War of the Encyclopaedists

by Christopher Robinson

  Montauk was due for train-up at Fort Lewis on August 30th. He continued working at the record shop, and once or twice in the intervening weeks, he thought he saw Mani on the street, but he told himself he was seeing things. He had not been close with her, but the callousness with which he’d kicked her out that early morning had bitten him like a brown recluse—an ulcer had formed in his chest, and it was slowly turning black and gangrenous.

  He soothed it with constant recreation. He threw a barbecue in Gas Works Park, but Corderoy had to work. He went kayaking on Lake Union, but Corderoy had to renew his driver’s license. He played beer pong, he saw the Mountain Goats at the Crocodile Café, he hiked the ice fields of Mount Rainier, he went paintballing with all eight of his housemates, he closed out the Cha Cha Lounge five nights a week, but Corderoy was in the middle of a book, he was busy reinstalling Windows on his laptop, he had to work.

  The few times they’d spoken on the phone, the absurdist riffing that had cemented their friendship was noticeably willed. A gulf had grown between them, about the length of a hospital gurney: not wide, but not close enough for easy conversation. When Montauk offered to buy Corderoy a beer the night before his flight to Boston, he declined on account of having to pack. Montauk said he’d see him off at the airport, despite Corderoy’s protestations.

  • • •

  Montauk found him in line for the security check and flicked the back of his ear. Corderoy jumped, turned, grimaced, smiled, then settled into an uncomfortable sigh. “I told you not to come,” he said. They were separated by a black nylon belt held taut between stanchions.

  “Shut up.”

  “Okay.”

  “You have a place in Boston yet?”

  “I think so.”

  “Stay away from the Fens, I heard that’s where the hookers hang out.”

  “Yeah? Is that where your mom’s from?”

  Montauk smiled in relief. “No, she just works there.”

  “You know this is backward, right?”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m just going to school. You’re going to war. I should be seeing you off.”

  “That’s what a sweetheart is for. You’re not my sweetheart, dickface.”

  The line moved forward and Corderoy slid his bag with his foot. “I’ll write you—once you get there.”

  “No you won’t,” Montauk said.

  Corderoy exhaled and gazed over at the stainless-steel salmon sculptures that lined Sea-Tac’s main terminal. “I saw you updated our Wiki entry. Fixed a few of your typos.”

  Montauk smiled. “I can neither confirm nor deny any updates to the Encyclopaedists article.”

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. The line moved forward. Corderoy had almost reached the podium. “Hey,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about everything with Mani—”

  “Then stop.” Montauk leaned over the nylon belt, gave Corderoy a bro hug, pushed him back, and said, “Don’t screw up in Boston.”

  “You know I will.”

  “I know, but still.”

  “Oh, hey, take these.” Corderoy pulled a half-empty pack of Camels from his pocket. “I’m trying to quit, start fresh in Boston. You might as well have them.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thanks, too. For coming.”

  “Don’t get all teary on me.”

  Corderoy entered the security check, smiling. Montauk walked back into the humid evening surrounding Sea-Tac Airport and took out a cigarette. He was about to light it, but instead, he threw the pack and his lighter into a trash can and headed to the bus stop. Corderoy wasn’t going to write him; that would be far too serious. But maybe they’d stay in touch if they kept dicking with the Wikipedia entry.

  On the bus ride home, a sense of equanimity penetrated his consciousness, like rainwater seeping into a basement. Some bad shit had gone down, and they’d survived. He felt like he’d reached the end of a movie, when the killer is dead, and the hero is blood-soaked, and the world is right again, at least for now. But when he walked up his steps that evening, while Corderoy was high above the continent, he was greeted by a woman balancing precariously on crutches.

  “Hi,” Mani said. “Been a while.”

  UNION

  4

  * * *

  Something clattered in the bathroom as Montauk reached the second-floor landing holding a towel he’d brought up from the laundry room. Mani had gone in to take a shower after he’d awkwardly helped her ascend the stairs, her arm around his shoulder, their torsos pressed side to side.

