by Jane Slate
Landon was worn down and tired. They all were.
He caught a glimpse of his reflection in his canteen and flinched. The man who stared back at him was worn down and distant. Disconnected from the world around him. Dry blood stained his uniform and hands along with dirt, sweat, and sand. He wore thirteen months of stubble on his face and was nearly unrecognizable.
It had been months since any of them had a proper shower.
Across his lap was Landon’s most loyal companion. His M16 Rifle. The only thing that was keeping him alive.
He wouldn’t be able to lead if he was dead and someone had to take the reins and bring his men home alive.
A fire crackled just outside the tent, the smoke signaling their location and projecting enlarged figures of the men who stood and crouched around it. Lying beside them in the sand were their rifles and machine guns, ammunition wrapped loosely around them.
No one moved or talked. Their voices were hoarse and their tongues dry. They held onto the hope that salvation would come for them sooner than death, but it was starting to feel like a pipe dream.
Some of them prayed, but not Landon. He had abandoned religion with the death of his parents.
“Do you remember what the water feels like?” Miller asked from outside the tent, his voice barely above a whisper.
None of the men replied right away.
“What do you mean?” Landon finally answered from the other side of the flimsy fabric.
“The ocean. Do you remember it? Does anyone remember what it was like to just…relax? Free of worries?”
One of the men grunted in response but said nothing. Landon started to laugh but the sound never reached his lips.
“Yeah M. I remember,” he said, crossing his arms beneath his head. “I remember pleasure. Hell, you know what I’d kill for? Just a glass of my ma’s lemonade.”
Landon sighed in reflection.
“She made the best damn lemonade.”
“I miss my girl,” Nash spoke up, his voice hoarse.
All of the men turned to look at him. It was the first coherent sentence he had muttered in days.
“Yeah?” Landon questioned, pushing him further.
Nash nodded.
“Yeah. I remember this one time...shortly after we met,” he paused, clearing his throat. “She beat me at a game of poker. Two games in a row, actually. Shit. I think that’s when I knew she was the one.”
Landon managed a laugh.
“Aw, you let her win man.”
Nash shook his head with a smile.
“Nah. She beat me, fair and square.”
“You know,” Nash continued, staring out into the distance. “Five years ago, if someone would have told me this was where I would be, I would have laughed in their face.”
He shook his head and ran a hand over his beard, shaking sand from it.
“I was a fuckin’ selfish little shit. A real punk.”
Landon nodded. He was well aware of Nash’s history. They were both born and raised in Falls Creek, although they ran in different circles. While Landon spent his time training for a life in the military, Nash hotwired motorcycles and bared witness to his father’s illicit and illegal activities as President and founder of the Sons of War MC. A Motorcycle Club he had started shortly after he had returned home from Vietnam.
“I know what you mean,” Landon said.
Although he didn’t.
There wasn’t a single moment of his upbringing that didn’t revolve around becoming a Marine.
Landon looked around for Miller but couldn’t find him.
“You know what I wanted to be?” Brooks spoke up.
“An architect.”
Landon and the rest of the men turned to look at him as an awkward silence fell over them.
“Well,” Landon finally answered, knitting his eyebrows together in thought. “That’s one hell of a career change.”
“Yup,” Brooks continued, gripping his rifle between his dirt stained palms. He spit into the distance. “I was taking some technical drawing classes at community college before I joined. My dad was really into that stuff.”
He shrugged.
“Hell, I wasn’t ever much good at it, now that I think back.”
“I liked it though.”
Landon reached through the tent to grip Brooks by the shoulder.
“That’s nice, man,” he said sincerely. “We all have to have our hobbies now don’t we? They keep us sane.”
“How did you end up here?” Nash interrupted, turning to look at Brooks.
Brooks shrugged.
“I have a family to feed,” he glumly replied. “This job is hard but it pays.”
Another lull of silence fell over the men.
A harsh wind blew through, stirring up sand from the ground. It faltered to a stop near the edge of the mountains, but not before it deposited dirt and sand into the tents, covering everything inside with a thick layer of grit.
Landon hardly noticed. His intense brown eyes were riveted to the sky; glazed over as he focused in on his past. He rubbed a hand over his facial hair and sighed as memory after memory played out in front of him. He saw himself six years prior, leaving home for his first tour and promising his mother and father glory upon his return.
But there was no glory. Only disappointment and regret.
He turned over on his back, ignoring the pebbles that dug into his flesh through his pallet. Another memory replayed in his head. A sad one. This time he was twenty-two and walking alone along a dirt road, his jacket pulled tight around his shivering body. It was winter in Falls Creek. A bitter, ugly, mind-numbing thing. But it didn’t matter, because he was going home.
Or at least what was left of it.
Three years into his first tour he was allowed a forty-eight hour trip home to attend his parent’s funeral. It was an informal event attended only by the people who knew him best. Landon spoke a few words in his uniform as an ode to the people who had molded him into the man he had become. But he never did get to say goodbye.
“Get down!”
