A Lover's Lament

by K. L. Grayson

It’s been three months to the day since Jax was shot. With his head resting in my lap as we waited for the med chopper to arrive, his chest bled out from where the sniper’s bullet sat, warm and still. Before taking his last breath, he reached his trembling hand into a pocket and pulled out a letter. His fluttering eyes demanded I take it. I knew all too well what was in that letter, and whether I wanted to or not, I pulled the letter from his hand just before it slumped lifelessly to his side. Every day I ache for him, and with that pain comes the insomnia.

  I’m perched on a concrete jersey barrier, sipping black coffee as thick as tar while my squad preps the Humvees for a mission. I let the rumble of the engines soothe me as the sun finally starts to bathe my face in warmth. Throwing my head back, I breathe in slow and deep, the wind whipping my face as I wait for the caffeine to do its job. I take a long sip of coffee, letting it rest in my mouth for a moment before drinking it all down.

  This spot, this sunlight, this coffee — it’s my release. I often wonder when it will no longer be enough. My eyes are tightly closed, and I feel a single tear roll down my cheek. I quickly wipe it away. Not here. Not now.

  My thoughts are interrupted by my driver, Private Blake Thomas, shouting from one of our four Humvees idling a hundred feet away. I shift my focus and catch sight of one of my other soldiers, Specialist Jace Elkins, as he thrusts a boot into Thomas’s ass each time he attempts to pull the dipstick from the receptacle. I pull a tin of chewing tobacco from my pocket and pack a pungent wad behind my lip. I cup my other hand to my mouth and yell, “Elkins! Don’t you have some fucking radio frequencies to be dialing into?” I pocket my tin as Elkins swings around and snaps to attention. Thomas chuckles and resumes his duties undisturbed.

  “Hooah, Sergeant, I already did it,” Elkins calls back.

  “You got ice in the cooler?”

  “Roger, Sarge.” Elkins is more confident now, borderline cocky, and it’s unfortunate for him because his memory’s for shit. It’s not his fault … or maybe it is. He’s young, and by his own account he smoked more weed in high school than Cheech and fucking Chong. When I stand before him, he has to tilt his eyes up to meet mine. I get pleasure out of this every time.

  “Elkins.” I plant a smirk on my face.

  “Yeah, Sarge?” I wait a moment and let him sweat.

  “Did you fuel up this morning?” I ask, though I know the answer already. His eyes widen immediately, mouth gaping open.

  “Fuck!” he shouts as he races to the driver’s seat and throws himself in. Thomas caps the oil terminal as Elkins opens the window then sticks his head out of it. “Come the fuck on, T! Lieutenant Dixon is gonna tear into my fucking ass, man.”

  “I’m coming, man. Fuck, it’s not my fault you forgot.” Thomas slams the hood, lifts it, then slams it again and continues leisurely toward the passenger side of the vehicle. He opens the door and carefully climbs in, putting his seatbelt on as slowly as possible. “What about Navas? He’s still gotta get the gun up.”

  “We’ll worry about that later, man!” Elkins yells as he tears from the dirt lot. Thomas is wearing a devilish grin you could spot a mile away as the Humvee races to the fuel point.

  I give them shit for it, but really, I love their nonsense. I wonder, at times, if it’s helped keep Thomas alive even. He hasn’t been dealing with the deployment well, but Elkins can always bring a smile to his face. And for the rest of us … well, it’s a little piece of youth in an otherwise very adult world.

  They are the halls of junior high. They are scout meetings and tee ball practice.

  They are home.

  “Hey, Sarge.” Specialist Brooklyn Navas’s Mississippi drawl catches my attention, and I turn to see him shuffling his linebacker frame toward me. In one hand he makes a fifty-pound machine gun look like a child’s toy, and in the other he balances a stack of loaded magazines. “Where the fuck’s the Humvee?”

  “Fuckin’ Elkins forgot fuel again,” I say as I grab the stack of mags from his hand.

  “Well shit, that’s a goddamn shocker. Did he take Tweedle Dick with him?” Navas grunts and spits a rope of tobacco and saliva to the ground as he sets the machine gun down.

  “Yeah, they should be back soon.” He hands me another stack of mags from his cargo pockets and I line them into my vest while he does the same with his. "Lieutenant DickFuck’s probably still sleeping anyway.” I think I like calling him that too much. One of these days he’s going to catch me. I’m not so sure I’d mind.

