Forever

by Jeff Holmes

  A good time was between 25 and 30 seconds. Scott had quick feet, but not fast feet. His best time had been 33 seconds. What made it more challenging was that it was on gravel and in combat boots. Tennis shoes and grass would be better, he thought.

  Scott darted off to a great start, made the plant and dodged through the first set of hurdles smoothly, then jumped the ditch. He made a quick turn, dodged, jumped and went for the last dodge. His left foot planted to make the dodge, but as he pushed off, the gravel under his boot gave way and his foot slid. Not far, but far enough.

  Scott’s right leg was already swinging forward when his foot slipped. Instead of ending up between the hurdles, his right instep slammed hard into the hurdle and there was no give to it. Somehow, he made a quick recovery, running through the hurdles and finishing the last five yards. “That’s 29.7 seconds, Mitchell,” shouted Drill Sgt. Alexander, who was holding the stop watch. “Pretty damn fast for a motherfucking kicker.”

  Breathing heavily, the guys were congratulating him on breaking 30 seconds as he leaned over, hands on his knees.

  “You should consider quitting smoking there, superstar,” Andy said, teasing the defenseless Scott. “Couldn’t hurt.”

  “You should consider shutting the fuck up,” Scott said, grinning back at Andy and drawing the laughter of the guys around them. He flexed his right knee, grimaced, looked at Andy and added, “My foot hurts. As in really hurts.”

  “You’re fine, boy,” Alexander hollered from the starting line. “Suck it up and I’ll get you a Purple Heart.”

  Still recovering, the best comeback he had left was, “Thank you Drill Sergeant. That would be really fucking nice.”

  After a march back to the barracks and lunch, it was time for the most dreaded drill of basic training: the gas chamber.

  Somewhere along the line, the Army had decided every trainee should experience the torture of getting tear-gassed. While there was probably a practical use for it, Scott figured it was cheap comedy entertainment for the cadre.

  All of Delta 5-2 marched to the gas chamber, which amounted to a 10x10 garden shed, with long wooden walls extending from either side of it, probably 15 feet in each direction. Everyone had their masks on, but there was gas in the air. It irritated exposed skin, and everyone was feeling it.

  In groups of about 10, the trainees were led into the shed, where two NCOs in full chemical protection suits and masks were shouting at them to move their chicken asses.

  There was a deep fog in the shed as Scott’s group went in. Once they were all in and the door sealed, they were ordered to take off their masks. There were groans and gasps and choking as the NCOs went down the line and made each trainee give his name and Social Security number before the group could leave. No one could hold their breath.

  Scott had never experienced anything like it. His eyes and lungs were burning and his foot hurt. Finally, everyone in the group finished their identification. The back door flew open and one of the NCOs bellowed, “Get the fuck out of my gas chamber, pussies, get the fuck out!”

  Scott couldn’t see anything more than a swirl of colors as he ran out into the sunshine. He could hear people yelling at the group to run, hold your arms out, get out your canteens and get water on your face. Scott ran for about 15 seconds before he finally stopped, trying to get his bearings. Snot was streaming from his nose and he could hear guys puking all around him.

  He ripped his canteen out of its carrier on his hip and poured the cold water on his face. His vision started to clear. There were guys standing over huge barrels, returning their lunch to the Army. Some guys didn’t make it to the barrels and simply turned lunch over to Missouri’s natural beauty. This explains the walls on the shed, Scott thought. They didn’t want us to see this.

  Delta 5-2 marched back to the barracks, then later to dinner. As the afternoon wore on, Scott and the rest of the guys had recovered from their experience at the gas chamber; they were even joking about who puked the most and how they would scare the shit of new recruits they encountered by telling them about it.

  But Scott’s foot wasn’t recovering. As they marched to supper, it went from sore to throbbing and his boot started to feel way too tight.

  After dinner, Alexander told Second Platoon to form up, instead of going back on their own. He started out marching them back, but quickly broke them into a double time. Instead of the two blocks back the barracks, they circled around for several blocks. Scott was nearly carrying his foot; he was almost in tears at this point.

