute to hear, but I felt my headache get worse.

“Anne, bedtime, now,” my wife Lynne said from our bedroom.

“But Mooooom…” Fuck, this headache! I was sick and tired of getting these all the time. I picked up Anne and put her down on the floor.

“No buts girl, get to bed or you’re eating dry Wheaties for breakfast tomorrow,” Lynne yelled again.

“Yes ma’am,” Anne said, grabbing the leg of my sweatpants and looking up at me with those pathetically adorable puppy dog eyes. I smiled and held her hand as I took her to her bedroom and tucked her in for the night.

“Daddy, you forgot the bedlight,” Anne said as I began to shut the door. I turned around and looked at her. She had that look kids get when they’re terrified but too embarrassed to say it, so they kind of just bury it down deep inside while white-knuckling whatever they’re holding. Of course, they forget that their emotions show all too easily on their face. I smiled and walked back over to her, and she dropped her shoulders and relaxed her grip on her pink princess blanket.

“Hm? Oh, you mean nightlight kiddo.”

“Yeah!” Anne said as I bent down to turn on her little fairy night light that sat on a small table next to her bed.

“Thanks Daddy,” she said as I blew her a kiss before walking out and shutting the door, leaving just a little crack. I rubbed my temples as I walked back to the master bedroom and sat down on the bed. Lynne was already halfway under the sheets reading. When she saw me, she closed the book and put it on her nightstand.

“Headache again,” she asked.

“Yeah.”

She pulled my head down and put it in her lap and started stroking my hair. I immediately started to feel a little better.

“You’re the greatest thing that ever happened to me,” I said.

“I know,” Lynne replied with a little laugh. “What started the headache?”

“Anne asked me about a picture I took with a guy back in Afghanistan.”

“Oh. Who was it?”

“I don’t know, I wrote that his name was ‘Dean,’ on the back.”

Lynne stopped stroking my hair and made direct eye contact with me after a moment. Her eyes looked a little red.

“You don’t remember Dean?”

“No, I don’t,” I said, sitting up. Lynne was starting to tear up a bit. “Hon, what’s wrong?”

“Mike, Dean was with you in the truck when you got hit.”

It suddenly came back to me. Taking the picture before our last convoy in-country. Noticing a pile of trash but not thinking much of it for some reason. The IED going off right under Dean’s seat behind me. I woke up in an ambush with Doc Bradley losing his mind over me. The platoon commander, Lieutenant Gibson, was directing the squad leaders to maneuver and return fire and telling our radio operator to get on the net for air support. The platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Butler, was calmly reading off a casualty evacuation card into the radio. I looked over and saw Dean next to me, his head twisted paranormally, blood seeping from his mouth and ears and soaking into the desert sand.

“Babe.” Lynne’s voice snapped me back to my bedroom.

I took a deep breath and sighed, rubbing my face. My headache was even worse, every beat of my heart felt like an explosion was going off inside my skull. “Sorry,” I said as I got up and went over to the medicine cabinet. I pulled out a bottle of Motrin and palmed a few pills before heading back to the bed, washing them down with the glass of water I’d left on my nightstand. I couldn't remember how long it had been there, and I really didn't care. Lynne's face when I sat down onto my side of the bed told me it had probably been there a while.

"I can't believe I forgot."

“It’s okay,” Lynne said, rubbing my back. “The doctor said it’s a normal part of having a TBI from a blast injury.”

“I remember now, though. Everything.” I took a breath and rubbed my head again. “Not sure if I’m glad I did.”

“What do you remember?”

“I remembered taking the picture before DFL. I remember the IED going off, and waking up in the ambush. Seeing Dean dead in the dirt next to me behind an MRAP.”

“I’m sorry,” Lynne said. I turned around and looked at her. Tears were starting to run down her face. Lynne and I had been good friends with Dean and his wife Malinda while we were back in the States. They were when the casualty assistance call officers and a chaplain came over to Dean and Malinda's house.

“Let’s go to bed," I said. I laid back into my pillow and tried to go to sleep. Lynne shut her light off and laid down, but I could feel her breathing interrupted by quiet sobs until I dozed off.

The following day, Lynne was driving me to the Veteran's Affairs clinic where I did some of my traumatic brain injury treatments. We lived in Yorktown, Virginia; and the clinic we went to was in Alexandria. Typically we’d take the Capital Beltway, but there had been construction on it lately; so we decided to take Washington Boulevard there and back.

As we passed Arlington National Cemetery on the way down, I peered through the row of bushes and trees separating the road from the cemetery. Hundreds of little white headstones lined the green lawns of the former Confederate general’s home, each one representing a fallen service member who had served their country in combat. 

Some had been like me, lucky enough to make it back Stateside, and live out happy and healthy lives for decades after their wars. Others, like Dean, had stayed downrange; only an empty husk returning home.

On our way back from the clinic, Lynne stayed in the left lane as Washington Boulevard branched off to the Potomac Park roundabout across from the Washington Mall.

“Lynne, you’re supposed to go right here,” I told her.

“We’re going to Dean’s grave.”

I sighed and leaned back in my seat. “I didn’t ask to do that.”

“I know, I don’t care,” she said, pulling into Memorial Circle and off onto Memorial Avenue. “When’s the last time we were here?”

I thought back, trying to remember when we last came to Arlington. “Pretty soon after we got back” I said (though it probably sounded more like a question). I staring at Arlington House up on the hill standing over the gardens as we drove into the cemetery, security guards and soldiers from the 3rd Infantry Regiment, "The Old Guard," directed traffic and stood post.

