Bagram Air Base, February 20, 2015.

Day is done, gone the sun,
From the hills, from the lake, from the skies.
All is well, safely rest.
God is nigh.

The words ran through my head as I played. Popular words, though none were official. It was comforting, of course. Always. Even though, today, I knew that all was very much not well.

The airman who usually played Taps most evenings didn’t give me any trouble when I asked to spell him. I figured even the Air Force higher-ups wouldn’t give me a hard time today. I lowered the instrument and waited until the flag lowering was complete. After the ceremony was over, I walked away, and was unsurprised when Rob fell in with me.

“Heading to the hospital?” I asked him.

“Yeah. When David was awake earlier, I told him I’d come back this evening.” He gave me a look as we continued our walk towards the base hospital. “I don’t suppose you can be persuaded to get some sleep?”

“That bad, huh?”

“You’ll scare the children, and that’s a fact,” he said honestly.

My company had gotten back just a couple hours before – those of us who had not been medevaced out. Lieutenant David Sinclair – my friend and Rob’s – had been one of those who got the free ride in the Black Hawk that everyone would prefer to skip. I’d been too busy since returning to give much of a thought to how completely exhausted I was.

“Well – keep me away from the kids’ ward then,” I said. “I want to see if David’s awake. And the rest of our team. Heath Crawford probably saved four lives today.”

“I heard it was bad. . . . Want to tell me about it?”

I tried to think of words to describe the chaos that had unfolded in that little no-name village we had been passing through. The gunfire and screaming. But Rob had been in similar spots; he didn’t need me to fill in the details. “We brushed up against some of the fundie freaks – the foreign fighters – and they’d had some time to prepare a few surprises. We had to pull back into some shit buildings and hunker down until the cavalry showed up.”

“You got everyone out alive, Kyle,” Rob said quietly, as we reached the hospital and returned the salutes of the detail posted at the entrance. “We’re not always that lucky.”

“Yeah, I know.” It wasn’t much comfort just at that moment, but Rob was right. That was the first, most important thing. It was just harder to remember, when you were in a hospital, seeing, hearing, and smelling what war does to fragile tissue and bones.

David was sitting up when we came to his bed, a bandage wrapped around his head and another running down his left calf. His fine, dark features were shadowed, but he brightened when he saw us. “Damn, Kyle, how can you possibly look worse than I do?”

“‘Cuz my baseline’s ugly, dumbass,” I wisecracked. “You always look better than I do.”

“Point. Definite point.” He clasped my forearm hard. “Still good to see you, bro.”

“Roger that, fo’ sho’.” I gave him a closer look. I’d seen a lot of trauma damage since arriving in the dustbowl and he didn’t look too bad. “What do the doctors say?”

“They’re just holding me overnight because of this,” he said, pointing to his head. “It was enough to knock me out, but they think it’s fine. And the leg looked a lot worse than it was. Just dug out some fragments of rock, I guess.” He looked momentarily embarrassed. “Kyle – I don’t remember anything that happened.”

“You remember being ambushed, right? And retreating back to the houses?”

“Sure’s hell wish I’d forget that part.” He shuddered involuntarily before his eyes refocused on mine. “But that’s about the last thing I remember.”

“Well, they hit the ASV with an RPG. I think the blast knocked you down. Deak Diamond and two ANA guys were down too. Crawford and Stevens got all four of you into the main house while we provided covering fire. Then we called in support while Crawford started patching you all up. But they had one more RPG to send our way, and that’s where your leg injury came from. Threw up a lot of rock and shit.”

“The doctors told me we didn’t lose anyone,” David said, but he almost made it a question.

I nodded. “Diamond’ll be okay, but his shoulder’s going to take some work. The two ANA guys had some serious lacerations and were bleeding bad, but Crawford got them patched up before he went down. He looked the worst when we did the dustoff. Took shrapnel in the back and the ass. I’m going to see him next.”

“Go see him now, would you?” David asked anxiously. “Tell him I said thanks?”

I gave him an ironic salute; he was my senior by a couple weeks, after all. “Yes, sir! But seriously – will do. I’ll catch you tomorrow, okay?”

