away the perspiration running down his chest and over the scar on his abdomen. That curiously shaped mark often drew questions that he avoided in an effort to bury the past. He got back to work on the table saw, cutting his next piece.
Some Special Forces operators went hunting or fishing in their off time, and Mitchell did a little of both. He'd bagged a few nice deer in his day and could tie on a Texas-rigged worm to bass-fish with the best of them, but it was the woodworking that gave him both a perfect release of stress and an incredible sense of accomplishment when he finished a piece.
While he was hardly as accomplished as those woodworking hosts on TV, he had designed and built some very intricate and ornate pieces: writing desks, curio cabinets, gun racks and display cases, and even a large entertainment center that he had sold to the battalion commander, whose wife had ordered Mitchell to do so.
His current project was a little different. One of the warrants of an ODA team in his company was a breeder of African and South American tortoises: sulcatas, leopards, and redfoots, respectively, and Mitchell had been hired to build several tortoise tables upon which the critters would roam and live indoors when the weather did not permit them to graze outside.
So he'd come up with some rather simple but attractive designs for these enclosures and was hoping to finish the first table and have it ready for stain by the end of the day, because he'd be quite busy that evening.
Ah, yes, the smell of fresh-cut pine in the morning. Better than napalm any day.
The party was supposed to be a surprise, but Mitchell knew all about it. So when he walked into the banquet hall, he mouthed a
They had even strung a banner across the wall:
CONGRATULATIONS
CAPTAIN SCOTT MITCHELL
Getting promoted to captain was a pretty big deal. When someone referred to the 'detachment commander,' they'd be talking about him. That would feel a little weird.
Moreover, the joke was that captains were just the token officers on ODA teams, coming in to spend six, nine, maybe even twelve months, after which they'd be shipped out and go on to lead companies and battalions. They were sometimes treated a bit coldly by the NCOs, especially those younger captains fresh out of school who lacked real-world experience. The team sergeants often said that the best captains were the ones who knew how to take orders — from them.
A few of Mitchell's colleagues led him up to a podium and screamed, 'Speech, speech!'
They'd already become sloppy drunk while waiting.
His cheeks warming, Mitchell eyed the sixty or so men and their spouses and girlfriends seated at the tables. Damn, they'd even hired a DJ. Yes, these were his people, his family, and he couldn't have felt more proud.
'Uh, I'm so surprised.'
That drew a few laughs.
'And you'd think as Special Forces operators, you'd be able to plan something like this without me finding out. But, you guys, you know you're the best of the best. Unconventional warriors. But as party planners? You suck.'
Now the whole room broke into laughter.
'Seriously, thank you so much. I really appreciate this.'
Out of the corner of Mitchell's eye he spotted a familiar face and immediately got choked up.
It was Rutang, seated there, now sergeant first class and senior medic who'd just come back from a tour in Iraq. Mitchell had kept in touch with him, but he'd had no idea the man would be present.
They shook hands, banged fists, then Mitchell took a seat next to him and was handed a beer as the DJ announced that the party had begun and fired up a heavy-hitting remake of Iggy Pop's 'Gimme Danger.'
'You flew all the way here for this?' asked Mitchell.
'I wouldn't miss it, man.'
'How's Mandy doing?'
Rutang rolled his eyes. 'Pregnant again. And she's sorry she couldn't make it.'
'Wow.' Mitchell chuckled. 'Congratulations.'
'I keep telling her to stay away from the FedEx guy.'
'So now you'll have two kids, a beautiful wife… that's a good reason to come home. I got a woodshop.'
Rutang took a sip of his beer and barely smiled.
'What's wrong? You come to my promotion party, and you look like someone died.'
'I don't know—'
Rutang cut himself off as Chris Hobbs, the warrant who kept the tortoises, approached and apologized for interrupting. 'We'd like to take a couple of pictures before we get too drunk.'
He dragged Mitchell away, and for the next fifteen minutes, Mitchell was subjected to camera flashes and slaps on the back, and shots foisted into his face until he managed to stagger back to Rutang's table, where his friend was still seated, getting drunk alone.
'Sorry, man.'
Rutang shrugged. 'It's your party. Don't apologize.'
'Iraq? Is that what's bothering you?'
'I wish.'
'What can I do?'
'Scott, I still don't sleep, man.'
Neither did he. 'Sleep's overrated.'
'I've been going to a new shrink. You know what she told me? She said I need to cut old ties and start fresh.'
'What does that mean?'
'She says I shouldn't talk to you anymore. You believe that?'
Mitchell snorted. 'Sounds like you need a new shrink.'
'Maybe if you and I talked.'
'Tang, that's just… What happened wasn't our fault. We did our jobs. We move on.'
'And it's that easy?' Rutang held up his hand. 'Wait. Don't answer that. I'm a selfish bastard. I come here and dump my problems on you. Hell, let's get drunk!'
Mitchell leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. 'See, Rutang? There's no problem that can't be solved with sufficient quantities of gunpowder and alcohol.'
They clinked beer bottles and took big swigs. But behind Mitchell's grin was a world of guilt and sorrow that he would not share with anyone.
Writer Tim O'Brien had written that famous story, 'The Things They Carried,' a story Mitchell had read over a dozen times. As a soldier, Mitchell knew he must be able to shoulder so much more than just his pack. As the load got heavier, he needed to become stronger.
Now a living example of that commitment to overcome was rolling directly toward him with a hand extended. Marc Entwhiler was the Black Hawk pilot who had been shot down and paralyzed back on Basilan Island.
In the months following the accident, Entwhiler had sent Mitchell several e-mails thanking him for the hope, inspiration, and courage to go on.
Mitchell took no credit for that. It was Entwhiler's indomitable spirit — a spirit that had allowed him to shoulder the load of his accident — that gave him hope and inspired so many others, Mitchell included. Entwhiler was now working as a civilian consultant, teaching other Black Hawk pilots and engineers the skills he'd learned through a joint partnership between the army and the Rockwell Collins Simulation and Training Solutions facility in Huntsville, Alabama.
'Scott, congratulations, man!'
'Thanks, Marc.'
'Sorry I'm late. Couldn't get my damned wheels to spin any faster.'
'You might remember Sergeant McDaniel?'
