One by One

"You boys ready to roll?" the foreman asked, stopping by the truck shed before heading over to take inventory on the sand and gravel cars that had just arrived on the tracks out back.

"Truck's ready but Shorty's not here," replied one of the crew.

The foreman checked his watch. It was 8:10 a.m. Shorty was forty minutes late.

"We've got to get the load to Larry this morning. Go ahead and take Carl."

The foreman whistled with his shrill "stop what you're doing, I need you right now" call, and Carl came running. "Go with them," the foreman told Carl.

Carl nodded.

The rest of the crew - Bill, Ronnie, and Zack - grumbled a bit, but they soon got over it. This was par for the course. Shorty wasn't all that late every day; in fact, most days he was there within ten minutes of the doors opening. Once or twice each week, though, Shorty would come in late enough that the daily list of tasks would stall while waiting for that extra set of hands.

Even so, the guys liked Shorty. Shorty - his real name was Chad - was amiable enough and would sometimes joke around with puns and a little teasing. He pretty much kept to himself though. Pretty much everybody knew that Shorty was single - he had been married once but it didn't work out - but that was the extent of his private life as far as anybody knew.

"Hank," a voice called.

The foreman turned around, only to see the manager standing there.

"Hank, did you get that load to Larry this morning?"

"Just left."

The manager looked at his watch. "Will Larry be okay with that?"

"I think so. He said he needed it by nine o'clock, and the boys will be there with five or ten minutes to spare."

"Shorty?"

The foreman nodded.

"Who'd you send instead? Carl?"

"Right. It's okay though. Carl was going to be handling customers today, and Shorty can do that."

"How's Shorty doing?"

"Getting his work done, mostly."

"Hank, how's he really doing?"

Hank took a deeper breath than usual, giving him a second or two longer to think about his response.

"He's been going about three-quarter speed."

"We'll have to make a decision at the end of the year."

"I know. We're doing okay with it for now."

"Let's make it work, Hank."

Hank nodded. "Got it."

Shorty arrived a few minutes later. His eyes were bloodshot, and he moved just slowly enough so that, while one might not notice it when Shorty was by himself, it was perceptible with others around him.

"Hank," Shorty nodded in greeting.

"Shorty," replied Hank.

"Sorry I'm late. I was ... waiting for my nails to dry." Shorty smiled, albeit meekly.

Hank gave Shorty a solitary pat on the shoulder.

And so the day went. And so every day went. It was a hot summer - hotter than most, and the humidity in the Missouri River valley was almost stifling - but the crew worked hard. Shorty was doing what he could do, and the other guys picked up the slack.

At each day's end, the guys would go home between 5:30 and 6:00 p.m. Hank would go home and work in the garden. Bill and Ronnie would go home to their wives and kids. Zack would go home and call his girlfriend of the week and plan a night out. Carl would go home to his parents' house and spend the evening either golfing or fishing.

And Shorty would walk home to his house on the far end of town, a house whose walls were covered with faded newspaper clippings held on with brittle Scotch tape, articles describing a fateful day in Vietnam.

Shorty would grab a beer or a cold hot dog - usually both - from the fridge and would sit down in the recliner and close his eyes. His heart rate would begin climbing; his head would feel the familiar throbbing; and the warm, salty tears would well up in his eyes as the echoes of missiles and bullets and the smells of burning flesh would settle in for the evening.

It might have been different if Shorty could have reminisced with one of his buddies, if he could have shared the horror with someone who could understand. But they had all been there. They had all been on the hill, all taken in the ambush. One by one, Shorty had carried each one back down the hill. One by one, Shorty had buried each of the other men.

One by one, the haunting memories gripped him firmly with talons that refused to completely let go.