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  “Can’t we get it any damn cooler in here? I’m gonna drip on the poor guy.”

  A soldier rolled an air-conditioning unit over.

  “All right, let’s get going.” He took a whirling drill from a nurse, kicked it into high gear, and put it to Peter’s head. Skin flicked away, and blood began flowing.

  “Sponge, clean the wound.”

  The drill sound deepened, seeming to slow as it bore into the skull. Bone, skin, and blood sprayed as he leaned in. “Sponge! Sponge it, dammit! I need to see where the hell we are.”

  He gently applied the drill, and as it broke through, a rush of cerebral fluid shot up, offering relief to the pressure on Peter’s brain. “Goddamn it! It’s on my glasses. Get me a mask!”

  Changing masks, the doctor ordered, “Grab a sample of the fluid. Run labs on it.”

  Dr. Mancino methodically bored openings in other spots, allowing more cerebral fluid an escape route, ordering more fluid testing.

  The surgeon inserted drains before checking Peter’s abdomen and right leg.

  “X-ray the ab and leg. I want to be sure nothing’s going on in the midsection. Then, get a splint on the leg. We’ll worry about it later.” The doctor looked at his patient and shook his head. “I don’t want him moved around too much, but we have to get him to Landstuhl, where they can treat him properly.”

  He flipped up his shield and walked away, “Hustle, hustle! You know the drill. Stabilize him, and get him on the next flight out.”

  As Dr. Mancino stepped outside, he was met by Tony.

  “Doc, how’s my buddy doing?”

  Dr. Mancino brushed by the soldier.

  “Petey, um, Peter Hill. We’re in the same platoon. How’s he doing?”

  The doctor motioned to walk with him. “He’s suffered a traumatic brain injury.”

  “He’s gonna be okay, right Doc?”

  “He’s out on the next flight to Ramstein. We did all we can to stabilize him, but he’s gonna need more surgery to repair the skull fracture and a thorough going-over.”

  “Going-over?”

  “An extensive assessment of the brain injury. We’re limited here, but Landstuhl has it all, and they’ll decide the best course of action.”

  “Shit, man, it’s all fucked up. We were heading home today.”

  Six hours after his skull was pierced, in a drug-induced coma, Peter was rolled onto a dull-gray C-5 for the flight to Germany. His buddy Tony, who refused to board his original flight, took one of the seats lining the wall.

  ***

  Seven hours later, the plane touched down at Ramstein Air Base. As it taxied toward a waiting bus, the paramedics and nurses readied the injured for the next phase of their journey. The C-5 came to a halt, and its nose quickly rose.

  Dawn’s light streamed into the cavity as a procession of gurneys were hurried down the ramp onto a special bus. Lights ablaze, the bus lurched forward for the ten-minute drive to the hospital.

  Duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Tony stepped off the aircraft into a German morning. Inside the terminal, he headed to a bank of phones and called his mother. Then he made a series of calls to track down Pete’s brother, Vinny, locating him in Dallas.

  “Vinny? Vinny Hill?”

  “Yeah, you got him. Who’s this?”

  “Tony, Tony Burato. I’m a friend of your brother's: Pete. We served together.”

  “Yeah, I hear he’s heading home soon. What’s up?”

  “Well, he’s been in an accident. He’s okay, well, not totally okay. He’s in the hospital.”

  “What happened?”

  “He got hit by a car, hit his head. They flew him to Germany, to a hospital in Landstuhl. It’s one of the best the Marines' got.”

  “What? Nobody called or nothing.”

  “I figured it’d take ’em time for an official notification, but that’s a good sign, you know. If it was bad, they’d have reached out already.”

  He got no response from Vinny and continued.

  “Anyway, I wanted to get ahold of you, since I think you’re the only family he has.”

  “Uh, thanks, thanks, but what now?”

  “The Marines will probably fly you over. It’s free for family, you know, and you can be with Petey. They got tons of flights. You’re in Dallas, Lackland Air Base is pretty close.”

  “Who knows exactly what’s going on with Peter?”

  “Call Fort Dix. They got a special system, and they’ll patch you through for the latest on Petey’s condition.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hey, you got his girl Mary’s telephone number? I think she should know what’s going on.”

