“A man can never have too much red wine, too many books, or too much ammunition.” It was a Rudyard Kipling quote. One of many that Stephen had learned from Hilton. Kipling, of course, being another of Hilton’s English poets. Nevertheless, after that day in Fallujah, Stephen had a grand appreciation for the Brit’s abiding wisdom. Driving around the base, Stephen felt safe, he felt content, he felt at home.
The office of his designated appointment however, was another matter. Discomfort stabbed at him from all directions as awkward silence rested in the air; only periodically interrupted by the creaking of the black metal-framed chair that was resisting his lounge.
“Do you feel you need to be here?” the voice pressed.
Raham “Ray” Thimba, or Counselor Ray as he asked Stephen to call him, sat motionless in a gray and padded swivel back chair. The bald, black man had a firm and fit look. Thin, rimless glasses rested on tight cheekbones that suggested his body fat was close to the single digit range. The man’s stare possessed the confidence and intensity to penetrate bone and tissue and peer directly into one’s soul, yet do so with such a calming reassurance that it would not cause an eyelash to flicker.
His office was surrounded by family photos of what looked to be Ray’s grown children chasing toddlers from scene to scene. Stephen suspected Ray might also be an advocate of Kipling’s philosophies because the close perimeters of his office were covered by bookshelves that showed the wear of having been through more than one garage sale. He saw books on psychology, religion, philosophy, business, and leadership. There were self-help books, text books and an entire row of large, generic white binders. Behind the crowded stacks of literary gumbo surrounding the office, he could see a calming stillwater-blue painted wall which inspired a tranquil impression of floating on an ocean or staring up at cloudless sky. Ray’s office was quite the contrast from the flat white walls the rest of the Army Social Services building but the calming ambiance did not help Stephen relax. Against the wall and behind a couple other family frames, Stephen could see a subtle picture of Ray crossing a large yellow and blue ground banner marked ‘FINISH’. It looked significant to Stephen, like it was an important race but its lack of prominence among the other pictures which made a clear display of the man’s priorities.
Briefly meeting Ray’s stare, Stephen responded, “I told you, I have to be here.” His eyes immediately returned to an inspection of the room. “Shouldn’t there be a couch in here?”
“I’m a counselor, not a shrink. And besides, when do you think it was that this man’s Army got so concerned about our comfort that they would allocate financial resources for a couch?”
“Right, good point.” Stephen thought about how vulnerable a couch would have been. He preferred the metal frame chair that desperately needed to be lubricated.
“You didn’t come here for a couch though.” His countenance carried an unassuming confidence to it, like he knew something everyone else was still trying to figure out. Stephen felt as if the man was completely content with his world and unshakable by anything which Stephen might say to him.
Unsettled by Ray’s comfort, Stephen shot back, “Right. Like I said, I’m here because I have to be here. My CO told me to be here.”
“Stephen, you’re formally separated from the Army now. I’m here as a favor for a mutual friend but you’re here as a guest. Nobody is forcing you to be here. You don’t report to Colonel Hayes anymore.”
Stephen noted that Ray didn’t call him by his last name, the typical military method of reference. “Well, if you know Colonel Hayes then you know separation from service does nothing to slow him down from giving orders.” Stephen replied with a lighthearted smile.
“Yes. Yes, I can appreciate that. Colonel Hayes is not a man easily said no to. But commanders often resort to giving orders when their strong suggestions get ignored.” Ray’s tone was not accusing but he didn’t mince words.
Stephen ignored the reminder of how long he had blown off Colonel Hayes’ request that he meet with Ray. After hastily completing the post-combat debrief sessions during his physical recovery, Stephen had reasoned there wasn’t much left to talk about.
“I overheard the receptionist calling you when I arrived. So you’re a doctor?” Stephen looked around the room again. There were no plaques on the walls, no degrees, no certifications.
“It’s not a medical degree.”
“So a PhD? You’re one of those academic types. Lots of schooling under the belt?”
Not wanting to distract from the conversation, Ray cracked the window of his educational career and closed it just as quickly. “Some things philosophy. Some things theology, if you’re resume curious.”
“Theology? So, you’re a preacher?” Stephen was beginning to see the bigger picture of why his commander so strongly suggested the visit.
“Guilty, as charged.” The tone of Ray’s response mirrored Stephen’s speed and directness. He continued, “That doesn’t bother you does it? Should I ask how long it’s been since you attended a church?”
Unsure if the question was actually a question or more of a mocking of the question’s stereotype, Stephen paused and leaned back, purposefully giving the chair time to let out a long screech before deciding to take the bait. “No. But my mother does. She loves it and I’ll admit there seem to be plenty of nice people there.” Feeling a twinge of guilt and unsure of where it came from, he defensively added sarcastically, “So, maybe I’m here for a sermon?”
“Well, I only preach on Sundays. Today being a Friday, I do believe you are out of luck. But I’m pretty sure you didn’t come here to hear a sermon either. Did you, Stephen?”
The smile which emerged over Ray’s face was comforting and almost, brotherly. Stephen relaxed with a shrug and said, “Obviously not. Colonel Hayes is not just my former commander. He’s from the San Antonio area so he was around the hospital a good bit during my recovery at BAMC. We picked up a friendship along the way. He’s just being protective after everything that happened in Iraq and since coming home.”
“You’ve had some struggles since your deployments?”
“What? Which part? You mean recovering from getting blown up, shot, catching concrete boulders, losing a job or fighting my daughter’s cancer?” Stephen didn’t even attempt to contain his sarcasm this time. “No, no real struggles. I’m all good, doc.”
Ray nodded, leaned back in his chair and interlocked his fingers across his stomach, physically suggesting to Stephen that it was still his turn to speak.
Subconsciously receiving the instruction, Stephen continued dismissively. “I get that everyone is concerned about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I did the debrief, sat through the lectures, even read the brochures. We’ve all had our struggles, right? I’ve got my life and it has its problems, the same as anyone else does. Besides, I know guys who have it a lot worse than I do. Guys who left more of themselves over there than they brought back.” Stephen’s words trailed off as he thought about the ambush on that Iraqi roadside.
“But PTSD is not something you’re really worried about, is it?” Ray interjected.
“You ever seen any action, doc? Should I call you doc, maybe prof? I’m a little lost here.”
“Ray is fine.”
“Sure. So what about you, Ray? Any time in theater?”
Ray was carefully reserved with his response. “A little.”
Stephen caught the aloofness and called him on it. “Come on, go ahead and humor me. This is unofficial, right? So it’s okay to have a two-way road here.”