  “Oh, you know it. Just got done filling these mags up and he was still snoring the fuck away.”

  “You wake him up?” I ask, just as our Humvee comes tearing around the corner, screeching to a halt right in front of us. As if on cue, Lieutenant DickFuck exits the officer’s quarters, which sits just beside headquarters. DickFuck, or 2nd Lieutenant Justin Dixon as we’re made to call him, is a fancy little twat one year out of West Point. His parents are senators, or some shit like that, and he sucked his way to our unit. Not literally, of course, though it wouldn’t surprise me.

  A boy amongst men, we were shocked when he arrived because his type doesn’t make a good infantryman. But like it or not, here he is. It’s obvious he sees this specific assignment as a fast track to Senator status. The close relations with locals and the promise of a Combat Infantryman Badge is a future politician’s dream, and he knows it. He also knows the line he must meet to stay here, and he dances all over it. He sleeps in up until about the point we need to head out on a mission, and he often skips the more dangerous ones. I wish he’d skip all of them, because it’s a fucking nightmare riding with him due to his intolerable arrogance.

  He staggers toward us, his eyes sunken and his uniform disheveled, and I slip a glance toward Navas. “Tell me he’s not riding with us,” I mutter as we load into the vehicle.

  “Fuck,” Navas grunts.

  That would be a yes. Fuck.

  I watch as Lieutenant Dixon’s slender five-foot-six-inch frame rocks harshly back and forth in the passenger seat—my seat—as we cruise the rough terrain. He usually rides with Sergeant Dustin Adams in Bravo Team's Humvee, since the two New Yorkers seem to have hit it off. But apparently their gunner ate some bad goat meat on a mission last night and has essentially created a gas chamber within their vehicle.

  So instead, DickFuck is in my vehicle messing around with the navigation perched to his left with an almost child-like distraction. He doesn’t know how to work it, nor does he ever try to learn, but he likes to play the part.

  “Ahhh, you see that shit?” Dixon’s head shoots to his right, his eyes peering out the window. His shrill voice breaks the static buzz within our headsets.

  “What shit, Sir?” Navas asks.

  “That chick. She’s in jeans, no fucking burka. I’d tear that shit up.” The attractive woman walks down the side of the small dirt road. She looks our way and cracks a timid smile, and I see Dixon shudder out of the corner of my eye. He’s getting worked up, shuffling in his seat, and I look to Elkins to see if he notices, but his ADD has him off in fuck-fuck land playing with his med-pack.

  "I'm shocked she still has her head,” I say before catching myself, wishing I could take back my words. I think about the beheading videos that have taken over the media and I feel sick to my stomach. To get my mind off the grisly images, I decide to piss off Dixon. “By the way, how’s your wife doing, Sir?” I ask, shooting a mischievous smirk toward the back of his head. I know he’s trying to think of something clever or witty to say, but he sucks at it, so I soak up the few seconds he takes to think of a rebuttal.

  “Pregnant and spending all my deployment money,” he snaps. “What about yours, Sergeant Clay?” I know he wishes he could say something insulting, but the gold bar on his chest restrains him.

  “No wife here, Sir.” Not that I haven’t thought about it from time to time. How nice it would be to have someone waiting on me … someone to go home to … someone to miss me.

  Dixon twists his head around.
“No?” he asks, his beady, lifeless eyes scanning me from head to toe. He turns back around quickly. “You’re not ugly. What is it then? You can’t get a woman? Can’t provide for one? How old are you anyway, Sergeant Clay?”

  “I’m twenty-seven, Sir. And negative, I just don’t want one. I don’t have time for all that.”

  “Probably the best choice you could make. My wife, she’s great and all, but fuck! We weren’t meant to be with one pussy for the rest of our lives. Why else would God have created hookers?” He cackles loudly, making me flinch at the sound it makes over the headset.

  “Roger that, Sir!” Elkins says, chucking the med-pack to the side. Apparently, he’s become bored with it.

  “Oh, shut the fuck up, Elkins, you wannabe playaaa,” Navas chimes in, kicking a heel back toward Elkins but not even coming close.

  “Shiiiit, I bet I’ve fucked more bitches than you have, old man,” Elkins shouts up through the turret hatch, as if the headset on his head was useless.

