Baby Fever

by Landish, Lauren

  I've tried so hard to get her off my mind though. Following Mel Riordan's advice, I tried to date my last two years at the Academy, both civilian and cadets. But I never even sealed the deal, as pathetic as that sounds. It just didn’t seem right.

  Making out was easy. Second base? Date one, maybe date two for sure. But when it came time to seal the deal, I couldn't do it. Three and a half years, and I'm totally celibate.

  “I don't know why I can't get you off my mind,” I mutter, rubbing at my temples. “You changed your phone number. I guess I know why. I promised myself that I'd respect your wishes, but that first chance I had, I tried to call your cell. Still, almost four years . . . what did you do to me, Lindsey?”

  I sigh and reach forward, grabbing the remote to my TV. There's gotta be something loud and distracting on, something that can get her off my mind. I flip around and see some pro wrestling on one of the cable channels. I smile, thinking about the little group of guys who'd gather down in the dayroom to watch Monday Night Wrestling back at school, although this isn't the same company. These guys on TV right now are louder and dirtier, with more chairs involved. At least the violence is distracting.

  * * *

  “Well, let's see if El Tee can hang,” one of my privates cracks as I stand outside the circle, waiting my turn. I've only been in charge of the platoon for a few days. I figured this would happen. There's always a feeling out period when a new leader comes into a unit. The Regulators have been together for a long time. They're cohesive, they're a good platoon from their records, and I've got to prove myself worthy of being 'the old man' with them. Why is it Lieutenants are always called 'the old man' anyway, when I'm younger than all of my squad leaders?

  It doesn't matter I guess. Still, being the old man is why I'm out here on a Thursday morning, even though Thursday mornings are the traditional 'Sergeant's Time,' when we officers are supposed to fuck off and leave the enlisted to themselves. But when the platoon sergeant told me that the platoon was doing a little bit of what they call 'blood bonding,' I knew I was being handed an opportunity to prove myself.

  “Next!” Staff Sergeant Mellencamp, the first squad leader, calls out. I slip my mouthpiece in and pull on the football helmet that everyone's using for safety and step into the circle.

  There's an anticipatory hum from the platoon when they see me step forward and take my padded pugil stick. The hum turns into a laugh of bloodthirsty derision as the circle parts again and Specialist Hardy, all six foot three and two hundred and fifteen pounds of ripped muscle of him, one of the platoon's heavy machine gunners, steps in on the other side.

  “Someone call for a medic!” the same joker as before taunts, and there's a ripple of laughter. I can see why. Hardy's got three inches on me and about forty pounds. I look like I'm easy pickings for him.

  “Okay, El Tee, the rules are simple,” Mellencamp says. “We go to three points, on my call.”

  I shake my head, looking up into Hardy's eyes. “Negative, Sergeant. We go to tap or ten-count knockout. Old school rules. No nut shots.”

  The platoon goes silent, nobody expecting me to pull that one out. I mean, I'm a West Pointer, a Ring Knocker, a softie who isn't hard like a real Regulator. Hardy grins, though, and nods. “Your loss, El Tee. You’re going to have to call in sick tomorrow.”

  “We'll see,” I reply, stepping back. I hold the pugil stick vertically like a rifle and salute Hardy with it before drawing it back down to my side. “Ready.”

  “Go!” Mellencamp calls, and the fight's on. I expect Hardy to attack hard and fast. He's got reach and muscle on me, but he doesn't know about my hockey past or the martial arts classes I took my last two years at the Academy. He lunges in, and I sidestep, swinging the one side of my pugil stick hard, catching him in the hamstring and buckling his knee before dancing out of the way, stepping back and circling.

  I can hear the platoon cheering, but it's just a roar, a wall of white noise that surrounds us as we circle in the grass, looking for the next opening. He's carrying his stick high, protecting his head, which makes sense if that was what I was going for. He thinks a knockout has to be a head shot. Most guys do. But instead, I attack his legs, locking sticks with him and neutralizing his ability to hit back before sweeping his legs out from underneath him, sending him tumbling to the grass.

