

### WAR STORIES

Veterans' Short Stories

Edited by

Sally Drumm and Sally Shore

Presented by

MilSpeak Books

and

The New Short Fiction Series

Smashwords Edition

Published by MilSpeak Books

A Division of MilSpeak Foundation, Inc. (501c3)

http://www.milspeak.org

Copyright 2012 MilSpeak Foundation, Inc.

Copyright to individual stories as single entities remains with each author

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

For permissions, contact milspeakbooks@milspeak.org

Cover Image by Crystal Floyd

Previous Publication list follows Contributor Notes

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the MilSpeak Books storefront and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the writers' and the artist's hard work.

Images and quotes within this book that are excerpted in brief form are used in accordance with fair use interpretation of U.S. Copyright Law and the Digital Millennial Copyright Act. Every attempt has been made to attribute and credit excerpted material correctly. Any errors or omissions should be brought to the attention of the publisher and will be corrected in future editions of the book. This work of fiction represents only each writer's opinions, ideas, and imagination, and not that of any other organization, institution, or person. The U.S. Department of Defense, its subsidiaries and/or adjutants, does not endorse this book, nor does this book in any way represent the views of DOD or of the U.S. Government.

  MilSpeak Foundation, Inc. is a 501c3 nonprofit organization that exists to raise awareness about creative works by military people to a more visible and influential position in American culture. MilSpeak Books is the nonprofit publishing division of MilSpeak Foundation. For more about MilSpeak Books, visit https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/milspeak

**T** **o Military People Who Write and Those Who Work with Them**

Writers' Heaven

A writer died and was given the option of going to heaven or hell.

She decided to check out each place first. As the writer descended into the fiery pits, she saw row upon row of writers chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they were repeatedly whipped with thorny lashes.

"Oh my," said the writer. "Let me see heaven now."

A few moments later, as she ascended into heaven, she saw rows of writers, chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they, too, were whipped with thorny lashes.

"Wait a minute," said the writer. "This is just as bad as hell!"

"Oh no, it's not," replied an unseen voice. "Here, your work gets published."

—SIED

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Ourselves, Not War

Sean Brendan-Brown

The Executor

Thom Brucie

Golden Flower

Caleb S. Cage

So Much Death In a Small Place

Michael B. Christy

Homecoming

Debra Anne Cook

Scandal in Falonstown

Patrick Cook

Harry On the Back Docks

Gentle Culpepper

Joe and the Carousel

Neville F. Dastoor

Betrayal

Dale Day

Tent City

Sally Drumm

Battle of Fort Bowyer, Remix

Excerpted from the novel Cherokee American

C. David Ellard

Tactical Pants

Jeffrey Armadillo Mother Forker

We Got 'Em All Across The Region, Too

by Eric Forrester

Flashback Morning

Robert Fuller

RX in Effect

Nathan Douglas Hansen

Ghost

Danny Johnson

Of Vanishing Tanks, Mustaches, and Other Dematerializations

John M. Koelsch

Final Leg

By Mike J. Krentz

Stratego

Michael Lund

A Shaking Empty Place

Vinnie Lyman

The Olfactory Sense

William Masters

Waking up in Sicily

Keith Onstad

A Woman in the Boss Man's Yard

Thomas Patchell

Once a Marine, Always a Marine

Dick Reynolds

The Duke's Black Bag

Tom Sheehan

The Dying Time

F.P. Siedentopf

Box of Light

Warren Slesinger

Art by Robert D. Wilson

Bridge

Dream

Deep Water

PTSD Is Real

Warrior

Shadowland

Girl

Blue Moon

Contributor Notes

Previous Publication

About The New Short Fiction Series

About MilSpeak Books

About Sied Books

Bridge – Robert D. Wilson

OURSELVES, NOT WAR

Sean Brendan-Brown

The Pine Lake (neither pines nor lakes within twenty miles) Veterans Administration Medical Center's (VAMC) Mental Health Center's (MHC) first floor hall reeked of Pine-Sol and the crematorium odor of rancid brisket grease; corned beef & cabbage had been offered for supper and its scent ("Compost," said TestTube. "Farts," said RoboVoice, though he could no longer smell, the debridement of his pharynx and larynx having partially collapsed the bony structures of his face, giving him a reptilian appearance) burdened the air. Following outbreaks of methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (MRSA), necrotizing fasciitis (flesh-eating bacteria), and Hepatitis C (HCV), HQ ordered all throughways bleached twice daily, causing the MHC's (the oldest pile in the complex) linoleum tiles to curl at the edges like antique barn shingles. In many spaces mismatched squares had been epoxied back, the overflow permanently hardened into snottish clots.

TestTube (Enlisted: Korea, 51-53; Nam 65-68: MOH, Silver, Bronze Stars, Purple Heart) and RoboVoice (Officer: Nam 68-70; 71-72: Navy Cross, Silver, Bronze Stars w/oak leaf clusters, Purple Heart) always met After Dinner— the time between six and seven-thirty when, statistically, the least amount of people die in hospitals. The elevators to 9W, "Psychiatric Stay," had been secured; the two friends from open wards, orthopedic and oncology (Bones-5W, Cancer-7E) grumbled about not being able to ping pong and warstory with the vets committed there. "Harmless babies anyway, shot up with so much shit," RoboVoice said. "Haldol, Cogentin, Hydroxyzine, Risperidone, Nefazodone, Aripiprazole, Divalproex, and Stellazine: it's not us they'd kill if they could anyway."

TestTube snorted. "Maybe. Don't care for the Desert Stormers, all that whining about the sand niggers they bulldozed— what the hell they think they went for, hummus and falafel? The bellydancing? The new rules are for the convenience of the staff is all. Ping Pong helps me sleep, praise God." RoboVoice snapped his fingers. "I lose my mind just shoot me. Pow!" TestTube stopped, stared at his blue foam slippers.

"Sorry. I keep forgetting." RoboVoice wasn't sorry for anything but didn't want to listen to the fogy's Confession or endure another "sign of the cross" ritual. RoboVoice, atheist, didn't get crossing or genuflection; when someone mentioned Jesus Christ as Personal Savior he responded any asshole believes a man can return from the dead never was no combat Marine, that's for goddamn sure.

TestTube dropped to his left knee, licked right index finger and traced a spit crucifix on the floor. "Not your fault." He stood and crossed himself: forehead father, son heart, right shoulder holy, left shoulder ghost. "Jesus Christ shed his blood for me and all worthless sinners. I still see it plain as day. I walked in on them; every detail burnt into my eyes and brain and just held there tick-tock: sweat dripping from her breasts, he sucking her left nipple, her left shoulder smeared white with Noxzema; she'd burnt terribly that Sunday on the houseboat though I warned her to keep her top on. He touched her everywhere, lifted the sweat from her with his thumbs and sucked it the way you take salt before tequila. His own sweat spun onto the sheets, like shaking turpentine off a paintbrush; I still see it all. Good blue percale sheets, we bought them at Sears. He had a hairy back. That surprised me. Angela used to joke how repulsive she thought hairy men, like baboons, but there she was working him, bucking up into him, smack-smack-mushy-mish I could hear their private areas colliding and she groaning god almighty David fuck me David. I'm not angry anymore— Christ cleansed me so when I think of Angela now I think of beauty, a thrush in the morning after rain when the only illumination is distant sheet lightning: that was from one of her poems. I never read them when she was alive I read them now. She saw me before he could. He never saw me. I'm boring you ain't I?"

"You never bore me," RoboVoice lied, but in fact this current version of The Confession delighted him; he began to tell TestTube that describing his dead wife's sweaty breasts, colliding private parts, creamed shoulder, bucking and yelling "fuck" really livened up the story. Instead he said, "You had every right to shoot them."

"No. So long ago, I'm not the same man."

"The courts thought so, too. Forgive and forget." RoboVoice lowered his Servox electrolarynx, a device resembling a pager, from the side of his neck.

TestTube was called so because the VAMC's Agent Orange Registry physicians and technicians had performed every known test and procedure, and several they invented in situ yet his guts festered: right kidney, left lung, twenty inches of colon and a cubic foot of malignant skin from his chest, neck and back had been removed. In 1980 he'd been paroled from Leakesville, a Mississippi state prison, his fifth year of slow death of a ten-year sentence, and now the cancer was in his bones. He nodded. "I've forgiven them because I'm forgiven in turn. You run things through your mind a million times a million different angles and still something dark behind pulls your strings; your thoughts aren't your own. I don't mean that crap we discuss in group about ourselves in war; I mean Hell. You think about Hell, don't you?"

"I think I've made it clear to you I think religious fanatics are deluded assholes hiding from life, and that love is the rarest goddamn element on earth and when some asshole says he loves me or Jesus loves me I want to break his face."

TestTube stopped, not realizing he was being teased. "I'm an asshole too?" He blinked, tiny points of light sparkling through the drug-dulled hazel. RoboVoice began to say yes you dweeby cheese-smelling codger. Instead he said, "I take it from you, the Jesus bullshit, because you got the Medal of Honor, because you did three tours in two wars, because you volunteered for Nam, because you rotated home and executed two people for adultery but still have the balls to lecture me about love and redemption. That's why I take it from you." His flat mechanical monotone echoed through the hallway. Laryngeal carcinoma (thirty years of filterless Camels); the laryngectomy left him voiceless, a stoma buttholed (his description) the florid skirt of his throat. "Come on, I'll buy you a Coke," said RoboVoice.

"Diet, of course," TestTube agreed. "And Cheetos."

In the fluorescent stillness of the hall seven-thirty became eight; the last visitor, a young black woman dressed in the nurse's whites of another hospital, kissed Jarak, a VA security sergeant. Jarak, a side of beef draped in blue polyester, leaned over the Formica counter. "Ah baby I love you drive safe now see ya soon. Yamba, behave now, listen to mama."

TestTube and RoboVoice watched the attractive RN exit the automatic glass doors, an open Winchell's box held low until the boy with her chose a maple bar. "Damn Jarak you got a fine ole lady," RoboVoice said, and Jarak laughed. "How you boys tonight?"

"That your kid? Good lookin kid," said TestTube, and Jarak nodded "uh-huh." He let them into the staff lounge to buy snacks then secured all entrances except the white batwings separating ambulance bay from Primary Care. Jarak hung his size 42 glossy leather belt, loaded with flashlight, Leatherman Wave, radio, pepper-spray, and bit the first of three Arby's Big Montanas. Horsy Sauce dripped down his chin, his neck muscles bulged, keys jangled; he finished the sandwich in three bites, washing the entrée down with 2 creams, 3 sugars coffee.

The "boys" moved out of sight; elevators whirred, telephones rang, from a distant corridor came an industrial mop-bucket's thumpa-squee! RoboVoice and TestTube finished their nightly round by stopping to pester MopMan. "Hey hey, Bobbie." TestTube offered his hand, high-five.

Robert balanced the mop handle against the wall, mouth agape as he formed "Huh. Hi," and gently smacked the cadaverous palm. "MopMan, my man!" RoboVoice's esophageal voice brayed; he was Pine Lake's sole laryngectomy patient (of seven) who could speak well esophageally: by swallowing air into his esophagus and flexing his sternocleidomastoid muscles six reasonably ungarbled words could be ejected. But he spit doing it, fingers crammed under the hole, a wolf-whistle. Robert didn't think it looked or sounded very nice, preferring the electronic speech. "Whu?" he asked, not understanding the continued spew of grunts. RoboVoice pressed the pseudo-larynx and repeated, "How'd your date go with Michelle?"

Robert's mouth gaped wider. His brain flashed she's fabulous; we drank two of a half-case of '92 Madison cabernet, watching the slack tide at Kalaloch rise to a killer surf, lights from Quinalt Island obscured in fog, the stink of dog fennel mixed with brine smelling, weirdly, like watermelon and gasoline, then Michelle said her grandma took quince jelly for cancer and defiance for everything else, a cool brand of homeopathy, she said, then we kissed. They waited.

"Fuh. Fine. She. Muh. Movie. We. Guh. Good time."

RoboVoice snapped his fingers. "I knew you two would hit it off. Didn't I tell you they were perfect?"

"So you did," TestTube agreed. "Bobbie and Michelle. Nice ring to it."

"MopMan and BookWorm," RoboVoice laughed. "Even better ring."

Michelle Frost worked as librarian for Volunteer Services, third floor (Freebies-3W), stocking the rolling carrels and waiting room racks with paperbacks, magazines and newspapers noon to three Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Michelle's husband Frank, a pilot, died; she married at 17, widowed at 22. The government listed him MIA 1971; in 1974 a new Major (she could tell because she'd dealt with so many Field Grade officers— old Majors sported patinaed bronze oak leaves just as Lite Colonels decaying-in-grade let their silver oaks blacken knowing they'd never make Fullbird) with a raw shaved face and Jim Beam-Colgate breath told her Frank ejected over Cambodia and died two months later of dysentery and untreated fractures in a bamboo cage in Cham. He didn't have to tell her a goddamned thing, he said, but had known and liked Frank so just sign the papers and get a check for life. She signed his briefcase of papers, then the Major with Brasso'd oak leaves asked for a drink, and when she brought him Frank's dusty Bushmills he tried to kiss her. That's what she remembered about losing her husband: the coppery stink of ink, an eggy breath toothpasted & boozy; the shine of brass and rustle of paper, the misdirected lust.

Michelle moved the library from floor to floor in three-tiered gray metal carts. She was in charge of exactly one thousand two hundred sixty-two books and periodicals, of which at any time approximately one hundred thirty were shelved in alphabetical order on an individual cart: first tier nonfiction, second tier romance, bottom tier westerns. The job infrequently presented some challenge, such as where to shelve classics, the G or W of an encyclopedia set, or textbooks; most often, she carried these "special" books home. RoboVoice, being a college graduate (BS Geology, Missouri U 66) helped Michelle sort through the cartons of newly donated books and when she'd asked, teasing, where he'd place Past And Present, Demian, and Shibumi, he'd mulled it over then stuck Carlyle in nonfiction, Hesse in romance, Trevanian in westerns.