  Finally, Alexander turned the platoon onto the company street, and they went back to a straight march, coming to a halt in front of the barracks. Most of the rest of the company was just milling around, relaxing after the long day. Alexander broke formation then had the platoon take a seat on the gravel. He sat down on a bench and started talking about what an important day it had been, how they’d crossed into the last 30 days of basic training.

  Scott was barely listening, his foot hurt so badly. He was sitting in the back of the group, his head down. Since Roni’s letter, he really started to feel better about this place. Not good, but more that it was survivable. After Saturday and getting back out on the field and kicking again, he started to feel the rhythm might be back. He even thought if Roni could still think about design, maybe he could still think about football.

  But know all he could think about was pain. He didn’t even hear Alexander say, “Dismissed,” only noticing as the rest of guys started to leave. He struggled, and it was only Carl grabbing him under the arm that helped him to his feet. He started to limp back to the barracks, when Alexander stopped him.

  “Mitchell, I rarely say this to a trainee, but I think I was wrong about something,” he said. “You’re really in a lot of pain, aren’t you?”

  Scott nodded, “Yes I am, Drill Sergeant. A lot.”

  Alexander pointed at the bench. “Sit down, son.”

  Scott did, gladly. Alexander reached down and squeezed Scott’s foot, finally putting his thumb on exactly the spot. “Ahhhhh, SHIT,” Scott yelled. “Yeah, that’s the spot.”

  “Well, Mitchell, I owe you an apology,” Alexander said, sounding more like a coach than a DI. “Maybe we should have skipped that run.”

  Scott wasn’t prepared for that answer. While he and Alexander had come to an understanding in certain ways, Scott was still the trainee and Alexander was still the DI. He wasn’t sure how to take it, but at this point, he didn’t care.

  Alexander took him back to the operations shack and called a taxi for him. It was nearly 1845 hours when the cabbie dropped him off at the base hospital front door. He limped in, past a row of pay phones, and followed the signs to the emergency room. After paperwork, and a quick exam, he was sent to X-ray and after the pictures, he returned to the ER waiting room.

  The TV was on, it had just passed over to 2000 hours, and on what had become a pretty dreary Tuesday night, M*A*S*H was coming on. Scott loved M*A*S*H; it was his favorite show and Hawkeye Pierce was his hero. And this was the first TV he’d seen since he left for basic training.

  It was the episode where Hawkeye and BJ had managed to get Radar promoted to 2nd Lieutenant. Scott watched as if he was afraid if he looked away, the screen would grow dark. And as luck had it, it took until the end of the show before they called him back into the exam room.

  “You have a broken bone in your foot,” the ER doctor told him. “You’ll need a cast for a few weeks, but you should be fine. You’ll need to be on crutches, no weight on it for a week, then come back and we’ll give you a walking cast.”

  The day just hit bottom. A cast, crutches, adapted duty. This was about the last thing he needed. As the cast room tech wrapped plaster gauze around his leg, he watched his right foot disappear beneath it. They’d been through a lot together and this was a shitty way to treat it. He felt about as low as he did the night of the cookies.

  Scott crutched his way back the lobby to call a cab to go back the barracks. It was nearly 213
0 hours. He thought about Roni. She should have received his last letter today and was probably writing back right now. The system had been working just as they planned. He was thinking of her, sitting on her bed in his jersey and those fuzzy black socks, her hair in a ponytail and glasses on, writing to him. It was comforting, but he really wished they were closer. He looked at the phone. “She’ll kill me. But…”

  Just moments later, he could hear the phone ringing through the receiver. On the third ring he heard someone pick up.

  “Hello?”

  It was Roni; it was the voice.

  The operator broke in. “I have a collect, person-to-person call for Roni McIntyre from Scott Mitchell. Will you accept the charges?”

  There was a long pause. “Ma’am?” the operator said.

  Scott broke in with the first thing he could think of, “Hi, Roni.”

  Roni suddenly came to life. “Scotty? Yes, operator. Absolutely yes.”

