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Authors: Claude Schmid
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countertop, always clean and polished, he did his fly prep. Everything in fishing had to be well thought out. He’d described fishing as an intricate conspiracy of man and water, requiring the smooth blending of delicate motions and an artful lure to secure the strike, make the catch, and get a win for the hunter. Maybe what the Wolfhounds were trying to do in Iraq was not too different.
“Fish are smart, boy. You can’t fool a fish with a bad fly,” Paps would say.
Across the room from the cabinet where Paps kept his fishing supplies was another small cabinet he called his old war chest, where he kept some other things important to his world—and to Wynn’s. Sitting on top of it was a Korean War Chinese Army helmet. The star on the front of the helmet still held flecks of red paint. Paps had taken the helmet as a souvenir during the fierce fighting in January 1951 that finally blunted the Chinese intervention. Too young for World War II, Paps had joined the Army four months before the North Korean invasion. He’d enlisted to get off the farm. Paps never talked much about the war, said no good came from talking about it. What he didn’t say had spoken loudly enough. Even on all those fishing adventures, Wynn had been conscious of the fact that his grandfather had experienced combat. Over the years, Wynn had read books about the Korean War, and other wars. All that reading and thinking and dreaming had surely been stepping stones to where he now was in Iraq.
Also inside the old war chest were a few notebooks documenting Pap’s military service and a shoebox full of other memorabilia, such as his service ribbons. And his medals. The Bronze Star meant the most. The accompanying citation and its crowning words—for conspicuous bravery—rung in Wynn’s ears all through his adolescent years, and even now. He never understood why Paps hadn’t framed any of these things and hung them on the wall. Paps never satisfactorily explained to him why a man shouldn’t take maximum pride in the things he deserved. Paps’ pat answer was that he was “beyond that” or that it was in the “distant past.” Wynn’s feelings about that now was that you never got beyond or past certain things.
Paps was done with making fishing flies. He had died of cancer three months after Wynn’s last visit to the cabin, four months before the Wolfhounds deployed to Iraq. Arthritic hands had not prevented him from making that last fly. Would Paps be proud of what his grandson was doing in Iraq?
Wynn timed his dinner so he could go straight over to the HQ after chow for his weekly meeting with the battalion S2, the unit’s Intelligence staff. So he lingered alone a few minutes more in the DFAC, enjoying a double scoop of Baskin Robbins ice cream. He looked around at the soldiers. Many faces had that youthful, cool, cocky look, a look that shouted “I’m indestructible.” That mindset that proved indispensable when old men sent young men to war.
As he waited, he thought about what he would tell the S2. Everyone said Intelligence was the key to this war. The S2 asked him and others to share more about what they saw and heard outside the wire. HQ wanted to cull more than the abbreviated material the platoons sent up through channels in their normal reports. In past S2 debriefs, Wynn had tried to add context to operations in his platoon’s battlespace, elaborating on anything the Intel analysts were curious about. He knew the idea was that their info would help build the overall Intel picture. He checked his watch: 1904, time to go. The sun lingered stubbornly, the evening sky the translucent blue of the Caribbean Ocean.
After a short walk, he entered the fenced-off inner compound of the Battalion Tactical Operations Center, passing a guard station at which he had to show his ID card. Pictures of battalion soldiers at work hung on both sides of the center’s hallway, shots the Public Affairs guys had taken from all over the unit’s
“Fish are smart, boy. You can’t fool a fish with a bad fly,” Paps would say.
Across the room from the cabinet where Paps kept his fishing supplies was another small cabinet he called his old war chest, where he kept some other things important to his world—and to Wynn’s. Sitting on top of it was a Korean War Chinese Army helmet. The star on the front of the helmet still held flecks of red paint. Paps had taken the helmet as a souvenir during the fierce fighting in January 1951 that finally blunted the Chinese intervention. Too young for World War II, Paps had joined the Army four months before the North Korean invasion. He’d enlisted to get off the farm. Paps never talked much about the war, said no good came from talking about it. What he didn’t say had spoken loudly enough. Even on all those fishing adventures, Wynn had been conscious of the fact that his grandfather had experienced combat. Over the years, Wynn had read books about the Korean War, and other wars. All that reading and thinking and dreaming had surely been stepping stones to where he now was in Iraq.
Also inside the old war chest were a few notebooks documenting Pap’s military service and a shoebox full of other memorabilia, such as his service ribbons. And his medals. The Bronze Star meant the most. The accompanying citation and its crowning words—for conspicuous bravery—rung in Wynn’s ears all through his adolescent years, and even now. He never understood why Paps hadn’t framed any of these things and hung them on the wall. Paps never satisfactorily explained to him why a man shouldn’t take maximum pride in the things he deserved. Paps’ pat answer was that he was “beyond that” or that it was in the “distant past.” Wynn’s feelings about that now was that you never got beyond or past certain things.
Paps was done with making fishing flies. He had died of cancer three months after Wynn’s last visit to the cabin, four months before the Wolfhounds deployed to Iraq. Arthritic hands had not prevented him from making that last fly. Would Paps be proud of what his grandson was doing in Iraq?
Wynn timed his dinner so he could go straight over to the HQ after chow for his weekly meeting with the battalion S2, the unit’s Intelligence staff. So he lingered alone a few minutes more in the DFAC, enjoying a double scoop of Baskin Robbins ice cream. He looked around at the soldiers. Many faces had that youthful, cool, cocky look, a look that shouted “I’m indestructible.” That mindset that proved indispensable when old men sent young men to war.
As he waited, he thought about what he would tell the S2. Everyone said Intelligence was the key to this war. The S2 asked him and others to share more about what they saw and heard outside the wire. HQ wanted to cull more than the abbreviated material the platoons sent up through channels in their normal reports. In past S2 debriefs, Wynn had tried to add context to operations in his platoon’s battlespace, elaborating on anything the Intel analysts were curious about. He knew the idea was that their info would help build the overall Intel picture. He checked his watch: 1904, time to go. The sun lingered stubbornly, the evening sky the translucent blue of the Caribbean Ocean.
After a short walk, he entered the fenced-off inner compound of the Battalion Tactical Operations Center, passing a guard station at which he had to show his ID card. Pictures of battalion soldiers at work hung on both sides of the center’s hallway, shots the Public Affairs guys had taken from all over the unit’s
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