A birthday like any other, at eighteen he couldn't drink a drop of moonshine in his home state. He didn't care. He didn't drink anyway. His girlfriend did, but she was not the type to go on a bender and strip down in a bar. She was a regular gal.
Most of his friends graduated this year from high school, some going on to college, pledging fraternities and sororities, others going the townie route. All 17 of them had plans, even though the plans diverged that summer for each of them.
It was August 16, 2006 when he joined up. He still was not sure why he joined. He had been accepted at university and a good one at that. Even a small scholarship was there for track and field. He was good at the Olympic sports, the odd ones that no one cared about. The discus, the javelin, the hammer. His nickname was 'The Hammer,' more for his ability to come down on his friends than to toss a too large weight down the field. Always the self righteous one. Always the nag. The army suited him well.
Fifteen of the guys in his basic training didn't make it. Some went nuts, or were nuts, before they arrived, barely functioning nutbirds before the recruiter got them for his quota. The others collapsed in the heat of the swamps or the gun ranges. Some just disappeared without warning. It turned out to be prescient.
Fourteen flights were leaving the day he left, all of them heading east, all of them full of ripe human cargo. Strapped into his seat he dozed into worlds and places that didn't exist or that he had nurtured into existence in his head. Real or not, they raced along in his head, a movie with no coherent sound track, no coherent dialog, no credits. It was all action with no reason.
They arrived in the desert on Friday the 13th, and he laughed about this with his buddies as they crouched into the back of an armored car. Black humor was indistinguishable from the lighter kind, but humor it was none the less. They were young, and so was the day. They were young and life was forever, like the sand.
Twelve hours into the ride the base glowed on the horizon, a small encampment blurring out the stars withs its mercury-vapor green glow. This was his home, his new home, his home until otherwise. This was a small piece of Mayberry in the sand. But no Main Street here.
His tent mates were good fellows. Eleven of them shared the large tent, laying beneath its cool shade in the day, playing cards in its glow in the night, gas lamps roaring like blow torches. They felt safe here, even as the occasional mortar came out of the dark and landed nearby, its loud thump more entertainment that emergency. It was just sound effects to a war.
The next morning blew in hot, hotter than he had ever known. By the time the wake up call sounded, it was 85 degrees. By ten, it was 100 degrees. This was the new life. Hot, or hotter, but never cool. Never free of sand and heat. Never free of the sounds of war in the distance.
Nine of the guys in the tent were from near his town. This was odd. There were no more regiments all from a town. The army didn't want whole towns to lose all their men at once. It was all mix and match and keep things impersonal and anonymous. Don't go to war with a buddy, go with a stranger. Its easier that way. To lose a stranger.
The next morning was the first for the patrol and the bugle blew at eight in the morning to get them going. No one could play the bugle of course, but it was tape recorded, CD recorded and pressed into vinyl. No one was going to sleep in. The army said so.
The trucks headed down the road. The nearest village was only about seven miles away, but the jostling of the trucks and the hardness of helmet and gun was uncomfortable and no one dozed or slept. In the hundred degree heat, the misery was universal. They coughed sand and moaned.
At the edge of the walled village, six of them jumped out, happy to be away from the heat of the truck and blowing sand, better to be on foot and the master of one's own self. No more victim-hood of the truck driver. It was all on their own shoulders now.
Five houses down the street and no one was to be seen, either the heat or the fear of their infidel faces kept the streets empty, the windows shuttered. Alone in a town full of people.
As they crept along for four blocks, the village was silent. Not even the sound of a goat or desert bird. Only the soft crunching of sand and gravel under foot. Only the wind.
Of the whole group, three had done this before. They knew what to expect. They knew what could happen. Each had his own story. But none of the three had shared the stories. The math was all subtractive.
Two of the lead sergeants rounded a corner. He followed them, trusting their experience. They knew better. They held the key to live.
As they crouch-walked along a wall, one shot rang out. It found its target, but he didn't really understand. He didn't really comprehend the red in his hand, the pain in his neck, the blackness of his vision. He didn't have to.
At zero hour, in the cover of darkness, they put his body on the truck, and they left.
"The next morning was the first for the patrol and the bugle blew at eight in the morning to get them going. No one could play the bugle of course"
Read "Jarhead" (& watched the flick) not long ago.
Posted by: Regality | April 19, 2008 at 06:38 PM