  “Surprise!” Scott said, trying to contain himself.

  “Yeah big spender, a collect call,” Roni said back. “Where the fuck are you?”

  There was no way this was going to come out well. “Um, well, and don’t panic,” he stammered. “I’m at the base hospital. I broke my foot.”

  “Footer!” she exclaimed, her voice rising. “What happened?”

  “Long story.”

  “Which foot?”

  Shit. “Right.”

  “FOOTER?!!” Roni fired back. “We need that one, don’t we?”

  They still had not talked about the future in letters, but they had both started to refer to things as “we” instead of “you” or “me.” This was a “we” situation. One of the biggest “we” endeavors was to get him to try football again, and he wanted that.

  “I hope so,” he said. He was 800 miles away, in a cast and miserable, but he was also sitting on that bed right next to her, looking into those baby blue eyes. The miles were gone for a moment.

  They didn’t have long. Scott had to get back, and this was costing her a fortune. He told her about the kicking thing. She told him about sending out applications to colleges for design school. She loved the part about how many kicks he nailed and how much money he made. But he had to wrap things up.

  “Roni, I have to go,” Scott said, starting to choke up. “I have to get back, or they’re going to send the MPs out looking for me.”

  “OK, well, I sent your letter already,” she said, her voice starting to break, too. “And I didn’t tell you any shit just now that’s in letter.”

  “Good,” he said. “It will all be new shit. OK, babe, you get some sleep, and I will too.”

  “I still have to finish a paper,” she said. “That’s going be a lot of fun now. When can you call again?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I hope you appreciate the fact I’ve called you before my parents.”

  “Glad I rate,” she said. She was crying now. “Can I tell Rick and Maggie?”

  “Yeah,” he said, wishing he didn’t have to end the call. “Rick will love this story.”

  That was it. He had to go.

  “OK, well, good night baby,” Scott said.

  “Yeah, good night, Footer,” Roni said. “I’ll send you a bill for the call.”

  “OK,” he said, smiling. He paused. It was time.

  “I love you.”

  “Asshole,” Roni said. She really was crying now. “I love you too. And I got you say it first.”

  “Were you going to say it if I didn’t?” Scott asked.

  “Yeah, but you did. I win,” she said. “I always win.”

  “You drive me nuts. WE win,” he said. “’Night, baby.”

  “WE win,” she echoed. “’Night, Footer.”

  They hung up. Scott leaned forward and put his forehead against the receiver. Suddenly, between the phone call and the Darvocet they gave him, his foot didn’t really hurt. He called the cab, and went out to wait on a bench. He lit a cigarette and sat back and looked at the sky. “Just 29 more days,” he said to himself. “Four weeks and I’m the fuck out of here.”

  ****

  CHAPTER 7

  Scott settled into the routine with a broken foot. The last time he’d spent an inordinate amount of time on crutches, it nearly ended up being the end of his world; his whole life.

  But this was a different Scott Mitchell. If he wasn’t sure before, he knew he had a life again; maybe even a future. From the time he talked to Roni that night, the sky was bluer, the sun was brighter and he didn’t even mind his green clothes anymore.

  He ended up spending a little over two weeks in his cast. He’d made it to the rifle range for practice, and even qualified firing a .45 pistol and throwing a grenade in his cast. But it came off on May 5, two weeks from graduation. It would be hectic day.

  From the hospital, Scott had to go straight to the uniform issue building to get his dress uniforms. Because of his cast, he couldn’t get his uniforms before and he’d already missed a week of off-post passes. He and the boys were planning a night in Rolla on Saturday; steak dinners, lots of drinks, maybe even a movie. It was the last Saturday to do anything like this; the next weekend they’d be on their field exercises. The next Saturday after that, Scott would be in San Antonio.

