by Ric Nero
I return the smile. “You know me, Battle, just had to let you know I got one up on you,” I said.
Benal’s smile fades into a crooked smirk and says in a low playful stern voice, “Black ass,” he says as under a snarl since he had nothing else to reply with.
I laugh, and rise from the chair walking pass Benal. “So you’re my relief, huh?” I ask.
“Yeah, but why?” Benal asks, stepping on the 6 inch high platform floor inside the booth looking a little bit taller than usual yet still shorter than me.
I start walking out of the guard booth.
“Are you just gonna quit your post without being properly relieved, Mr. Specialist Promotable? I mean, you didn’t brief me or anything, now did you?” he says in a tone of comical irony.
Realizing he was correct and had just got a shot in on me, I laughed it off. “How ‘bout showing your superior some respect,” I reply as I continue to walk away until Benal calls my name.
“Thomas!” he yells out, catching my attention.
I turn halfway around.
“It’s good to have you back, Battle.”
I look at him and shake my head slightly side to side. “You know what, Benal? I wish I could say it’s good to be back.” I continue to walk away, down a short road, crossing Hell on Wheels Blvd. and Old Ironside Blvd. and walking down Battalion Ave. Finally, making it to the barracks parking lot, I look at the broad tan bricked three story building. A repeated series on each floor: dark brown metal door, window, window, door, door, etc. I walk to the staircase doors and up the staircase I went. The extensive detail of maintaining uniformity takes life out of the Army life. Exiting the staircase on the second floor, I turn right and walk at a reluctant pace along the side of the rail passing multiple doors and windows until I reach a certain one. I stare at the horizontal 2” by 4” white sign that reads 246 in black numbers. Digging around in my pants pocket I find a key that reads the same. Key inserted and turned, I can hear the deadbolt unlock. I grasp the door knob turning it effortlessly and pushing the large light metal door open.
After one step in and taking the time to re-examine this motel-like designed barracks room, I start becoming even more disgusted with the militant mind. Whoever the architect was, needs to stand in front of a firing squad, I think to myself. I look at the mirror and sink built into the far wall in front of me, right beside the double entry bathroom I share with the room occupant on the other side. A refrigerator was to my immediate left against a tan wall and bed to the right. White sheets on a mattress with a wood frame bed. The only thing standing out on my half of the room was a red hundred-fifty thread count comforter and pillow case set I picked up in Kuwait. Underneath my bed was field gear, additional running shoes and combat boots. A wall locker three feet away from the bed divided my side of the room from my roommate’s, which is perpendicular to a small wooden computer desk. I remove the ACU top and wearing the beige Under Armour shirt. Tossing the top down on my bed, I walk over to the sink placing my hands on the sink’s surface as I bend halfway over.
Looking at everything, I begin to realize how insignificant this room was. But it’s more than just that, this signifies my way of living, my entire life and my world. For almost three years, I’ve dealt with this lifestyle, a lifestyle that I was not in control over. Taking directions from a man. A man that’s neither different nor better than me or any other. “Stand here stand there, permission to fire granted, report to your section chief,” they tell us. Doing only what we’re told only makes the motto, “Move, shoot and communicate,” seem to be in full effect. The more I think about it, and how insignificant I am to the red white and blue, makes it become even more depressing. I almost feel lifeless now. I let the cold water run from the faucet catching some in my hand just to splash on my face.
Knock, knock, knock!
I ignore the knock at the door, but quickly turn the water off. Hoping whomever was knocking wouldn’t hear the water and know I was there. Right now I really wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone.
Knock, knock! The knocking continues.
“Thomas, open the door!” A familiar voice shouts.
Standing straight up, I take my hands off the sink and walk to the bed. “It’s open,” I answered to the persistent visitor as I stretch out in the bed, crossing my legs and folding my hands behind my head.
Errrr! The door creaks open slowly, but only wide enough for the Caucasian male in his mid-thirties to enter wearing an army uniform just like mine. Three chevrons and a rocker brand his chest and cap. He looks at me with blue eyes and a rhetorical grin. He raises his arms high and wide. “What’s up, what’s going on with the sad face?” he asked.