I left Rob with David and went to find the bed that had been assigned to Pfc Crawford. In contrast to David, he was pretty heavily bandaged, an IV was attached to his arm, and he was lying on his stomach in the bed.

He hadn’t really impressed me before. Compared to most of the other men in my unit, he wasn’t as . . . attentive, maybe? Like his mind wasn’t 100 percent on the job, and given where we were, that was a recipe for going home in a ziplock.

But in the firefight, he’d been as cool as ice. Moved fast to get our people under cover, and seemed quick and confident when it came to all the basic elements of first aid. Total focus. It was like he was a completely different guy.

I expected that he would be sleeping, but he surprised me. “LT? Y’all got back alright?” He sounded kind of spacey from the painkillers, but he was coherent.

“Everyone got back,” I assured him. “Thanks in no small part to you. Lieutenant Sinclair specifically asked me to thank you for saving his ass . . . . You going to be okay?”

He shrugged, then winced at the movement. “They say so. Feel like stone-ground shit, though.”

“You’ve looked better,” I agreed. “You’re breathing, and I wasn’t sure you would be when they loaded you into the bird.”

“Be a shame to check out now, just when I figured out what all I’m doin’ here.”

I sat next to his bed. “You did good, is what you’re doing. There’s some guys that wouldn’t be alive today if you hadn’t been there.”

“That’s what I mean.” His eyes were unfocused and his voice was drifting, dreamy. “Joined up to be a real man, you know? Find out the world don’t revolve around me after all . . . .”

“Near’s I can tell, Crawford, that is the difference between the men and the boys.”

He found some humor in that and chuckled sleepily. “Thanks, LT.” His eyelids blinked, drooped, and finally closed.

With his injuries, he would be airlifted back to the Graf in one of the C-17s that was used as an air ambulance. Tonight, probably. I might not see him again. So I stayed for a while longer, just watching his steady breathing. Reliving those moments in the dark of the house, with the noise and the dust, the blood and the smell and the fear.

But we had made it back, I told myself. Everyone was alive, and with the right care, they would all recover. Live . . . to fight another day? Maybe. It was the job, after all. And just at this precise moment, it looks like we have all the job security in the world.

~o~O~o~

Craig Joint Theater Hospital, Bagram Air Base, July 29, 2017

It was my turn, I guess, for time in a hospital bed. Just a stupid minor leg injury that managed to get infected. By the time I’d been brought in, I’d been delirious.

I don’t like hospitals any better than the next guy, I guess, but I do have a lot of respect for the people who work there. They save a tremendous number of people. Not just our own, but also allies and noncombatants. Regular people.

I was particularly glad to see the medical technician who came over to check on my progress that morning. “Crawford! Now I know I’m gonna be fine!”

And I did know it. He’d spent a long time in Germany recovering from his wounds before rejoining the unit in Fort Drum. But he’d come back infused with a purpose that he hadn’t had before, and devoted himself to studying to be a medical technician. His certification meant more to him than either his sergeant’s stripes or the medals he had received for his conduct in that ghastly firefight.

“Morning, sir.” He smiled dutifully at my praise, but seemed strangely subdued. “How are you feeling?”

“Like an idiot,” I confessed. “I should have taken care of that damned cut a lot sooner.”

He was slowly peeling back the bandages over the wound. “I heard tell you’ve been a bit preoccupied,” he said diplomatically. “Though apart from that . . . I’d have to agree with your assessment. Sir.”

I winced as he applied some foul-smelling liquid to the wound. I stifled the noise that was threatening to escape my lips; instead, I gritted my teeth and ground out, “Yeah, noted. I will definitely not make that mistake again.”

He started the process of putting on a fresh bandage, then looked around, seemingly nervous. “Captain – can I ask you something . . . off the record?”

I was reluctant to say “yes.” When you’re in the military, is anything really off the record? But I owed it to Crawford – for what he’d done two years ago, and for what he’d made of himself since then. So I said yes.

“You heard about the President’s tweet? You know, banning transgender troops?” His voice was low, and he kept his eyes on his work.