  He hopped out of a cab at the barracks just in time to put his uniforms away and march to lunch. Afterward, it was off to Advanced Individual Training briefings. This was the day everyone headed off to different locations around the Fifth Brigade area to hear about their next assignments. Guys like Andy, who was going into intelligence, or Terry, who was going to be a photographer, were in pretty small meetings. Those were pretty rare Modes of Service. The 11B (Infantry) and 12B (Armor) meetings were on opposite sides of the gym. Scott and the other two dozen guys who were going to medical training in San Antonio met in the chapel. A medical services officer from Fort Sam was there to give the guys an idea of what was up next for them.

  “You’ll be arriving late the morning of the 20th and you’ll have free time over the weekend,” this Lt. Marsh was telling them. “Training will actually start on Monday, the 23rd.”

  Scott and Carl were looking over their packets about San Antonio, Fort Sam, and other fine details. They were looking for Texas barbecue and good beer.

  As well as things had been going for Scott, he wasn’t prepared for the next bit of information. Between letters and phone calls, he and Roni were making plans for what they had hoped would be a three-day weekend. Scott had it figured they’d probably have Memorial Day off. He was going to fly home either Friday night or Saturday morning, then fly back late Monday. Assuming, of course, they had Memorial Day off.

  But, as his father had taught him over the years, never assume.

  “…and, due to the limited amount of time we have for training; just 24 days for 91B, you will be training on Memorial Day,” Marsh said.

  Scott’s head snapped up so hard he felt a stinger in his neck. His mouth hung open dumbly and he mumbled, quietly, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Carl nudged him and said, “Sorry, man.”

  The guys had been hearing about nothing but Roni for at least a month, and he’d been talking about Memorial Day for a while. They all knew there was a chance of having to be there on the 30th (which was also the day after his 20th birthday), but Scott might have overbuilt his hopes. He really didn’t hear much of anything else Marsh said. He’d heard enough.

  Andy, Terry, Carl, Derric and Scott had become pretty good friends over the last eight weeks. Four white guys and a black guy; Derric called the other four his offensive line, while they called Derric “Token.”

  So the other four knew Scott was hurting. He called Roni that night, and he was more upset than she was.

  “Footer, it’s OK,” she said softly, “it’s not your fault you work for assholes. So it’s another month; you’ll be home for the Stampede. That’s worth waiting for!”

  “Yeah, and it was probably stupid of me to get my hopes up,
” Scott said. “I just miss you so much, baby.”

  “I miss you too, and I love you,” Roni added, “and I’m REALLY horny…but we’ll work it out.”

  Roni always had this way of throwing in this one comment, just to drive him nuts. “horny…”

  Yeah, baby, thanks for that one, he thought.

  The next week was hectic. Monday it was off to the rifle range to qualify with M-16s. To qualify, and to graduate, trainees had to hit 16 of 32 targets. Scott was never much of a hunter, but for some reason, he was the best shot in the platoon. He hit 31 of 32 targets and won the Delta 5-2 Top Shot award.

  Wednesday morning was the final PT test. Scott couldn’t make the Top 10, but he broke 30 in the Run, Dodge and Jump without breaking his foot and, for the first time, went down and back on the horizontal ladder without falling.

  Thursday morning it was off to the woods for three days and two nights. There were even war games against Alpha 4-4, the other BCT company that was on the same cycle as them.

  After a free day Sunday – Andy, Terry, Carl and Scott watched the St. Louis Cardinals lose 15-12 to the Atlanta Braves on TV at the NCO Club – and cleaning and turning in TA-50 on Monday, not much was left.

  The first few days after Scott found out about Memorial Day, the guys were pretty sympathetic to him and his disappointment. They all felt as if they knew Roni and were really pulling for their friend.

  But after a few days, the guys seemed to blow it off. They even teased him about it.

  And there were other odd conversations. On Sunday, Andy and Scott had gone to the phone bank before the Cardinals game started. Scott called his family first and they were all in a really silly mood for some reason. At one point, Kimmy asked him, “So are you surprised?”

  “About what?” he asked. In the background he heard his dad shout “Kimberly Marie!” while Amy was shushing her.

  “Ummm…nothing. Love you, bye…here’s Mom!”

  He went to call Roni but her line at home was busy. Probably Brooke on the phone, she was on the phone more than Amy, which goes some.