The explosion rung in Landon’s ears and pulled him from his thoughts as the tents fabric rippled around him. A car bomb had went off a few feet ahead of them. The smoke was thick and hazy. His eyes watered and his lungs itched. They were back. He could hear his heart beat increasing. He panicked, too petrified to move.
Then he realized what was going on.
Miller ran for cover and dove face first into the sand. “God damn!” he yelled jovially, pounding a fist against the sand. Nash and the rest of the men laughed and shook their heads as Miller ripped off his helmet and threw it to the ground.
“What the fuck was that?” Landon bellowed, staggering out of the tent. He grabbed the younger man by his collar and shouted a series of expletives in his face. Spit flew. He spoke faster than his thoughts could move.
“You mother fucker! You could have killed us!”
Nash stomped on his cigarette and stood to his feet, pulling Landon back. The rest of the men hung back, not wanting to intervene.
“Just cool down,” Nash insisted. “The kid was just having a little fun. Ease up.”
Fun.
The use of the word in reference to their situation was enough to send Landon into hysterics. He laughed until his stomach hurt as Nash and the rest of the men stared on.
“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me,” Landon finally managed, catching his breath. “You really think now is the time for fun?”
Nash shrugged and backed off. He lit another smoke, pressing it between his grease stained fingers as he leaned back against the tank. Miller distracted himself. He removed his boots, shaking rocks and sand out of them. The rest of the men were silent and avoided eye contact with Landon. He was the only man capable of leading them and they knew it. Aside from Nash’s short two years in Iraq, he was the only one of them with experience.
He came from a long line of Soldiers. Twenty-three years ago his father had went
to fight in Vietnam. He didn’t bring much with him. Only a wrinkled photograph of his wife and son, a lucky medallion given to him by his father, who had fought in the second World War, and a pride in his nation that could have crushed the Vietcong all on its own.
He came home a wounded man with a Purple Heart pinned to his uniform and a round lodged in his shoulder. He claimed that as he laid there on the battle field, close to death and surrounded by shells and the men who had fired them, he had informed the medic that he wanted him to leave the bullet in.
The war wasn’t over yet and he wanted to fight until the very end.
And so the man patched him up and he returned to battle until he no longer could. And when he returned home, he wore his wound like the badge of honor it had become.
When people would stop by to visit he would pull his sleeve off his shoulder and tell the story. There came a point where everyone sort of just expected it, and while it never ceased to annoy Landon’s mother, it sure impressed his friends.
His father told them stories about air raids and explosions and they listened with wide eye wonder. Landon admired his pops the way some boys admired athletes or actors.
His mother didn’t approve of the stories. She insisted that they were too gruesome for a young boys ears but that didn’t stop him from telling them. He’d give Landon a quick wink whenever she would turn her back after a heated lecture, and the stories would continue on.
Where most children fell asleep listening to grand tales about ancient kingdoms and make believes places, Landon heard reflections of bloodshed and honor and modern day heroics.
Stories of brotherhood and pride.
It was these stories that motivated his decision to enlist in the Marine Corps at the tender age of eighteen. It was a foggy summer morning when he broke the news to his mother. She was sitting on their wraparound porch, sipping on an ice tea as she crocheted.
Landon drove up the gravel road that led to their house and parked his bike beneath the shade.
When he told her the news, she didn’t react at first. She stared at her son and trembled, wringing her hands together. Then, a soft smile spread across her face and she shook her head. She embraced Landon and whispered that the war was in his blood.
That she knew this day would come eventually.
When his father’s large frame appeared behind the screen door, the look on his face told Landon all he needed to know. He stepped outside and wrapped his arms around his wife and son.
It was the first time Landon had ever seen his father cry. He had expected this day to come as much as his wife, but it didn’t make it any easier. When Landon turned thirteen his father began training him. He started with light physical conditioning but it wasn’t long before it progressed into something far more strenuous.
He had a method.
He made sure that his training never conflicted with Landon’s schooling and he never let his wife know what he was doing.
It went without saying that she wouldn’t approve.
So Landon made sure to always arrive to his classes on time. To wipe the sweat off his forehead and collect himself before he sat down at the dinner table for supper.
To lie only when it was absolutely necessary.
And when the time came that he was eligible and old enough to fight for his country, he was ready. His father had turned him from a boy into a man.
Into a solider.
Four days after Landon broke the news to his parents, he left for basic training. He followed orders, obeyed the rules, and graduated with ease at the top of his class.
Before he left for his first tour, he was allowed one more stateside visit. He spent those two days with his parents. His mother pleaded for him not to leave, but what was done was done.
His father embraced him and told him in a hushed tone that he was proud of him. That his country was proud of him. Before he left, he slipped the medallion his father had given him into his son’s hand. He held it there and squeezed it in Landon’s palm before pulling away.
The look he gave him was one of mutual understanding. Landon saluted him and pressed a kiss against his mother’s cheek.
And then, just like that, he was gone.