  “Everything all right?” he asked through the door.

  “Fine.” The door opened a crack and Mani leaned from behind it to take the towel. She was naked and Montauk could very nearly see her breasts. He leaned forward instinctively. She clutched the towel to her chest. “My crutch just slipped off the wall. Don’t worry about it.” She looked straight at him for a moment, as if to ask him a question, then said “Thanks” and shut the door.

  Montauk walked down the hall to his room. It was a mess. There were piles of clothes on the floor, open dresser drawers, books on the bed, and old beer bottles on the windowsill. Mani’s arrival yesterday evening had made him conscious of how slovenly he’d been living. That and the fact that tomorrow marked the beginning of train-up—a month to get his platoon ready for deployment. Ian had been gracious enough to loan Montauk his Camry for September, which would allow him to live off-base—an officer’s privilege—and commute an hour south each morning, rather than having to live at Fort Lewis with the rest of the platoon. He would report at 0700 Monday through Friday. Or through Saturday. Or Sunday. His commanding officer said he’d try to give them weekends off, but no guarantees.

  Montauk looked at himself in the full-length mirror that leaned against the wall. He was a little pudgy around the midsection. Just the thought of having this beer belly in a combat zone put him on edge. He’d have to be in better shape, if only to instill confidence in his leadership—many of the enlisted men in his platoon were older than he and suspicious of having such a young and untested lieutenant. He shared their suspicions. His father and grandfather had served. But they hadn’t gone to college. When he’d joined the Guard, he’d done so thinking that it would set him apart, that it was a cool and overlooked option, almost retro, like owning a record player or typing his essays on an actual typewriter. He had no innate desire for authority, but during Officer Candidate School, it crystallized for him that he was preparing for a position of leadership, the responsibility of command. He had no idea what kind of leader he’d make, but he knew he’d have to be focused. It didn’t help that Mani was here.

  After the accident, it had taken her a month just to get out of a wheelchair and onto crutches, and when she had shown up at Montauk’s, all she’d wanted was to use his address for a job application. She’d been staying at the Y. Montauk offered her his couch until she could get on her feet—literally—and find a place of her own. She’d agreed, on the condition that he say nothing to Corderoy. She wasn’t seeking restitution; she simply had no other place to go.

  Montauk thought about going for a run, but he was the only one home, and if Mani fell in the shower or something, she might need him. Instead, he tried on his recently issued Desert Camouflage Uniform. It was a blend of pastel green and light tan with reddish-brown splotches. He laced up his tan suede desert boots and donned his field cap. His rank, normally a single gold bar worn on the cap and collar, was dyed brown to fit in to the DCU color scheme.

  Somehow, it lacked the grandeur, the historical seriousness, that he associated with the uniforms of his forebearers. Peter Montauk, Mickey’s great-grandfather, had begun the Montauk family tradition of military service when he volunteered in 1917. After surviving the trenches in France, he’d worked most of his life as a tugboat hand, though like the Montauks before him, trappers and traders of native Montaukett ances
try, he was something of a jack-of-all-trades, having taught his son how to play the fiddle and repair an engine.

  The family had moved to Philadelphia by the time Abe, at the age of eighteen, shipped off to France, just as his father had. Abe took a bullet through the femur in Brest and received a Purple Heart. Young Mickey never cared about the medal, but he was fascinated by the bullet. On visits, his grandpa would take it out of a cedar box, and Mickey would examine the deformed piece of lead as if it were a fine gemstone.

  His father, Oren, had been a navy man who’d served in Vietnam. In 1969, at twenty years old, he was stationed aboard the USS Harnett County, then operating on the Vam Co Dong River. After his deployment, he moved to Portland, Oregon, to work as an engineer at a friend’s industrial equipment company. He met Veronica a year later, and they moved to Seattle in ’75.

  Oren never failed to remind his son that he wouldn’t be where he was today without his time in the service, whether he was teaching Boy Scout Mickey to tie navy knots or helping teenage Mickey fix up his first junker car.

