War's Over, Come Home: A Father's Search for His Son, Two-Tour Marine Veteran of the Iraq War

By Patrick Smithwick

For soldiers and their families, wars never end. The memories come home, occasionally in triumph, but more often in unpredictable and debilitating ways barely visible to the larger public. Most accounts rightly focus on the soldier's struggles. Compelling and revealing, Patrick Smithwick's War's Over, Come Home is a rare and intimate account from a family's vantage point, an essential perspective often missed. Their transcontinental efforts to find Iraq war veteran Andrew Smithwick—son, brother and once a friend to many—are a disturbing and eloquent testament to the cascading impact of a single case of PTSD.

Smithwick, a gifted storyteller who has written an acclaimed trilogy about steeplechase racing, has noted elsewhere, "Not for a moment did I imagine that one day I'd be pulling blankets off the faces of homeless men in Seattle, San Diego, Santa Fe, New York, Baltimore, Orlando. Or tapping on their shoulders and asking, 'Is that you, Andrew?'"

Despite its hopeless moments and recurring despair, War's Over, Come Home is, at its heart, a love story about a family's resilient and at times, blind commitment to finding Andrew. The sightings, the close calls, his brief return home are inspiring, yet thus far confounding and fruitless. When does one stop looking?

War's Over, Come Home will strike home with a wide range of readers, from families similarly afflicted by PTSD to policymakers at the Pentagon, from family counselors to sociologists, and most of all to general readers curious about an otherwise invisible world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TidePool Press
• Release date: Sep 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781736772027

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

NEVER ENDING DAY

Ido not want this day to end. Free and easy, the wind … through my hair—not his, ha—we pick up speed as we pull out of the post-race traffic, turn off onto a major country road. We’re headed north. I’m focused, planning what to do next. I accelerate going up a hill, high banks on either side, come down the hill, and there is the little tavern on the side of the road where the bank recedes just far enough to fit a building. An old roadhouse. Back in the day this was a rowdy place, but it has now been gentrified. Some racegoers will be here, and it’ll be a different clientele from the cocktail party we’ve just left. I tell him it’ll be calm and sedate—nothing like the old days.

The entire afternoon had gone well. We’d left the farm for the races right on time, no one holding us up, no one asking why we had to get there so early. It seemed all my life, when going to races, first with my father at the wheel, then later myself driving, we’d been forced to rush. Not this day.

My twenty-five-year-old Jaguar XK-8 was in the middle of our crusher run driveway, top down, engine purring, the British royal blue soaking up the sun’s rays.

You want to drive?

No, I’m good.

We were going to the steeplechase races out in the countryside of northern Baltimore County. We had no one to pick up. No one to wait for.

For the two of us to be alone together was unusual. Ansley—my wife, his mother—a powerful presence on both counts, who sometimes doesn’t like the free-wheeling unplanned and devil-may-care nature of a day at the races, had chosen to stay home, take advantage of this unusually warm and dry April day, and work in the gardens.

Andrew walked around to the passenger side. He was wearing off-white pants and a powder-blue shirt, long sleeves neatly rolled up to his elbows. No hat. No sunglasses. His head was shaved, military style; he stood six-three barefoot. He hadn’t been outside much, had no base of a tan.

Want a hat, Andrew? It’s already hot, there’s not a cloud in the sky. You don’t want to get burned.

He opened the door, stretched out his legs and swooped into the car.

I’m good, Dad. I don’t burn.

Sunglasses?

He shook his head.

Two years out of the Marines, and he was home; it was a dream come true after his mother and I, his sister Eliza and brother Paddy, had lived through his two tours in Iraq, and total of five years as a Marine. The first week back on the farm, he’d gotten a good job, driving a medical supplies truck to hospitals up and down the Mid-Atlantic. I was proud of him and was doing everything in my power to keep him around.

Today I planned to introduce him to all sorts of interesting and inspiring people, to lure him back to living in Maryland. We could help him buy a house not far from ours, and on the weekends he could help me work on the farm. He’d settle down, find a girl. The odds were in my favor in that department; there would be many young, happy women enjoying getting a tan, sipping sweet yet powerful South Sides under the vast sky and hot sun while pretending to pay attention to the horses racing around the three-mile course of solid four-foot post-and-rail fences and toward the end of the day, not even pretending to watch, barely noticing the races at all.

