Hometown Heroes

By Joe Gribble

Two events moved me to write this story. The first event occurred in the summer of 2011. That summer I was visiting the emergency room at the Wright Patterson Air Force Base Medical Center (I had dropped a steel beam on my foot and wasn’t sure if I had broken anything, but that’s another story). While I was in the waiting room, a man came in and walked up to the reception counter, not 10 feet from where I sat. He pulled a pistol from the waistband of his shorts and pointed it at his head. A USAF staff sergeant had just come into the area behind the otherwise empty reception desk. He was shocked and tried to get the man to calm down. The man with the gun told the staff sergeant, “I have PTSD and can’t take it anymore.” Then the man with the gun pulled the trigger.
Fortunately, I think self-preservation kicked in at the last second and his hand wavered. The bullet missed his head by a fraction of an inch, and he was eventually talked out of committing suicide. I found out later that this wasn’t some kid just back from Iraq or Afghanistan—this was a senior soldier whose demons still haunted him.
I believe many Americans don't understand how prevalent injuries are among our returning warriors—both obvious injuries and ”hidden” injuries such as traumatic brain injury (TBI) and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) —or how devastating both the obvious and hidden injuries can be.
The second event that motivated me to write this story was a celebration we hold at the Dayton Dragons baseball field (Fifth Third Field). The Dragons are a Cincinnati Reds farm team, and the company I work for sponsors a pair of events, in coordination with the Dragons, to honor our military. During the game we welcome airmen returning from overseas, facilitate a video greeting from a deployed warrior to his family, and stand proud as a group of youngsters take their oath of enlistment. This, to me, is a very moving experience as the local community honors our heroes.
I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you are like me, and you get choked up when you hear the National Anthem or watch Old Glory pass by in a parade, I think you’ll love it.
I’m donating fifty percent of my revenue from this book to military-friendly charities. You can help me decide which charities to support. See how at the end of the book. I look forward to your input.
Joe G.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Gribble
• Release date: Dec 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311013576

Joe Gribble

Screenplays: THE DARK EDGE An investigative reporter is given one last chance to resuscitate his failing career: Write an exposé on a notorious psychiatric hospital in the town where he grew up. Once he steps inside the hospital he begins to have nightmares and flashbacks, leading him to believe he might have once been a patient. ARCHIVES OF MURDER Researching the KGB archives, John Archer discovers a perilous treasure he wasn't expecting – The Book of Death. Joined by his sexy, corporate-jet pilot, Archer confronts CIA death squads, the KGB, Cuban intelligence, and a powerful US Senator to expose the biggest assassination conspiracy ever executed. VOLUNTEER SEARCH AND RESCUE (received a ‘consider’ for MOW by afilmwriter.com) A man haunted by guilt over the death of his brother in a kayaking accident becomes consumed by his volunteer search and rescue program, even as it depletes his finances and affects his relationship with his brother’s fiance’. When she gets lost following a plane crash, the stakes are even higher for the man and his team. HARD KNOX (Quarterfinalist – American Screenwriters Assn Screenplay contest) Tracking escapees from Fort Leavenworth to a robbery at Fort Knox, a military policeman finds all the gold there is fake. COAL TOWN MURDER The Company owns the coal miners who work in its town – but not 16 year old Junior McCloud! With the help of a stranger, Junior solves the murder of a well liked miner and sets the town free. Novels: SILENT SABRE SILENT LIGHTNING – Published by Putnam SILENT SALVO – Published by Putnam MERLIN’S MILLENNIUM ARCHIVES OF MURDER

Book preview

Preface

Two events moved me to write this story. The first event occurred in the summer of 2011. That summer I was visiting the emergency room at the Wright Patterson Air Force Base Medical Center (I had dropped a steel beam on my foot and wasn’t sure if I had broken anything, but that’s another story). While I was in the waiting room, a man came in and walked up to the reception counter, not 10 feet from where I sat. He pulled a pistol from the waistband of his shorts and pointed it at his head. A USAF staff sergeant had just come into the area behind the otherwise empty reception desk. He was shocked and tried to get the man to calm down. The man with the gun told the staff sergeant, I have PTSD and can’t take it anymore. Then the man with the gun pulled the trigger.

Fortunately, I think self-preservation kicked in at the last second and his hand wavered. The bullet missed his head by a fraction of an inch, and he was eventually talked out of committing suicide. I found out later that this wasn’t some kid just back from Iraq or Afghanistan—this was a senior soldier whose demons still haunted him.

I believe many Americans don't understand how prevalent injuries are among our returning warriors—both obvious injuries and hidden injuries such as traumatic brain injury (TBI) and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) —or how devastating both the obvious and hidden injuries can be.