Since he wasn’t looking at me, my nod went unnoticed. “Yeah, I heard.”

“What do you think?”

“Above my paygrade, for damned sure.”

He gave me a look and returned to his work.

He wanted something more from me; I wasn’t sure why. “I’ve known good troops who are trans. Tom Ryan, back at Fort Drum. Seth Gordon came out and transitioned, soon as the new policy went into effect.” I stopped and shook my head; that was a couple years ago. “The old new policy, I guess, now.” As gently as I could, I added, “We’re taking the government’s nickel, Sergeant. We don’t get to make these kinds of calls.”

He shot me another look before fussing with my bandage some more. After a moment, he said, “I’m trans, too.”

I wouldn’t have guessed. Certainly, he was tall and well built for someone who’d been born female. I didn’t know what to say. “Listen, I’m sure the CO’s told you, this isn’t policy yet. The SecDef is putting the brakes on. Quiet, like.”

“The CO doesn’t know.”

I shook my head. “How . . . I mean . . . there’s no way your medical records wouldn’t indicate it if you’d been born female.”

He stopped fussing with my bandage and chuckled. “Oh. Ah, no. Sorry. I wasn’t born with a female body. I’m just female inside.”

“You mean you’re a transwoman?” I managed to keep my voice as low as his. Hers?

“Yes, sir. That about sums it up. Wish I weren’t.”

“Who else knows?”

“Just you, sir.”

“Why tell me?”

He raised his hands in a gesture of resignation. “Felt like I had to tell somebody. It’s eating me, you know? Figured I could trust you.”

“So, you haven’t done anything to, ah . . . .” I stopped, trying to figure out how to finish that sentence without looking like an idiot. Even more of an idiot.

“No, sir, I haven’t done anything to transition. Not sure I will, either. If I’m taking care of me, I’m not taking care of you lot.”

Instinctively, I said, “If you don’t take care of yourself, you won’t be able to help anyone else.”

Crawford shrugged. “I get that. But . . . even though we were allowed to serve openly, I just . . . I wasn’t sure I could trust it, you know.”

“And you’re thinking now, maybe you were right?”

“Seems like, don’t it, sir? Anyhow, I don’t know whether I’m ready to transition. I want to, like, but . . . it’s complicated. I got my folks to think about . . . .” Crawford’s voice tapered away.

“If you aren’t planning to transition — or at least, you aren’t thinking about it right now — does anyone need to know? It doesn’t affect your performance.”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell, like?”

Ouch. “Yeah . . . sorry about that. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“It is kind of like that, sir. Lots of trans folks don’t transition. Doesn’t mean they aren’t trans. Keeping it bottled up — it’s just hard.”

“And the job’s already hard enough?”

“Ffff . . . uh. Sorry! Roger that, sir.”

I met his troubled eyes. “I understand. But what I said before is absolutely true. You don’t need to do anything right now. This is going to go through internal review, and I’d be pretty surprised if the courts back home don’t get involved. Just . . . hold tight, okay? We need you here.”

He smiled tiredly. “That you do, sir. ‘Specially if you keep letting wounds fester.” He wrote something on the chart at the end of my bed. “Thanks for your time, sir.” And he walked away.

~o~O~o~
Bagram Air Base, January 8, 2019

We were back at Bagram, working our asses off to get everything Army-ready for our redeployment back to the States in a week. I bumped into Sergeant Crawford on my way to grab a much-needed coffee and asked him to join me. I used the male pronoun, even when I was just thinking about Crawford, since as far as I knew he’d never discussed his gender identification with anyone else, and I didn’t want to slip up.

He was agreeable, and we headed down Disney Street to Green Bean (“Honor First, Coffee Second”). Since a Taliban sleeper acting as a maintenance worker killed five Americans with a suicide vest on Veterans’ Day back in ‘16, no-one hung out in the covered walkways anymore, and the little Hajji shops were all gone. But the coffee shop itself was still bustling, a riot of uniforms from different service branches, as well as the more colorful — and often off-color — outfits of numerous contractors from all over.