RoboVoice fancied Michelle himself but that was impossible and he had enough dignity to not even try, turning his passion instead to brotherly matchmaker, but when much-younger Robert (Enlisted Reserve: Desert Shield/Desert Storm 90-91: Bronze Star, Purple Heart, Medical Retirement, VA 70% Service-Connected Disability) and much-older Michelle continued to ignore each other he'd become so insufferable that finally a date was made.

"Gonna take her out again, Bobbie?" TestTube asked.

"Muh. Maybe. Yuh. Yes."

"That's the spirit." RoboVoice winked, his lizard's mug so frighteningly close that Robert backed away. "How bout a Coke? We'll bring you a Coke. Want some Fritos and Coke?"

"Nuh. Juh. Jarak. Duh. Don't. Buh. Bother him." He hefted his dented green Stanley Thermos, half full of coffee. "Uh. I'm. Fuh. Fine." Every time he moved, he sold or gave or threw away everything; he kept the Thermos because he'd enjoyed working the derrick in Flatonia, Texas. Lassoing the pipe with his good hand, punching it into place in the rack with his stumped one— "Damnedest thing I ever seen" his driller bragged. Robert at peace, a new start at last he thought, just him and God, then the blowout: he'd "shined the cable" down to earth from his monkeyboard as the fireball killed everyone else on the platform. No complaints until ranchers slung coyote corpses over barbwire: coyotes murdered by set-guns firing cyanide pellets when the trap baits were bitten into. Cowardly ambush: he'd said so in a bar in Vernon, hammering the someone who jumped him, who threatened to kill him later but wouldn't press charges. Then he'd spoke up for coyotes in a Wichita Falls dive and hurt three more men. After posting Robert's bail the driller said, "You're a good man, Bobby, one of the best I ever hired, but crazy as a shithouse rat." Then the blowout and dead, these first real friends – even his army buddies weren't true friends, he was an outsider, a loner, allergic to whores, they all said, christ he likes gospel, turn that shit down – at thirty he finally had real friends, all dead.

Bobbie shook his mop. A shiny penny, green TicTac and boomerang-shaped roach leg appeared in the fallout.

"Now you got a woman, you better think about your future," RoboVoice needled. "They should promote you, you been here three years. I'll talk to Jack and see about getting you down to Physical Plant, okay?"

TestTube, caught staring at the pink mass of Bobbie's right hand, grinned and winked. Robert nodded. His brain flashed I need solitude, empty cool spaces, quiet. I'd go crazy with your imbecile friend Jack spitting mint snuff-drool into a Styrofoam cup: his Adult Pleasure Palace porno cards, his farts, fart jokes, racism, misogyny, misanthropy, homophobia. He opened his mouth wide, tongue purple and momentarily useless.

They waited.

"Yuh. You. Fuh. Find. Bluh. Bliss."

RoboVoice and TestTube laughed, puzzled. "All right, MopMan. Be cool." They moved on, TestTube mimicking Robert's stuttered F: "I thought he was going to tell you to fuh-fuck off; would serve you right." He wiggled his big toe through a tear in the blue foam slipper and RoboVoice prodded the protruding toe with his own foot, hoping to cause pain. "Replace those damn slippers. Just ask they'll toss you a new pack. The floor's got God knows what germs."

TestTube stared at his toes. "The only dirt concerns me is the dirt eternal. Christ blessed a prostitute for wiping his feet, the point being that dirt inside is far worse than dirt outside." RoboVoice began to ask whether or not Jesus enjoyed having his feet rubbed with whore's hair, and how often he had it done, but the meanness became fatigue. "I'd sell my soul to smell chocolate or beef stew or fresh mown grass." The friends bid each other good night and stood at separate elevators, as they always did, to return to their wards. Jarak once asked them why they didn't ride together, RoboVoice getting off at 5 then TestTube at 7, but the vets smiled as if he didn't get it.

RoboVoice's elevator dropped first. "Ben," he said. "Night, Allen," TestTube replied, entering his elevator immediately after; Robert pushed his cart ahead and watched the two men disappear. His brain flashed truth comes tricky down from mountaintops; carbon cools the interstellar medium, altering its subsequent chemical evolution — that is man, that is all he is, the cooling of carbon. He stopped, drank from the green Thermos, switched the cassette in his Walkman from Tchaikovsky's Dumka to Beethoven's Pathétique. Mass-produced classical music was a good thing, though eventually the tapes crackled and hissed from constant play and were replaced with offerings from the $3.99 bin at Music Mart. MopMan entered the men's toilet, slipped on elbow-length yellow rubber gloves; the fingers of the right-hand glove were tied into a knot. He slopped Pine-Sol diluted with water over the floor and urinals, mopped the powerful milk into the main drain then Windexed the mirrors and stainless steel fixtures. Robert peeled the gloves, sighing as sweat evaporated from his hands. He turned into his reflection in a mirror, smoothed his mustache, scowled at the keloid looping from his temple down-cheek to cross his throat. He pulled thick blond hair down his scar then wet his fingers and straight-backed it the way his father had: a man's hair don't hang in his face, boy.

"Hello Robert." Michelle touched him and he jumped, stripped off the headphones. "I brought some cookies. I couldn't sleep and I'm sick of TV. You like oatmeal raisin?"

He nodded. He pointed. "Uh. The. Muh. Mirror. I. Duh. Don't."

"Why shouldn't you look at yourself? I like your face." She took a bite then placed the remainder of cookie – sweet, gritty, slightly greasy – into his mouth. He ate, watching her thin-lipped mouth move as she ate. She talked so easily, with so clear a voice; they all did, even RoboVoice: cancer took his voicebox yet his thoughts exit the Servox lucid and sane: there are curses, Robert thought, superstitions based on coincidence, and then there is the disability of guilt. He swallowed, thanked Michelle— the cookie was strong cinnamon and he liked the taste.

"I love looking at you, and thinking about you," she said. "When I'm alone, I play a game with the mirror; every morning after my shower I put my contacts in and makeup on and say Michelle Frost, this is the best you can do today, be satisfied because if you're not you'll screw up everything and everyone's gonna absorb your unhappiness so pretend, if you have to. Sometimes, Robert, I draw the face I want on the mirror; sounds crazy but sometimes I lipstick the perfect red mouth I want right on the glass then grease-pencil the perfect almond-shaped eyes then I turn away and wear that face into the world." She fed him another cookie. He refused a third but held her hand then she brushed crumbs from his lips and kissed him. "Know what else I do, sometimes? No actually a lot, lately a lot, Robert." He shook his head.

"I pray," said Michelle. "Not exactly to God, or in the church way, hands clasped, words rising to heaven—

"I pray to the world. Is that crazy? I stand at night on the porch and pray that there is some force on earth that can make men someday learn to love." She kissed him again and he put his arms around her. His brain flashed ourselves, not war, is the problem: we start ourselves and all good or evil follows. Robert opened his mouth, Michelle waited. He sprayed words like bullets, not trying to control the stutter; he didn't know if she understood. Sweat poured down his neck; Michelle seemed pleased by his response— she pressed her lips to the back of his right hand, onto the scar which zigzagged down his forearm to dead-end in the stump where the denuded little finger protruded. "We need each other, don't we, Robert? I miss Frank. I've been so alone so long, so angry he wasn't coming back and why he wasn't coming back—

"—dead in a ratty mud hole. I wanted to die too, with my husband in the stink and flames, cursing back the angry babble of enemy: die with him, my body more memorable than confusion and pain. Nothing ever changes, Robert, until we love again. Let me show you."

Michelle pushed the cart of brooms, mops, rags, disinfectant and polishes aside and positioned Robert before a mirror. She licked her finger, reached around his lean frame and traced his reflection in the mirror, the moisture of her fingertip barely perceptible. "My magic pen," she laughed as she drew. "As did God in Eden, I fashion the man I want from spittle and clay." Robert bit his lips, his tongue pushed, strained— a dead and stupidly inert prosthesis. "You're with me, now," Michelle said. "I love you. I don't care how you speak. I pray I don't grow old alone, that I can be of use to someone else, that love and caring still matters. I remember every detail of our date, when I tripped you caught me, how warm and strong you were, how your sweater smelled of soap and after-shave. I wanted my sheets to smell of you. I don't care how you talk. I want you."

She stroked his chest, encouraged by the greatness in his brow. He trembled. She waited. He opened his mouth, lips stretched white, then gave up, gave in. She waited. He drew breath, shuddered. She pressed her fingers into the bony sternum guarding his heart, coaxing up sound. He closed his mouth and eyes and tried again. "Luh. Love. I love. I love you!" Robert opened his eyes and Michelle, crying, seemed very old yet very beautiful: both broken people with satchel-charge memories, he knew, but also two human beings awaking after a maddening hiatus; a night so pure the love of God seemed real, flowing from the battered painting of Jerome, the saint with kindly eyes. They slow danced, neither leading, Robert counting "one-two, three-four": words softer, less guttural, stutter slight, little hesitation, and that was enough for one day; his brain flashed a fool I've been, thinking all is flux, big talk, lotsa pray, fall down dead.

THE EXECUTOR

Thom Brucie

By the time we were seniors in high school, the Vietnam conflict had percolated itself into a sizable gathering, and Robbie and Kathleen got married. Robbie and I signed up on the buddy system, and we did basic and AIT together. Most everybody went in the service, except our friend Norval Smith. Norval was an okay guy, don't get me wrong, but with a name like Norval, we just knew he'd end up a lawyer. So nobody cared when he went to Penn State while we went to Fort Dix.

Robbie and I finished AIT, and as permanent duty, I went to Da Nang, assigned to the First Cavalry; Robbie went to Georgia with Kathleen. Robbie got this pansy job baby-sitting a bunch of ROTC cadets. About every 90 days, for six weeks, he'd help teach them how to be artillery captains. What did he do between camps? Hung out on the beach. He'd write me letters, and he always wrote, "Keep your ass down, GI," like it was our own personal joke or something. Loads of laughs, Robbie was.

I was base-camped near the DMZ in late March: monsoons, mosquitoes, salty food, and warm beer. Good grass, though, and plenty of it, but that didn't compete with Robbie and his stateside beach duty. I wrote him a letter saying gung-ho stuff like "Real men volunteer." I told him about this girl who took on the survivors of two platoons just after a firefight. She probably made enough money to feed her family for a year, but she couldn't walk, and her mama-san came with the old village buffalo to carry her home.

I feel bad about that letter now because Robbie never read it. He was in the hospital at Fort Sam Houston in Texas. Kathleen read it to him. That letter continues to embarrass me; the subject of prostitutes just didn't sit well with Kathleen.

I learned the details of Robbie's accident after I got home. Even now the irony of it seems peculiar.

As I said, it was near the end of March. Robbie had a new group of wimpy wonders at Fort Benning. Robbie's Battalion CO, Lieutenant Colonel Mangino, was a typical lifer. The moment the lieutenant colonel found out there were VIP's on base, he ran to the commander and suggested a big show, allowing the new ROTC cadets to shoot some artillery rounds for the VIP's, two generals and a Congressman from Oklahoma. The base commander agreed.

It was set up for early evening because the smoke and the flash of the guns took on more of an ethereal hue in the twilight. No small detail went unattended by Lieutenant Colonel Mangino. It was a common exercise, and it should have gone without a hitch. Simple triangulation shot. Triangulation is how the gunners find a target. They know the location of the gun. That's one point. A point-man goes off a couple hundred meters to establish the second point. Then, using that old high school geometry stuff, they formulate some kind of scalene triangle and shoot the longest line to the third point, the target.

The evening settled in with the spring energy of dogwood blooms and magnolia blossoms. Robbie radioed his coordinates to the rookie ROTC's and waited for them to take a couple of shots at a tank 450 meters north and east. Unfortunately, the cadets were too new to be triangulating with a real Howitzer. Instead of coordinating the target tank, they targeted Robbie's bunker and lobbed a 108 right into the sand bags. The impact flung Robbie about the distance of four duce-and-a-half's laid bumper to bumper. It shattered most of his arteries and collapsed some veins, and it contributed a generous concussion that split the skull from just above his left eye to his ear. He didn't win a medal, though. Even though it was wartime, he was believed to be in a safe zone.

It was the reverberations and not the blast, which did the damage, so Robbie's body was intact when they reached him. Internally, he was shattered, and, I will say this, when the doctors realized the extent of his problems, they signed off immediately and flew him to Fort Sam.

Fort Sam's a training hospital, so the Army wanted to perform some experiments on Robbie. New technologies, they said, and Kathleen gave them permission. They riveted a metal plate to his head where the skull had separated; they placed a small, nuclear-powered impulsor next to his heart to help it beat rhythmically; and they replaced the arteries around his heart with silicone tubing. To most everyone's amazement, he survived.

Of course, there were intermittent problems. His human parts only worked when the pump and the tubes worked, and occasionally they stopped; without reason or explanation they'd suddenly start again. Robbie became an interesting living experiment.

Kathleen went to Texas with him. She stayed by his bed six or seven hours every day, and read storybooks to him. After awhile, the nurses let her give Robbie his sponge baths. That's when they discovered his dick still worked.

* * * *

It was not a surprise that Kathleen stayed by Robbie during this entire incident. Their particular love arrangement formed when we were children. Kathleen was one of those rare red-haired girls with a child's face and a woman's eyes. There is no short way to explain Kathleen. Most of the thoughts I have about her don't have an anchor in time— she just always seemed a bit remarkable to me, and in a quiet sort of way, beautiful. Kathleen possessed Irish green eyes that she kept faithfully focused on Robbie. They were a pair, though, Kathleen as lithe and supple as a lynx, Robbie as short as a possum and just as tenacious.

When we were in sixth grade, Robbie and Norval and I stood in the shade under the maple tree in the corner of the school playground. The weather was pleasant, a bright sun and a few puffy clouds in a blue sky.

"I found a way to make sure I'm not late for school any more," Robbie said.

"Did you learn to fly over the trains?" Norval asked him.

We all laughed at this because Robbie lived on the eastern side of the railroad tracks. Sometimes he got stranded by the 7:20 train. That morning train took so long to pass through town that Robbie would be eighteen or twenty-two minutes late for school, depending on whether he walked or ran from the tracks.