“Sergeant Shanahan, don’t worry about it,” I replied.
Sergeant Shan drops his arms dramatically and twinges up the corner of his mouth. “Tch! Quit acting like a female soldier, Tommy Boy. C’mon talk to me,” he says.
“Congratulations on your promotion, Staff Sergeant, is that enough conversation for you?” I say with a sense of tiredness in my voice.
Sergeant Shanahan walked to the edge of the bed.
“Hmm, now you tell me. Scoot over, Private.”
Scooting my body closer to the wall, I make room for Sergeant Shanahan, who sits at the bottom of the bed. “Uh, is this one of those don’t ask don’t tell situations I been hearing about?” I asked with a joking grin. “You’re kind of closer now, Shane. TOO CLOSE,” I say joking with him. I had a long friendship with Sergeant Shanahan as well. He was my first squad leader when I came to the unit, I got shifted around from squads a little bit but ended up where I started. So it’s only to be expected that we become close and on first name basis.
“Seriously, I heard you… went… home recently,” he said, referring to the fact that I went without leave. I know with him being my squad leader, I got him into a little bit of grief for my actions, but he never really had any issues with me, so I knew he wouldn’t take it hard.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I went to Chicago for a day. Let me guess A.W.O.L. is what they call me,” I replied with no regard of consequence.
“You’re most likely not facing U.C.M.J action. You know they wanna make examples out of every combat veteran they can just to prove to the new soldiers they’re not playing any games,” Shane says in an informative tone.
I breathe in deep and let out a sigh. “I know,” I answered.
“Thomas, really? I know you went through a lot during our deployment,” he says, leaning forward placing his elbows on his knees and folding his hands. “Hell, we all did. But, you gotta get it together,” my old friend tells me.
“What will they do then, Shane?” I ask him.
“Probably just do some extra duty, I mean, at least that’s what I’m pushing for to keep things from getting too severe,” Shane replies.
“Well, Shane, you know we went through it all together.”
“Hmph! That’s for damn sure,” Shane replies. Silence and memories of Iraq overcomes the room. Shane places his hands on his knees and with a burst of energy springs himself up to his feet. “Dammit, Thomas, you were, no, you are my best soldier. You picked up rank faster than any other, almost had your sergeant stripes before we left Iraq. You are a good leader and friend to me and everyone else in the unit.”
I watch as he begins to pace with hands on his hips. He comes to a halt. “Shane, you are forgetting one thing,” I tell him.
“What’s that?” he asked with an unexpected plain look on his face.
“I’m a damn good mechanic, too.” I answer him with a slightly comical tone.
“Hm hm hmm.” Shane drops his head in a chuckle. “Wow! You never cease to amaze me. Why?”
I express with a puzzled reply, “Well, I guess I’m just witty, it’s just natu—”
“No, not that jack-ball!” Before I can finish my sentence Shane cuts me off in anger. “Why did you work so hard for so many years just to pull an idiotic move like this?” Shane asks walking
back to the bed, finding himself sitting in the same slouch all over again.
I swing my legs over the side and sit beside him. “Sergeant, I don’t know.” I begin realizing it got to him more than I expected.
Shane turns his head and squints at me. He begins to turn red with fury. “You don’t know? The hell you mean you don’t know?”
Being on the defense, I abruptly stand to my feet and walk back to the sink. Shane pursues me halfway across the room. I lean over the sink once again slamming my hands down on the marble-like surface and I look in the mirror. “No, what I’m saying is I don’t know. I don’t know why we were even there. Why did fifteen months caused such a hell, for them and us? Why did so many of ours die while the politicians, the media, and fools sell us such a blind lie about a War on Terrorism? Don’t you stay up at night dreading to go to sleep like I do, Sarge, huh?” I asked Shane.
He throws his head back. “So is this what it’s all about? Over the years you developed a problem with authority?” Shane asks in a mellow voice.
