11 Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Read Free Page A

around, shaking hands, patting shoulders, and meeting each gaze with patience. “How are we today?”
    “Running late,” Matt McCall quipped. The younger Marine grabbed the empty chair next to the Gunny.
    “Well, so am I. But we’re here now, so let’s dive in. Who wants to get started?”
    They began the same way every week. A casual atmosphere, a sense of jittery nerves, and an awkward silence as the newcomers, regulars, and part-timers took each other’s measure. Newcomers rarely said anything and today proved no exception.
    Still, at week six Joe had a feeling his was the highest rank in the room, so he raised his hand.
    The doc gave him an encouraging nod. “Captain Anderson.”
    “Joe.” They were all equals there. They served, they got hurt, they came home and some would serve again—some never would.
    “Thanks for kicking us off today, Joe.”
    A couple of the newcomers winced at the doc’s choice of words, but Joe grinned. The best part about the doc was he understood loss and uncertainty, but didn’t pander to it. Kicking it off was simply a phrase and didn’t point to a lack of anything. They needed to get used to it—life sure as hell wouldn’t pause for them or pull its punches.
    “Hi, I’m Joe.” Lame way to start, but it worked.
    “Hi, Joe.” The others chorused in tones varying from wary to warm. They sounded a lot like an AA meeting, but it was an icebreaker.
    “I’ve been in this wheelchair about six weeks now, and I have another six to ten in front of me, minimum. They are trying to get my leg to heal correctly, and my spine, but no guarantees on either front. They say I might not walk again, to which I say bullshit. I’ll walk. I’ll run. Then I’ll get my ass back to work.”
    “Oorah,” a half dozen members of the group answered. Despite their mixed compliment of services, Marines still made up the majority of that particular groups’ numbers.
    “It’s not easy. I’m still getting the hang of maneuvering, and there’s a lot I can’t do from this chair.” He cleared his throat. “Every day is a new trial. Sometimes, I get really pissed that I can’t be more positive about it. I get angry. I get really angry. I know we’re supposed to vent that frustration, make it positive, but I can’t always do that.”
    An image of wounded eyes drifted across his mind’s eye. Fear tightened their corners, and her nostrils flared. Exhaustion draped around her like a too-large coat. He curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist. “But I discovered today that being in this chair can be a positive for someone else, and weird as it sounds, that’s my good thought for today.”
    “Thanks, Joe.” The doc nodded. “Who’s next?”
    And so they went around the room, to the soldier demonstrating he could walk unassisted on his new prosthetic, to the Marine who shared the challenges of recruiting while injured, to the Naval pilot who’d made it all the way to the cockpit before a panic attack hit him. Progress came in all shapes and sizes.
    Unsurprisingly, the new arrivals said nothing. They only listened. Ninety minutes later, the group broke with several hurrying over to grab fresh donuts and coffee. Joe waited. The mad dash amused him—particularly when they always brought in enough for everyone.
    “How you doing, Joe?” James Westwood dragged a chair over and sat next to him.
    “Not bad, Doc. Not bad.” He studied the newer members. Like him, one waited for the crowd to thin around the table. His jaw didn’t relax and his expression never wavered from chiseled stone. “That guy will take some work.”
    “Everyone does.”
    He recognized that tone, the doc’s ‘we need to talk’ voice. “I’m fine, Doc.” Joe transferred his attention back to the psychologist. “Seriously, I’m fine.”
    “Upbeat is good. Focused is good. But you went from zero, to pissed off, to almost relieved in a few seconds.” James tapped his hand against the side of the chair,