Kathleen walked out of the sunshine to join us in the shade. A red cotton ribbon held her hair in a ponytail, and she carried a small brown bag with her lunch in it.

"How do you get by the trains?" Kathleen asked Robbie.

We were eleven years old; not quite old enough to figure out girls, and not quite young enough to keep on ignoring them.

Robbie looked at the three of us; then he said to Kathleen, "I roll under them."

About that time the bell rang; time to stand in line for class. As we stood there, Norval said, "Prove it."

"At lunch," Robbie said.

Kathleen whispered loud enough for all of us to hear, "I'm coming." Sister Mary Gregory headed our way and there was no more time for discussion.

That's how it started.

Back then, you know, there weren't fences around schools, so taking off was easy. Of course not many people took off because eventually you had to face Sister Mary Gregory, and she held vastly more control over a child's behavior than a fence ever could. But we took off and said the hell with Sister Mary G-man, sounding to ourselves like we had just crossed the threshold of adolescence instead of the school property line.

We ran to the rail crossing at Center Street. Every day, at noon, the old Erie and Lackawanna rumbled through town at maybe seven or eight miles an hour, its cars full of shiny Pennsylvania coal for the glass factory. At the crossing, we watched the train coming from the south. Robbie ran across the tracks.

"Come over to this side," he called.

"Why?" Norval asked for all of us.

"We'll all roll under the train and get back to school before lunch is over."

Norval and Kathleen and I hesitated. The noon sun made the coal chips glisten, and the pounding of the steel wheels against the tracks began to get loud. The engineer pulled the air chain, and the steam whistle blew. Whooommmm . . . Whooommmm . . . A warning.

Kathleen moved first. She stepped over the rail, and I watched her feet along the tie, black with creosote and marred from random flying pieces of the granite bed. She jumped the rail on the other side with both feet at once and landed next to Robbie like a bull rider who jumps off and lands on his feet, knees bent. The train rushed closer. The whistle sounded again, and before the warning finished, the long, high-pitched lunch whistle at the factory sounded. The pounding of the locomotive against the rails added rumbles to the whistles like fingers of hammers on a steel drum. Finally, from fear as much as from pride, Norval and I jumped across the rails just as the lunch whistle stopped and the locomotive rumbled by and the engineer hollered at us for being unsafe and he hung his head out the window with his elbow on the ledge and told us, "Stay back."

Robbie smiled. He was about the size of a schnauzer shorter than Norval and me, but he stood there like a leader. "Way to go," he said. I admit I felt pretty cocky, thinking maybe Superman couldn't have done what I just did.

The train's rhythm was insistent. Bump. . .bum-bum. . .Bump. . .bum-bum. Every time a set of wheels passed us, we watched the ties pop up and down, and the big spikes tightened and slackened one quick rattle at a time. Bump. . .bum-bum. . .Bump. . .bum-bum.

"Here's how it's done," Robbie said. "I get down close to the tracks. When the first wheel gets to my face, I count to three. It usually takes three counts for the back wheel to go by. I do that with two or three cars to make sure I've got the rhythm. When I'm sure I have it, I go with the next set of wheels. I count one. On two, I roll— off my shoulder around onto my stomach. Then I crawl over to the other rail. I do the same thing. Count. Get the rhythm, and roll out. By the way, when you're underneath, keep your ass down. Sometimes there are wires and pieces of chain hanging from the frame."

He looked at us. Our faces must have had that dense, mathematical look we got every time Sister Mary Gregory said division. He said, "Watch. I'll show you."

The rumble and pulse of the train persisted, and the noise of the wheels against the tracks resembled loud, rusty screeches. The backdraft between cars was mild, but gritty as sandpaper. Frankly, the whole idea scared the piss out of me.

Robbie knelt down and put his palms against an oily tie. He listened and counted. One. . . two. . .three. . . The back wheels passed. He waited for the next set. One. . .two. . .three. As the next set began, his legs tensed, as the count of one left my head his body rolled under that enormous moving mountain, and he disappeared. We knelt down to peer between the wheels. He lay in the center, the tipends of his fingers pressed against a tie, his eyes squinted against the claustrophobic echo of the rolling steel. We watched him ease sideways. After the fifth car passed, he rolled out the other side, onto his stomach, onto the sidewalk. He lifted his head to watch us watching him.

Norval shook his head. "I don't believe it," he said.

Kathleen asked me, "Sal, are you next?"

I looked up at the passing cars, bouncing, rumbling, and the white letters of Erie and Lackawanna gray from the coal dust. The train was a long one, longer than the 7:20.

"No," I said.

She didn't ask Norval. She just knelt down next to the track, like at confession. The wind from the passing cars caused her ponytail to jump. She bent forward onto her hands, and without waiting for three cars to pass, she caught the cadence of the next set of wheels and rolled under the train and when two more cars passed, she rolled to the other side with Robbie.

Robbie and Kathleen waved good-bye to Norval and me. They walked back to school. Norval and I waited for the train to pass, and then we walked to Sister Mary Gregory's office.

* * * *

Robbie looked pretty good by the time he and Kathleen returned home from Fort Sam. Of course, he had collected a few idiosyncrasies. First thing you noticed right away was his unusual speech pattern. He had developed a weakness for the s-sound. When he said Kathleen, he pronounced it Kassoleeen. He also developed a near insatiable craving for 7-UP. It was a clear substance, he argued, and therefore it answered the doctor's criteria for drinking clear liquids. When he requested a 7-UP, he arranged so many s's at the entrance that he sounded like a balloon letting the air out of itself; and his v's sounded like f's. So 7-UP sounded like ssssefen-up. Of course, he took a shocking number of colorful pills which Kathleen sorted by size and which she kept on the left side of the fireplace mantle. Pills for thin blood, and pills to fool his body into accepting all the foreign materials inside him which kept him alive, and naturally pills to mend the side affects, and pills which quieted the side affects of those pills.

Robbie moved and talked real slow. It took him about fifteen minutes to work up to "Hello," and about an hour to wind up for a full fledged conversation. And it was like that for sex too.

Sex was about a three-day affair at the hospital— two days for travel and preparations, and a third day for recovery. The doctors tolerated its engagement only once a month. They suggested once every two months, but that suggestion attracted little sympathy.

They scheduled it for weekends. On the first Friday of every month, Robbie and Kathleen drove north to the VA Hospital in Syracuse to have sex. Friday evening, the nurses set two IV's in Robbie's arm; one dripped high potency vitamins to help him recover, while the other fed him a delicious mixture of drugs which calmed him and made him sleep. He slept all night and most of the Saturday morning in order to build up strength. At exactly two o'clock Kathleen and Robbie were left alone in the room. They had one hour. At exactly three o'clock, the doctor and nurses rushed into the room. They re-inserted the IV's. They monitored his heart, oxygen, blood pressure, blood flow, and, I suppose other pieces of information that were important to their experiments. They tested, watched, and charted Robbie back to a safe zone. Then he slept again.

Sometime between seven and eight at night, Robbie and Kathleen shared a meal. After that, they let Kathleen sleep with Robbie, but he was drugged and wired, so her snuggles and afterplay were limited to one-sided contact. On Sunday afternoon they drove home.

Now you might guess that this arrangement aroused slightly disparate sexual expectations than, say for instance, champagne and vanilla-scented candles. And you'd be right. Since it was either that or nothing, Robbie and Kathleen took it. They did alter the routine once when they decided to do something special for Kathleen's birthday. On that day, Kathleen crawled off the bed three and a half minutes early. She walked to the door. She smiled at Robbie, and opened the door. Then she ran, naked, into the hall swinging her arms up and down, letting her hands flap like a traffic cop with double jointed wrists.

"Quick," she called.

The nurses and the doctor ran to her. They rushed her into the room.

"What is it?" the doctor demanded.

Kathleen smiled. "We're finished," she told him.

The doctor raised his stethoscope and flicked the end so that the rubber flipped the tip toward the door. With that, a nurse placed a robe across Kathleen's back and escorted her out of the room.

* * * *

It was going on toward two years since Robbie had exploded. I received a call from Norval Smith. He invited me to his office that Saturday morning. I arrived about 10:00. Norval and Robbie were waiting. Norval explained that Robbie had made a will, and he wanted me to be executor. It was an easy job, but an important one. I had to make sure the terms of the will were met. It was a simple will, they said. Robbie left everything to Kathleen.

"So why do you need me?" I asked.

"It's a formality, really," Norval explained. "But we're doing this exactly by the book. Robbie doesn't want to take any chances it might be contested."

Norval had checked with the state insurance commissioner and with the VA attorneys.

Robbie had received in the mail an invitation to buy life insurance. Naturally, since his accident, no insurance company that intended to remain profitable would touch him. The mail offer was a nice surprise. It turned out to be one of those occasional military-industrial SNAFU's. The Army sold its list of disabled vets to a Virginia insurance company with the stipulation that no one could be turned down for pre-existing conditions that were a result of military service. Of course, it was decreasing term coverage, and unfairly expensive. That was the strategy: for a lot of money a vet could buy a policy that from year to year was worth less and less. Eventually, most people figured this out and canceled; exactly what the insurance company wanted. Norval said it was legitimate, and it fit into Robbie's plan. After the initial purchase, every six months a person could double his coverage, up to four hundred thousand dollars— a hundred thousand maximum at first, two hundred thousand in six months, and four hundred thousand in a year. That's what Robbie did.

* * * *

Robbie and Kathleen gave up sex that year. Robbie didn't want to take any chances.

Thirty days after the insurance company received the last premium, I helped Robbie get ready. Kathleen went shopping. I brought Chinese food, champagne, and three dozen red roses. I helped Robbie put on a new suit with matching vest, suspenders, a white shirt with French cuffs and cuff-links, and a cobalt blue tie with red dots all over it. Robbie insisted that these duties went with being executor, so I obliged. He even made me spit shine his old black shoes.

"Why are you wearing so many clothes?" I asked him.

He looked at me with that old twinkle in his eyes. He said, "I want Kassoleeen to take her time undreeesssssssing me." His head wobbled like one of those felt-covered doggies in the rear window of a car. He had grown uncomfortably weak and delicate, so it pleased me no end to see him joking.

When Kathleen's car pulled into the driveway, I stood up.

"You look terrific," I said.

"I feel great." He smiled at me. "Ssssssal," he said, "ssssstay happy."

I nodded and went out the back door.

Robbie and Kathleen made love for the last time. Naturally, I never discussed details with Kathleen, but I have speculated that they took as much time as they wanted, and that when they were finished they held each other for a long, long time.

GOLDEN FLOWER

Caleb S. Cage

For their six-month anniversary, Amy presented Matt with two framed pictures. The first was a grainy black-and-white photo printed on cheap, glossy paper and hastily framed. It was their 20-week sonogram, which he hadn't been home for. The second was a three-by-five photo of him and his brothers from his high school days taken with a disposable camera. He had it laminated and carried with him for six years of military training, deployments, combat, and even the times he came home to visit his family. She gave them to him outside The Golden Flower, a favorite Vietnamese restaurant in Reno, where he had taken her on the occasion of their anniversary, which was also the first real date they had together since he left the Army the week before.

"How many?" an Asian man asked through a heavy accent from a few tables away as they waited to be seated. Matt had always assumed him to be the owner – he drove the Cadillac SUV that was usually parked out front – but he worked the cash register and seated guests, too. Matt respected that.

"Just two," Matt mouthed, knowing full well that saying the number wouldn't be heard over the guests anyway.

"Very busy, sir," the owner said, motioning for them to wait a moment while he cleaned a table.

"We're fine," Matt said, sitting down in an overstuffed booth bench by the front door, regretting it immediately when the next couple opened the entrance up to the frigid evening air before deciding to try somewhere else, opening up the door again to leave.

"There's got to be a way to do that without letting the air in," he said to himself.

"What? Open the door?" Amy laughed, hugging his jacketed arm.

"It's just ridiculous out there," he said.

"It's not that bad," she said, smiling.

"My body is still used to the desert heat, I guess," he said.

"I'm glad you're home, Matthew," she said, wrapping her arms around his larger body and putting her head to his chest.

"It's good to be back," he said kissing her scalp softly and fighting a shiver. Only six months before, he had been home on leave from Iraq, conflicted about who he was and who he wanted to be when he got out of the Army. She was wandering, questioning her parents' religion for the first time. They were both drinking when they met, him hard and practiced and her excitedly. Luckily she remembered his name when he went back to Iraq a few days after their night together.

He looked down at the pictures she had given him again, wondering if the baby was a boy or a girl. He loved that she had framed and matted the other one, too. It was a simple picture of a scene his brothers had staged. They and their friends had gone camping in the Big Smoky Valley, about 30 minutes south of Austin, Nevada, right before he went to basic training. It was his official and final going away party, his closest friends gathered by his brothers to enjoy everything they couldn't enjoy as 18, 19, 20 year olds in Reno— at least not easily. Matt was at the center of the picture, resting in a hammock moments before the picture was taken, the high desert creek of the twin river flowing, the jagged rock face behind him, the hammock tied to the trunk of a tree. He might have been sleeping off an afternoon hangover in the beautiful shade listening to nothing, fearing nothing, wishing for nothing. Or he might have been somewhere between worlds, somewhere between where he was and where he would be, somewhere between all things that mattered in his life and the unknown that would soon matter more.

As the shutter on the camera snapped, icy water, runoff from the melted snow running in the river behind him, worked its way into unwelcome passages beneath his chest hair and open ivory snap shirt. You could trace the ice water straight up to the tilted open mouth of a beer pitcher that had been used liberally the night before but was now in his oldest brother's hand. You could see his other brother standing beside the tall tree behind the hammock, looking on. He wasn't even trying to conceal the grin that filled his cheeks and nose and eyes while he waited for the oldest's action and the youngest's reaction, a grin of quiet commission, the kind that often precedes a solid belly laugh, constrained momentarily and by necessity.

What Matt liked about the picture was his own smile. It was the smile of surprise, the kind that didn't betray an ounce of fury, which would have been more than justified at the moment of shock when the picture was taken. The quick jerk of his surprise lurched him to his right, all the while hanging on for dear life as his hammock did its best to pitch him onto the ground. He laughed as hard or harder than his brothers did, and with full appreciation for the plot that left him stunned, freezing, his clothing and body collecting dirt and pine needles on the desert floor. Their friend had captured the picture beautifully, but they wouldn't know that for several days after the trip.