“You’re right man,” Nash said, interrupting Landon’s train of thought. He nudged him on the shoulder and looked over at the other men. “We’ll cool it, won’t we boys?”
They muttered and nodded in agreement.
Landon relaxed and caught the pack of smokes tossed to him by Miller. He lit one and nodded his head, accepting the truce.
Landon coughed and pulled the collar of his uniform down around his neck. He loosened it and reached inside his storage box to pull out his notebook. He had made a point of writing in it every day since the first explosion. He uncapped a pen and pressed it against an empty page, pushing the rest of the world out of his mind as he began to pen his mother another letter she would never read.
Ma –
As I write you this letter, I sit beside seven of the finest men I’ve ever come to know. I’m missing you and dad a lot. I think about you both every day and that’s what keeps me going. I won’t lie to you. There have been a lot of casualties. I’ve watched great men die for this war. Men I came to know and love as brothers. I wonder now if it’s worth. If it ever was.
Do you remember Nash Glasson? The trouble maker you used to tell me to avoid? Well, he enlisted the same time I did and he’s one of the most vital men on my squad.
It’s funny, I guess. How war changes people.
Maybe it’s changed me. I haven’t had a look at myself in a mirror in months, but I can feel it. Being here is no joy ride. Conditions aren’t good and I find myself craving your cooking more than ever. I dream sometimes about your cottage pies.
I wish I was home. Hell, I’d killed for it. I have killed for it. This place is worse than Iraq. We have to sleep with one eye open and our helmets on. My rifle is always by my side, but we keep hearing explosions and we don’t know if they are coming from our own men or the enemy. It’s a waiting game. I just wish we knew what we were waiting for.
I love you. I miss you.
Landon
He capped his pen and sighed, staring down at his words. The journal was nearly full. He only had a few blank pages left and soon, his pen would run out of ink. He looked up at the sky and took a sip from his canteen. Nash whistled beside him. He folded the cover of a magazine back in his hands and ogled the page. Miller and the rest of the men crowded around him, hooting in approval. Landon closed his notebook and shoved it back in his storage box. He stood, dusting off his hands as he looked over their shoulders. A naked woman was sprawled across the page in Nash’s hands.
She was a blonde and not at all Landon’s type, but when you’ve been without a woman’s touch for months on end, you take what you can get. Her breasts were full and supple and even with her legs crossed in a thinly veiled act of modesty, he could make out the soft patch of hair that covered her mound. He swallowed hard and looked away. He didn’t understand how the rest of the men could do it. Seeing women that he couldn’t physically touch only drove him all the more insane.
Finally, the men became distracted and scattered in different directions. Nash slid the magazine back inside his backpack. He reached for his rifle and reloaded it.
Landon removed his helmet and wiped at the sweat that had built up on his forehead. He looked out at the decaying mass a few hundred yards in the distance.
They had combed through every inch of it in search of survivors, but they had come up empty handed.
It never stopped being hard.
Losing the men you viewed as brothers.
There were dark shadows permanently imprinted in the sand. Silhouettes of the men that had once stood there.
Chapter Two
“I sure hope they come for us soon,” one of the men spoke up from behind Landon, shaking his canteen. “We don’t have much water left.”
No shit.
Land
on furrowed his brows and said nothing. They were staring death in the face and they knew it. It wasn’t something that needed to be discussed. If the medic planes didn’t arrive soon, it wouldn’t be the Taliban that they would have to worry about.
Dehydration would come for them first.
“Don’t worry about it Brooks,” Nash piped in, always the optimistic one. “They’ll come. Just ration it, alright?”
It was this quality in Nash that Landon and the rest of the men had come to appreciate. He was the kind of man that saw the light in every situation. He fought slow and methodically and believed in reassuring his comrades that they’d live even when it became clear that they wouldn’t. “If we die, at least we died with hope,” was his calling card.
He was also a damn good liar.
Their situation was a transparent one. They had been abandoned, plain and simple. Nash knew it as much as Landon did. Help wasn’t coming. They were stranded in dangerous Taliban territory.
What sense would it make to risk losing more men for the rescue of seven?
It was this thought that kept Landon awake at night. Not his hunger, his thirst, or even his yearn for a woman. It was the fact that they were dying and there was nothing he could do but prolong it.
It was simple really.
They had been given their weapons and their armor and were sent out to kill or be killed. They had done both. They had worked tirelessly, through sandstorms and sweat and pain and the loss of their brothers, to protect a country that had forgotten about them at the snap of a finger.
Landon stared out into the endless stretch of sand. He had always been a lucky man but as he felt for his grandfather’s medallion, which hung around his neck, he found himself wondering just how far his luck would stretch.
"You alright man?” Nash questioned, his eyes scanning the desert.
Landon didn't answer. He stepped forward and clenched his fists, ignoring the blistering pain that seared through his feet. He strained to look over his shoulder at where Nash was sitting perched on the tank. He had a faraway look on his eye.
"We just have to remember what we’re fighting for," he whispered to himself robotically, clenching his rifle.