This was not Andrew’s thing. In some ways, it wasn’t mine. Most years, I wanted to get away from the tailgating spectators, away from the tents and tables of neatly set up hors d’oeuvres, and stand alone, way out in the field in my favorite spot, with my father’s binoculars, and watch the race. Andrew did not like the Maryland social scene; he had a visceral reaction against it; and he was not intimidated in the least, or impressed at all, by big shots, whether they be millionaire investment bankers, or descendants of old robber baron families living off trust funds, or young entrepreneurs.

On the drive over, I filled Andrew in on what horses were running; he related his recent adventures driving the medical supplies truck. My heart and mind were totally focused on giving Andrew a good time, welcoming him back into the community, showing him off to my childhood friends and putting him in position to meet men and women his own age who had been to college, been to graduate school, were moving forward, developing careers in law, medicine, real estate, banking.

We drove down the long driveway and into the field. I waved to friends and acquaintances as the tall grass swept across the bottom of the Jaguar. We looked for a spot to park among the rows upon rows of cars, some old and sleek and polished for the day: a 1940s Packard, a 1950s Hudson, a pink 1960s Cadillac convertible, top down.

Three races over big fences. Each forty-five minutes apart. Long-striding with Andrew through the tall, dark grass. Standing there, so proud—as one racegoer after another thanked Andrew for his service and offered us a beer or a drink. … Many asked how Andrew’s older brother Paddy and his younger sister Eliza were doing—which was very well, thank you. Once, as Andrew answered a question, I extended my arm, hooked it around his waist, hugged him tightly, lifting him off the ground—thoroughly embarrassing him.

We were headed up between the high-priced parking spaces to our right that lined the finish and a row of cars and trucks on our left, when out stepped a cheerful, smiling older gentleman, Jack, a horseman whose career and domestic life had suffered from the effects of John Barleycorn. This could go on a while; I didn’t want Andrew to get bored, but I also didn’t mind that Andrew would probably hear some positive feedback from one of his dad’s readers. It wouldn’t hurt for Andrew to see that I might be accomplishing something, and for this to spur him to want to accomplish something. I write this, realizing I sound like a jerk, as if I were pushing him, as if I were trying to inspire him to develop more ambition—instead of going along with his well-deserved desire to lead a low-tension life now that he wasn’t being shot at, wasn’t picking up body parts, wasn’t hearing a grenade whiz into his camp and seeing the portable shower into which his sergeant had just stepped blown to bits. That is how I was, then.

As Jack discussed my recent book, I mentioned that he looked well; in fact, I was noticing that he was speaking very clearly, making his points in a lucid manner. He explained that after a lifetime of drinking, and many regrets, he had stopped. He’d made up with his children, had gotten a steady job, and for the first time in years was looking forward to his future.

We sighted Rob Deford, Andrew’s godfather, appearing to be a cross between an English bird watcher and a Scottish hiker in his polished, ankle-high, cordovan boots, wide-brimmed fedora, tweed jacket, bow tie, binoculars hanging from his neck and alpine rucksack on his back. In the midst of the hubbub, Rob furrowed his eyebrows, looked Andrew in the eye, and asked about his plans for the future.

I waited and listened, then Andrew and I moved on. Andrew seemed at peace, yet not fully giving himself over to the moment: calm, serene, remaining a touch aloof.

A close friend of Paddy’s, successful in the construction business, called us over to his tent set by the finish line. It was a relief to be out of the sun. There was a full bar, and tables were piled high with steamed shrimp, mini lamb chops, strawberries, and slices of salty Smithfield ham on bite-sized biscuits. All sorts here, not just horsey people, and our host (Jack’s son) knew Paddy’s younger brother, made a fuss over him, right away introducing us to a young couple: the woman—smiling and gracious and with a captivating accent, from Chile, her husband—face tanned, weathered, hair jet black and long, a millionaire polo player with an eight-goal handicap, from Argentina. She was a movie producer and the two were scouting the races for a scene in her next film.

I stepped through the crowd to say hello to Maggie, a few years younger than I.

