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  JIM

  A Worn-Torn Love Story

  a novel

  by

  Paul Argentini

  JIM - A war-torn love story

  Copyright © 2011, by Paul Argentini.

  Cover Copyright © 2011 by Sunbury Press, Inc.

  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact Sunbury Press, Inc., Subsidiary Rights Dept., 2200 Market St., Camp Hill, PA 17011 USA or [email protected].

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Sunbury Press, Inc. Wholesale Dept. at (717) 254-7274 or [email protected].

  To request one of our authors for speaking engagements or book signings, please contact Sunbury Press, Inc. Publicity Dept. at [email protected].

  FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION

  Printed in the United States of America

  September 2011

  ISBN 978-1-934597-68-2

  Published by:

  Sunbury Press

  Camp Hill, PA

  www.sunburypress.com

  Camp Hill, Pennsylvania USA

  To baritono Americo Argentini,

  my magnificent dad

  ------

  Love until you break your heart.

  --Charly Dunham to Jim

  ------

  Theme: Meditation from the opera “Thais”

  by Jules Massenet

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This novel is better than the one I conceived because of the discerning and perspicacious Allyson Gard. I’m grateful to the critiques and editorial assistance of my bride, Dimmi; mental health counselor younger daughter, Mona; Marilyn Hunter; first cousin Mary Viviani Martin; and Brooke Walker. The author accepts total responsibility for anything and everything erroneous in this novel.

  Also by

  best-selling author

  paul argentini:

  Elements of Style for Screenwriters

  The Essential Manual for Writers of Screenplays

  Los Angeles Times Bestseller

  MUSICALS! Directing School and Community Theatre

  with Robert Boland and Paul Argentini

  Full-length plays

  The Essence of Being

  King’s Mate

  Massachusetts Artists Foundation

  Playwriting Fellowship

  One Act Plays

  No Gas For Nick

  Pearl Seed

  My Pen Name’s Mark Twain

  (written and performed in sixth grade)

  The Ordinance

  Theatre Odyssey 2011 Ten-minute Play Festival

  – First Prize Winner

  The Essence of Magnitude

  Introduction

  Jim Dorchester is the pseudonym for a medical and psychiatric phenomenon.

  Wounded early in the Iraqi War 2003, Jim wavered between life and death for almost a year. His face severely disfigured by fire, he was in the forefront of partial face transplantation from donor tissue. A French and German team perfected a technique that not only was highly effective, but in Jim’s case turned out to be a masterpiece.

  He received skin grafts for more than half of his body. He fought a constant daily battle against infection. On eight different occasions he was considered hopeless to win out against what seemed a massive, totally debilitating illness and infection. Nurses worked double shifts in tandem to get him somewhat stabilized. When the graft held in one place, the fragile skin was lost in another. At one time, when all hope was lost and doctors felt an overdose of pain killer would be best for him, a passing comment saved his life.

  “If the Stem Cell Gun were ready, it would save him,” a foreign visiting doctor said.

  The gun was used under the strictest of information quarantines because the technique was merely in its primitive stages. In essence, useable skin cells from a healthy part of the patient’s body are put in a solution of water and prepared then imposed on the wounds. Astoundingly, new skin was formed on Jim’s second degree burns in less than a week after the stem cell gun was used.

  That is the limit of the information I am able to relate because of a strict confidentiality agreement.

  By the time you are reading this novel, there is every reason to believe face transplants and stem cell gun burn therapy will be commonplace.

  In addition, Jim required extensive surgery for broken bones in his pelvis, legs, arms, rib cage; internal hemorrhaging; trepanning to relieve pressure from head injuries; and removal of his spleen.

  He lost his memory for six years. At first the cause was attributed to his injuries. There was no hope he would ever regain the knowledge of his first twenty years of life. Then, as fate would have it, he went to visit who he thought was the widow of a close friend who had been in his same unit. That soldier was killed in Iraq. Incredibly, because of a switch in identities the “widow” turns out to be his wife who he does not recognize because of his amnesia.

  Despite the transformation in his appearance—the face transplant, the white hair, moustache and beard—and a different name, Jim’s mannerisms do not escape his wife’s attention. Despite his incredulity, she prevails on Jim to work with a psychiatrist.

  After a little more than a year of intensive, groundbreaking therapy the result is this novel.

  Because of the strict and stringent privacy laws extant, the author was compelled to walk a fine line between the facts and the fictionalization of the story and the people involved.

  This is a love story. It is interrupted in Iraq. It is re-established many years later. Through a complicated psychiatric process, Jim was able to recreate in deep retroactive therapy salient experiences in his early years, which are included in the chapters of his early life as a matter of understanding Jim and the characters involved. All have confirmed to a greater or lesser degree the accuracy of his recollections. These representations are related in the first section of the novel called The Diary.