Looking up from the pictures, he realized that The Golden Flower was exactly how he had remembered it – cheap, lacquered pictures on the wall, foil address stickers announcing by number the tables where guests were seated, synthetic table tops, ratty carpet – all still there, as were a diversity of customers coming from the area near the restaurant. The building across the street was a weekly motel, much like the ones whores worked in at the weekly motels a block south of The Golden Flower. Cattycorner to the restaurant, a shiny casino, and, farther on, a Catholic hospital sat a block to the east, the interstate winding like a prayer ribbon to the north of it all. Back when the city planners were trying to bring a university to the town, they argued to parents that the interstate would separate their kids from the casinos and the whores on the other side. A footbridge had conquered that divide, now, and the unseemly parts of town had crept all the way up from the south.

The younger generation of the family of Vietnamese immigrants who owned and operated The Golden Flower traveled the footbridge from their dorm rooms on campus to work the 25 or so tables at the restaurant. They'd wear their black uniforms and check right into the constant bustle out of the kitchen, never missing a beat. They'd speak English to each other, mostly, and switch effortlessly to their native tongue for the their parents and older relatives, and to their cousins who had joined the family after they had established the business successfully.

"How are you, sir?" the man Matt thought was the owner asked as he sat Matt and Amy down at their table.

"Very good, sir. Very good. Thank you."

"Number eight and number twelve?" the owner asked, setting their glasses on the table. Seeing Matt's hesitation, he added, "Or, you want menus?"

"Oh," Matt said. "Yes, a number eight for me. Amy? A number twelve?"

"That'd be great," she said, smiling her sweetest smile. "Number twelve."

"Thank you," he said, hustling directly back to the door to seat the next set of guests.

"Oh excuse me, sir," Matt said as the owner walked past their table again toward the register. "Can I get spring rolls, too? And for the number eight, can you put the steak on the side, please?"

"You want spring roll and meat on the outside of the number eight," he said.

"Yes please," he said as the owner walked away to put their order in. "That's pretty amazing, actually. I haven't been here in a long time and he still remembers that I eat a number eight."

"Especially with as busy as this place is all the time," Amy said. She squeezed a lemon into her water and smiled. "I've been coming here a lot over the last six months. In fact, I was just here last week. Want to guess what I ordered?"

"A number twelve?" he smiled.

"Good guess," she laughed.

He looked at the photo of him and his brothers while Amy took a long drink from her water. There were several reasons he carried the photo with him all over the world, but the biggest was simply that he loved it. It didn't express any powerful revelations about the brothers' relationship at that instant. It didn't show that his older brothers finally respected him. It didn't show that they admired or resented his choice that would take him from them. It just showed them naturally. They were brothers. They pulled pranks. And they laughed about it. Hard. Over beers later that night in the high desert he had become emotional, asking his brothers not to let him change, but their responses said what they all already knew— there was no turning back.

"They are open until 3:00AM now," she said, pointing to a homemade banner over the counter behind him.

"Yeah," he said, looking over his shoulder. "They must have figured out what the Reno set has known for years: there really is nothing better for a good drunk or a bad hangover than a large number eight," he said, handing her the plastic spoon and wooden chopsticks she'd be needing for her soup.

A waiter he didn't know delivered their spring rolls and refilled their glasses with water. Amy tried to get Matt's attention again, but he came back to drop off the herbs and peppers they would need when their pho arrived.

"You think everything is going to be alright?" she asked Matt once the waiter had left.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I never thought I would be six months pregnant before I was even married. Do you think it is all going to be alright?"

"You were four months pregnant before you were even engaged," he said, trying to be funny.

"Matt, I'm serious," she said, her face proving it. "We're doing the right thing, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, we messed up, but we are trying to make it right, right?"

"Yeah, we're making everything right. Don't worry about it," he said. "It's all going to be fine."

The same waiter as before came out with a large plastic platter and set their soups in front of them and went to the next table without saying a word. When he walked by again and Matt put his finger in the air. "Excuse me," he said getting the man's attention. "Can I get a Hanoi, please?" The man nodded walked quickly to the big refrigerator by the cash register.

"It's a beer," he said, shortly before the waiter delivered it to their table. "Did I ever tell you the story about the first time I came here?" he asked.

"There's a story?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, taking a large bite of a spring roll and pushing a slice of the beef into the hot broth of his soup. "So it's a couple of years ago. My brother John is working as a valet over there at the Silver Legacy," he said, pointing out the window across the street with his chopsticks. "John was always going to exotic places to eat, which I always thought was a little annoying, so I was actually a little pissed off when he told me and Charlie to meet him here."

She nodded, smiling, blowing on a spoonful of her broth to cool it down.

"So he tells us to meet him here at noon, and Charlie and I get here about five minutes after. We look around and the place is packed. I mean packed, they told us it was Tết and they just shrugged. Every time we'd try to get service, 'It's Tết,' and they'd shrug. John wasn't anywhere to be found. You have to remember, this is like '98 or '99, none of us has cell phones, so we just wait. I'm looking around and all I can think of is the movie Good Morning, Vietnam, have you seen that?"

"Uh-uh," she said, shaking her head. "Is that a movie?"

"Is that a movie," he said, lightly mocking her. "It was the like the only good movie that Robin Williams was ever in, but that is neither here nor there." He dropped a piece of uncooked meet into his soup broth, and twirled it around with his chopsticks while it cooked. "There's this scene where he's at this market in Vietnam and he's making fun of the food they are selling at the open market.' Fish ball soup? I didn't know fish had balls,' or something like that. Anyway, that's all I can see while we're standing there. Like, 'what has John gotten us into?'"

"But you love this place," she said.

"Yeah, that's what I am saying. That was my first time here. I love it now, but then all I could see was all of this raw food and stuff that I hadn't seen before. I was like 18. I was an idiot. Anyway, so Charlie and I grab a spot and we are sitting there just shooting the shit," he said, realizing that she wouldn't like that word even before she crinkled her forehead at him. "So we're just chatting, wondering how we got a seat during Tết, wondering where John is, and so on. Then one of the owners or their family members comes over with one of those old, white cordless phones. We're the only white guys in here. She comes up to the table and says in a heavy accent, 'Is one of you Charlie?' She said it really loud, too. We were just so embarrassed. So Charlie takes the phone and puts his head down in his hands. He says, 'John, you called a Vietnamese restaurant and asked for Charlie?' I could tell he was waiting for John to respond, but he cut him off, 'You don't see anything wrong with that?'" Matt was trying to conceal his belly laugh by swallowing as much of it as he could with his water.

"What's so funny about that?" she asked.

"Seriously?" he asked. "'Charlie' is a slur for Vietnamese people."

"How?"

"Long story," he said. "It's military lingo from the Vietnam War."

"That's lovely," she said.

"That's not the point. The point is, John's that guy who calls a Vietnamese restaurant and asks for Charlie. Even though he knows I am sitting right there, he still asks for Charlie. It was hilarious, and after that we had a great lunch and I've been coming back here ever since."

"Have you always gotten a number eight?"

"It was funny," he said, protesting her desire to move on. "But yes, I love the rare steak pho and the spring rolls. Every time. On a few nights, a few spectacularly drunken nights, I'd get the spring rolls, the number eight, and a number sixty-four, which is a huge rice plate of barbecued pork. It's delicious, but gluttonous when eaten together with an appetizer and a large bowl of soup. You always get the brisket pho?" He knew the answer. But he was tired of talking.

"Yep. When I'd come here to study or work, it was the perfect comfort food. Especially while you were gone." He smiled at her sentiment. It was a sweet statement and he knew that she meant it that way.

The waiter came by and filled up his glass with water. When he thanked him, he only nodded and smiled back at them.

"Matt," she said quietly. "My parents won't return any of my phone calls."

"I was wondering about that," he said. "What should we do?"

"That's kind of why I told you," she said. "I know they are embarrassed or ashamed of me or whatever, but I didn't expect them to ignore my phone calls."

"What do you need to tell them?" he asked.

"Nothing, really," she said. "I mean, we are going to have a baby in a few months and we have planning for the wedding to do. But I guess they don't want to be a part of any of it."

"I knew they were tough, but I didn't expect them to do that," he said. He grabbed a thin slice of meet off of the small plate next to him with his chopsticks, swirling it around in the broth. The meat was rubbery when he put it in his mouth. The soup was beginning to cool down now, still hot, but not hot enough to cook it all the way through. He spun some rice noodles and a jalapeño slice onto the plastic spoon and poured it into his mouth, chewing it for as long as he could before the spice made him swallow. He threw his head back and drank half of his Hanoi beer in one swallow, attempting to extinguish the mixture of everything he had just eaten.

"Oh my God," he said looking down at his beer, still raised to his lips.

"What is it?" Amy asked, starting to turn to see what he was looking at.

"Don't look," he said quietly into his beer, his eyes cutting over her shoulder.

"What is it? What are you looking at?" She asked.

"Did you see a tall guy with two Asian girls walk in a few minutes ago?" He asked.

"No, when did they come in?"

"I don't know. Must've been just now though. I just noticed them."

"What is it?"

"He's tall, like six-foot-six, well-built. He's wearing aviator sunglasses, an olive green tee shirt, cargo pants, and something like hiking boots. He has a huge watch on his wrist, too. He looks like he's about 60 or so, but in good shape. He's still got a military haircut. Not like a ridiculous high and tight, but still clean," Matt said, still holding his glass to his mouth and staring at the man he was describing, ready to avert his eyes at any second. "He's sitting there with two young Asian girls. One looks half Asian, like half-Korean, and the other looks pretty obviously Filipino. They are totally hookers— wearing the whole hooker outfit, fishnets, short skirts, too much makeup. Geez," he added, before looking back at Amy.

"So?" Amy asked.

"It's this whole scene. It's the way he's talking to them, really low tones. He's leaning in and whispering, doing all of the talking and they are doing the listening. They look all scared, like they couldn't be sitting closer together. It's just weird."

"I guess I don't get it," she said.

"It's just weird," he said again. "He's clean, he's well kept. And they are obviously streetwalkers."

"I mean," she said, obviously trying to move the conversation forward, "this is Reno. We're on 5th Street. There are whores."

"That's not it," he said, still staring at them over her shoulder. "He's sitting in a Vietnamese restaurant with two girls who are obviously whores and they look terrified— like he's explaining some fantasy from his days in 'Nam. God, look at how he's talking to them," he muttered over the mouth of his beer bottle.

"It still doesn't make sense," she said.

"Did you just say, 'this is Reno, there are whores?'" he asked her, breaking his stare from the three seated over Amy's shoulder.

"Yeah, I mean, this is Reno. It's kind of famous for whores, isn't it?"

"That's so weird," he said, smiling at her.

"Why? Because I said that? I am not saying it's okay, I'm just saying that it is."

"No, because that's exactly what Charlie said to me on Saturday."

"Why were you talking about whores with Charlie?"

"He needed me to go to the post office for him and pick up something. It was the old post office down on Lake or Virginia Street or whatever, the one in the great old building. I went in there and I was staring at the ceiling and the walls. The tables are old art deco things, and there are swastikas all around them. It was strange. So I am staring at the ceilings and the walls and the tables as I am walking out of there, not really paying attention to anything, and as my eyes are coming down I make eye contact with this girl. She's like 30 or so, kind of cute and innocent looking, not dressed unusually or anything like that. But as soon as we make eye contact, she gets this little smirk on her face and she drops her eyes to my crotch and then back up to my eyes."

"Really?" she asked.

"Yeah, so I break eye contact with her and I get ten steps past her before I put it together. Why is she standing at a table in a downtown post office and staring people down? Why did she smirk and look at my crotch? Then later, I am driving south on Arlington, right in front of The Sands. It's like one in the morning. I start to accelerate past 2nd Street, not really paying attention to anything, when I see this girl there. She's youngish, blonde, wearing very little, so I stare at her, sort of absentmindedly. She stares back, and actually turns all the way around as I drive by so that she can stare at me. So I asked Charlie about it all. And he says what you said: 'This is Reno, there are whores.' And it made sense."

"You grew up here, though," she said.

"Yeah, I guess I knew about it, I'd heard of Mustang Ranch and all of those places, but I didn't know about it downtown. I mean, just a block south of here."

"I guess I'm just surprised that you're surprised," she said.

He put all of the raw slices of meat left on the little plate into his soup, hoping that there was still enough heat to cook it all of the way through. Stirring it with his chopsticks, he squeezed in a little hot sauce and stirred it again.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's just how I eat it."

"I don't care how you eat your soup, Matt," she said, not breaking her gaze this time. "I couldn't care less about that. I care about how we're going to make it. I care about what we're going to do now that you're home. I care about our lives. And I can't seem to figure out if you care at all."

"Everything is going to be fine," he said smiling, grabbing both of her hands in his.

"Matt," she said, not willing to being brushed off again. "I am 24 weeks pregnant. We are going to get married in a month. Then we are going to have a baby. And I can't even get my parents to return my phone calls. Can you please, please tell me how in the hell everything's going to be fine?" Her voice was still soft, but it wasn't calm, and she was crying gently.

"We've been through worse," he said, still trying to smile.

"You've been through worse, Matt," she said, raising her voice only slightly.

Her words stung, but they were true. He had been through worse, but before she met him one night, her world was church and college and her parents.

"Look, Amy," he said quietly but forcefully enough to get her attention. "The guys in this picture," he said, holding up the picture of him and his brothers camping. "They don't exist anymore. None of them do. This is it," he said, putting the picture down and holding up the picture of their unborn child. "This is all we have that matters anymore. You and me and this. Your parents can disown us. It doesn't matter. It's you, me, and this little guy. That's it."

The owner came back over to the table to refill their water glasses and remove their plates. He didn't acknowledge that Amy was crying or that they were obviously in a personal discussion. He just took their plates and walked away without his usual questions about the quality of the food and the service.

