We'll Go No More a Roving

The isolation was almost total. I could walk around the interior courtyard. But access to the outside world was strictly forbidden. Once in a while they'd let me get a book. But there were no newspapers.

I frankly didn't know what I was doing there. My first cogent memories after the crash were in a dusty Iraqi hospital in Samawah. A group of Bedouins had found me and gingerly transported me to the nearest chunk of civilization

It wasn't because they were humanitarians. In fact, they were among the most primitive people I encountered in that godforsaken place. But Saddam was offering a substantial bounty for any American captured alive. So, I was dinars on the hoof for them.

The Iraqis I'd met during my time in the hospital were reasonable, if not exactly friendly. Of course, most of them had been educated in the U.S. I had broken bones and some internal injuries. The doctors stabilized me and then they loaded me in an ambulance and rushed me up to Baghdad.

Their hurry was inexplicable at first. Then I heard the concussions. It was obvious that the Coalition was finally coming for Saddam and he wanted a bargaining chip. That was me.

I spent time healing in a much nicer room in the Palace. It was impossible to tell what had been going on in the larger world. I didn't see any American faces. So, I knew that whatever had eventually occurred, nobody friendly had made it all the way up Highway 1.

My interrogators were polite. But they weren't asking the obvious questions, the ones that you'd normally want a prisoner of war to answer. So, either they'd won, or there'd been a comfortable accommodation.

Since nobody was beating down the door, I also guessed that my presence in the Palace was a well-kept secret. Iraq has been at the center of the world's trade routes for a mere five thousand years. So, the Iraqis know how to bargain. That includes never throwing away anything that might be useful.

It took a year for my injuries to heal. Then they buried me in my little downstairs room. I was like the classic stuffed moosehead. People don't know why they bought it. But they don't want to part with it.

As you might imagine, my day-to-day existence was excruciating; with a few sides of desperation, hopelessness and despair tossed in. But the other option was hanging myself and I couldn't work up the courage to do that. So, I hunkered down and endured.

I had way too much time on my hands and all I could think about was what I had sacrificed. My overwhelming regret centered on my separation from Jane. I missed her - intensely. In fact, the dim possibility of being able to hold her again was the only thing that kept me from ending myself.

I knew that I was in this mess because of my over developed sense of duty. I had been inactive reserve for a couple of years when the war kicked off. But I knew I was going to be activated the moment that I heard about Saddam's invasion of Kuwait.

The Cobras were nothing compared to the big brutal Apaches and most of the active duty hotshots had transitioned into the AH-64. So, the Army pawned off their AH-1's on the Marines. The jarheads would fly anything.

But there were still a few Cobra squadrons in the inventory, and I was one of the last experienced snake drivers. Hence, I got the letter telling me to report to the 159th Aviation Brigade. That was back at my old stomping grounds in Clarksville.

I was relatively ancient for a combat pilot. Hence, I might have been able to fight my callup. But in my mind, that would have been a dishonorable thing to do. On the other hand, it's hard to take comfort in abstract notions like honor and duty when it's 118 degrees and you haven't been able to bathe for a month.

The callup was devastating. Jane and I had only been married for three and a half years and my life with her had been perfect. We were just talking about the baby when I got the notice.

They gave me a week to report. The Army doesn't like the people whose lives they've stolen to have time to think about it. That's probably prudent. Still, most of us would show up no matter what. The sense of obligation is built in.

Our final night together was bittersweet. We both knew it would be a few months and in all the time that we'd been married we'd never been apart more than a few days. Our parting was both poignant and passionate.

Jane was like a woman possessed. She is normally very enthusiastic. But she outdid herself that final night. She was on a mission. It was like she wanted to reassure both of us that I'd never forget her. Which, or course, wasn't going to happen.

We started out lying on the bed fully clothed. I looked into her incredible amber cat-eyes and she was looking back at me as if we were one soul. It was so sexual that I felt the overwhelming urge to mount her and fuck her like some classical hero going off to battle. But that was NOT why we were there. So instead I caressed her much adored face.

Her mouth fell open and she began to pant, fast deep breaths. I pulled her upright and we worked together to strip her to the waist. Her magnificent breasts were swollen with passion.

