Free ALL IN: Race for the White House by Greg Sandora Page B

was a liability to the campaign, to my parents, to anyone who was unlucky enough to be near him. It started the summer Uncle Sam took him from us. That happy-go-lucky kid that hugged us when he left fell back into our arms with a hurt time couldn’t dull when he returned.  
    My father tried so hard to bring Roger back to the way he was, but he wasn’t able to.  
    We all piled into the car and drove to the bus station, excited to pick up Roger. It had been two months since he was wounded in action, and the Army was sending him home. I couldn’t wait to see him.  
    Mom said, “We’ll give Roger his old room and he can go to college. Oh, Ted, it’s going to be so wonderful to have our son home.”
    The news of Roger, hurt in a hospital, thousands of miles from home, almost killed our mother; she couldn’t sleep more than a few hours at night and watched the news every chance she got, as if that would bring him home faster. She hollered, cried, sat on the porch, and smoked. She even called our minister to ask the point to all of it.  
    The truth was, the war was dragging on and more and more young men, mostly from poor families, were being sent halfway across the world to fight. Despite many arguments with Mom, our dad refused to arrange for a deferment, so two weeks after his Senior Prom, Roger packed his bags and went to war. Mom never quite forgave the Colonel.  
    More people were protesting at home and demonstrating against the long war. The counterculture and the peace movement were a reaction to the outrage society had over rich old men sending kids to fight in a land they didn’t know, hadn’t heard of, and didn’t understand.  
    Time itself proved the Communist system couldn’t work.  
    When we got Roger home from the bus station, we continued our reunion on the front porch. Mom poured us lemonade and we all sat staring out into the yard. It was late September, and the leaves had turned and were abounding in a mosaic of colors.  
    Roger recounted the horror, sobbing, “I’ve been to Hell, Momma, I’ve been where angels fear to tread.”
    Mom held him tight rubbing his head, “Sometimes people need time to get better.”  
    Roger told us he’d first been assigned to a mid-range gun squad. His days consisted of loading high-powered cannons firing into enemy encampments. He could hear the longer-range projectiles flying overhead all day with the shorter range up front. He hated it, especially the talk that villages were shelled. When the army asked him to work on helicopters, he jumped at the chance. It wasn’t until early evening when we felt a chill that moved our conversation into the front parlor that Roger told us of the ordeal of how he’d been wounded in action.  
    He began, “That morning started like every other. Each squad prepares their Huey, going through a checklist to load and prepare for the day’s mission.”  
    “First fuel and ammunition are loaded, small bombs are strapped on, then me and my buddies load in and belt up. Our pilot got the command to go and the engine began its whirring sound... the blades making that familiar rhythmic humming thud.”  
    “Our mission was to fly into enemy territory and empty as many rounds as we could. The enemy sits high in the trees so we spray them with as much metal as we can fire. The noise is deafening as the guns vibrate in our hands. When the end of the barrel glows red-hot, we have to let it cool down for about thirty seconds before firing again.” Roger paused and made eye contact with each of us then continued.  
    “The idea is to keep firing steadily, but not let the gun get so hot it jams. You get a feel for the length of time you can fire and coordinate your cooldowns by listening to the other guns.”  
    “With the four guns, we try to make continuous fire. The problem with Huey’s is they’re big and slow and the enemy can see and hear us coming. It’s a challenge to maintain your nerve; guys freak out all the time