"We aren't going to let something like this kill us. We're getting married. We're having a baby. Your parents can make up their minds on whether or not they are going to show us the love they've always preached. Who knows, tomorrow might be colder or it might be warmer. A year from now we might be staring down another crisis. And twenty years from now we'll be coming here, still eating a number eight and a number twelve, and laughing at all the little things we never thought we'd be able to handle." He paused, squeezing her hands tighter.

"Are you with me?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Then everything is going to be just fine."

SO MUCH DEATH IN A SMALL PLACE

Michael B. Christy

The soldiers shield themselves as best they can from the dirt and debris stirred up by the Huey helicopter squeezing into the tight, one ship landing zone (LZ). Most turn their backs, pulling up their collars. Others duck into foxholes or cover themselves with ponchos. Several ponchos tear loose, drifting into the 8-foot elephant grass that surrounds much of the LZ. The pilot lands, reduces power and slows the rotor blades as most of the grunts go back to whatever they'd been doing. A few curious ones watch two officers jump from the helicopter into a large mud puddle. One grunt chuckles, pokes his buddy who looks and laughs quietly at the two officers trying to stamp the mud off their polished boots. Since monsoon rains began a week ago, mud and rain have been the grunts constant companions.

The two officers wear fresh jungle fatigues. The rank on their collars shows one a lieutenant colonel, the other a major. Both carry oiled, seldom-if-ever-used, .45 caliber pistols. The man greeting them is dirty, unshaven and wearing rumpled, slightly torn jungle fatigues. His scuffed up boots are covered with dirt and mud. He wears no rank. His M-16 rifle hangs easily, at the ready by his side.

The trio moves to the edge of LZ where the tall elephant grass offers a small bit of protection from the hot, early afternoon sun. The major unfolds an acetate-covered topographical map and the three begin discussing a tactical mission. Sweat is rapidly gathering under the armpits and across the shoulder blades of the two new arrivals. The field soldier's fresh sweat darkens his jungle fatigue, offering a stark contrast to the white salt stains from days of sweating. Within minutes there is a strong disagreement.

Lt. Col. Rutland Beard, commander of the 1st Battalion, 12th Cavalry (Airborne), 1st Air Cavalry Division and his operations officer, Maj. William Roll, are insisting that Capt. Don Warren, Charlie Company commander, leave his 20-man mortar platoon alone on Hereford to provide fire support to the company as it moves down the steep, heavily overgrown precipice toward the valley below. Warren, a quiet Georgian who had been with the unit since 1961 as a 2nd Lt., is equally insistent on keeping at least one rifle squad behind to provide security. "Sir, my mortar platoon is down to half strength because of malaria and has only M-16s and a couple of M-79s. If I leave behind a rifle squad they will have at least one machine gun for security." Beard reminds Warren that the mortar platoon will be on the hill less than an hour before they're lifted out by helicopter to another LZ for continued support of the company's search and destroy operations. Warren's eyes lock on Beard's, "Anything could happen in an hour, sir." Visibly irritated at what he considers near insubordination, Beard warns, "Captain, if you don't do as I order, you'll be in more trouble than you can imagine. Is that understood?" Warren hesitates a moment before answering tersely, "Yes sir, Colonel. Will that be all, sir?" Beard nods; Warren spins on his heel and hastily walks over to his platoon leaders to pass on the orders he'd been given.

Beard takes a sideward glance at Roll, shakes his head in disbelief and turns toward his helicopter. He knows Warren is a good soldier and will do as ordered. Beard pulls himself into his jump seat, and motions the pilot to lift off as he straps on his radio headset. The pilot increases power, lifts the helicopter out of Hereford, turns and pushes off into the dark, scattered clouds gathering overhead.

Warren has every reason for concern about the safety of his under-strength, poorly armed mortar platoon. Hereford's topography makes it nearly impossible for even a fully armed rifle company to defend from a determined enemy. It's a small saddle, 165 yards long by 45 yards wide that is partially encircled by tall elephant grass. Beyond the grass, it is completely surrounded by a rugged, unforgiving landscape, the most hostile being the steep, razorback ridgeline reaching northeast toward a towering mountain nearly a thousand feet high. At the base of the ridge is Hereford's northern boundary begins sloping gently downhill to the landing zone's southern edge. On the southeast rim of the perimeter is a sheer drop over a rocky precipice.

The northwest limit of the perimeter is a steep, rock faced, vine covered drop off into the Vĩnh Thạnh Valley and Song Con River. Completing Hereford's narrow boundaries is a large, craggy, brush covered hill on its western margin. Yet with all its tactical shortcoming, it's the only suitable landing zone within miles of a large enemy buildup.

Hereford – located 20 miles west from the central coast region of the South China Sea in the untamed wilderness of central Bình Định Province – had also been the center of fierce fighting.The first battle was fought seven days earlier on May 15, 1966 by a patrol from Vĩnh Thạnh Special Forces camp.

* * * *

Several days before that battle, a local Viet Cong (VC) captured by Special Forces Detachment A-228 claimed that a combined force of VC and NVA (North Vietnamese Army regulars) bivouacked in the mountain range northeast of Vĩnh Thạnh was preparing for an attack on the camp. Capt. Frank Tinseth, the detachment commander, passed the information on to his superiors and ordered a reconnaissance patrol to check it out. The 1st Cavalry Division headquarters at Camp Radcliff, twenty miles to the southwest at An Khe was notified as well.

At 4 a.m., Sunday morning, May 15, 1966, a patrol of twenty Hre Montagnard mercenaries led by Special Forces Sgts. Burton Adams and David Freeman moved quietly through the front gate of the Vĩnh Thạnh Special Forces camp. After crossing the Song Con River, the patrol headed northeast. The ridge they followed rose gently upward toward the high, green mountain where the combined VC/NVA force was supposed to be hiding. After an hour, the sparse jungle growth became heavy twisted bamboo and tangled vines, often requiring machetes to cut through. After three hours of struggling through the matted foliage and up increasingly steeper terrain, a well-used trail was found. Adams called for a mid-morning lunch break. No words were spoken by the disciplined men as they silently dug out their cold rice and dried fish and began eating.

After the break, Adams motioned for the patrol to get up and leave, but the point man signaled for quiet. He'd heard voices speaking in a North Vietnamese dialect. The patrol quietly moved out in three separate directions in search of the unseen enemy. The group led by Dimh Ghim, the "head" Montagnard, found the enemy sitting in the shade taking a break. Ghim gestured his men to form a firing line. Once in place, he signaled to fire into the unsuspecting enemy. Within seconds five NVA lay dead. Several dozen others stampeded downhill, leaving behind their weapons and rucksacks. A search of the rucksacks and bodies found a hand-drawn map on the body of an NVA lieutenant detailing an attack on the Vĩnh Thạnh Special Forces camp. A notebook he carried indicated elements from the 9th NVA regiment and the 97th VC regiment would attack within four days. Another rucksack yielded a document indicating an NVA battery of two guns would be part of the attack. Freeman looked up to the top of the mountain, stating the obvious, "Up there, somewhere, are hundreds of VC and NVA wanting to bring us a world of hurt."

When word of the battle filtered down to the leaders in the 1st Cavalry, a decision was made to conduct an operation in the area. The 1st Brigade under the command of Col. John Hennessey was ordered to deploy his maneuver battalions to "find, fix, and destroy" the enemy force. The operation was named Crazy Horse.

The next morning, Monday, May 16, 1966, men of Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion, 8th Cavalry (B-2-8), under the command of Capt. J.D. Coleman, waited at Camp Radcliff for Hueys to fly them to Hereford. Accompanying them were Special Forces Sgt. 1st Class Thomas Welsh, and his Vietnamese intelligence sergeant and interpreter. The first gaggle of six helicopters arrived at 10:15 a.m., picked up troops, lifted off and headed east to Hereford. Other Hueys picked up the rest of the company. While they flew together, each chopper landed separately on the one-ship LZ, disgorged six or seven grunts and quickly lifted off to make room for the next. It took slightly over an hour before Coleman had his 126 men on the ground. At 1:15 p.m. the company moved out along a wide, well-beaten trail winding upward along the spine of the ridge. The trail was slippery with thick mud and "wait-a-minute" vines making the going slow and difficult for the heavy-laden grunts.

Forty-five minutes into the hard climb, the point squad, led by Staff Sgt. Jerry McCullough, reached the top of a small hill and began moving down when a VC was spotted. Shots fired at the VC were immediately answered by a heavy volume of enemy fire from prepared positions on the downside of the hill. Three troops were killed instantly and four wounded. The company column also came under heavy attack by enemy hiding along the trail. Coleman ordered his platoons to disengage and pull into a company perimeter on a small patch of high ground. McCullough's squad picked up the wounded and withdrew to Coleman's location. By the time the hasty perimeter was carved out, the time was 2:40 p.m. Within minutes the afternoon monsoon rains poured down on the surrounded company.

An attack covered by rain was made by a determined enemy at 3:30 p.m. but was beaten off by company fire and artillery from LZ Savoy located just outside the Vĩnh Thạnh Special Forces camp. For the next hour only harassing enemy fire penetrated the perimeter. Coleman took advantage of the lull to retrieve his dead and wounded inside and outside the perimeter. Coleman also received a radioed message that a rifle company had landed on Hereford during a break in the weather and would set out to his location once another company landed to secure the landing zone.

About 5 p.m. the enemy began a series of attacks but each time were driven off. More of Coleman's men were killed and wounded. Around 7 p.m., with the bad weather breaking up, two gunship crews arrived on station just as the enemy mounted its biggest assault, threatening to overrun the company. The two gunships fired rocket after rocket, some within feet of the company's perimeter. The rockets and the company's effective automatic weapons fire weakened the enemy's resolve and by 7:30 p.m., all contact ended.

Bravo Company used the respite to give aid and comfort to their more than 40 wounded. 20 dead were lined up in a row near the center of the perimeter and covered with rain-slicked ponchos. In addition to the company's dead were Sgt. Welsh and his Vietnamese intelligence sergeant and interpreter. Snipers had killed all three.

The unit that landed on Hereford between 4-5 p.m. was Capt. John Cummings' Alpha Company, 1st Battalion, 12th Cavalry (Airborne) (A-1-12). His orders were to join B-2-8 in the battle area once Capt Warren's Charlie Company arrived. But it wasn't until nearly 8 p.m. before all of Warren's men were on the ground and ready to take over security of the LZ. As each helicopter load of Warren's men landed, they immediately began occupying the enemy spider holes scattered throughout the landing zone. Warren ordered them to dig the holes wider and deeper. As they dug, heavy fog rolled over the entire mountain area, creating an unnatural ambiance to the already pitch black night.

It was into this eerie ghostlike atmosphere that Cummings led his men up the same rugged, slippery trail used by Coleman's company hours earlier. Cummings' company met no resistance, arriving around 10 p.m. After conferring with Coleman, he took over security from the exhausted men of B-2-8.

Around 11 p.m. on Hereford, Charlie Company's men heard metal against metal sounds in a ravine below them. Warren felt certain the enemy was setting up a mortar tube. Artillery was called in on the suspected enemy position, hoping to discourage whatever the enemy was planning. Unfortunately a single artillery round landed in the company perimeter, killing Spec. 4 Martin Killilea, 19, Roxbury, Mass. and Pfc. John Booth, 19, Bainbridge, Penn.

Early Tuesday morning, May 17, a steady drizzle covered Hereford but the fog was nearly gone. Further up the mountain, B-2-8 and A-1-12 were still shrouded in heavy fog and rain.

About 6 a.m., helicopters began delivering Alpha Company, 1st Battalion, 5th Cavalry (A-1-5) onto Hereford with the mission to search the area north of B-2-8 and A-1-12. Once a platoon of A-1-5 was on the ground, Warren's company began its 'hump' up the mountain trail to help provide security to Coleman's and Cummings' companies. Left behind was a mortar squad with the company's 81mm tube. The rest of the mortar platoon goes with Warren, including its acting platoon leader, Staff Sgt. Robert Kirby and his radio operator (RTO) Pfc. John "Crazy John" Spranza.

In the battle area, Coleman's and Cummings' men were ready to initiate a "mad-minute." At 6:30 a.m., on signal, all perimeter defensive weapons fired simultaneously to the front of their positions for one minute into the heavy fog hoping to kill any hidden enemy preparing for an assault. Immediately the enemy launched an attack on all sectors of the perimeter. The amount and kinds of fire indicated the embattled companies were facing at least a battalion-sized unit.

For nearly two hours the fighting raged on. Casualties were rising and most of the riflemen were down to their last magazine of ammunition when orders came to fix bayonets. Suddenly and inexplicably, the enemy faded away in the now lifting fog. It was the approach of Warren's company and A-1-5 that apparently triggered the retreat.

Casualties from the day and night fighting were high. Coleman's company lost 25 killed and 62 wounded. Cummings' company suffered 3 killed and 37 wounded. Thirty-eight enemy bodies were found within or nearby the perimeter. Hanging in some of the trees were the bodies of dead enemy snipers. Later evidence indicated an additional 200 enemy had died in the fight, members of five NVA battalions and two local VC companies.

As the two embattled companies regrouped, most of Warren's men fanned out, securing the perimeter. Others were detailed to assist in moving the dead and wounded down to Hereford.

The constant rain made the muddy trail slippery, causing the dead and wounded to be dropped. The men carrying them got up and kept going, only to slip again. The agonizing process continued until the group reached Hereford where a medevac helicopter arrived to evacuate the most seriously wounded. Other medevacs followed, until all the wounded were out. The 31dead, including the three Special Forces personnel, were carefully laid in a cargo net and lifted out by a CH-47 (Chinook) helicopter. It was a tough, sobering sight for the men on Hereford to witness.

Bravo Company, 1st Battalion, 5th Cavalry (B-1-5) arrived shortly after the medevac and Chinook helicopters departed. Once assembled, they moved up the same, well-used trail and headed for the battle area. B-1-5 kept a mortar squad on Hereford along with a rifle platoon for security. Security and search and destroy operations were assigned to all the companies and the next day, Wednesday, May 18,they began sweeping for any enemy remaining in the area.