We ordered our coffees — hot and black for me, cold and white for Crawford — and found a table to ourselves by the bank of windows overlooking the yard. The fire-engine red metal chairs and Formica countertops were as familiar, at this point, as a Starbucks back home.

“I hope you aren’t going to feel deserted when we pull out,” I said before taking my first long sip. The light Colonel in charge of surgery was so impressed with Crawford’s work that he managed to get special orders cut for Crawford to stay at Craig when we deployed back to Fort Drum. The Sergeant, naturally, had been ecstatic.

His smile was lopsided. “Well, sir, I reckon I might just focus better, without having to worry about all y’all when you’re outside the wire.”

“I can see that, for sure. I feel like a mother hen, most days.”

His lopsided grin got toothier, but he didn’t say anything.

“Listen, I was hoping to catch you — informally — before we go. Your time’s up in May, isn’t it?” He nodded, so I went on. “Are you still on-board for re-enlisting? It’s been a few weeks since we talked.”

He looked down at the ghastly concoction that he called coffee — I won’t drink it cold even when it's a buck twenty out — and stirred the milk around, making it ten times worse. “Pretty sure, sir. Colonel Jackson’s been pushing hard, and I know I’m needed here.”

“Getting pressure from back home?”

He shook his head. “No, sir. . . . The folks and me, we didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye about things. I think we’re all happier when I’m seven or eight thousand miles away.”

I wondered if they knew, but decided it wasn’t my place to pry. It was a sensitive subject. We were close, but I was still his superior officer. However . . . seeing there was no one who could hear us in the morning bedlam at Green Bean, I asked him if the possibility of the ban going into effect was holding him back.

“I think about it, sir. It bugs me, for sure. Near as I can tell, the Mattis Plan’ll grandfather folks who’ve got the diagnosis and have started treatment. Folks like me, though . . . I wouldn’t be breaking any rules by staying in, but I wouldn’t be allowed to transition.”

“It’s still stuck in the courts. Pretty good bet it never goes into effect.”

He made a noncommittal grunt. “Can’t bring myself to rely on a bunch of lawyers, sir. I’m not counting on that.”

“I suppose not.”

“Still and all . . . this is my place, sir. I belong here, like no place I’ve ever been. Even if it is a hellhole, and they can’t cook gumbo to save their souls.” Crawford shrugged, uncomfortable. “Anyhow . . . I’m still not ready to transition. I might never be.”

I finished my coffee. “Will you do me a favor, Sergeant? Before you make a final decision, will you give me a call? I probably won’t have five minutes before we bug out of here, but if you have any thoughts or concerns, I want to talk to you about them, okay?”

“Even if my final decision is, ‘yee haw, sign me back up?’” His toothy grin was back, but for propriety’s sake he added, “Sir?”

“Yeah even then. Just to tell me the good news, and give me the chance to rib you about it!” I rose and stuck out a hand.

He looked surprised, but stood and gave it a firm shake.

“I’m serious, Heath,” I said quietly, looking him straight in the eye. “Call me.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll surely do that.”

And off we went, back into the maelstrom of work that waited for us both.

~o~O~o~

Fort Drum, New York, April 30, 2019

“Stewart.” I’m afraid my phone voice wasn’t very welcoming. Much as I enjoyed being back in the States, the amount of my time that was spent on administrative matters always skyrocketed and tended to leave me short-tempered.

“Captain, I have an incoming call from a Sergeant Crawford at Craig Hospital in Bagram.”

“Put him through, please.”

After a series of clicks I said, “Sergeant? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The sound wasn’t particularly crisp, but that didn’t account for the flatness of the Sergeant’s voice. “Good afternoon, sir. I, ah, promised I’d call you on the re-enlisting issue. I’ve decided I can’t do it.”

“Because of the ban?” While the courts were still chewing over the legality of it, the Supreme Court had lifted the stay, and Secretary Mattis’ modified ban had just gone into effect.

“Yes, sir.” He sounded despondent.

“But . . . we talked about this just before I left. I thought you’d decided you weren’t ready to transition. The revised policy shouldn’t affect you.”

