Eileen and Camp embraced as the sounds of Pershing’s Own kicked in on a distant hill for the next funeral.
Raines tucked Ruth into the passenger seat and made sure she was all buckled up. Sea Bee opened the driver’s door then stopped. He held his car keys in his open hands but just stared at them. He was confused. He looked at the keys, then the car, and then back down at the keys. He was lost.
“Seabury Campbell… just what in God’s name are doing?” Ruth nagged at her husband. She was half teasing but half perturbed.
He didn’t respond. Sea Bee’s old hands started to tremble.
“Seabury!” Ruth yelled.
Raines closed Ruth’s door and walked around to Sea Bee.
“Sir… Mr. Campbell? Are you okay, sir?”
Sea Bee looked up and into Leslie’s eyes.
“These? What are they? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with them,” Sea Bee stammered.
‘They’re your keys, you crazy old fool,” Ruth scolded.
Sea Bee ignored her.
“They’re your car keys, sir… for your Ford.”
Sea Bee looked perplexed. Raines and Ruth exchanged concerned glances.
“I’ll tell you what… this has been an emotional day, Mr. Campbell. Why don’t you sit in the backseat, and I’ll drive y’all out to Lightner. Let me just check with Eileen and make sure she’s got a spare room.”
Leslie walked back to Eileen’s car where Camp was holding the door for Eileen.
“Hey Eileen, can I follow you out? I’m going to drive Mr. and Mrs. Campbell to Lightner.”
“Is there a problem? Is my dad okay?” Camp asked.
“I think so. It’s been an emotional day for them. I’d like to drive them over to Gettysburg, if that’s okay with you?” Raines said.
“I’ve got four extra rooms, Leslie, so the more… the merrier.”
Camp looked back at his parents’ car. Leslie was right. He had just buried the woman that was to be his lifelong soul mate. Camp wasn’t the only one whose heart was broken or whose thoughts were confused.
2
Lightner Farms
Gettysburg, PA
Sea Bee and Ruth Campbell occupied the oversized leather chairs in front of the Civil War era hearth as Eileen and Lieutenant Colonel Leslie Raines scurried back and forth from the kitchen to serve the 20 or so who had gathered to celebrate Jane’s life.
Camp was trying to make small talk with a way-too-slick Army aviator who went to flight school with Camp’s now deceased fiancée. He suspected the guy had probably cast his line several times to hit on Jane, and she was probably just as nauseated then as Camp was now.
Raines carried the tea pot over to Ruth.
“Can I warm you up, Mrs. Campbell?”
“Leslie, please call me Ruth, or I’m going to have to start calling you colonel. You wouldn’t like that, now would you?” Ruth said smiling.
“No, ma’am, I wouldn’t.”
“Maybe she’ll be calling you ‘mom’ if your son ever gets his act together,” Sea Bee said quietly to Ruth, not aware, and not the least of which caring, if Raines was still standing within earshot.
“Seabury, your manners! This is Jane’s wake for goodness sakes.”
“Bury one, marry the other. Get busy, boy. Stop wasting time,” Sea Bee said in his typical unrefined and urgent fashion as he stared mesmerized into the flickers of flame that danced randomly in the fireplace.
Raines was embarrassed. Ruth just ignored him as she had done so well during the natural ebb and flow of a 58-year marriage to a farmer.
Eileen scrubbed some food off the plates as she worked the sink with her sweet bed and breakfast hospitality and charm. The sounds of car doors shutting pulled her eyes to the pane glass window in front of her.
“Camp? You’d better come here,” Eileen said as she waved a drying towel toward the window.
Camp got up from the table as “Slick” kept telling his war stories to anyone still interested in listening.
“What’s up, gorgeous?”
Eileen pointed out the window and toward the driveway.
“Well I’ll be… Raines! It’s General Ferguson and his two coffee-pouring majors.”
Camp opened the side kitchen door and walked out followed by Raines and Eileen.
“General, I am so thrilled that you would make the drive all the way out here to honor Jane. Please come in and join us,” Eileen said from several feet away.
“Thank you, Eileen. We certainly want to honor Jane. The captain was a hero. There are thousands of wounded soldiers who owe their lives to her steadfast work in Iraq. How many missions did she fly, Camp?”
“Sir, one day she flew combat wounded into Balad on eight flights within two hours… officially, 860 missions… unofficially, who knows.”
“Gentlemen, please come in and join us for some home cooking,” Eileen said as she opened the kitchen door.
“Eileen, we’d be delighted. Perhaps you could take care of my staff first. I’d like to borrow Captain Campbell and Colonel Raines for a minute, if you don’t mind.”
Eileen smiled and hooked an arm around each of the two majors and led them into Lightner Farms.
“Walk?” Ferguson asked.
“Sure,” Camp said. “There’s a nice trail out back.”
The three walked behind the lodge and onto the bark chip trail that crawled in and out of poplars, evergreens and white birch trees. Ferguson unwrapped an Ashton Belicoso 52-gauge cigar, bit the top off and flared it five times with his lighter.
“Sir, is there any new information on the tularemia report out of Afghanistan?” Raines asked trying to ignite the conversation.
“Yes, I’m afraid so, but not with the tularemia. The battalion surgeon sent samples to the medical lab at Bagram, and it came back as garden variety. Probably undercooked meat or infected water.”
“Sounds about right for three guys in a cave,” Camp said. “Were they Taliban or local Pashtuns?”
“Taliban.”
“So that’s why you’re concerned?” Camp asked.
“Maybe. The three Taliban boys were put on a standard antibiotic regimen there in the regional hospital. They’ll be released within the week.”
“Then what’s the problem, general?” Raines asked.
“The battalion surgeon… he’s been kidnapped.”
“That’s impossible,” Camp said.
“Should be… supposed to be. He and his medic and interpreter had just met with the three Taliban patients. They were even joined by the Afghan physician. Our Army major went back to the ER to prepare the IVs and antibiotics. An ambulance arrived carrying the wife of an Afghan Commando colonel in it. She was apparently suffering acute pain, and the Afghan physician asked our guy if he could help.”
“Why our battalion surgeon? We don’t treat their people in their hospitals,” Camp said emphatically.
“Because ‘our guy’ happens to be a gynecologist stateside. He agreed to consult — to mentor — so he went behind the curtain with the Afghan doc while his medic and translator went back to the isolation ward and administered the antibiotics for the tularemia. When they came back, the ambulance was gone, the patient was gone, the Army surgeon was missing, and the Afghan doc was strapped to the gurney, duct tape over his mouth and his throat cut.”
“Geez. Always go in sets of two — never see the locals alone, if ever.”
“I know, Camp, I know. This guy is Army Reserves, been in theatre less than a month. Developed an unhealthy trust with the locals. Rookie move.”
“Sir, the Afghan doc… is he dead?” Raines asked.
“No, he’ll be fine. Couple of stitches, I suspect, and he’ll be back to work in a day or so.”