Because of the difficulty getting the wounded and dead out following the battle on May 16 and 17, Col. Hennessey ordered the building of a helicopter platform carved out of the jungle hill top. The work began Thursday, May 19, the first rainless, sunny day since arriving on the mountains. Cummings' Alpha Company was to clear out trees and brush. The mortar men from Warren's company became part of the detail. Using detonation cord, the grunts blasted away at the trees. Shortly after the work began, a Chinook hovered overhead, and threw out a Jacob's ladder that combat engineers and their chainsaws carefully maneuvered down. For the rest of the day and much of the next, the engineers, assisted by the grunts, built a sturdy log platform strong enough for a Chinook to land. The platform was named LZ Milton.

The following morning, Saturday, May 21, Cummings and Warren were given new missions by Col. Beard. Cummings' Alpha Company was to move to Hereford at sunrise to be airlifted to An Khe to provide security around the defensive perimeter. Warren's company was to sweep the high ground from Milton to Hereford and scout the lowers slopes between the two landing zones. Once Warren had accomplished that mission, his company would move down the mountain on a search and destroy mission that would take them to LZ Savoy in the Vĩnh Thạnh Valley.

As Alpha Company prepared to leave, 31-year-old war correspondent Sam Castan, senior editor for Look Magazine arrived aboard a helicopter delivering ammunition, coffee and a hot breakfast to the troops on LZ Milton. He was writing a story on men facing death but Cummings' troops were too busy getting ready to move to give him much time. Castan also sensed they were not ready to discuss death. Just before 9 a.m., Cummings' company started down the trail to Hereford.

At 9:30 a.m., Warren moved his company overland to Hereford. Staff Sgt. Kirby and Pfc. Spranza were flown back to Hereford to rejoin the mortar platoon. Castan rode along with them. Alpha Company began its departure from Hereford around 11 a.m. Charlie Company arrived around noon. Col. Beard and Maj. Roll arrive around 12:30. Ten minutes later they depart after ordering Warren to leave the mortar platoon alone on Hereford.

* * * *

Thirty minutes after Beard's departure, the three rifle platoons are saddled up, ready to go when one of the men from the 3rd platoon thinks he sees an enemy dressed in khakis lurking in the elephant grass. Capt. Warren is notified, but still rattled over Beard's ass chewing responds, "Forget it! I'm sure he just saw one of our guys taking a piss. Let's go." With that dismissal, the men of Charlie Company's three rifle platoons begin the arduous climb down the steep, soggy, overgrown hill toward the valley below. The men of the mortar platoon, along with Castan who decided to stay, watch as the last man in the column struggles over the hill and disappears into the thick jungle.

Staff Sgt. Robert Kirby, 29, a highly dedicated and competent leader from Los Angeles, looks at his army-issue watch. It is 1:30 p.m. The platoon will be off Hereford in less than an hour. He ambles a few steps away over to the foxhole occupied by easy-going, fun-loving CJ "Crazy John" Spranza, his 19-year-old Georgian RTO. "We have commo with everyone?" Kirby asks. "Yea, for now but I don't know for how long," answers Spranza. Kirby understands. Communication has been difficult because of the triple canopy jungle, high mountains and deep valleys. Kirby moves to one of the many abandoned fighting positions and sits down on the edge. From his position he has a commanding view of the entire perimeter. Since it was decided five days ago that the mortar platoon could better support the company from Hereford, Kirby's men have occupied its most southern edge. Before the rest of the company departed, he ordered his men to triple the area they are to defend. This stretched them thin but he had little choice.

Kirby looks around at his 19 men. Friendships were close in the mortar platoon. Many had been together as part of the 11th Air Assault Division (later re-designated the 1st Cavalry Division) while testing the concept of airmobility at Ft. Benning, Ga. The training was rigorous, the days long. A spirit of teamwork and brotherhood developed as they helped each other through the hardships that come with difficult, demanding training. Off duty, some would hunt and fish together or compete with each other in friendly games of softball, golf and bowling, or enjoy family picnics and backyard barbeques. Since arriving in Vietnam nine months earlier, the sense of family has grown even stronger.

Kirby looks over at the men in the mortar pit a few yards behind him. The gunner is Sgt. Charles Gaines, 23, Sanford, Fla. Gaines, a strong, muscular man of 5 feet, 6 inches tall, is liked by his men because he looks out for them. Sitting on the edge of the pit talking to Gaines is Spec. 4 Austin Drummond, 22, Greer, S.C. Drummond, a easy-going, dependable solder, is a former Golden Gloves champion with fast hands, making him the perfect guy to drop mortar rounds into the tube. Sgt. Isaac Johnson, a loner from Detroit, is sitting on the ground nearby with a plot board on his lap. All are ready to place fire when and where Capt. Warren calls for it.

In the fighting position between Kirby and the mortar pit is the platoon medic, 21-year-old Spec. 4 David "Doc" Crocker, a native of Medford, Ore.

Kirby looks toward the most forward position on the western side of the open horseshoe or U-shaped perimeter. Sitting below a craggy, brush covered hill, it is his most exposed and vulnerable position.

Holding this forward position are Pfc. Lonnie "Sleepy" Williams and Pfc. Clarence "Gomer" Brame. Williams, 18, a shy, quiet Philadelphian, can fall asleep anywhere, anytime. Brame, 22, a good natured hillbilly, who looks and acts like 'Gomer Pyle' of the television series, is from Henderson, N.C.. Both are well liked and have proven their courage under fire.

A couple of empty fighting positions below Williams and Brame are Pfc. Robert "Radar" Roeder and Pfc. Harold Mack Jr. Roeder, 18, from Marinette, Wis., a small town near the Michigan Upper Peninsula border, is quiet and accepts people as they are but won't tolerate acts of cruelty or injustices. Standing only 5 feet 5, he is tough as nails. Kirby knows this better than anyone. In a fierce firefight a month before, he had been wounded and pinned down when Roeder, ignoring heavy enemy fire, ran out, grabbed him up and pulled him to safety. Mack, 19, from Charleston, S.C. is one of the really good guys. He offers help to those who need or ask for it. He helped Roeder through airborne school and the two have been best buddies ever since.

The next defensive position a couple of foxholes below Roeder and Mack is occupied by Sgt. Louis Buckley and Pfc. Henry Benton. Buckley, a slender, muscular Detroit native, is a highly respected leader and well liked by everyone in the platoon because of his open, kind, helpful disposition. Only yesterday he celebrated his 23rd birthday with C-Ration pound cake soaked in fruit cocktail, offering a taste to anyone wanting to help him celebrate. Benton, 20, Ft. Lauderdale, Fla., like Drummond, had been a boxer before being drafted. Kirby knows little about him as he had just joined the platoon, but he seems dependable and gets along well with others.

Kirby shouts over to Buckley to collect and stack water cans, food containers and other equipment in preparation for the helicopter pickup. Buckley yells back, "Roger that, Sarge."

Manning the next defensive position a few yards from Kirby are Pfc. Joel Tamayo, 19, Houston and Pfc. James Francis Brooks Jr., 20, Mc Keesport, Penn. Brooks joined the platoon the same time as Benton. Tamayo arrived just a week before that. Kirby is just beginning to experience the personnel rotation system, where new men replace those whom he knows and trusts. Knowing so little about replacements worries Kirby but this was, he knew, the new face of the war and he best get use to it.

Satisfied that the western side of his horseshoe perimeter is secure, Kirby decides to walk the eastern side of the perimeter— the side he feels presents the greatest threat. He tells Spranza to relay any fire missions to the gun crew. The only missions he expects are reconnaissance fire in advance of the company's movement.

He strolls over to the next position where Spec. 4 A.V. Spikes is complaining to Pfc. Wade Taste about something. Neither see or hear Kirby approaching and are slightly startled when Kirby warns, "Spikes, stop bitching and keep your eyes open." Spikes, 26, from Hazlehurst, Mass. looks at Kirby but says nothing. He's been in the army for seven years and his disregard for authority is well known. Taste, a small, thin, naive 18-year old from Cerro Gordo, North Carolina, population 274, still fears the power vested in whoever outranks him. He also respects and admires Kirby. "Taste, go help Sgt. Buckley gather and stack the mess equipment," instructs Kirby. Taste, nods, gets up and moves over the open perimeter where Buckley is already picking up scattered cans and containers

With more things to worry about than Spikes' insolence, Kirby moves to the next position where Castan is trying to interview Spec. 4 Daniel "Dilly" Post and Pfc. Robert Benjamin. Post, 19, from Philadelphia, is the platoon's practical joker and is giving Castan mischievous responses. Like most everyone else in the platoon, Post thinks Castan is a nuisance. Benjamin, 21, a quiet, unassuming young man from New Orleans, is responding with yes or no answers. Kirby acknowledges Castan, queries Post and Benjamin on what they will do if attacked. Both plan on throwing hand grenades down the steep, rocky precipice below their position and employing interlocking fires with the positions on their right and left. "Good," responds Kirby as he heads for the most forward position at the top of the eastern perimeter.

This is the most dangerous position to occupy. Directly above is the heavily vegetated ridge that spirals upward, connecting the Hereford saddle with the highest peak in the area where the bloody battle of May 16 and 17 was fought. Manning this position is Spec. 4 Paul Harrison and Spec. 4 Charles Stuckey. Harrison, 20, from Lakewood, a small community south of downtown Los Angeles, is a friendly, handsome, very muscular 6 foot blonde surfer. Stuckey, 24, from the hills of Georgia, is thin, fun loving and laid back. Both are married. Kirby has seen Stuckey and Harrison show courage in battle and is confident they will do what has to be done if called upon. They have established interlocking fires across the open end of the horseshow perimeter with Williams and Brame on the western side. Kirby, himself married with children, spends a few minutes exchanging "family" talk with the two young men. When the thump of a mortar round comes from the mortar pit, Kirby excuses himself and heads back to his position.

On the way back, Kirby passes a sweating Sgt. First Class Edward Shepherd sitting on the rim of a foxhole not far from the mortar pit. Shepherd, 38, of Raleigh, N.C. is married with three children. He is the only soldier who is not in the mortar platoon. He stayed behind the rest of the company to catch a helicopter back to An Khe where he's to appear before a promotion board. Kirby stops, wipes the sweat off his brow. "Smart move, not going with the company into the Valley. We'll be out of here in 30, 40 minutes," says Kirby. Shepherd nods his head, "My mama didn't raise no fools," he answers with a grin. Kirby returns his smile and heads back to his position near the mortar pit.

Kirby sits down on the edge of his foxhole and watches Spranza talking on the radio with Warren who is calling in corrections to the reconnaissance fire. Spranza yells the corrections to the gun crew. Adjustments are made and a few more rounds are fired.

Roeder, watching Buckley and Taste gathering and stacking the containers in the open, notices they have left their M-16s in their foxhole. Maybe it's not that serious, he thinks. The helicopters will be picking them up soon. The general feeling is the enemy has pretty much left the area.

Shortly after 2 p.m., Warren radios Spranza that the helicopters are on the way. Word is spread from hole to hole. But unknown to Warren and the men of the mortar platoon, the helicopters are still sitting on the ground at LZ Savoy. Fog is gathering around the mountain range making it dangerous to land. A decision was made to wait until the fog lifted. Around 2:30 p.m., Stuckey takes a drag on his cigarette when something catches his eye. It's three enemy lurking in the elephant grass. He jumps up, raises his M-16 to his hip and begins firing. Harrison joins in. All three enemy drop dead. Instantly a massive volume of automatic and small arms fire comes from the high ground to the north and from a ravine to the east. Rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs) and mortar rounds explode inside the perimeter, flinging shrapnel on or near every occupied foxhole. One carefully placed large-caliber bullet smashes into the mortar tube, rendering it inoperable. Within seconds bullets crack thick and fast through the air from all directions as the shocked mortar men attempt to regain their footing. Shepherd is hit between his eyes in the first volley. He is dead before hitting the ground. Castan, horrified at Shepherd's instant death, drops for cover.

Spranza, with bullets snapping over his head, and digging into the ground around him, rolls into his foxhole and radios Warren, "We're under attack. We need air and artillery support now." A stunned Warren acknowledges, quickly radios battalion for fire support on preplanned protective fires near the LZ, and orders his company to head back up the hill.

Harrison and Stuckey fire on the advancing enemy coming at them in groups of three or four. Those not killed pull back but only momentarily before jumping over their fallen comrades in an attempt to close the noose.

Caught in the open stacking mess equipment, Taste and Buckley are both hit. Taste takes two bullets in the throat, falling to the ground. Buckley dashes across the perimeter trying to get back to his foxhole. He is covered in blood from a bullet through his shoulder. He screams at Roeder and Mack, "Get off the hill. Get off the hill," as he runs past them and disappears into the elephant grass. (Buckley was listed as MIA until 1978 when his remains were found a mile from where Hereford had been)

Buckley's cry to get off the hill is heard above the din of battle by Harrison, Stuckey, Post and Benjamin. Harrison volunteers to stay behind to hold off the enemy. Crouching into low silhouettes to avoid the deadly fire, Post and Benjamin jump up from their foxhole and zigzag toward the mortar pit. Stuckey takes a few more shots at the enemy before he gets up to follow, taking only a few steps before a RPG round explodes right in front of him, throwing him to the ground. When the shrapnel and dirt stop falling, he raises his head to where Post and Benjamin had been. Both are dead. Stuckey gets up, looks to the southeast and seeing no enemy, crouches and quickly heads toward a large rock just outside the perimeter.

He reaches the rock, slides behind it for cover and runs headlong into a camouflaged NVA about to throw a Chicom grenade into the perimeter. The NVA turns, sees Stuckey and tosses the grenade directly at him. The grenade sails over Stuckey's head, hitting the rock behind him exploding and showering him with shrapnel and rock fragments from head to foot. Managing to stay on his feet, Stuckey points his M-16 at the NVA, fires off a quick burst of three rounds into his chest, killing him instantly. Stuckey moves further around the rock face, finds a narrow crevice and squeezes through. Enemy hot on his trail pass by his hiding place and keep running. He's safe for now.