  Navas laughs and tilts his body toward Elkins. He shifts a hand down to his crotch and pretends to jerk off. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? That’s some dumbass shit you’re saying, boy. I was a Marine for twelve years, travelin’ around by ship to ports all over the world. You do the fuckin’ math!” Navas shouts, pretending to come all over Elkin’s face before angling back forward.

  I look up through the turret hatch and see Navas smiling down at me. I know him well, and because of that, I know he’s lying his ass off. He's not the fuck-around type. He was married to his high school sweetheart for fifteen years and they had two beautiful children together, a son and a daughter. She died of breast cancer a year ago, just before he joined the Army and came to our unit. He fought with our leadership for a month straight to even get on this deployment. They wanted him to stay back, for his kids’ sake, but he’d have none of it. He said he needed to be with his guys. I respected him for his decision, but I worry about him and his kids nonstop out here. It keeps me awake most nights.

  “You ever been to Thailand, Navas?” I ask, slipping bits of jerky into my mouth while consciously shoving the thoughts deep down. Deep enough to never see the light of day. Until they inevitably do.

  “Yeah, a shitload a times. Why?” Navas questions.

  “You ever fuck a lady boy?” I ask, smiling.

  “What the fuck? A lady boy? Fuck no!” Navas laughs and fakes throwing up into his mic. Do they not hear how loud that shit is? Pull the mic away from your faces, assholes!

  “You know, I’ve heard surgery is so good over there that you can’t even tell a procedure has been done,” I say, causing the radio to sit silent for a moment. Then Elkins and Thomas burst out laughing, and Dixon goes back to playing with the navigation.

  Navas clears his throat and turns his attention back to Elkins. “Elkins, you’re twenty years old. You got a lot more living, and a hell of a lot more fuckin’ to do before you get to my level.”

  “Well … Thomas is a fuckin’ virgin!” Elkins huffs and prods a finger into Thomas’s ear, causing him to jerk his head away.

  “I'm not a virgin, you fucking asshole.” Thomas keeps his attention on the road, his rich, olive-colored eyes watching intently as he guides the Humvee off the dirt path and onto a paved four-lane highway. This particular road is essential for travel and is one we use nearly every day.

  “One girl and a hand job is pretty much a virgin, dude,” Elkins chides.

  "I told you that in confidence, fuck stick. Fuck you! With all the Arkansas trailer trash you've been with, your dick is about ready to fall off anyway. I'll take my one bitch and a hand job any fucking day, bro,” Thomas snaps, shooting a glare toward Elkins through the rearview.

  “Fuck you, dude!” Elkins yells, playfully kicking the back of Thomas’s seat, causing the Humvee to swerve. I backhand him hard on the arm.

  “Hey dumbass, don’t fuck with the driver—” I swallow my next words as an explosion erupts in the distance, so strong it violently rattles our Humvee. Navas instinctually dives from the turret hatch down into the vehicle.

  “Well, fuck,” he says, climbing back onto the turret strap almost as quickly as he came down.

  "What the fuck! Where the fuck was that from?" Thomas asks, slowing the vehicle down a bit.

  "Keep driving, Thomas." I reach for my headset and click the button that communicates between each Humvee. I call up the last one in our convoy. "Gator three Alpha, this is Gator four Bravo, are you guys okay?"

  The radio fizzles a second before Sergeant Adams’ voice breaks through. "Roger. We’re all good. Nothing hit any of us."

  "Roger that. Sounds like it came from our six o'clock. Making a U-turn. Over,” I say, directing Thomas to make the turn. He clutches the steering wheel so hard his skin turns white as he traverses the unpaved median, the easiest place to plant a roadside bomb. I hold my breath. I don’t know why, but I always do.

  "FUCK! You guys see that?" As Navas says this, I see what he’s talking about. An enormous plume of thick black smoke breaches the clouds about a mile down the road, just off the highway. It owns the sky. This is a bad one.

  "What the fuck, man? Must have been a car bomb. No way we would've felt it from that far away otherwise." I take it all in for a second, wondering what exactly we are about to encounter and praying that there are no casualties on our side. Or women. Or children. Fuck, why does anyone have to die?