The second event that motivated me to write this story was a celebration we hold at the Dayton Dragons baseball field (Fifth Third Field). The Dragons are a Cincinnati Reds farm team, and the company I work for sponsors a pair of events, in coordination with the Dragons, to honor our military. During the game we welcome airmen returning from overseas, facilitate a video greeting from a deployed warrior to his family, and stand proud as a group of youngsters take their oath of enlistment. This, to me, is a very moving experience as the local community honors our heroes.

I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you are like me, and you get choked up when you hear the National Anthem or watch Old Glory pass by in a parade, I think you’ll love it.

I’m donating fifty percent of my revenue from this book to military-friendly charities. You can help me decide which charities to support. See how at the end of the book. I look forward to your input.

Joe G.

Acknowledgement

This story is dedicated to all those who have gone before, and to all who will follow, in the defense of freedom and liberty.

We can never sufficiently repay those honorable men and women who sacrifice for the rest of us. They give their time, their sweat, and their blood. We owe them a great deal, and we must never forget.

My sincere thanks to Cindy Dodson and Johanna Gribble for their superb editing of this book. Any remaining errors you find are a result of me ignoring their suggested corrections.

Finally, thanks to my initial sponsors who were kind enough to evaluate the story and think it worthy of their endorsements, and for identifying worthy, military friendly charities to support with the revenue from the sales:

Sparrow Six-Five (Facebook) supports National Veterans Homeless Support (www.nvhs.us)

US Military (Facebook Group) supports Wounded Warrior Project (www.woundedwarriorproject.org)

Dysfunctional Veterans (Facebook) supports The Warrior Connection (www.warriorconnection.org)

Michael Schlitz (Through Burnt Eyes – Facebook) supports The Gary Sinise Foundation (www.garysinisefoundation.org)

FreedomToActFilms supports Fisher House (www.fisherhouse.org)

For a current summary of how much we’ve donated to these and other charities, please visit http://www.freedomtoactfilms.com or the Hometown Heroes Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/H2NovelCharity

HOMETOWN HEROES

A novel by

Joe Gribble

Forward Operating Base Victory—Afghanistan

A makeshift baseball field lies in the protected, secluded outskirts of the operational military base. A pair of pickup teams, each composed of both American military and Afghan trainees, play for bragging rights. The teams are very nontraditional in their uniforms. They wear piece-parts of their military uniforms, with various jerseys and ball caps of their favorite teams added to their dress. They’re pitted against each other in America’s favorite pastime.

The light breeze doesn’t cool in the least. It only serves to stir up the fine sand in the infield. There’s no grass to slow the onslaught of the gritty wind, and the powdery sand slips into every skin crevice where it mixes with sweat to become an abrasive nuisance.

U.S. Air Force Staff Sergeant Bob Williams, early twenties, sits on the bench, watching the action out on the field. He pounds his fist into his glove, impatiently waiting for his own turn on the pitcher’s mound.

Ignoring the oppressive heat, the opposing pitcher wipes his face with a uniform sleeve, rubbing the sandpapery sweat across his brow and pushing the perspiration away from his eyes. He takes his signal from the catcher and nods. Glancing down, he kicks the flattened truck tire tread that serves as the traditional rubber marking the pitcher’s mound. He grinds his combat boot down onto the rubber and leans forward. The pitcher glances over at third base where a base runner takes a few steps toward home. The pitcher then turns his attention to home plate, staring down the batter.

The batter, an Afghan soldier, taps his bat against the metal plate that serves as home base, then glances back at his teammates. They yell support from beyond a tall chain-link fence, its top lined with barbed wire. As they shout encouragement, the Afghan batter flashes a broad grin. He takes a couple of practice swings, locks his bat over his left shoulder, then faces the pitcher and waits.

The pitcher smiles, then winds up and unloads. The curve ball starts outside but breaks swiftly inward toward the batter.

The batter waits until the last moment to begin his swing. He connects at a less than optimal angle with a dull thud, and the ball bounces across the barren infield toward the shortstop.

The runner on third base races for home, digging through the rock-littered sand.

The shortstop takes two quick steps forward and drops his glove to the ground. He scoops up the ball and throws hard to the catcher.

The race is close. The runner dives for the metal plate as the catcher grabs the ball and swings down. The runner slides face first into the loose sand. The catcher tags the runner as he reaches for the plate.

As the sand and dust settle, both runner and catcher look up at the umpire.

The umpire dramatically waves his fist outward, thumb extended for all to see. He’s out!

The dejected runner slams his fist into the ground before climbing back to his feet and rambling back toward his team’s bench.

The catcher pumps his fist into the air and holds three fingers up, yelling, That’s three. He waves for his team to come in and trots toward his own team’s bench. The rest of the team runs in, wiping away sweat and congratulating each other for an inning well played.