Thirty years ago, she’d married a cousin of mine, my parents’ generation, a successful investment banker, or, as my wife Ansley says, He did very well, an expression I don’t like because it implies that doing well in life mainly means making lots of money, and that is something I haven’t done. Her husband had died a decade ago.

Maggie smiled, looked me knowingly in the eye, moved closer, offering her cheek for a kiss, and I watched her eyes lock on Andrew. I introduced him. Then I was invisible. She asked Andrew about his plans: Was he moving back to Maryland? Would he like something to drink? Another friend of Paddy’s stepped up, asked how I was, did I wish I were riding today, and I watched Andrew and Maggie go to the special bar where the bartender was making South Sides—rum, lime juice, simple syrup and smacked mint over ice shaved from a block, a deceptively strong drink that I no longer make the mistake of quaffing. Suddenly, there I was standing awkwardly, by myself. I walked stiffly to the nearby bar, relaxed chatting with the young bartender, ordered a vodka and seltzer.

Across the tent, Andrew was standing a head above everyone else, looking down at Maggie. I walked over, wanting to get going—to take Andrew up on top of the hill above the last fence to watch the race. The horses and riders were filing past us, out onto the three-mile cross-country course. Only a few minutes before post time. I told Maggie she’d have to excuse us.

Walking toward the course, we tossed our half-filled cups in a barrel. Andrew—you have to watch those South Sides. They can catch up with you.

We were swept up the hill with a wave of others high-stepping through the grass to a good spot to watch the upcoming race. The horses and riders were filing out of the paddock, breaking into a trot, then a canter, the jocks relaxed and limber, free from owners, trainers, spectators, savoring their slow gallop to the start, narrowing their focus to the race, letting themselves drift over to that other side—to being in the moment, to being a race-rider. I was matching Andrew’s pace, allowing myself to drift over to that other side—so pleasant, so meaningful, of being a father who loves and is proud of his son, when I heard in a low, soft voice that carried well, Patrick.

I turned and there was Reddy Finney, wearing a faded Gilman School cap like mine, and in a suit and tie—the jacket too tight for his powerful neck, biceps and deltoids, the tie thin and wrinkled. My senior year at Gilman, 1968–1969, had been Reddy’s first as Headmaster. He’d begun in July of ’68, three months after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., one month after the killing of Robert F. Kennedy. His moral and intellectual leadership at this tumultuous time had been outstanding.

Reddy gave me a firm shake, then Andrew. I told him Andrew was just out of the Marines, and the two hiked up the hill together, Reddy asking: Where had he been in Iraq? For how long? What did he think of General Petraeus’ surge? Andrew matched Reddy’s voice with a low, calm voice of his own.

At the top of the hill, before Reddy walked away, I heard him say, Andrew, if there is ever anything I can do, contact me. Your father knows how to reach me.

Driving out after the last race, we were in a long line of cars, barely moving. A rattling pickup truck passed us going the opposite direction, taking a short cut across the field, life-long friend Tom Whedbee at the wheel. Andrew, tell your dad to stop by on the way home. Andrew gave him a thumb’s up.

We looked to our left through the wide-open doors of a barn, tables set up inside, and the big silver trophy for the main race on a table in the middle. I pulled over. The owner of the racecourse was putting it on. He shook Andrew’s hand, thanked him for his service, asked Andrew what he thought the future held for the war in Iraq. Andrew tried to put a positive spin on it, but it was obvious he did not believe we could succeed using our current tactics.

Traveling bartenders holding trays of fizzling champagne glasses floated over. Andrew took a flute. I ordered a vodka and seltzer. We examined the silver trophy, a tall handsome hundred-year-old piece inscribed with the names of the winners—horses, owners and jockeys. The bartender returned with my drink on a tray, along with a half dozen glasses of champagne. Andrew exchanged his empty flute for a full one.

Two matrons approached and studied the trophy. One commented on how well polished it was and what a job that must be. The other looked up at me sympathetically, and said, It must be painful for you to look at. I bet you wish you’d won it, and now, you’re retired and never will.

I nodded to her as if she were making an insightful and poignant point.

They walked away. Andrew leaned toward me. Dad, why didn’t you show them your name right there? he asked, pointing at the jockey’s column.