“After the funeral. You were still in Walter Reed when they buried Dean. You and I came here with Malinda once you got discharged.”

“When was that?”

“They buried him in April of 2011. We came here in May”

You could just make out the haze over the Lincoln Memorial as we took the left turn into the parking lot. We got out, and the New England spring air was filled with humidity already. Summer was just around the corner. We checked in, and walked out of the admin building onto Eisenhower Drive. The white gravestones covered the ground as far as we could see, almost making it look like snow sat on the ground despite the stuffy weather.

“Do you know why we came here?”

I sighed again. “No, babe, I don’t.”

“To keep the memory alive.”

“Have you been reading philosophical crap again,” I asked with as much sarcasm in my voice as I could muster. Lynne elbowed me in the ribs, and I laughed.

“The doctor said a while back that visiting friends and family or coming to places we’ve been before should help with keeping your memory active.”

“Oh, okay. I was starting to think you brought me here for some ‘Always Beside You,’ cliche reason.”

“I mean, Dean was your best friend Mike. Can you imagine forgetting about him someday?”

“I figure I wouldn’t care, since I wouldn’t remember him,” I said with a smile as I looked over at Lynne. She was scowling at me. “What? A little dark humor never hurt anyone,” I said, shrugging.

“Not funny.”

As we walked down the road, I heard multiple gunshots fired together somewhere off in the distance, followed by two more volleys.

“Twenty-one gun salute,” I said.

“Someone’s laying a loved one to rest today,” Lynne replied.

“Yeah.” I hated 21 gun salutes now. It's a good tradition, a respectful way to send off the fallen, but they didn't seem the same to me anymore. I'd been to too many friends funerals even after the Sangin deployment, lost to later battles with the enemy or the demons in their minds and hearts. I couldn't remember the details of the funerals, or the names of all the guys who I'd seen off, but I'd never forget the sound of the seven rifles firing off together three times.

We came up on York Drive and walked left down the road towards Section 60, where a lot of the Iraq and Afghanistan guys were laid to rest. I wiped a little sweat out from my hair, glad to finally be under plenty of shade. Tall trees lined both sides of the road, offering protection from the sun that beat down incessantly on the Capital and her surrounding areas. Suddenly, I felt a tug at my sleeve as Lynne stopped me.

“We’re here, Mike.”

She pointed towards the gravestones to our left, and I started to walk over. I felt Lynne grab my hand and walk with me until we got to the trees lining the road. She suddenly pushed something into my hand and let go, standing up against one of the large trunks. I stopped and looked back at her, and she pointed again towards the gravestones. I kept walking in the direction she pointed and looked at what she gave me. It was a quarter minted in 2011 in Texas.

I looked up when I almost hit a gravestone, and noticed the one I’d been looking for. I walked over to it and kneeled down.

A cross outline crowned the black letters etched into the marble stone:

DEAN JAMES MONTGOMERY

LCPL

US MARINE CORPS

NOV 10 1991

MAR 16 2011

OPERATION ENDURING FREEDOM

PURPLE HEART

I sighed after reading the gravestone. I looked back at Lynne, who silently stared at me a dozen yards away under the tree. I thought for a moment and figured out her intent. I took a deep breath.

“Hey Dean, it’s Mike.” I laughed. “Shit, you’d be laughing at me if you could see this, too. But, I figure this is what Lynne would want me to do, since she dragged me here and all.” I paused and thought through what I should say. What do you say to a dead man, especially as the guy who was lucky enough to make it back alive?

“Life’s been hard, man. This fuckin’ TBI drives me up the wall, I can barely remember where I put shit sometimes, and my mom calls me all the time asking why I haven’t called her in a long time. It’s not that I don’t want to, y’know? I just… just can’t remember for the life of me.

“It’s not all bad, though. I managed to get a good job at a gun range near home. The work is embarrassingly simple but pays well enough. I had a daughter a few years ago, too. Her name is Anne, she’s the spitting image of her mother I swear. Stubborn as hell, too. I wonder where she got that from.” I laughed and sighed. “You would’ve loved her.

“Lynne said she talked to Malinda on the phone earlier while I was in a VA appointment. She said Malinda still thinks about you every day.” As I sat and looked at the marble stone in the ground, memories of our time back on Camp Pendleton in California came flooding back.

“I miss you too, bro. All your stupid fuckin’ jokes, screaming Garth Brooks and George Strait songs off-key as loud as you could driving down MSRs through the desert. I remember that one time the MPs rolled up back in Camp Horno, thought they could shut down a Darkhorse party. You picked one up and threw him five feet before we took off running. It’s a miracle they never caught us.” I laughed and wiped a little sweat off my cheek and rubbed my eyes.

“God man, I’d do anything to drink one more beer with you in the bricks or on your back porch with Lynna and Malinda. Hear you sing ‘Beaches of Cheyenne,’ one more time. Fight some college punk in Oceanside on the weekend. Anything for just one more night.”

I wiped under my eye again, and put the quarter down on top of the gravestone.

“I love you, Dean. I always will. See you later brother.” I patted the top of the marker a couple times, and turned back to Lynne. She was leaning up against the tree, smiling and wiping away tears at the same time. I walked up to her and wrapped her in a hug before kissing her on her forehead.

“I miss him, Mike,” she said to me with a shaky voice.

“I miss him too, Lynne. Thank you.”

I wrapped my arm around her shoulder as we walked back down the road under the big trees, their new spring leaves swaying in the breeze.