  Montauk felt real reverence for that history, but he didn’t see it in his reflection, or in the splotchy DCU pattern, which was unofficially known as Coffee Stain Camouflage. The uniform felt like a costume.

  “Hello, soldier,” Mani said.

  Montauk turned around. She was standing in the doorway wrapped in a towel, leaning on her crutches, her wet black hair running down the sides of her face like oil. “I thought you didn’t start till tomorrow,” she said.

  “I don’t.”

  “Trying to get into the spirit?”

  “Do I look leaderly?”

  Mani leaned against the doorframe. “Sure.”

  “Sure?”

  “You want me to say I’d follow you into battle?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Your platoon will. They have to.”

  Montauk sat down on his bed.

  “Well, I don’t have to,” she said. “But I’d follow you. If I believed in war and all.”

  “You sound just like—” Montauk caught himself before he said Hal. “You’d follow me, huh? On crutches, in a towel?” He smiled.

  “Hey, I could be useful, distract the enemy.”

  Montauk laughed.

  “My bag is still downstairs,” Mani said. “Could you . . .”

  “Yeah, I’ll get it.” Montauk loped past her in his combat boots, scooped up Mani’s bag from the kitchen, and trudged back up to his room.

  “Could I change in here?” she asked when he handed her the bag.

  “Of course,” Montauk said. And he stood outside his own door while Corderoy’s ex-girlfriend, whom he’d kicked out two months ago, disrobed in his room. She was probably sitting on his bed right now, struggling to slide her panties on. A moment later, the door opened, and Mani emerged dressed in low-cut jeans and a ratty T-shirt, the towel wrapped around her hair. She smiled at him. Even on her crutches, she exuded confidence.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “For?”

  “I know it’s weird, me staying here, and you didn’t have to.”

  “It’s fine. It’s totally cool.”

  “It’s weird,” she said. “Don’t pretend it’s not. And I still think you’re an asshole.”

  “You want some lunch?” Montauk asked. “I’ll help you downstairs.”

  * * *

  Under the command of the president and the secretary of defense, the half a million active duty troops and seven hundred thousand reservists who composed the United States Army were divided into combatant commands led by generals, then into corps, divisions, and brigades, commanded by lieutenant generals, major generals, and colonels. Each brigade had two or more battalions of up to a thousand soldiers, which were divided into companies of a few hundred and platoons of several dozen, each of which was led by a lieutenant—a college-educated graduate of Officer Candidate School, ROTC, or the Military Academy at West Point. Within the 2nd Platoon of Bravo Company, nestled under the command of the 1st Battalion, 161st Infantry, and 81st Brigade, there were thirty-five enlisted soldiers and one officer. Mickey Montauk was that officer.

  The highest-ranking enlisted soldier in Montauk’s platoon was the platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class Arnold Olaufsson, who was Montauk’s right-hand man and disciplinarian; he led the platoon in Montauk’s absence. Under Montauk and Olaufsson were the four squad leaders. Each of them led two fireteams of three or four soldiers each. The average age in the platoon was twenty-four.

  The first two days of train-up had been mostly paperwork and immunizations. Today they would begin actual training. The platoon was in formation out on a large dirt field, being led in PT by Sergeant Olaufsson. Montauk was working out by himself, twenty yards to the rear of the platoon, maintaining a little distance from the enlisted men. His platoon had been formed only six months ago, and at one weekend a month, many of his soldiers were still just faces or names on a roster to him. He finished a set of diamond push-ups and stood, breathing hard. He wiped his forehead with his shirt and watched the platoon finish their V-ups. He hadn’t done any himself.

  Montauk dropped down for a set of mountain climbers as Olaf called the platoon to attention and then dismissed them to shit/shower/shave, draw their rifles from the arms room, and report back by 0930 to bus over to the rifle range. The platoon ambled off, their gaits hobbled and awkward from too many squats and lunges. Montauk hoped they saw him still on the ground, hiking his legs back and forth. When he finished, he saw Olaf crossing the field toward him.