  --The author

  Prologue

  Recording of the final psychiatric session

  with Jim Dorchester.

  GA-THOONK! A mortar round exploded in the water just up a ways from the bridge.

  “They’re walking ‘em down! Concentrate your fire on those low buildings!” the lieutenant said pointing behind him.

  “No! Lieutenant! It’s a ploy!” I shouted to him. “I thought I saw the main body on the other side of the bridge! There! There!” I said pointing. “I can see them on the other side moving up!”

  “Concentrate your fire on those houses!” the officer ordered, ignoring my information.

  I rolled on my side to the man next to me. “Can you handle the fifty?” indicating the machine gun. The man nodded. “The lieutenant doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing!” I started to get up.

  The officer put his hand on my shoulder, holding me down.

  “My buddy’s on the other side! I’ve got to get to him!”

  The officer waved his pistol. “Stay put! I can court-martial you with one shot.”

  GA-THOONK! GA-THOONK! GA-THOONK!

  The mortar rounds walked toward the other end of the bridge.

  “Lieutenant! Pull the men! Pull the men!” I shouted. “We can give them cover!”

  Small arms fire on the other side of the bridge sounded as if an arms factory blew up.

  I could see the Al Qaedas surrounding the other end of the bridge.

  In a hail of gunfire, I started across the bridge. “Keith! Keith! Hang on!” I unhinged a grenade with each hand. I pulled the pin on one, and then the other. I stood, exposed to a hail of fire. I tossed one grenade with one hand, and then the other grenade with the other hand, just as I did when I delivered newspapers on each side of the street. I crashed to the ground.

  GA-THOONK! A mortar landed in the water to my left.

  I got up and ran, then skidded to the pavement. I looked across the bridge.

  I saw a horde of Al Qaedas closing in on the end of the bridge. I tried to pick out Keith.

  GA-THOONK! Another mortar landed on the other side, closer to us.

  GA-THOONK!

  I turned and ran back toward the HumVees.

  I reached the first one, started the engine and headed across the bridge.

  GA-BLAM! A rocket propelled grenade exploded in the thick of the men near the lieutenant.

  I stomped on the gas just as I started across the bridge.

  I didn’t hear the rocket propelled grenade hit. I felt the seat rise up. My body slid sideways. I remember my face crashed into the window. I learned later my leg tore the steering wheel off its post. The last thing I felt was the melting heat. The last thing I remembered was thinking, “Gabbie! Help me!”

  * * *

  Mary the psychiatrist slid behind the wheel of the HumVee. Jim sprawled out in the back.

  “Jim?” Mary spoke in her calmest, professional voice.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you comfortable? You are safe and under hypnosis.”

  “Yes.”

  “Jim, you felt you had to take care of Keith. Why? Was he slow? A diminished mental capacity?”

  “Keith? No. He could hold his own. He had his own style.”

  “But you thought he needed some hand-holding?”

  “He was a . . . wi
se guy? You know, apathetic, insouciant. Giving everyone the business. Like he did the Gorilla.”

  “What was that?”

  “Jokester things. If a guy’s sleeping and you put his hand in a bucket of warm water, it makes him piss his pants. When he did that to the Gorilla, the guy wanted to cream Keith, and I stood up for him. Keith and I were called the twins, so he thought of swapping our blouses and making the Gorilla think I was him and Keith was me.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Well, yeah! The Gorilla wanted to pound on Franklin, but when I showed up as Franklin, the Gorilla decided he made a mistake. You know, things like that.”

  “And that’s how you took care of Keith?”

  “Yes. You know.”

  “How could he be sure?”

  “Oh! Because I . . . “

  “Because I what?”

  “Because he knew he could count on me.”

  “And he could count on you?”

  “Yes! He made me promise for Christ’s sakes!”

  Mary paused for long moments. She knew they had just stepped into a potential mine field.

  “Jim, from what Gabbie told me about your life in Great Farraday, you didn’t have much time to have a close guy friend. A lot of your time was spent earning money. You gave all your free time to your grade-school sweetheart, Gabbie.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, when Keith came along, you were both in a new situation, trying to make adjustments; you found the two of you were more or less alike. Compatible. Good buddies. You two against the Army.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it was you two against the Al Qaeda.”

  “Yes.”

  “Jim, we can take a break until tomorrow.”

  “No. S’okay. I’m good.”

  “Okay. So, as good friends, what did you promise each other?”

  “Nothing! Nothing! We’d just look out for each other. That’s all!”

  “Okay. So, as good friends, what did you promise each other?”

  “Nothing! Nothing! We’d just look out for each other. That’s all!”

  “Jim, who is this mysterious ‘Charlie?’Or is it ‘Charly?’

  “There is no Charlie.”

  “You mentioned Charlie and taking care of Charlie as you did Keith and your brother. What happened with Charlie?”

  “There is no Charlie.”

