June 10th, 2024
My son, Hans, came home from work. He had been pumping concrete in the Texas summer sun for hours, and he looked rough. He was wearing a t-shirt with jeans tucked into his cowboy-style work boots. His cap had dark sweat stains on the headband. His shirt, jeans, and boots were dusty. Hans’ face had that kind of grime that is the combination of fine dirt and stale perspiration. His face and neck were both tanned and sunburned, a deep reddish-brown color. He was standing upright, but just barely.
I asked him how his day went. He just stared at me and shook his head. He cracked open a cold can of Lime-A-Rita and took a swig. He talked about his job and then we talked about work injuries and health insurance. He mentioned that his left knee bothered him. As is his wont, Hans somehow switched the topic to his time in the military. He told me,
“You know, those VA benefits aren’t that good.”
“How so?”
He replied, “Well, you know I got my knee fucked up in Iraq, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I ain’t never got any help with that.”
“How exactly did that injury happen?”
Hans poured some more of his drink down his throat. Then he told me,
“We were on a patrol. Some guy fired an RPG at us, which didn’t make no sense, since we were dismounted. You know how when the adrenalin kicks in and everything moves more slowly? Well, I’m watching this RPG flying at us. They don’t fly straight. They do this:”, and he quickly moved his left hand around in front of him in a totally random manner.
He drank again.
“They go every which way. I’m looking at it and thinking, ‘Too low! Go up! Up!’ It did, and it went over our heads and then the rocket hit a wall behind us. The concussion knocked me off my feet. They told me after that I flipped twice before I hit the ground.”
“I woke up with the medic on top of me. We were good friends. He was a big ol’ country boy. Not fat, but big. Cornfed, you know. He got me conscious by making some painful move up around my shoulder blade. I said to him,
‘Why am I laying here and why are you on top of me?!’
The medic told me that was fine. Dad, you know what they mean in the Army when they say you’re fine. It means you are not fine. Then the guy tells me, ‘Don’t look down’. I did.”
“Well, I could see my foot and it was all cockeyed.” Hans showed me with his hand that his left knee was bent about ninety degrees in the wrong direction.
“I told the medic, ‘This don’t look right’. That’s when he gave me a shot in the neck with something and I went out. It was something strong. They said that I woke up during the helicopter flight to the hospital, but I don’t remember anything.”
Then Hans asked me, “What was that friendly country over there?”
I replied, “Kuwait.”
“Yeah, Kuwait. They flew me to Kuwait. They fixed up the knee and had me wear a brace on it for a while. When we got back to the States, I asked about the knee. The said that they had no record of me getting hurt.”
“Oh?”
“Dad, we were the last people out of Iraq. We were in a hurry. They left the records behind. Hell, the Iraqis probably got my social security number.”
Hans took another drink. His knee is injured, and the U.S. government will probably never do anything to help him with that. I suppose if Hans had the time or energy, he could pursue the issue to get treatment from the VA. He won’t. He doesn’t think it’s worth fighting about. He’ll just deal with the pain and pop another beer.
Frank is Emptiness 