  I tap Lieutenant Dixon on the shoulder. "Sir, do you want me to call this in to headquarters? See if we can get some support?"

  "Oh, yeah, yeah, I was just about to have you do that," Dixon says through a tight jaw. His sweat now runs freely down the back of his neck. I can hear the fear behind his words and it makes me hate him that much more.

  I call in the blast and ask for another squad to meet us onsite just as we pull up to the carnage. No U.S. casualties that I can see. No women or children either. I’m thankful for that at least.

  The target was an Iraqi police checkpoint. I see a shredded engine block at the bottom of a hole that’s three feet deep and five feet wide. The pit is charred black and contains mangled pieces of what was once a Geo Metro. More parts lie upwards of a hundred yards away, and three police trucks are lying damaged around the pit. The distinct smell of cooked flesh and burnt fuel begins to creep into the vehicle, thick and nauseating, as we come to a stop. I scan the area through the windshield and see some police scattered around the hole with missing arms or legs—or in some cases, both. They writhe on the ground, moaning in agony. They paw at raw stumps or tightly grip limbs hanging by threads of skin.

  Others are just fragments of human beings left adorning the sides of neighboring homes to cake in the afternoon sun. The police who remain untouched are coated black with ash and wandering aimlessly, some howling into the sky.

  Erratic rounds start to come in around us, some kicking up dirt and rocks while others pierce homes and damaged police trucks.

  “Where the fuck is that coming from?” I ask, peering as best I can through the window.

  “Elkins, grab me the binos,” Navas barks down through the hatch. Elkins frantically digs through the trunk compartment using a slot in the back. He locates the binoculars and passes them off quickly. Navas waits for the fire to stall, then takes a long look through the binos as I anxiously wait for word. He slowly lowers himself into the vehicle and sets the binoculars beside him. “Son of a bitch!” The words erupt from his mouth. “Motherfuckers!” He tears the headset from his head and throws it to the Humvee floor. “It’s the other fucking checkpoint. The fuckin’ IPs are firing on us from the other fuckin’ checkpoint, man. God fuckin’ damn it!”

  I look to Dixon whose hands fidget with his headset, his gaze fixated on the navigation and bottom lip clutched nervously between his teeth.

  “Sir, we’ve gotta do something. There are either dumbass motherfuckers at that checkpoint, or we’ve got enemy dressed like IPs,” Navas says to Lieutenant Dixon.

  No response.
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  “Sir, we’ve gotta do something! We’re just sitting ducks here.” I try my hardest to subdue the anger in my voice, but I fail to do so and Dixon picks up on it.

  He whips his head around and locks his nervous eyes onto mine. “What exactly do you expect us to do, Sergeant Clay? Let me think for a goddamn second!” He turns back around and gnaws at his thumbnail. I look out my window and spot one of the policemen who isn’t wounded but dazed and cowering behind a truck. He has a radio clipped to his belt.

  I wait no more.

  “What the fuck are you—?” I quickly swing open my door, hurling myself to the ground and slamming the door shut behind me, effectively cutting off Lieutenant Dixon’s next words. I wait for the gunfire to slow, clutching my helmet to the ground with both hands. Once it finally does, I get up, duck my chin to my chest, and barrel toward the policeman’s location. A few poorly aimed shots crash in around me and my stomach turns with each strike and puff of dirt. It’s as if they’re shooting at us blindly.

  Several excruciating seconds later, I reach the truck and kneel before the frightened policeman. He doesn’t look at me but mutters prayers under his breath and rocks back and forth. His face is pale and eyes are wide. His mouth gapes as he fights for oxygen. I grab him by his shoulders and shake him until he looks at me.

  “Do you speak English?” I shout slowly. He shakes his head from side to side, his eyes still unfocused.

  “FUCK!” I release him and snatch the radio from his belt, clipping it to my own. I leave him there on his knees and run to Sergeant Adams’ truck, which is positioned strategically behind ours. I hear a few more rounds fire behind me and I say a quick prayer of my own: Lord, get me through this day.

  I meet Adams behind his door, sweat running freely down my face and temples throbbing. He stands with his rifle, scanning the road adjacent to us, and lowers it upon my arrival.

  “The fucking gunfire’s coming from the other checkpoint a half mile down the road,” I say between heavy breaths.

  “Not a fucking surprise. Dumb bastards.”