“No!” I yell out in anger. I drop my head slightly, turn on the faucet and splash cold water into my face attempting to calm down. “I have a problem with the process of breaking down a person’s individuality and rebuilding them into an order taking automatons, that lay down their lives for a county in a far away land across the oceans where no one ever knew their freaking names at all, for a country that could care less.”
Shane turns and walks towards the door and stops and turns his head. “Thomas, you realize you’re not the only person with a mind or opinion, right?”
Silence consumes the room. I realize I struck a chord in his comrade. No, more than that, a close friend. “Shane, I’m sorry. I’m just confused. We did all that we could to survive fifteen months of that hell hole.” I stand up straight and walk towards the door and lean back against the wall beside my friend. “Sarge, what do you believe we accomplished honestly?”
Shane looks at me with a mean mug and gets in my face. “Soldier, are you questioning the militant strategic minds that organize missions delegated out for the benefit and upholding of this great country?”
I couldn’t believe it, he was actually mad. “No, Sergeant!” I answer reluctantly.
“Specialist Thomas, do you mean to tell me that being a member of the 1st Cavalry Division 1ACB isn’t enough for you?”
“No, Sergeant.” I answered him again, still reluctant.
“Are you denying the right and privilege of Living the Legend and being the first to fight?”
“No, Sergeant!”
“Do you remember the first day you stepped foot in my Echo company motor pool?”
I couldn’t believe he continued to drill me. “Yes, Sergeant!”
“Do you remember the three specific topics I explained will not be discussed amongst soldiers?” Sergeant Shan continues his interrogative-like questioning.
“Yes, Sergeant! We are not allowed to speak of spouses, races, and personal beliefs, Sergeant.”
“And why don’t we speak about personal beliefs amongst comrades?”
“Because personal beliefs may give or receive an unwanted idea or opinion resulting in dispute causing separation in a unit’s teamwork, Sergeant!”
Shane asks in a cold stern voice, “Soldier, do you still want to head down that path?”
I pause for a long moment. I had to be honest with him like I am with myself. “Yes, Sergeant!” The interrogator ceases and stares into my eyes. I guess to see how adamant I was. He walks to the fridge that was next to me. He looks in both the upper half of the freezer and lower half of the refrigerator. He resumes the previous mellow tone that’s shared between friends. “Damn, Thomas, you ain’t got a bottle of Corona to save your life.” Back bent down with his head inside my fridge I look at him. This country fed blue eyed blonde crew cut asshole. He knows I hate when he pulls rank on me just to piss me off. Come to think of it, that’s the only time he ever does it. I can count on my hand the few times I ever stood at parade rest for this man.
“Asshole, I thought you were serious,” I said to him in relief. At this point I still can’t see his head from this angle due to this slightly pudgy Texan scavenging through my refrigerator. Yet, I still can see the rest of his body go up and down rapidly. I can tell he’s trying to hold in a laugh. “Sergeant, are you gyrating next to my gallon of two percent milk?” I ask him.
He bursts into laughter. “Ha ha ha! You bastard. Ha ha! Always could make me laugh.” He stands up and closes the tan door to the fridge, making his way out the door. “Whether you know it or not, Thomas, we all have the same thoughts as you. And I know you want answers. Hell, we all do.”
“So, Shane, what are you saying?” I ask him.
He exhales while placing his hands on his sides, shifting his weight to his left leg. “Remember the Coo Coo’s Nest right outside east gate?” Shane asks me.
“Yeah, the Haitian club, yeah, I know the place,” I answered. “What about it?”
Shane reaches for the door knob turning it and slightly opening the door. “Meet me there, twenty-three hundred hours,” he says dramatically, walking halfway out the door. He always was a character. Then I stop and think about it.
“That’s a Haitian bar, Shane. A HAITIAN BAR!” I say sarcastically, pronouncing every word louder. He hears me, but continues on to the stairway. I step outside the door and lean over the brown metal railing banister looking down at the parking lot. Doors from the first floor fly open.