I’m through with all that. Anyway, it just goes to show: you win a race, you’re a hot shot one day, and you’re forgotten the next, especially by most of these people who are here for a party and don’t have the slightest idea of what is going on out there on the race course.

Andrew!

It was Frank, the older brother—a wheeler-dealer, buying up houses, refurbishing and reselling them—of one of Andrew’s best friends in high school. He’d been like this as a boy, had a lawn service at fourteen during the day, babysat at night, worked construction building houses once he turned sixteen, learned carpentry, and during his college years spent his weekends going to yard sales, buying antiques, building up a collection for the store he would later open. At the age of fifteen, he told me he planned to be a millionaire by the time he was forty. He was.

Looking back, I wouldn’t mind now if I had made more decisions early on that were business-like and financially savvy, buying some land here, a little house there, fixing it up and reselling it, putting money into the stock market instead of taking it out—but then, I wouldn’t be who I am—now, at this moment—penning these words on yellow legal pad paper of my last good time with Andrew, who at this moment is not strolling through the paddock at the races, is not sipping on a fresh glass of champagne, is not meeting young entrepreneurs but is out there, homeless, with PTSD, on the streets, in the mountains, and along the river banks of the Southwest.

Andrew and I thanked the host, walked out into the sunshine, hopped in the Jaguar. We drove out slowly, passing the migration of families languidly making their way down the long entrance and across the road to their parking lot.

Picking up speed on the country road, unsure where we were headed, I had no plan but was certain I’d come up with something. Then, a few miles down the road, here it was on the right, a good place to stop, relax at the bar—not the wild dive of my youth, cleaned up now, a new coat of white paint on the outside, a new name. We could see some fresh faces. Reconnoiter. Still a chance for Andrew to meet a young woman who would settle him down, give him a reason to live here in Maryland, buy a house, start a family.

I pulled off the road, parked in the lot, an empty space to my right, and then the long, pink Cadillac convertible, top down, we’d seen at the races. A mud-splashed, jacked up pickup truck with a customized black grille guard was on the other side of it. As we got out, I joked to Andrew about the brawls that used to take place here.

The bar was packed. In front of us, and to the left, were four local country boy/tough guys in overalls, one with no shirt, being served another round of Budweisers.

In front of us, and to the right, were three carousers whom time had forgotten: one, mid-forties, was looking fit and debonair in a gold linen jacket, flowing pink trousers with deep pleats, and a dark blue, perfectly tied ascot peppered with what looked like little green lights. The second, in his thirties, wore a stiff-brimmed straw hat, bow tie, and golfing pants with green elephants cavorting up and down his legs. The third was wearing an old-fashioned black suit with wide lapels, and a black floppy cap.

There were no empty barstools. And there was no space to squeeze between those at the bar to order a drink. Directly in front of us was an olive-skinned woman, a few years older than Andrew. She was leaning across the bar, having a chat with the bartender, her long thick auburn hair sweeping across the bar and into the face of the country boy beside her. She and the bartender were laughing. Jill, he laughed, you’re never going to live that one down. The country boy on her left leaned in to hear what they were saying while working his arm under her hair and around her waist. She discretely pushed it off.

I raised my hand. The bartender pointed toward the end of the bar. I walked down, paid for the beers, returned. Jill had swiveled around and was facing Andrew. He was gazing intently into her eyes while all around hell was breaking loose. The juke box was blaring. One of the tough guys let loose a rebel yell and they started to sing, Thank God I’m a country boy … The bartender crisply set shot glasses, one, two, three, four, in front of the tough guys, poured something clear, then something creamy, then something dark in each glass. They clinked glasses and swilled the shots. On the other side of the bar was a disheveled middle-aged woman—sitting between two gray-haired men in tweed jackets. One of the men leaned back and bellowed, Another round for the three of us, then, checking for confirmation, glanced at the woman whose forehead was sweaty and whose bleached blonde hair had broken loose from a tight bun, damp tufts of it sprouting every direction. Empty Corona in front of her, she slowly nodded yes, then as the bartender walked away, screeched, N! F! L!, N! F! L! Everyone at the bar—everyone but Jill and Andrew—looked her way. The whole place was silent. Then, like a cheerleader, clearly enunciating her words, she shouted, No! … Fucking! … Lime! … The place exploded into laughter. We were in this together. I had not witnessed a scene like this, everyone so completely plastered and so completely happy, in a long time. One of the Roaring Twenties Trio slapped a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. The next drink is on me! he hollered, looking out at everyone at the bar and receiving a cheer. His friend in the black suit and old-timey cap leaned forward. Remember, not for me, he told the bartender. I’m the designated driver.