  “Mary? Uh, I’ll handle it. Don’t worry about her. I’ve got it.”

  “Good. Wasn’t looking forward to that call. Anyway, look, I gotta run. I’ll check in on him again before I leave.”

  Chapter 2

  Peter Hill was critical but not as bad as the six others in the latest batch of soldiers wheeled into the bustling triage area. Brightly lit, it was anchored by a circular station where a doctor, dressed in green scrubs, scanned reports, directing teams to each of the incoming.

  Peter’s gurney was intercepted. He was taken for an MRI and wheeled into an operating room.

  Revitalized after grabbing two hours of shut-eye on a cot, Tony showered, wolfed down lunch and grabbed a ride to Landstuhl hospital. It was just shy of two o’clock when Tony checked in at the reception desk.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. Here to see Pete Hill.”

  A civilian tapped on a keyboard.

  “He’s still in surgery.”

  “What? He was taken in, like, at eight this morning.”

  She offered a red plastic pass. “Take the Eisenhower elevators to the third floor. You’ll see an info desk and waiting zone for the recovery area.”

  Tony learned that Peter had been in surgery for five hours and that the doctors were finishing up. He grabbed a copy of the latest Stars and Stripes and sat in a row of wooden chairs.

  An hour passed before Tony was called to the desk.

  “Private Hill has been brought into the recovery area.” She cocked her head toward a nurse who appeared in a doorway. “Susan will take you in, but no more than ten minutes, okay?”

  “Thanks.”

  The nurse handed him a paper smock. “Put this on, and sanitize your hands, please.”

  They stepped into a cold, brightly lit room lined with beds hooked up to equipment emitting streams of beeps. Nurses scurried across its gleaming floor, administering dosages and checking readings, numb to an overpowering, antiseptic smell.

  Tony scanned from bed to bed, pausing when he saw a woman crying at a bedside. He stared a moment before putting his head down.

  “How’s Petey doing?”

  “Good, he’s been out fifty minutes or so. He’s still under.”

  “How long for the anesthesia to wear off?”

  “Normally, two, three hours, but with the brain injury he’s sustained, they’ll probably keep him under for, ah, I really don’t know. These things get complicated.”

  “But he’s going to be all right?”

  “Sorry, I really don’t know much, other than the TBI.”

  “TBI?”

  “Traumatic brain injury.” She pointed. “He’s the last one on the right.”

  Tony stopped at the foot of the bed, spreading his legs for support. Peter’s face was swollen. There was a breathing tube down Peter’s throat. Blood-filled tubes coming from Pete’s gauze-wrapped head and a forest of poles holding bags with lines to both arms. Pete’s right leg was elevated by a sling hanging from a winch. A urine catheter dangled from his leg.

  A nurse breezed in, logging onto a laptop. She added a piece of tape to an IV and mumbled, “Goddamn IEDs.”

  “It wasn’t a roadside bomb. Believe it or not, he was hit by a damn car.”

  “I thought it was strange there were no shrapnel wounds.”

  “And the thing is, it h
appened at the airport right when we were going to board a flight home.”

  “What bad luck.”

  “It gets worse. He was hit by one of our state department cars.”

  “What? Hit by one of our own.” She frowned. “Look, I’ll be back in a bit. Gotta make a round. You can get closer. He won’t bite you.”

  Tony inched up. He stared at his buddy, and when a tear slipped out, he focused on the respirator’s baffle and tried to decipher the medicinal smell.

  When the nurse came back, he asked how he could get a prognosis on Pete. She jotted down the number of a Dr. Brown and hurried off. Tony took a long look at Pete, gently patted his good leg, and left.

  Dr. Brown’s evasiveness made Tony angry. However, when Dr. Brown mentioned Pete would be kept unconscious for two days and transferred to Walter Reed Hospital in a week for rehab, Tony brightened.

  “That’s better,” Tony said. “Pete’s brother, Vinny, will be here soon, and I’ll be able to see Peter in the hospital. It’s about a three-hour drive from where I live in New Jersey to Washington.”