  He’s fast as a snake, though, and before I can turn and maybe deliver a big hit, he's rolling to his feet, his stick sweeping out in a large arc to defend himself. “Not bad, El Tee.”

  “I'm a tricky bastard,” I warn him, jabbing forward with the end of my stick, aiming for his stomach but only for deception. He swings, and I turn, taking the stick like a boxing body blow to my arm before I wrap around it and twist, sending him down. The maneuver pulls his stick out of his hands, and when he looks up, my stick's in his face, frozen an inch from his facemask. “Tap out.”

  “Tap,” Hardy admits, and I pull my stick back, letting him up. Hardy gets to his feet, and I put my stick down, offering my hand. The platoon applauds, there are some excited 'Hooahs' as Mellencamp announces me the winner, and I step out of the circle.

  Outside, my platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class Pillman, comes up. We walk away from the platoon while Mellencamp calls out the next two, lowering our voices. “Nice fight, sir.”

  “I played it dirty. I knew he’d be thinking of headhunting. I never had any plans to knock him out.”

  He laughs softly, nodding. “I thought so. Hardy's a good kid. Great field soldier, but he's not the sharpest bayonet on the line.”

  “That's okay, we'll get him there,” I say. “So what's on the rest of your Sergeant's Time agenda?”

  “Obstacle course after this. That new kid, Rodriguez, has got to earn his props too with the platoon. He didn't do too good a job with the sticks.”

  “Okay, but I don't want him being bullied or hazed,” I tell Pillman. “I saw enough of that stupid shit at West Point. I don't want it in my platoon.”

  “Roger that, sir. What are you going to be doing?”

  I laugh and point up the road toward the company area. “I'll check in with the Captain, see if he wants anything from me. If not, I've got to work on getting back into my pre-Ranger shape. Guys like Hardy aren't going to let me get away with sneaky shit anymore.”

  He gives me a respectful nod. “Okay. One piece of history, sir.”

  “What's that?” I ask, taking out my beret and putting it on.

  “Captain Bradley doesn’t like West Pointers. He's got a beef against you guys. He won't say shit about it in public, but the last two USMA Lieutenants we got through the company, he rode them hard. Watch yourself, sir.”

  I must be making an impression if he’s going to tell me that already. “Roger that, Sergeant. Keep my legs together and make sure I ask for a kiss as well.”

  He laughs. “Something like that. See you tomorrow morning, sir.” He gives me a salute, and I return it, heading for my car. At least I've got the start of half of my equation. My platoon and my platoon sergeant are giving me a clear shot. Now let's see if I can get my commanding officer on my side as well.

  I find Captain Bradley at his desk. I knock on the jamb of his door, and he looks up from his computer, where he's typing something or the other. “Sir?”

  “How were the pugil sticks?” he asks, pointing to a chair. “You're not bleeding, so I take it you showed yourself well?”

  “Got Hardy to tap out,” I tell him, rubbing my left arm. “Real life, I'd have a busted arm, but I played the game a little bit. Got in his head enough to ride it out.”

  “Good deal. Hardy's a big guy. I've seen him with the stick before. They gave you a tough test,” Bradley replies, tapping away hunt and peck style at his laptop. If that's the way he types all the time, he's gotta take forever to get stuff done.

  I nod. “Is there anything you'd like me to do around the company? If not, I was going to hit up the fitness center and see if I can get rid of some of this flab.”

>   “Nope, it's all good. I've got your cell number in the meantime. See you tomorrow for the company meeting before PT.”

  “Hooah, sir. See you tomorrow.”

  I'm at the door when Captain Bradley calls my name. “Lieutenant Simpson?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I'm sure by now, one of your NCOs has filled you in a bit on my history. I go through Ring Knockers like some commanders go through toilet paper,” Bradley says, half smirking. “You want to know why?”

  “It'd be helpful, sir. I'd like a fair shot.”

  Bradley nods. “Well, life isn't always fair, Lieutenant. But, I like to think I am. Your predecessors got hammered because they couldn't follow the rules. Some commanders let their platoon leaders play around, like officers are supposed to be some sort of rebel. And you Pointers, I guess after being hamstrung and bubble wrapped for four years even before the stress of Ranger School, you feel the need to live it up like real college kids do. Some commanders understand and give you some free reign. I feel differently. I think we're here to set the example. If you do that, you'll find that you'll do fine with me.”