“I understand, sir. But that was my decision. Feels different, somehow, now that I don’t have a choice. Besides . . . it affects a whole lot of people like me. I can’t just pretend that’s not happening. Like we’re still part of the team.”

“We are the team. You, me, our unit. Even the Air Force guys who back us up. Not a bunch of suits back in D.C.! There isn’t a single person you work with at Bagram — not one soldier or airman you’ve had in your care — that doesn’t want you there. Doesn’t know how much we need you there.”

“Maybe. But maybe that’s just ‘cuz they don’t know what you know. Might be different in officer country, Captain, but ‘round where I live, there are plenty of guys who are good with this.”

“I know people who wouldn’t be alive, but for your help!”

“I hear what you’ve saying, sir, and . . . and I surely do appreciate it. You’re one of the good ones. The best. This place — these people — they’re like family. What we’re doing matters. But I can’t keep quiet. And I can’t stick with a team that doesn’t want ‘my kind.’”

I tried to think of another argument, but before I could come up with anything, he said, “You heard Seth Ryan died four months back?”

“Yeah,” I said heavily. Ryan had been unlucky with an IED. One of many. By giving his life for his country, he had been spared the indignity of seeing this policy go into effect. Of knowing that the institution to which he had dedicated his life didn’t think he was fit to serve. He would have been grandfathered under the watered-down ban — but that wouldn’t have changed the message.

“Well, I just can’t. Know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I do. Listen . . . Coming back’s going to be rough. What are your plans?”

“I haven’t gotten that far, to be honest, sir. I haven’t been able to get past today.”

“Will you call me, when you’re back? If there’s anything I can do to help, I’d be happy to.”

He said he would, but I wasn’t sure I believed him. However firm he sounded, however certain, he also sounded completely hollowed out. “Thank you, sir. For listening. For trying to talk me out of it. It means a lot to me.”

“Sergeant — you’ll be out soon. Enough with the ‘sir’s,’ okay? I want you to call me ‘Kyle.’ I owe you the life of a brother and several friends. I won’t ever forget. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” He stopped, then said, “Ah, shit, sir. I was born to be a lifer, you know? I’ll try, honest. After Friday, though. Not ‘til then. And . . . I’d really appreciate it if, once I’m . . . out? You’d call me ‘Heather?’”

~o~O~o~
Rosslyn, Virginia, February 3, 2020

I ended the call, but somehow couldn’t stop staring at the phone.

David — my old friend and new roommate — came and sat in the chair across from me. “Who did you lose?” He’d only heard my side of the conversation, of course. But it wasn’t the first conversation like that he’d ever heard.

I was staring right through him, seeing a village on a dusty, rocky plain, and a young man calmly treating the wounded, giving no thought to his own safety. I was seeing decorations on his chest, and tears as he was thanked by the many wounded he had saved. I was hearing his voice — her voice, dammit! — telling me that conscience had forced her to break her own heart. Deny her calling.

“It’s ‘we lose,’ this time, brother. Remember that crap village where we got bushwhacked, back in ‘15?”

“I still get nightmares. Who?”

“Crawford.”

He grimaced. “Damn. Damn! He saved my ass that day, pulling me in, patching me up . . . .”

“And catching a shitbucket of shrapnel that was headed right for you,” I agreed. God knows what would have happened to David, if Crawford hadn’t been kneeling over him when the second RPG hit.

David was trying to digest the news, wrap his head around it — and pull free from the memories that were tearing at him, pulling him back. “He was still at Craig when I got out. Wasn’t he planning to stay there?”

I’d never told David about my later conversations with Crawford, both before and after she had left the service. I hadn’t told anyone. As far as I’d known, the things she told me had been said in confidence. Not that any of that mattered now.

I shook my head. “When they put the trans ban in place, she got out.”

David’s eyes narrowed for a moment. I could see his mind going back to each interaction he had with Crawford. David being who he is, it took barely a moment before he nodded slowly. “Of course. How?”

I knew what he was asking. “Suicide.”

“Fuck!” David’s voice was lowered to a hiss.