  “Was he in the service with you and Keith?”

  “No! There is no Charlie.”

  “Did you promise to take care of Charlie as you did Keith?”

  “Yes, I promised Keith.”

  “It was more than a promise, wasn’t it? It was an oath.”

  “It was a promise!” Jim said.

  “It was more than a promise! It was a vow! A vow is an unbreakable promise!”

  “Yes! Yes!”

  “What was the vow?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Keith would remember it, wouldn’t he?”

  “No! No! He wouldn’t remember it! I would remember it!”

  “What do you remember?”

  “That I wouldn’t let the Al Qaeda get him!”

  “And he promised he wouldn’t let the Al Qaeda get you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Jim! How could either one of you make such a promise? How could you be so sure? Hasn’t the Al Qaeda captured other American soldiers?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, there is a difference. What made the difference, Jim?”

  Jim grabbed the back of his head with both hands, and tried to hold back a loud gasp. Tears began to flow. “Alive! We promised not to let the Al Qaeda get us alive!”

  “And did you make the same promise to Charlie?”

  “No! There is no Charlie!”

  “And the only way to keep the Al Qaeda from getting Keith alive was to . . . ?“

  “. . . to kill him! To kill my best friend! To shoot him dead!”

  Mary let the sound of his sobbing fill the inside of the HumVee.

  “And did you shoot Keith dead?”

  “No! No! I didn’t! I broke my promise! I didn’t take care of him as I promised!”

  “Jim, how do you know that?”

  “When I came back with the water and ammo, I looked across the bridge. I saw Keith hunkered down against a cement cornerstone. Keith looked up and across the bridge. Keith waved to me. I waved back. That’s when I knew the officer was wrong; the major part of the Al Qaeda was on the other side of the bridge. I saw them! That’s when I looked across the bridge in my scope. I saw Al Qaedas close in behind an American soldier, tear his gun away, and lift him off the ground. They started to drag him away backwards, and I saw his face. I put the scope on the soldier. It was Keith.”

  “Jim! Jim! Shoot! For Christ’s sakes! Shoot!” he seemed to be saying.

  I brought my crosshairs across Keith’s face, then back onto his nose.

  I knew what he was saying. He was mouthing the words: “Jim! Jesus Christ! Jim! Shoot!”

  Mary held her breath. The unasked question captured her attention as if a shot resounded in the truck.

  Keeping a level voice, Mary asked, “Did you shoot?”

  “No! Goddammit! I didn’t shoot!”

  “Jim. Think. Very hard. Did you shoot?”

  “No! I didn’t shoot!” Jim started crying. “No! I couldn’t shoot! I couldn’t shoot my best friend! I couldn’t shoot Keith! I promised I’d take care of him! I couldn’t let him down like I let my kid brother Tommy and Charly Dunham down! Too much! It was too much! I should have died!”

  “But you promised to shoot Keith if he was captured. He was captured, Jim. Did you see him get captured?”

  “Yes.”

  “You saw him captured. Did you shoot? You promised! Did you shoot?”

  “No! Keith was the best buddy I ever had in the world! He was the only friend I ever had in all my life! I couldn’t shoot him!”

  “But you had to shoot him!”

  “I know! I know!”

  “He expected you to do him that favor. You weren’t killing him. You were doing him a favor!”

  “I know!”

  “He expected you to save him from having his head sawed off!”

  “Yes! Yes!”

  “So you had to shoot him! You made that vow to each other.”

  “Yes! I had to shoot him!”

  “So you did!”

  Jim hesitated. “No! No! No!”

  Mary pulled away from Jim. She studied him. She held her forehead. She raddled her eyebrows and glowered. In her mind information, considerations and possible conclusions were categorized.

  BOOK ONE

  1

  Fort Benning, Georgia --Summer 2003

  Jim Dorchester was about to nod off.

  “Hard dying hurts,” the video instructor said. “You didn’t join the Army to get killed. It can happen. Dying may not last long, but son-of-a-bitch! You’ll remember it for as long as you live.”

  Jim sat upright. Funny fuck, isn’t he?

  Standing before a screen, the instructor scanned the recruits to let the words sink in.

  “This is an actual film shown as we received it. Be prepared, the gore is real. It is not for public consumption. It is not being shown to you for no reason. Nothing has been changed. There is no sound, for which you will be eternally grateful.”

  Jim found the training movies a break in the exhausting basic training routine that took them from reveille to lights out.

  “The film will give you an object lesson about your enemy,” the instructor went on. “In the Army, you’ll be in harm’s way, as they say. You are here to learn how to protect and defend yourself while carrying out your mission. The best way you have to survive is to rely on the Army’s seven core values, which spell out LDRSHIP.”

  Keith Franklin, Jim’s schoolboy chum, sat beside him. He whispered, “Hey! Kimo Sabe. When’s the show?”