The umpire uses a small brush to wipe the dirt off of home plate. He straightens back up, pushing his dangling rifle back over his shoulder.

Bob comes off the bench and heads for the field, grabbing a baseball off the ground. He wears a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap with his combat uniform.

Staff Sergeant Johnny Gamble follows Bob out. He also wears a Reds cap, and a full set of catcher’s equipment covers his uniform. Johnny slaps Bob on the back. Three up, three down, brother—let's do this!

No sweat, Bob replies.

They split up, Johnny heading for home plate and Bob for the pitcher’s mound.

Johnny squats behind the plate and waves at Bob as the rest of the team heads for the field.

At the mound, Bob steps on the flattened tire tread. He digs his combat boot into the rubber and throws a couple of easy, warm-up pitches to Johnny. He finally goes into a full-blown windup and throws the gas.

A blazing fast fireball screams toward Johnny’s glove.

Johnny doesn’t have to move his glove as the baseball slams home with a loud smack. Johnny stands and throws the ball back to Bob.

Bob nods.

Johnny twists to glance over at the umpire. We’re ready.

The ump pulls his facemask down and hollers at the opposing bench, Let’s play ball!

Airman Parker, tall and lanky, steps forward wearing his combat helmet. He swings his bat confidently. After a couple of practice swings, he steps into the batter’s box. He kicks a small rock out from under his foot, then puts the bat up onto his shoulder.

Johnny points two fingers down behind his glove.

On the mound, Bob nods, then stands upright, twists to the side, and pulls his glove and the ball up to his chest. He nods again.

At home plate, Johnny twists down into his stance, centers his glove, and looks up at the batter. Fast ball, Airman.

The batter digs his feed into the sand. Yeah, right.

Bob winds up and fires the ball toward the plate.

The batter swings at air as the ball smokes by him unscathed.

The umpire juts his hand out to the right and straightens up. Strike one!

Johnny stands to throw the ball back to Bob. He glances up at the airman as he squats back into position. Told ya.

The airman steps out of the box, swings the bat once, then steps back into position. He keeps a wary eye on Bob, but talks to Johnny. I got him dialed in now.

Johnny grins behind his face mask, and signals for the fastball again.

Once again, out on the mound, Bob nods and gets ready.

Johnny centers his glove and glances up at the batter. Fastball.

The batter lifts the bat slightly off his shoulder and twists his boots into the loose sand. Bring it.

Bob winds up and fires.

Airman Parker swings at air again.

The umpire calls it as he sees it. Strike two!

The airman steps back out of the box again, shaking his head. Damn, he ought to be a pro.

Johnny throws the ball back to his buddy. Bring the cheese, brother! This kid’s scared of fastballs. He squats back down into position. Get ready, Airman.

Bob launches another fastball.

The airman swings too early, nothing but air.

The umpire goes into his theatrics once again. You’re out!

The airman smacks his bat against home plate. He turns and heads back to his team’s bench, ignoring the heckling his team lathers on him for striking out.

Two security forces airmen standing behind the backstop with a radar gun announce the latest results. Ninety eight.

The airman pulls off his helmet and mopes toward his bench. No friggin’ wonder. He hands his bat to a young Afghan teenager heading toward the plate wearing someone else’s oversize combat helmet.

The teen’s bushy hair hangs loosely from beneath the helmet. He smiles at Airman Parker from ear to ear, showing his snaggle-toothed grin as he accepts the bat.

Airman Parker shakes his head. Good luck, kid.

The teen steps up to the plate and mimics what he has seen so far. He confidently taps his bat against the plate, then props the bat up on his shoulder. He looks out at Bob from beneath the huge helmet, still smiling broadly.

Johnny gets into his squat. He signals for a fastball.

On the mound, Bob sees Johnny’s signal, but shakes his head.

Johnny insists, aggressively signaling behind his mitt for a fastball.

Again, Bob shakes his head.

Johnny gets up from his crouch. Time.

The umpire raises his hands. Time out.

The teenage batter looks back and forth between the pitcher, the catcher, and the umpire, bewildered.

Johnny pats the teen on the shoulder as he walks past him toward the pitcher. Hold on just a second, kid.

Johnny trots out to the mound. He takes the ball from Bob and warms it in his glove. What the hell, Bob? You can smoke this little dude, no problem.

Bob shakes his head, pounds his fist into his glove. I could. But I’m not.

What, you're gonna' let him hit? Johnny asks.

Yep. Bob points his glove toward the young batter. Just look at him. The kid’s barely heard of baseball, but he’s having fun. Right now he thinks he likes baseball, but if we let him get a hit… if he gets a hit, he’ll love baseball. For the rest of his life. It’ll be in his blood.

Johnny