  “Understood, sir. I'll give you my best effort.”

  “I fully expect it. And after today . . . good start. Welcome to Delta Company.”

  “Good to be here, sir.”

  Chapter 10: Lindsey

  The three chevrons feel strange on my uniform, heavy with more than just the blackened brass. They carry with them the weight of responsibility as well, and while I'm not at all like the girl I used to be, it's still strange.

  “Congratulations, Sergeant Morgan,” Lieutenant Colonel Seward, my battalion commander, says, shaking my hand. “It's going to be tough losing you.”

  “It's been a good couple of years, sir,” I tell him, feeling the Army Commendation Medal resting on my chest, where he just pinned that after pinning on my new rank. “I'm going to miss Fort Lewis.”

  “Well, we're going to miss you, and your son as well,” Seward says, looking over to the side, where Lance is standing with Lieutenant Sims. “He's become quite the unit mascot.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I reply, smiling when Seward waves Lance over and I get to pick up my son. There's a round of applause, and I hug Lance tightly, for a moment not a soldier but just Mommy. “Hey, big boy. Did Mommy do okay?”

  “You did great, Mommy,” Lance says in his little boy's voice, his hazel eyes sparkling. “Can we go now?”

  Colonel Seward hears his comment and laughs. “Lance, give your mom about an hour to sign some papers, and I think we can get her on leave. You have big plans or something?”

  Lance nods, holding onto my neck. “We get to go see Grandma and Grandpa!”

  “I think it's in the regs somewhere,” Seward says, leaning in and whispering to Lance, “the Army's not allowed to keep a little boy from his grandparents on leave. So we'll get the papers done quickly.”

  Lance sighs melodramatically. He's got a lot of character to him. He's at that perfect age where he's still got a lot of his baby cuteness but is also old enough that he’s pretty verbal as well. “I don’t like paperwork.”

  “A proper Adjutant General already, I see,” Seward jokes, earning a laugh from the small group. The little celebration's breaking up already, and I can see Lieutenant Sims wheeling the cake that the company got me in from the side office. I set Lance down, pointing.

  “If you ask the Lieutenant nicely, I bet he'll let you help cut the cake. But I only want a little slice, okay?”

  “Okay,” Lance says, waddling over. He's tall for only being a couple of months past his third birthday, but he's still just past his toddler stage, despite his lankiness even in his tiny imitation ACUs that he insisted I get him for Christmas. “El Teee . . .”

  I can't help it. I laugh silently, watching him go before going into the battalion commander's office. I've already signed almost all the paperwork. After all, I wrote out most of the forms myself on my computer. There are only a few pieces left to get taken care of, ones Seward had to sign first.

  “You're a good admin staffer,” Seward says when it's just him and I. “So are you looking forward to the change of location?”

  “To be honest, sir, yes,” I tell him, scribbling my signature at the bottom of the first form, which says that I've already cleared my quarters with post housing. I ponied up for the cleaning crew to come through instead of waiting for the normal inspection process, two hundred dollars, which is kind of a rip off, but that's okay because it saves me hours of cleaning and re-inspections. “I've got a few friends at Bragg. And in some ways, I kinda feel like it'll be nice to work with a different kind of unit.”

  “I can understand that. Doing just mob-de-mob can get boring. You've got about a year left on your enlistment. Are you thinking of re-upping?”

  “I honestly don't know, sir. The Army's been pretty good to me, and everyone here at Lewis has really handled my being a single mother well. I know I kinda blew some minds when I showed up from USMA and turned out to be pregnant with Lance,” I muse, signing the next form which says that I've turned over all sensitive or secret documents. Considering I never signed for any, that was pretty damn easy. “It's going to depend on how things work at Bragg, I guess. I mean, I've done nearly four years in non-deployable garrison units. Not a lot of soldiers can say that. I don't know what it’ll be like there.”

  “Wise enough to know that you don't know . . . sure we couldn't have made you an officer?” Seward jokes, then sobers. “You're right, though. Rate of deployment is a lot different than it was even five years ago, but still, units rotate in and out of Bragg all the time.”