Her nipples are always very prominent, and they are usually my favorite thing to feast on. But today they were looking intimidatingly functional; standing up very tall and hard with their little tiny openings clearly visible. I worshiped them instead.

She was panting and moaning loudly. It was time. So, I made us both naked. I gently got between her legs. Usually she tells me in very explicit terms what she wants me to do, but she was still only moaning tenderly and panting loudly, holding her legs up and slightly bent apart with no effort whatsoever.

I placed myself at her entrance and slid up into her. I could feel her welcoming me, almost pulling me in. I touched her cervix supporting myself on my arms so as not to crush her.

She was moving very slightly, rhythmically but not really fucking back. I withdrew and she gasped and then pushed ahead gently again. It was a slow fuck, like we wanted it to last forever.

Jane can be extremely impatient once her engine gets going. But today she was totally wide open and accepting, meeting my thrusts with a gentle rock of her hips and a little moan each time I bottomed out in her.

I continued to look into her eyes, willing her to see how much I loved her. She began to get more agitated as we moved together in a gentle motion. Her legs elevated higher. Her knees were widely spread in a graceful classic female fucking position.

Finally, she began to vocalize, "Ahhhh, Ahhhh, Ahhhh, Ohhhhh, Ahhhh, Ahhhh, Ahhhh, Ohhhhh!" Those cries rose in intensity until she couldn't take it any longer and she came wildly.

Her insides were as white hot as usual, but they were literally tugging on my cock like she wanted to hold it inside herself forever. That caused me to blow up like the Death Star.

I was not rational for some period of time, nor was she. But when I finally came back to my senses, I was lying on top of her, still supporting myself on my arms. With her huge tits squashed between us and I had not lost the slightest stiffness. It was like I never wanted to leave her.

In an amazingly short time, we began to move together again. This time we were much more forceful. She was bucking under me like she usually does, and I was ramming her like I couldn't get far enough into her.

She had a crazed look on her face, as she fucked me with every ounce of strength she had. It probably matched the look on mine. I was wildly humping her but that couldn't last long, and we came powerfully together again. The simultaneousness rarely happens twice.

I rolled off her to lie on my back looking at the ceiling. She was weeping softly next to me. I said with profound sincerity in my heart, "I will love you forever."

********

My captivity had stretched into years. I knew that because I was beginning to see grey hair in the little piece of mirror that a sympathetic servant had given me. I was pretty certain I'd die there, and I couldn't wait for it to happen.

The mechanics of my confinement were simple. My room was in the basement of the Palace, off a little internal courtyard. The courtyard appeared to be an architectural device, rather than a gathering spot. It was designed to let a bit of light into the innards of the building.

There was a single stairway leading out. It was always guarded at the top. I might have been able to work my way past the guard. But all that would have done was deposit me in the middle of a huge building chock-full of military types and bureaucrats. Somebody would be bound to notice a scruffy American wandering around in ragged clothes and bare feet.

To be fair, I wasn't mistreated. I had been a husky one-hundred-and-ninety pounder the night I was captured. I was closer to one-hundred-and-sixty now. But my weight had stabilized, and I got medical care if I really needed it.

I could exercise as much as I wanted. Every morning I'd walk 8,000 steps clockwise around my courtyard. Then I'd turn around and walk 8,000 steps in the other direction. I figured at two-feet-per-stride I was walking six miles a day. The exercise temporarily took my mind off my troubles and kept me fit.

I could occasionally take books out of the Palace library. I read everything written by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Zane Grey, Kipling, Hemingway and Conrad; anything to get my mind outside the stone walls that surrounded me.

Still, the isolation and loneliness was killing me. Every night I was tortured by thoughts of Jane. I wondered what had happened to her.

I could keep rough track of the passing of the years by the temperature. There was always a period when the heat wasn't totally oppressive, and I assumed that was that the Iraqis called winter. Twelve of those periods had come and gone when I was rolled out of bed by Armageddon.

The military scientists call it "Shock-and-Awe." Neat term, but they weren't on the receiving end. Imagine undergoing an endless series of teeth rattling concussions until all you want to do is just crawl in a hole and die. And, I was inside the building down at the basement level. I can't imagine what it was like out there in the open.