  ***

  Vinny was a year older and three inches taller than Pete. He’d left New Jersey when their mother got sick and bounced around the country, ending up in Texas. He rarely came back to Jersey. An upper-level manager for FedEx in Dallas, Vinny pulled strings to avoid leaning on the military’s offer. Hitching a ride on a FedEx freighter to Frankfurt, he picked up a company car and drove through a lightning storm to Landstuhl Hospital.

  Pleasantly surprised at the civilian feel, Vinny was confused when he was shown into a quiet room housing eight bedridden soldiers. A scan of the room left a lump in his throat. He zeroed in on Pete’s bed. Sandwiched between a legless soldier and one with an arm and a leg missing, his unconscious brother looked intact.

  The nurse hovering over Pete met Vinny’s eyes.

  “Must be family coming, Peter. Maybe a brother? He looks a lot like you.”

  Vinny wiped away a tear. He stood at Pete’s bedside, silently cursing the war. The nurse dragged a metal chair over. The scraping sound seemed to stir Pete, and his head lolled a bit. Vinny shot a glance at the nurse.

  “It’s nothing. He’s out.”

  Vinny sat, arms crossed.

  “It’s okay to touch him. Contact helps them recover. He knows you’re here.”

  Vinny shifted closer, reaching through the side rail to touch his brother’s hand.

  “He’s cold as ice. Get him another blanket, for Chrissakes!”

  “It’s fine. He’s just below normal, which is right where we like him to be with a TBI.”

  “Look, before this happened, I’d never heard of a TBI, and I still don’t know what the hell it is.”

  “A traumatic brain injury.”

  “I know that, dammit, but what does it mean for my brother? What the hell’s happening with him?”

  “I know this is difficult, but we believe Peter can hear you. Yelling may cause him stress, which won’t help his condition.”

  Vinny stood, leaning toward the nurse. “I just need to understand what’s going on. Is he gonna be all right?”

  “I’ll ask the doctor to speak with you.”

  While Peter was getting a sponge bath, Vinny sat in a small area by the nurse’s station. Rain pelted the windows. He sipped what passed for coffee and watched the chaos as patients were rolled in and out. A reed-thin doctor, in green scrubs and pink clogs made a beeline for Vinny.

  “Mr. Hill? I’m Doctor Molanari.”

  The physician didn’t offer his hand and sat on the edge of a coffee table.

  “The surgery yesterday went well. I repaired the fracture, removed the skull fragments, and installed a ventricular drain to relieve the cranial pressure. Even patched up the nasty tear in his meniscus.”

  “What’s the prognosis? Is he going to be all right?”

  “It’s too early to tell. The head trauma he suffered is a complicated thing to gauge. We need three to five days to let the fluids drain. Then, we’ll take some clearer scans that’ll give us a picture of the damage to the brain.”

  “Brain damage? He’s going to be vegetable?”

  “I doubt he’ll be in a vegetative state. We see way too many TBIs here, and frankly, Peter’s is not as bad as many."

  “Doc, cut the bullshit. Give it to me straight.”

  The doctor stood abruptly. “Like I said, it’s too early to tell the extent of any damage. That said, the brain is a complex organ that we don’t fully understand. I believe he’ll have to undergo extensive rehab but will likely recover most functionality.”

  The doctor turned on his heels, leaving Vinny to struggle with what functionality meant. Finding it difficult to think and breathe, he headed for a dose of fresh air.

  ***

  Eyes riveted on the floor, Vinny trudged back into Peter’s room. He stared at his brother’s comatose body, lamenting that he didn’t really know his brother. Vinny shifted in his chair as tears trickled down his cheek. He vowed to help Peter if he made it out. The guilt of taking off and leaving Peter alone to deal with their sick mother weighed on him. He cursed his father, who’d been in the reserves for years, for going AWOL in Grenada. Vinny still couldn’t believe he left their mother and shacked up with some girl, dying shortly afterward.

  Vinny cursed the people who put his brother in uniform and closed his eyes.

  “How we doing today?” A nurse, blond hair piled on her head, was pulling the privacy curtain around Pete’s bed.

  “Huh, uh? I guess I fell asleep.”

  “Hello there, Peter.” She stroked his face. “You’ve got a visitor here. Come on now. Don’t be rude.”