  At six-two, Sergeant First Class Olaufsson towered over Montauk. With his shaved head and mustache, he looked like a Viking blacksmith from the dark ages. He was thirty-two, and he’d fought in the Gulf War as a marine grunt. Montauk and pretty much everyone else in the platoon regarded him as preternaturally authoritative and competent. He saluted Montauk.

  “Morning, sir.”

  “Morning. How’s the PT coming?”

  “Little by little. Thomas lost a few pounds.”

  “Yeah, I saw him puking during the run.”

  “If we do that to him every day, he’ll be combat-ready in a year, sir.”

  “Then we’ll only have to work on his lisp.”

  • • •

  2nd Platoon of Bravo Company was crammed into a repurposed school bus, wearing their DCUs and holding their M4s. There was a shortage of trucks, and this was the only way to get around Fort Lewis, which extended over eighty-six thousand acres and supported close to twenty thousand troops. The rifle range was just over four miles to the southeast. Montauk sat next to Olaf in the front seat, silent. He felt like he was chaperoning a field trip.

  Behind Montauk sat Sergeant Evan Fields, the 3rd Squad alpha team leader, and one of his guys, a dark-haired, vaguely Greek-looking kid who was holding forth at length on why the original Tim Burton Batman movie was superior to all its sequels.

  “Batman doesn’t need to turn his neck,” the Greek kid said. “He’s encased in bulletproof armor.”

  Montauk had a few opinions on the design of the Batsuit (he was fond of the old Adam West version), and nearly chimed in, but it didn’t seem officerly to talk about comic books with his troops.

  “Did you see the trailer for the new one, with Christian Bale?” asked Fields. “That suit looks awesome.”

  “Naw. It’s all black, there’s no yellow bat symbol,” said the Greek kid.

  “Maybe he doesn’t want criminals to see him a mile a-fucking-way,” Fields said. “Why not paint a target on his chest?”

  Fields was one of the few guys in the platoon Montauk had taken the time to learn a thing or two about. He had a business degree from UW Bothell, and before the call-up he was considering taking a job at Washington Mutual and marrying his girlfriend, now officially knocked up. He was generically handsome except for a unibrow, and
he struck Montauk as a solid, all-around good dude, the kind of salt-of-the-earth guy he had stopped hanging out with after high school, when he’d gotten invested in the world of bands, art projects, and ironic one-upsmanship.

  “Exactly,” the Greek kid said. “Think about it. Your suit is bulletproof, but your chin is exposed. That bat symbol is meant to draw fire.”

  “What do you think, LT?” Fields asked.

  Montauk looked over his shoulder—3rd Squad had been bullshitting all day, but somehow every conversation had come back to body armor. How was he supposed to reassure them? “We should all wear bat symbols on our chest plates,” Montauk said, “so Hajji doesn’t shoot us in the face. I’ll tell the general.”

  The Greek kid chuckled.

  “Iraqis can’t shoot,” said Olaf. “Not even the Republican Guard.”

  That was how. Montauk should have been taking notes.

  The bus came to a stop, and the platoon was herded into rows of foxholes overlooking the firing range. Every man in the platoon had to qualify with the M4, including Montauk.

  He hoped he would shoot well. Not that it would matter in the field; they say an LT’s most deadly weapon is his radio. But if he didn’t, the whole platoon would see. He hopped into a foxhole toward the middle. When they were settled in, the range NCO in charge called out: “Lock and load one thirty-round magazine! Switch the selector to semi and watch your lanes!”

  Montauk lay prone in the dirt, his rifle propped on a sandbag, his cheek pressed to the stock, and his finger hooked on the trigger. His ears were muffled by orange foam plugs. He had always excelled at standardized tests, and this was a test like any other. It was important to understand the terms. The mechanism was his M4 Carbine. There were a variety of inevitable outcomes and outcomes he could control.