Harrison holds his ground, providing as much cover fire as he can, slapping magazine after magazine into his rifle as fast as he can. When he runs out of ammunition, he jumps from his foxhole and charges the enemy using his M-16 as a club. He cracks a few heads before the blood covered rifle slips from his hands. Refusing to give an inch, he wades into the enemy thrashing them with his fists until several well-placed bullets finally bring him down. (For his extraordinary heroism, Paul Harrison was posthumously awarded the Distinguished Service Cross.)

Spranza sees three well-camouflaged enemy bursting through the elephant grass. He jams a fresh magazine into his M-16, pulls the trigger and opens up, tearing the enemy apart. He manages to fire off a few more rounds before RPGs, visible in the air from their slow trajectory, plunge toward the mortar pit. Instinctively, Spranza drops to the bottom of his foxhole, hugging the dirt bottom as close as possible. Four RPG slam around his hole: one in front, another to his left, and a third to his right. A few pieces of shrapnel find their way into Spranza back. Kirby takes shrapnel in his arms, head and chest. Crocker dies immediately from a crushed skull. The fourth round lands on the rear lip of the mortar pit, throwing deadly shrapnel into Drummond and Gaines. Within seconds, Drummond is spurting blood from heavy fragments in his left leg and arm. He dies quickly. Gaines, suffering from a severe head wound, takes his last breath a moment later. Johnson takes four pieces of shrapnel in the face but continues firing back on full automatic at the enemy heading in his direction. Some of the NVA fall with others taking their place, running toward Johnson. Johnson keeps firing until he is out of ammunition. Enemy bullets crack above his head and dig into the ground around him. He panics and makes a running dive at the rocky embankment on Hereford's lower side to the south, tucks in his body and rolls down the slope, careening off rocks, through gullies and over mounds until he is so beaten-up he's forced to stop. Near him is a V-shaped cleft where a stream trickles downhill through thick jungle vegetation. He crawls into the stream bed, gathers brush and vines around and over him and lays face down. Gripped with fear and exhaustion, he closes his mind to the sounds of battle from above.

On the western perimeter the NVA mount an attack from two directions. Williams and Brame frantically fire their M-16s on full-automatic at the waves assaulting from the northwest. Roeder and Mack, in the fighting position below them, fire on the same enemy, Roeder with his M-79, Mack with his M-16. A few of the charging enemy fall dead but others brave the wall of fire, overrunning the forward position, killing Williams and Brame before turning toward Roeder and Mack. Mack pops up to get a better shot and takes a bullet in the head. He crumbles back into the foxhole, dead. Roeder keeps firing until he runs out of ammunition, then picks up Mack's M-16, continues firing until it too is empty. He throws two hand grenades at the charging enemy forcing them to fall back. Roeder jumps out of his fighting position and heads for Benton's foxhole. When he tumbles in, he finds Benton dead. He crawls out and with bullets following his every step, races over to the foxhole belonging to Brooks and Tamayo but they too are dead. The western defense has crumbled. Figuring everyone is dead, Roeder does what he was trained to do: escape and evade. He runs down the side of the hill into the elephant grass. Three NVA chase after him. Roeder crouches low with bullets zipping over his head and runs deep into the tall elephant grass. He runs as fast as he can until overcome by exhaustion. He drops to the ground and lays face down. When his gasping for air subsides he realizes he is alone. The enemy apparently gave up. He stays hidden, praying silently to God he will be spared.

Spranza, popping off rounds at whatever he sees breaking through the elephant grass, notices a figure running right toward his position. He fires off a quick burst, missing his target who is now yelling, "Don't shoot for God sake. It's me," before dropping into Spranza's hole. It's a terrified Castan. "Well, Hell don't come jumping in at me that a way," Spranza scolds back. Short of breath, a panting Castan asks, "Where's Kirby?" to which Spranza points right behind them to Kirby lying in a foxhole firing off at the advancing NVA. "When the hell we getting out of here?" Castan yells at Kirby, who shouts back, "Where the hell we going to go? We're surrounded."

Kirby yells to Spranza, "Get Six on the horn. Tell him to hurry or we're all dead." Spranza screams into the handset to Warren, " Hurry, were being overrun!" But Warren doesn't get the transmission. Communications between Hereford and the company no longer exist. Spranza turns to the artillery frequency and repeats the message. The artillery RTO passes on the call to Warren.

The desperate cry for help prompts Warren to push the company even harder, forcing them to double time up the hill. The fast pace is murderous. Men stumble from the mud and tangled vines, pull themselves up or get pulled up by their buddies and continue moving forward only to lose their balance again. But there is no stopping them. Determined to get back to help the men on Hereford, they push even harder upward.

Overhead an OH-13 observation helicopter is circling over the battle area. Aboard is Maj. Otto Cantrell, the battalion executive officer (XO). He'd been returning from An Khe when he heard a radio call that a platoon was being overrun on Hereford. He changed course to see if he could help. Looking down, he sees scores of men near and on the LZ but can't distinguish enemy from friendly. Lt. William Fessenden, a forward observer (FO) arrives in his OH-13. "Can I bring in fire on the LZ?" he asks Cantrell. "No," answers the XO, "I don't know where our men are." With that he flies lower, hoping to find who's who. He remains undecided.

Col. Beard and Maj. Roll arrive on the scene in their command and control (C&C) Huey. They'd been listening to the radio talk between Cantrell and Fessenden. Spotting 40 or more men moving closer to the perimeter, Beard calls out "They must be the VC." "We can't be sure," responds Cantrell. He points out the swarm of attacking enemy soldiers intermingled with the mortar platoon. They decide not to fire on Hereford for fear of killing the defenders.

Kirby, seeing four enemy crawling toward his position not more than 15 feet away, tosses three hand grenades in their direction as fast as he can. The explosions stop the enemy. Castan was right, thinks Kirby, our only chance for survival is to get off the LZ. He cups his hands to bark the order when a wounded Taste suddenly drops into Kirby's foxhole having somehow gotten from the open end of the perimeter without being hit again. Kirby quickly ties a gauze dressing on Taste's two bleeding throat wounds and yells over the enemy fire, "We've got to make a break for it. Call arty in on the hill." Spranza reaches the arty net, shouting into the handset, "We're getting out of here. The place is covered with enemy. Just about everybody is dead." Kirby and Taste low crawl over to Spranza and Castan, bullets kicking up dirt around them. "We'll go over the rim in the direction the company is coming back," hollers Kirby. "Let's go." Spranza bails out of his foxhole trying to take his radio. Kirby screams, "Forget the radio. Blow it." Spranza pulls the pin of a hand grenade and throws it into the hole with the radio. The three soldiers and Castan move quickly away from the blast when they come across a wounded Spikes, armed with his M-79. Kirby and Spranza have their M-16s but very little ammunition. Castan, also wounded, has the .357 given to him by Kirby. Taste is unarmed. The five wounded men move rapidly toward the slope descending into a deep ravine to the east. Kirby, Taste, Spikes and Castan combine running, crawling and rolling down off the LZ into the elephant grass. Spranza acts as the rear guard before rolling down the hill to join them.

All five reach a small ravine surrounded by heavy vegetation when they hear the enemy coming down from the LZ looking for them. Kirby motions for the others to kneel down in the grass and stay quiet. Suspecting the Americans are hiding in the vegetation, the enemy begins beating the grass. Seven enemy in one group discover the Americans and begin firing: Kirby and Spranza return fire with their M-16s; Spikes with his M-79. Five enemy are killed. The other two crawl away wounded.

Another NVA closes in, spraying the ground around the Americans with his AK-47. Spranza takes three bullets in his right leg with one smashing into his knee cap, severing the tendon. Another bullet rips through his left leg. "I'm hit," he screams as he falls down in a heap, unable to stand. Kirby takes a bullet in his right arm. Suddenly the enemy stops advancing and firing, probably to regroup, thinks Kirby as he assesses their situation. He is losing blood from so many wounds. Spranza has difficulty moving. Spikes has taken a bullet in his shoulder but is otherwise okay. Castan is holding his own with several minor wounds. The gauze around Taste's neck is soaked with blood. Kirby tries to help but Taste takes his last breath and slips away. The men stare numbly at Taste's dead body. So much death in a small place. The reverie is broken when an NVA sticks his head through the grass. Kirby pulls out a French flare gun he found on an old battlefield, fires pointblank at the NVA's head, hitting him between the eyes. The NVA falls backward, screaming as his flesh burns away. He dies within seconds.

Hearing something behind him, Spranza spins around to defend himself when he feels what seems like a baseball bat hitting him in the head. A bullet enters his lower skull, travels through his jaw, past his mouth, and exits out his nose tearing away cartilage, teeth, tissue and skin. Eyes filled with blood, Spranza goes down, slipping into unconsciousness. In his comatose state, Spranza senses his battered body lifting above the battlefield where a bright, white light embraces him. Standing before the light are his dead buddies. He greets them with a nod as they peel away, revealing Jesus. Spranza knows he is about to be taken to heaven but he pleads, "I'm not ready to go. I have to save my buddies. I have too much life to live. I want a wife, children." As if to honor his petition, Spranza is suddenly back in his body and conscious, laying in the ditch badly wounded but still alive.

When the enemy stops firing to regroup for a final attack, Kirby tells the rest to crawl out of their position and head further down the ravine. Quietly the four men crawl, walk, and trot carefully down the slope. Miraculously Spranza keeps up. Feeling somewhat safe with the enemy 100 yards behind, they move a little faster. They continue down the wash when Spranza sees a small group of enemy coming up a trail ahead of them. Spranza signals to the rest to get down but Castan apparently does not see the warning and keeps going in an attempt to run down the ridgeline to safety. He runs straight into a group of NVA. One enemy raises his SKS Carbine, firing a single shot into Castan's head. He falls dead in the tall grass. Other NVA join in the firing, with several rounds finding their way into Spike's head. He too is dead. (A blood-covered roll of Castan's film was found a few days later following another firefight. The film was of LZ Milton.)

The NVA slowly move through the grass toward Kirby and Spranza's position. Both believe this is where they will die. Kirby is out of ammo. Spranza's rifle has jammed but he has two grenades left. Weak from loss of blood, he gives them to Kirby. Kirby tosses both into the advancing enemy. A wave of concussion from the exploding grenades smash over their heads, followed by the screams of the wounded and dying NVA. It stops the enemy's momentum, allowing Kirby to crawl out in hope of finding enemy weapons. He finds none. Weapons being so scare, the enemy pick up whatever are dropped. He returns to Spranza just as artillery rounds being pounding the LZ. The explosions are deafening and the shock waves and quaking ground cause Kirby and Spranza to pull closer to each other. The explosions also stopped the enemy from advancing.

"Let's get out of here while we can," suggests Kirby. The two move slowly up the hill but it is too much for Spranza. "Go without me. I can't move any further. I'm dying," he gasps. "No way am I leaving you alone," responds Kirby. "Go now, man. Save yourself. I've made peace with my Lord, Just go!" Kirby pats him on the head, promises to return and reluctantly crawls away.

Spranza, all alone, is bleeding profusely, growing weaker. He is close to passing out from loss of blood. With the strength he has left, he searches for a hunting knife he has tied down on his hip with a leather thong. When his bloody hand finds the knife handle, he has trouble getting it out of scabbard. He rests a bit and once again struggles getting the knife out. He is finally able to pull the knife up and hide it in his groin area. He uses the rawhide thong as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding in his right leg. He then slowly moves his hand toward his first aid kit hooked on to his web gear suspenders. The pain and loss of blood make it hard but he somehow manages to open the kit, find some gauze bandages and begins wrapping his most serious wound around his head and eye. Before he can finish, he hears the rustling of men coming toward him through the elephant grass. He grips his knife, rolls face down into the dirt and waits. He wants to take at least one more enemy with him. He also shoves the radio codebook into his crotch.

Three or four enemy slowly approach him. Trying to act dead, Spranza does not move or breathe. He smells their bodies and stale breath as they turn him over and begins searching for anything of value. They take his wallet, cigarettes, dog tags and signet ring with a large S on it. Scared to death, Spranza doesn't move a muscle, taking as shallow a breath as humanly possible. Unable to stay motionless another second, he is about to jump up with his knife when he hears a helicopter rapidly descending, spraying the ground with bullets, some so close they spatter dirt and debris in Spranza's face. Screaming frantically and yelling in high pitched voices, the Vietnamese run for cover.

Not knowing if the enemy is coming back and afraid to move, he continues to act dead. All is silent. Maybe he will survive he thinks. But hope quickly shatters a couple of minutes later when he hears someone carefully moving toward him. Spranza grips his knife a little tighter, ready for whatever is about to happen. The person stops right above the prone Spranza, reaching down to roll him over. Spranza is ready. He has his knife set to strike. Spranza feels a hand grabbing his shoulder and gently turning him over. With all the strength he can muster, he tries stabbing the unfocused figure. But the large, shadowy figure – backlight by the sunlight drifting through the trees – quickly grabs Spranza's knife hand, screaming, "Don't kill me mother fucker. It's me, Cruz, your buddy, Carlos Cruz." Charlie Company had made it back up the steep and overgrown hill. With relief at being saved combined with the last of his energy draining away, Spranza lays down his head and slips into unconsciousness.

Kirby is halfway up the slope when the friendly artillery rounds cease falling on Hereford. Uncertain what this means, Kirby keeps crawling. His many wounds are taking their toll. His will and strength are draining away but he keeps going until he is ten feet from Hereford. He looks around and sees Charlie Company troops in every foxhole. He is safe; he is alive. He tells someone where they can find Spranza (not knowing he is already safe) and slides to the ground exhausted and thankful. A medic gives him a shot of morphine and stops his bleeding.

When a wounded Stuckey comes crawling into the LZ, a medic rushes over, lays him down and treats his wounds. A medevac lands to take Kirby and Stuckey to An Khe for treatment. Spranza is carried up the hill on a stretcher made from ponchos, placed in a medevac helicopter and flown to Ah Khe. With all the wounded out, helicopters begin delivering A-2-8 reinforcement troops. All are horrorstruck at the sight of so much death and destruction. One soldier throws up.

Hearing helicopters coming in and out of Hereford, Johnson figures it's safe to return. He slowly approaches the LZ only to face the muzzle of an M-16 held by Pfc. Morgan pointed at his head. He drops into a heap out of relief.