“She promised she’d contact me when she got back — even told me what she wanted me to call her. When . . . when she didn’t call, I tried to track her down. I knew it was going to be hard for her, and she didn’t have any plans. But she just disappeared. Gone.” I was there, in our apartment, but my mind was thousands of miles away. Thinking about all the other things I could have done. Should have done. Should have tried.

With an effort, I brought myself back to the present moment. Unlike David, who had gotten out after six years and was now working for a think tank, I’d always planned to be a lifer. Like my old man. God, he’d been proud, when they’d pinned the golden oak leaves to my collar two months back. “Shit, David. There are days I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

He went back to the kitchen, poured us both a shot of something, came back and handed me one before resuming his seat. “What was her name?”

“She asked me to call her Heather . . . but only once she was out. I never got the chance.”

“Heather Crawford,” he said quietly, and drank. I joined him.

We were quiet for a few minutes, lost in our own thoughts . . . and memories. Then David said, “remember when the President first announced the ban? 2017, wasn’t it?”

I nodded, not telling him that I had a very vivid recollection of it.

“You remember how many officers and troops were happy about it, that day?”

I shrugged. “Some, sure. I want to say, mostly guys who hadn’t served with any trans troops, but who knows. There were other things going on.”

He was quiet again. Eventually I looked at him and quirked an eyebrow. “All right, you sneaky bastard. What are you getting at?”

“What would Rob say, do you think?” he deflected.

I snorted. “You mean, after giving us a bit of The Book of Common Prayer?”

“Yeah. After that.”

I sighed. “Okay, yeah. I can hear him now, same as you can. ‘The U.S. Army is the most powerful military force in the history of the world. You can’t leave it to the crazies.’”

“That’s our man. He’s not wrong, though.”

“He left,” I objected, futilely.

“Yeah, but he’s a civilian at heart. Like me, I guess. You’re the real deal, Kyle. West Point and everything.”

I closed my eyes. They weren’t seeing the room anyway. I heard her voice, that last time. You’re one of the good ones. The best. I owed her that, didn’t I?

“I know.”

~o~O~o~

Leesburg, Virginia, United States Military Cemetery at Ball’s Bluff, later that day

The ground was hard, ready for frost or snow, and the sky was low and dirty gray. A circle of pale headstones, all but one without a name, around a lonely flagpole. The Potomac was near, the sound of its slow moving water clear in the evening stillness. Sunset was more a matter of feel than sight.

I raised the trumpet to my lips again, and a different set of words ran through my mind as I played. I hadn’t wept since I was a child and I didn’t now, but my heart was molton with grief . . . and with rage.

Soldiers die in war all the time. And the damage war does to the hearts, minds and souls of those who serve is the root cause of far too many suicides even after war is done. But this . . . this was like we’d fragged one of our own, for no good reason at all.

Heather Crawford had dedicated herself to saving lives, to serving those who served. She had deserved better. So much better. I had to hope that somehow, now, she would find it.

Good night.
We must part.
God keep watch over you through the night.
We will meet with the dawn.
Good night.

The end.

~o~O~o~
Author’s note: This is a work of fiction, but it is based on several historical facts. The Department of Defense estimated in 2016 that approximately 9,000 transgender individuals were serving in all service branches. On July 26, 2017, the President of the United States announced on the social media platform then known as Twitter that “the United States Government will not accept or allow transgender individuals to serve in any capacity in the U.S. military . . . .”

The policy directive apparently caught the military by surprise. At the direction of the President, the Secretary of Defense formulated a revised ban which grandfathered existing personnel who had already begun or completed the process of transitioning. Extensive litigation in federal district courts resulted in the enforcement of the bans being suspended pending full litigation on the merits, but the Supreme Court lifted the injunctions in early 2019. The policy went into effect that April, while litigation continued.

On January 25, 2021, within a week of his inauguration, President Biden reversed the ban by executive order.

I would like to thank Dallas Eden, Persephone, Bouncy, Dee Sylvan and Rachel Moore for reviewing a draft of this story. Any inaccuracies are solely the fault of the author.

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.