I squeezed in next to Andrew. Dad, this is Jill.

She ordered us a couple of Coronas and asked, joking, if we liked lime. Yes! we said. At the same time, the tough guy with no shirt was pointing to Jill’s empty glass, Another tequila sunrise, he told the bartender. She put her hand up, signaling no more, but he insisted.

Jill was pleasantly inebriated. Traveling was her passion, she told us, and she wanted to see the world while she was young. She was bright, sharp, articulate even with the giddy tipsiness, and she gave us her list of destinations around the globe. She said she could find work anywhere.

The Roaring Twenties carousers checked in with Jill intermittently. No Shirt, to Jill’s side, kept his eyes on Andrew and eavesdropped.

Jill suddenly said she had to go home to feed her dog.

She stood up. The country boys stood up. The Roaring Twenties Trio stood up, and we filed out, Jill and Andrew leading.

Reaching her car, Jill looked over at mine and announced to Andrew, Well, I’m not sure who I want to go home with. She turned to me. "Or should I say with whom? I might want to go with your father." She followed this remark with a mischievous grin, and then proceeded to give me a kiss, for a little too long, right on the lips. I probably looked as if I’d been hit with a Taser.

No, no—Andrew’ll drive you home.

The Roaring Twenties pair, safely driven by their chauffeur, waved goodbye—See you later, Jill—as they pulled out of the lot in their Cadillac.

Jill started to open the driver’s door. Andrew spoke to her quietly, held her elbow and walked her around to the back of the car, heading for the passenger door. There, at the bumper, he was met by the tough guys.

Excuse me, he said, piercing their blockade.

Hold on, one of them said

Andrew had one hand on the door handle, the other on Jill’s elbow. Yes, he said, looking back at them. Why don’t you give the lady a little room.

The blockade drifted as a unit across the two empty parking spaces to the side of their pickup. Andrew helped Jill into the car, fastened her seat belt, shut her door, stood up straight.

Leaning against the side of the truck, No Shirt said, ‘Why don’t you step over here, away from the car? We’d like to talk to you.

About what?

You know.

No, I don’t..

We’re taking Jill home. I’m driving her car, the others are following in the truck.

That’s cool. Maybe next time. Today, she’s asked me to drive her home.

‘Maybe next time …’ Maybe you’d better go the fuck back to wherever you came from, bud.

Look, I don’t want any trouble.

We don’t want any trouble either. Now get out of our way, asshole. She’s coming with us.

I stepped forward, between them. All right, all right, let’s settle down. We can …

Shut up old man, this is none of your business, said the one in overalls and no shirt.

In a split second, Andrew was standing inches in front of No Shirt, chin thrust forward, hands held low and behind him. What’d you say?

Nothing, man.

What’d you say to my father? He was unbuttoning his shirt. You disrespecting my father? He pulled the shirt off, tossed it to me. There was the Marine Corps tattoo of globe, eagle and anchor on his right shoulder, the Celtic cross on his left shoulder, and below it a strand of barbed wire around his bicep. Across his flat, block-like pectoral, over his heart, were the large letters,

D D

RIP

020204

No man. I didn’t mean nothing.

Apologize. Apologize to my father now.

What do you mean?

You know what I mean. Look my father in the eye and apologize.

He looked at me. I’m sorry, Pops. I didn’t mean nothing. Just got carried away.

"You don’t call my father Pops. "

He looked at me again. I’m sorry for all this, sir.

I handed my son his shirt. He walked to the driver’s side of Jill’s car, opened the door. He pulled on the shirt, buttoned it, leaned against the roof, waiting as they shuffled around, spoke to each other, then went back in the tavern.

Andrew, a few