  Vinny craned his neck to see if the good-looking nurse could get a reaction. “Hope you got some magical powers.”

  “Poor thing. It's pretty normal.” She turned around. “And who would you be?”

  Vinny scrambled to his feet, putting him inches away and wishing he’d shaved.

  “Vinny. I’m Pete’s brother.”

  “Thought so, both of you have the same eyes. I’m Angela. Nice to meet you.”

  She turned and reached for an IV bag, hiking her skirt and Vinny’s interest.

  “You or Petey need anything, just let me know.”

  He looked at her with glassy eyes.

  “I know it’s tough on you now, but let’s give it time. He’ll get better, you’ll see.”

  “I don’t know; nothing’s changing.”

  “Well, he’s breathing on his own now. He’ll make more progress.”

  “When will these tubes come out of his head? I mean, it gives me the creeps.”

  “Most of ’em will come out when the draining is done. They let the fluids out, keeping the pressure off his brain.” She pointed to the tubes. “You see, it’s a reddish gray now. A good sign will be if it turns clear. Keep an eye on it, okay?”

  “Sure, Ang, sure. So, how long you been working here?”

  “See you later. He’s not my only patient.”

  Vinny watched her shapely body sway away before turning his attention to the color of the fluid draining through the tubes.

  ***

  On the third day, Vinny pushed the door to Peter’s room open, got a whiff of flowers, and kept his head down.

  “How you doing?”

  Vinny looked up at the father of a tattooed soldier who’d lost a leg and a half. He smiled thinly, proceeding to his brother’s bed.

  “How you doing today, Petey? It’s me, Vinny.” He patted his brother’s leg, noting the winch’s angle had been lowered. He checked the tubes, staring at the largest one coming from the crown of Peter’s head. The color seemed a shade lighter. He compared the color in the largest tube to the others, but couldn’t tell if it was clearer.

  The man who had tried to engage him walked up.

  “Hiya, son. Name’s John. John Jeffries.” He turned and said, “That’s my boy, Jimmy.” He stuck out his hand, and Vinny hesitated before shaking it.
>
  “Um, I’m Vinny. This is my brother, Peter.”

  “Brave men, all of them.”

  “Brave? I don’t know about that. You ask me, maybe they were stupid for joining.”

  The father shook his head. “I know it’s tough, son, but there’s nothing more honorable than serving your country.”

  “Don’t try to sell me that honor bullshit. Open your eyes, man, look around this place.”

  “Mine are wide open, but don’t you go disrespecting our boys, sonny.”

  “Whatever.”

  The father paused before saying, “Well, you take care of your brother now, and if you need anything, I’m there for you.” He extended his hand. “Even if we don’t see eye to eye.”

  Vinny sat down and fumed until Angela made her rounds.

  “Ang, check the fluid. I could be out of my mind, but it’s looking a little clearer.”

  She came to Vinny’s side of the bed.

  “Yeah!” Angela high-fived Vinny. “Good eyes. If he stays on schedule, it’ll be clear in a day, day and a half.”

  “When’s he gonna wake up?”

  She paused. “It’s been three days. He could start coming out of it anytime.”

  Vinny jumped up. “Really?”

  She held up a hand. “Just don’t expect much at first. No matter what, remember, it’s gonna take time. I’ll check back.”

  Angela left, and Vinny shifted his attention to the tubes, staring at the fluids for over two hours straight. Eyes bleary and unable to discern any improvement, he left to get something more than the vending machines offered to eat.

  ***

  He pushed through the door, relieved there were no visitors in his brother’s shared room. An amputee with an eye patch caught Vinny’s eye, and he smiled. Quickening his pace, he was sure he saw Peter’s eyes flutter open and shut.

  Vinny put his hand on Peter’s cheek. He lifted his brother’s hand a few inches and dropped it, repeated it a bit higher and sat down, questioning what he thought he’d seen. He sat for a minute before bolting up to check the fluid stream. It had cleared significantly. He sat, took his hand, and began praying the Hail Mary. When the second verse came up, he heard the amputee chiming in. Vinny burst into tears, burying his face in his hands.