I assumed that our guys were finally settling up with Saddam.

It was total chaos for the next few weeks. I could have probably walked out then. But that would be crazy, given the shit that was going on around me. So, I stayed in the Palace.

Then a collection of 3rd ID Humvees rolled into the circular drive and under the big portico. They disgorged infantry squads who began to infiltrate the building. Our guys were coming up the main hallway moving carefully from doorway to doorway, M-4s at the ready.

I happened to be raiding the pantry next to the Palace ballroom. The whole building was more-or-less deserted during the transition. So, I'd been sleeping in a translator's booth. The booth was air conditioned, at least when the electricity was on in Baghdad. It was the first good night's sleep I'd gotten in years. I stepped out into the middle of the room hands raised, shouting DON'T SHOOT I'M AN AMERICAN.

Our guys saw a stinking scarecrow, with lank hair well past his shoulders and a beard down to his chest. I didn't look hostile or threatening. So, I was arrested and processed. My captivity had lasted twelve years and three months, roughly 4,500 days. I had been thirty-eight years old on that fateful day. Now I was fifty.

It wasn't a record for POWs. That was some Japanese dude who held out on the Island of Lubang for twenty-nine years after World War Two. But then again, I really wasn't a prisoner of war. I was just a negotiating chip and maybe Saddam's personal pet.

*****

It was a quick and secret journey from the Republican Palace to DC, via Landstuhl. The colonel in charge of the scout brigade heard my story, made a phone call and the next thing I knew I was on a C-20 to Germany. They checked me out and found me surprisingly healthy, if not a little undernourished.

The trip ended at Andrews, all on private jets. They stashed me in a room at the Washington DC VA Medical Center. I wasn't exactly under guard. But they made it clear that they didn't want me to leave, or talk to anybody, until they decided what to do with me.

I kept asking to see Jane. She had been the only thing keeping me alive. Now I was dying for her touch.

They told me, "All in good time."

I told them I was going out the window if she wasn't produced forthwith.

They told me that it was complicated.

The guy who was interfacing with me was clearly my appointed "keeper." He seemed like a decent sort. He was one of those transposable units that they turn out of a little Academy high above the Hudson, just north of Peekskill.

He had an open earnest Midwest face and a manner that was so warm and sympathetic that it made me wonder how he'd survived being a Cadet. It was clear that he had a future in Army PR. I instinctively liked him. But that was the whole point of putting him in charge of me.

Still, there were way too many moving parts to trust anybody.

He fixed me with his most compassionate look and said, "Wait until this afternoon. The Undersecretary will explain. Just be patient. We'll make it right." That sounded ominous.

The first guy into the room was clearly there to tell me where it was at. I knew from the grey suit, the steely glance and the well shined pair of oxfords. The next guy was the accountant. He looked like a gerbil in corduroys.

They both pulled out chairs, radiating camaraderie. My handler made the fourth. The three of them were acting like we were sitting down to have a beer and watch the Skins play the Giants.

I said pissed-off, "Look, let's cut to the chase. You've stolen a dozen years of my life, and I need to see my wife."

That's when I learned what it meant to be one of the living dead.

I'd already guessed that I was an extreme embarrassment to the people who'd left me behind. The first guy had made his reputation on the painlessness of that little scrap and the son was POTUS now.

It looked really bad to have a dude show up from lo-those-many years ago; like they'd lost the family cat on vacation. It made the Army bureaucracy seem a bit unfeeling perhaps; and definitely a whole lot incompetent.

In fact, they would have probably dropped me over the Atlantic if the press had gotten any inkling that they'd dug up a Gulf War POW during the "regime change." So, an entire section of the U.S. military was now devoted to disappearing me.

The guy with the spiffy shine started out on the attack. He said, "We would have looked for you but the biggest tank engagement since the battle of Kursk went right over the spot where you crashed. We found your gunner. He was crisped and we just assumed the other body was you."

I just sat there looking at him with a, "No excuses!!" stare.

He glanced furtively at the gerbil and said, "You are going to be a very rich man; back pay and some recompense for all you went through."