It’s Shane, he goes down four cement steps and walks a short distance along the sidewalk. I can’t believe it he wants to go to a Haitian bar. The First Calvary Division just got back stateside, and he wants to celebrate at a Haitian bar. I know I won’t have any problems, but the idea of Shane, a thirty-one year old white guy, sitting on the stool at the bar surrounded by Haitians. Yeah, I can imagine that would be peaceful. Then again, Shane is the type of crazy guy to try it. Start a fight with the biggest guy then offer to buy him a drink afterwards. All to say he did it so we can bring it up and laugh later on.
I continue watching Shane walk to his new white 2008 Dodge Nitro. He parked right next to my 2003 maroon Chrysler 300m. My car was nice but he had to show me up by parking his brand-new car next to my kind-of-new car. He opens the driver’s door and climbs in. He reverses enough to get out of the parking spot and rolls down this window.
“Twenty-two hundred, Thomas!” he yells out. “You better be there.”
I cuff my hands together around my mouth. “No club gets the party jumping ‘til twenty-three hundred, Shane.” I see him smile and pull off. Sergeant Shane Shan. “Hmph!” that’s some name.
I walk back inside and an old stale and citrus-like smell catches my nose. I walk over and check the small wastebasket under my sink. It’s full with orange peels at the top, so I grab the whole basket and head outside to the garbage dumpster on the opposite side of the parking lot.
After the stroll across the lot I see an older white guy in the old green and black B.D.U’s jacket and a pair of black Levi jeans watching me in the distance. He was a little shorter than me, maybe mid-forties. He has a usual high and tight militant hair style with white hair. It’s unusual to see a bum on post. But, I can’t say he’s a bum. It’s something in his face, his eyes, he’s focused. I turn my attention to opening the lid on the dark brown dumpster and emptying my garbage. When I turn back around he was gone. It seemed suspicious for a second, but I pay it no more attention and return to my room. I look at my bed that was once perfectly made now has two sets of ripples from when me and Shane had sat. I laid in the bed to rest up, killing time before I go to the Coo Coo’s Nest.
Fort Hood
Killeen, Texas
1/13/08
Before I know it I’m dreaming of that hellhole that I just recently left, Iraq. I’m walking down the gravel roads of Camp Taji once again in the daytime. The sun almost simmers my skin, so the heat had to be somewhere in the 120’s. The high cement T-w
alls and barriers outline and separate the roads from the pod areas where soldiers resided in their trailers. I remember this day well, I had just got back on camp from a supply run to Balad. Having some downtime, I chose to get some movies from the DVD shop by 3rd battalion’s POD area. On my way back to my POD area, I walk near the fuel base. I feel sweat going down my back and palms, another hot day in the middle-east. I’m used to it by now, six months in theater helps climatize you they say. I didn’t care, hot as hell is still hot as hell, as far as I was concerned.
Out of the usual crowd walking the camp roads a voice calls out. “Tommy Boy!”
I look to my rear and see a petite brown skinned female soldier in ACU’s. It was Green, she was probably five feet even, 120 pounds. She was curvy and attractive with long hair. But I never saw her as more than just a friend and I’m sure she saw me the same way.
“What’s up, Green?” I asked her.
She walks towards me. 3rd battalion was an infantry battalion. They were always clearing villages or apprehending suspected terrorists. She usually stayed in a clean uniform, but her ACU’s were filthy, meaning she had to have just gotten back.
“I see you made it back from another mission,” I said. “Shouldn’t you be washing your equipment, Green?”
“Thomas, that equipment had to wait today,” she said shaking her head from side to side. “I was more worried about going to the d-fac and refilling my… ammo pouch, if ya know what I mean.” She smiles, showing a glimpse of those pearly whites while patting her hand against her gut.
“That’s what you refer to your stomach as now, huh, an ammo pouch?” I ask her, pointing at her belly. I get in close enough and get a good wiff of her heavily odored ACU. I frown at the revolting smell.
“Yeah,” she answered. “And that’s hard work you’re smelling on me, Thomas.” She must have realized the reason for the scrunched up mug on my face.
“Ha ha hmm.” I laughed slightly while she smirks. But, I understood because I was a little sweaty myself. “I know what you mean, but I’m not going to hold you up. I know you’re tired. But, come by later, I just picked up some movies you can borrow.”