  “I know, sir. Lance doesn't know it, but part of that trip to see my parents in Minnesota is to square away any last details in case I do get deployed.”

  Seward hums, nodding. He's been around the Army. He knows the truth. The stress and strain of being a single mother as well as a soldier is hard, and it’s the biggest reason a lot of single parents leave service. Still, he tries to give me an encouraging smile. “To let you in on a secret, my first few field training exercises after my first daughter was born were kind of the same way. Sure, I missed her, but to be able to actually sleep without listening for the bottle cry or the poopy diaper scream was nice.”

  I sign the last of the paperwork and enjoy a slice of cake with Lance before leaving the battalion HQ, shaking hands with a few of my co-workers as we leave. My RAV4 is already packed, Lance's car seat is strapped in, and I'm planning on changing clothes tonight when we stop at the first hotel on our route to Minnesota. “Ready, trooper?”

  “Hooah, Mommy!” Lance says, grinning. He loves pretending to be a soldier, and while I sometimes wonder if I'm doing the right thing by letting him indulge in the play so much, I know I can't really stop it either. He’s spent all of his short life so far being dropped off at five forty-five at the post daycare and spending eleven hours or more in the care of the people there, and he sees more people in ACUs than he does anything else. I give credit to the staff at the center though. They try to keep the Army-ness from overtaking everything about the kids' lives, and Lance likes other things, too. Still, he's a three-year-old with a working knowledge of Army jargon as much as he does regular English. I have to remember to not use Army-speak around him so much.

  We leave post and get on the Interstate heading toward Seattle. Lance amuses himself with his favorite car game, car spotting, as I head north along the Interstate. We've got time. I'm using three weeks of accumulated leave in addition to the normal leave the Army grants, so for the next month, I'm going to be able to relax and spend time with my son.

  “Hey, Mommy, I just saw a Ferrari!” Lance says, and I smile. Since seeing the movie, Cars, at the daycare center, every sports car is a Ferrari to Lance, and he loves them. “It's yellow!”

  I look to my left and see what he's talking about, and while it's not a Ferrari, it's still European. “Actually, buddy, that's a Lambo.”

  “A Lambo
?” He asks, and I knew I should have just kept my mouth shut. Ah well, it's better than listening to Ariana Grande on the radio for the next few minutes.

  “A Lamborghini,” I expand, turning off the radio. I've got some songs ready for the radio dead zones in Montana and North Dakota, where my only choices are AM talk radio or AM radio preachers, but I'll save that for later. “It's another type of sports car.”

  “Is it as fast as a Ferrari?” Lance asks, and I shake my head.

  “I really don't know, buddy. Does it look fast?”

  “Ah-huh!” Lance says, then grins. “You should buy a Ferrari.”

  I laugh, I can't help it. He's just too innocent sometimes. “Honey, there's no way I can buy a Ferrari.”

  “Why?”

  Lance's favorite question, but at least one I've answered before here. “Honey, a Ferrari costs a lot more than Mommy makes.”

  “How much money do you have?” Lance asks, and I'm glad that he doesn't quite grasp the total realm of money yet. He knows I use my bank card or cash to buy things, but that's about it. Thankfully, I've watched my money well, and I've never had to really scrape by yet.

  “Enough to take care of us,” I tell Lance. Twenty-six thousand a year and getting to stay in post housing isn’t too bad. Not rich, but I didn't have to worry about qualifying for the loan on my RAV4. I'll take it for now. “Enough that we can have fun sometimes, too.”

  Thankfully, my answer satisfies him, and he goes back to car watching. I brought some DVDs for later, but I don't want to put up with four days of kiddie movies playing in my back seat, so I'm holding off on those as long as I can.

  We stop for dinner at six o'clock, and I let him indulge with a cheeseburger, but I make sure he doesn't have any of the ice cream he was trying to get. I don't need him on a sugar rush in the back of the car, going off until midnight. A quick trip to the bathroom and a fresh set of training pants—he's doing his best to hold it, but I don't expect him to be perfect on this road trip—and we're back on the road again.