I thought to myself, "Aha, a bribe - how interesting. I must have real leverage on those guys."

How could I know!!?? I'd been buried in a basement for the past twelve years. I'd never heard of the internet; or the word "viral" as it applied to stories that rattled around that mysterious place.

I said, "I don't care about any of that. When do I get to see my wife?"

All three exchanged meaningful glances. Then the Cadet said in his most sincere and sympathetic tone, "Let me catch you up on a little history my friend. You were declared KIA in 1992."

That was a shock. I didn't have the time to process the implications because the kid was still talking. He was saying ruefully, "A year is standard doctrine when we have probable cause to assume a missing soldier was killed in action. Everybody on the Chinook saw you go down and the fireball afterward."

Seriously??!! I'm officially dead. I sat there looking stunned.

But that wasn't the worst of it - not by a long shot!!

My handler said with genuine sympathy. We found human remains at the crash site. They appeared to be yours. But military casualty DNA testing was in its infancy back then. Your wife was devastated. "

He looked me steadily in the eye and said, "You were buried with full military honors at Arlington with a Silver Star and a Distinguished Flying Cross. You saved a lot of lives that night."

I continued to just sit there... imitating a fish out of water.

The Cadet looked like he was bracing himself. Then he said, "Your wife was in deep mourning for a few years, almost like a recluse. She obviously loved you deeply. But she is a tough woman and she turned her life around."

I thought proudly, "That's my girl!!" Of course, I'd missed the important point. I was DEAD.

If I wasn't dead, the next words would have killed me. The handler shook his head sadly and said, "Jane remarried eight years ago. She has two children seven and five. Her husband is a U.S. Congressman."

Every drop of adrenaline dumped into my bloodstream. My mind went into hyper-drive and time slowed to a crawl.

My brain said reasonably, "You were dead. Did you REALLY expect your young wife to throw herself on your funeral pyre? They outlawed suttee a long time ago."

Jane was in her early 30s and she loved life. She was a beautiful and vibrant woman. Of course, she'd remarry.

But my heart was utterly destroyed. The only thing keeping me marching through that eternal dark night was the thought that someday I would get to hold her. That hope had been snatched away by cruel fate and I was adrift in an endless sea of misery.

Needless to say. I didn't react well. Specifically, I tried to strangle the Cadet. There was no particular reason for that. But the Devil was my Master now, and chaos was my only friend. So, it just seemed like a good idea at the time.

It took two burly guards and several milligrams of Thorazine. Then, I woke up in the classic padded cell. But I knew what their pressure point was. So, I started yelling, "I'm going straight to the Washington Post if you don't let me out of here."

That got the expected reaction. An hour later the door opened, and three MPs walked in. The big guy who was clearly the leader said, "Sit down and shut up. The Secretary wants to talk to you."

He emphasized it by smacking the palm of his hand with an Asp Talon. I sat.

The Secretary of the Army was your usual smooth-talking political appointee, majestically tall, greying hair, which was gelled back in the style of the time and the soulless eyes of a snake.

Of course, he was smiling cordially as he extended his hand. He said, "Now that you've heard all of the bad news, let's get to the good part."

I said miserably, "There IS no good part," I couldn't hold it in any longer. I plopped my face into my hands and started to sob. The loud wailing went on for a minute or so. Even I was thinking, "My God!! What a pussy!!" It was fucking humiliating.

When I raised my head, they were looking at me like I was the countdown timer on a nuclear device and the number had gotten down to a single digit. I got better control of myself, dried my eyes and said, trying to sound wanly humorous, "I'll stop blubbering now."

The Secretary said kindly, "I can't begin to comprehend the suffering you must be going through. But we can give you some positive things to help you recover."

I looked at him wearily and said, "Like what?"

He said, "First of all we can provide some financial recompense. I know it won't make up for the years you lost, or your wife. But it will ensure that you will live in the lap of luxury. That's the least we can do."

Seriously??!! How the fuck could I replace Jane with money!?

I was going to start crying again. But the feelings of mortification from the first time grew me a set. I said with some heat, "Explain that to me. What are you talking about?"