Last to wander in is a deeply shaken Roeder. One of the platoon leaders asks Roeder to identify the bodies, all of which have been stripped of personal effects and shot in the head. He is able to name a few before the weight of the massacre takes its toll. He cannot look at another dead friend.

The monsoon rains begin pouring down from the dark sky but Roeder doesn't seem to notice, not even when a concerned solider places a poncho over his slumped shoulders.

Dream – Robert D. Wilson

HOMECOMING

Debra Anne Cook

I see no gleam of victory alluring

No chance of splendid booty or gain.

If I endure - I must go on enduring.

And my reward for pain - is pain.

Yet, though the thrill, the zest, the hope are gone

Something within me keeps me fighting on.

—Lieutenant Henry G. Lee

Philippine Division, World War II

Martha was coming. He listened to the slow, robotic shuffle her slippers made on the tile. She stopped beside him, lifted her shaky arm and held out an orange.

"This looks like a mighty fine one," he said, taking it from her. He used his pocketknife to shave the zest off the peel. It circled around the orange ball, forming curls under the blade. Martha's eyes were like two tiny planets gravitating towards a black hole as she watched each curl fall from his knife into the pot.

"Carl," she mumbled.

Will dropped the spoon and stepped back from the stove. "What'd you say?"

Martha grabbed the spoon and stirred, the jerky movements of her hand pushing the pot closer to the edge. Will stood and watched as the pot crashed onto the floor. The thick orange sauce spilling out slowly, filling the spaces between the tiles as it crept.

Carl....

* * * *

Will watched blood spilling out from the soldier's head. A blowfly hovered over the red pool. Carl ran by and grabbed him yelling, "In the hole now! Go – go – go!"

Will licked the salty sweat from his lips. I'm still alive, he thought. Explosions made it difficult to see, but he caught glimpses of Carl running towards the hole between pillars of smoke and debris, fixed his eyes on him, and ran for it . . .

* * * *

"Damn it Martha," Will snapped, He grabbed the towel from the counter and got on his knees to clean it up. She stood, frozen, staring at the overturned pot on the ground. Will glanced up and noticed the silvery strands in her damp hair.

It wasn't her fault. None of this was.

"That stuff didn't smell too good to me anyhow," he tossed the drenched towel in the sink. "How about we order pizza? Sound good?" She didn't answer as he walked towards the phone.

That night Will couldn't sleep. Through the open window the sky was clear and the moon full. He longed for a breeze but the room stayed thick and stale with humidity. His skin was sticky, he kicked the covers off.

He couldn't shake the memory of his old friends face. Why had Martha called him by Carl's name? He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled. His lungs groped for air just like being in Bataan again and he listened to a jet fly over the house.

* * * *

Will shaded his eyes and looked up. Men ran past him towards the plane. Carl slapped Will's arm and yelled, "See Will, I told ya they wouldn't forget us."

Will had been lost in thoughts of Martha, Carl's girl. Many times he'd spied Carl, cupping her picture in his hand, his eyes absorbing every inch of her face. Will spent a lot of time thinking about that picture.

The plane was a propaganda bomber, the first of daily flights dropping packages for the troops. The Japanese dropped bundles with pictures of naked women, letters encouraging them to surrender and tickets for armistice to trade for their freedom.

Through the trees he watched as the men laughed and passed pamphlets back and forth. He pulled a branch he'd found earlier from his pocket, the perfect size to form into something new.

Carl ran back over to Will, "Look what I got for you Willy, a picture of your very own." He handed Will a picture of a blonde stripper. "Pretty nice, huh?" Carl laughed, "Have a few of my own too." Will watched him pat his top pocket. He wondered what Martha would think. He looked down at his picture and put it in his pocket.

"Now these we can use to wipe our asses with." He handed Will a ticket to armistice. The words printed on it said, "Use this ticket, save your life, you will be kindly treated."

"They expect us to buy this shit, can you believe that?"

Will shrugged as he kept his eyes on the note. "You think there's any chance they mean this Carl?"

"Don't be naïve Willy boy, they don't intend to give us freedom...."

* * * *

Will lay on his side watching Martha breathe. The moonlight shone through the window making her hair look blonde again. She looked normal when she was sleeping.

* * * *

Usually Will woke up well before Martha. He opened his eyes and winced to see the suns rays hit on the empty spot where she slept. He realized he'd forgot to lock the bedroom door the night before. He reached for his glasses on the nightstand, threw off the covers and hurried after her.

He stopped at the entryway to the kitchen; she was at the stove.

"Martha?"

He watched as she stirred the eggs methodically, her eyes glazed.

"Martha. You know I do all the cooking now."

His knuckles were turning white where he gripped the edges of the entry way.

She finally looked at him.

"Come, sit down. I've made you your favorite."

The stove was still on. He walked through the door way, turned it off and sat at the table.

Putting the eggs down in front of him she smiled, "I'm so glad God brought you home to me, Carl."

Wills stomach sank. He stared down at the plate. They were scrambled like eggs in the mess hall.

* * * *

Will held his plate out eagerly for his share of food. He looked up at Carl who was standing next to him. He didn't seem anxious, he was calm and assured, as if he'd been there his whole life. "Funny," he said to Will, "you never think you could look forward to this watery crap, but I swear if I close my eyes it's my mama's home cookin'."

They sat down at the table with the other soldiers. Carl told the guys about the time he and his friends put a cherry bomb in Mrs. Cooper's, the nosey neighbor's toilet. The men hung on Carl's every word.

That night they were on watch together. It was quiet and the moon was full. Will was whittling with a stick.

Carl asked, "Whatcha making there,Willy boy?"

Will continued to whittle deep in thought. A shape was emerging from the small branch he maneuvered in his hand.

"Are you scared?" Will asked.

Carl paused "Yeah, I get scared, but I try not to think about it."

Will kept whittling the branch. Scraping, knocking, blowing on it, and brushing the dust away.

"I keep my mind on Martha." Carl took Martha's picture out of his back pocket and held it out to show Will. Will peered at the tiny, wallet sized black and white, she was beautiful.

"Hey, don't stare too long now." Carl laughed and whipped the picture back from Will's face and into his back pocket. "My Pa told me that when I'm out there, scared shitless, knowing I could die any second, I have to have something to keep me going."

Will took in each word that Carl said. He had nothing to keep him going and he was scared every damn day, every moment. He closed his eyes and kept Martha's picture in his mind. He hoped Carl would show it to him again.

"You're really working on that thing. What is it?"

Will just kept whittling. "You get any letters from her?"

"I got better than that," Carl took a small dog eared booklet from his pocket, "She gave it to me before I left." Will continued whittling while Carl read him entry after entry of Martha's diary.

After Carl was done reading, both boys sat quiet. Will closed his palm around the carved figure, folded his knife and put it away. "Here. This is for you." He gave Carl the small object.

"Hey Willy, this is good. You could make money for these. What else can you make?"

Will began searching for another branch on the ground. He heard Carl's question, but he didn't want to talk anymore. He wanted to think about Martha. The words from her diary filled him and for a moment he wasn't scared anymore....

"Carl, aren't you going to eat your eggs?" Martha was standing beside Will. Her hand lay heavy on his shoulder, but he didn't look up. He continued staring at his eggs, the fork in his hand poised over the soupy pile. He was tired of being called Carl, he was tired of thinking about Carl, he was tired of Martha, her listless eyes and her frayed dressing gown. He banged his fist on the table making the eggs jump, "I'm not Carl. I am Will. Call me Will." He squeezed his fork and looked up into her eyes.

"Don't you like your eggs?"

Just then the back door to the kitchen opened. It was Marina, Martha's caretaker. She came over on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays so Will could have some time to get errands done and whittle in his workshop.

"I'm going for a walk." He pushed his chair back and slammed the door, happy to escape the clutches of Carl for the first time in two days.

The weight of the stifling heat made his head throb. He walked up the street, only able to breathe in the occasional breeze that swept through the trees. The hissing sound of Katydids filled the space around him. He was sure he loved Katydids at one time in his life, but he couldn't remember that far back anymore. Now all he remembered was marching through Bataan in the tropical humidity. Swallowed by the song of the Katydids, it took him back there, back to that place in line, back to where he hadn't been in nearly 55 years....

* * * *

Will walked in sync, sandwiched with the rest of the soldiers— McAllister in front, Carl behind. His feet were heavy and hard to lift off the ground, the hot dirt beneath his soles caked through the hole on the front of his boot. It kept him awake.

I'm still alive.

He looked up through the cracks in the palms above. The sun's glare hurt his eyes. Exhausted, and lost in thoughts of Martha, how cool her pale skin would be to rest his head on, all of her prayers caused him to lose his balance and fall out of line.

"Will," Carl muttered under his breath, "get a hold of yourself Will, you're gonna get us all killed."

"I need water," Will rasped.

One of the soldiers in charge of keeping the men in line stopped, turned and walked towards Will. His dragon eyes poised to spit fire. The men knew that drawing any attention to them was sure to cause sudden death. They'd seen it happen.

The Soldier stopped, crossed his arms and watched the soldiers march. He sized each one up, looking for a reason to wield his bayonet. His eyes halted on Will.

"To-mare!" the Jap shouted, putting his hand up to signal everyone in line to stop.

The line stopped and Will stumbled. He grappled for Martha in his mind. The soldier slowly walked towards him until he was so close that the overpowering smell of garlic stung Will's lips.

"You talk boy?"

Between each breath Will gasped, "Water."

The Jap clenched the back of Will's neck, pulled and threw him down next to the line. "On your knees."

Another soldier came and held Will's hair with one hand and his hands behind his back with the other.

The Jap unzipped his pants and relieved himself on Will's face. Will locked his lips and tried to fling his head to the side. The hot urine sprayed him and burnt his nose.

It stank of garlic too.

The soldier dragged him up and pushed him back in line. The Jap zipped his pants up, hoisted his rifle on his shoulder and hollered.

The men began to march again.

The smell of urine on Will's face was too much to bear. He would rather die than live in this hell. A salty tear rolled down his cheek and he hoped it would wash some of the piss off.

"I can't do this anymore, Carl," he moaned

"Will— shut up. They'll kill you." Carl's' tone was sharp.

"I don't care." he cried, "We're never getting out of here alive anyway."

Again the line stopped at the call of the Jap. But this time he passed by Will and walked over to Carl. He stopped in front of him.

He motioned for another soldier to come and pull Carl out of line while he stood, legs spread a few inches apart, his hands on his bayonet. He threw Carl on the ground face first.

The soldier holding his bayonet yelled to the other soldier. Will didn't turn to look. He stared at McAllister's shirt in front of him. He couldn't hear the Katydids now. All he could hear was the scraping metal of the bayonet being removed from its sheath.

Will's cracked lips quivered. The soldier had mistaken Will's voice for Carl's. He opened his mouth but was rendered voiceless. He couldn't stop thinking of Martha and going home to her.

Carl didn't protest. He didn't even scream.

The sound of the bayonet echoed in Will's mind. It was the same sound the butcher's cleaver made when he picked up the meat for Mrs. Edgemont on Saturday mornings.

* * * *

Will looked up to see he'd walked around the block and was almost home. He stopped at his door feeling sick with exhaustion. He put his hand on the door knob and hesitated. The breeze blew the back gate he'd left open on the side of the house and the creek caught his attention.

He went out to the garage and grabbed a piece of teak wood from the shelf, the finest and best for whittling his tiny figurines. He turned the piece over in his hands and felt the ridges in the wood. He closed his eyes and remembered the sweet smell of the Teak trees, the Philippines and the call of the birds that had lived in them.

He picked up his knife and made the first scrape on the wood. His hearing was impaired from war and age, but sometimes, in the silent stillness of his life, in the deep places he could hear things that no one else could. Whittling, he could hear the sound of the soldiers marching across the worn down pebbles of the pacific.

He cut his finger and didn't notice until he heard his blood drip on the newspaper below his bench.

He stopped and watched the tiny drops of blood drip off and soaking into the sawdust.

"You talk boy? You talk?"

"Martha...."

He closed his eyes and continued whittling, scraping, carving, feeling the blood dry as he worked. His hands stung, the wood was slippery making it hard to finish, but he continued scraping with his pocket knife until his wrinkled hand was cut in many places, he didn't stop.

The bright sun that had illuminated the room had faded to twilight. As Will continued to work, visions of his life with Martha played in his mind. He remembered coming home to her.

She had stood sobbing on her parents' lawn when he had told her about Carl.

Tears stained her yellow dress. She was so pretty, just like the picture.

"We had plans," she sniffed. "We were going to get married."

The daffodils he had bought her were wilting in her limp hand.

Will felt a short sharp ripple of anger wash over him, what was she so upset about? He was here now, God damn it, he would make everything alright. He thought about Carl patting his top pocket with the pictures of other women.

He felt like he'd swallowed a pile of rocks, but as he held her the rocks disintegrated into sand.

* * * *

Finally he stopped.

He looked down at the transformed teak, bloody from his wounds and smeared with dust.

He whistled and walked to the sink to wash it off.

This one was for Martha.

Will walked in the door to find Martha staring out the window. He gently took both her arms with his hands. His voice cracked, "It's me Martha. Will. The one you married?" His eyes pleaded with hers. "The one who gave you everything— the one who gave his life to you?" His hands tightened around her arms. "It's me, Will, the one who was willing to sacrifice everything Martha. Everything. Do you hear me? Martha, I need you to hear me."

Now he was bent down, eye level, two inches from her face, his hands tightened more and he felt the bones in her arms, "You didn't even know Carl but six months before the war. That's all. He was nothing to you. I have been everything."

He wrapped his arms around her small, frail body, held her against him and cried guttural sobs that men shouldn't. "Martha, Carl isn't here anymore. I'm sorry he's not here. I need for you to hear me, Martha"

Martha pulled away from him. She looked into his eyes and for a moment the mist cleared "I can hear you Will, I'm not deaf."

"Martha!" He held her face in his hands, beholding the breathing image burnt in his memory from so long ago.

He fumbled around in his pocket and his hand clasped the tiny figurine,

"Martha, there's something I want to give you."

SCANDAL IN FALONSTOWN

Patrick Cook

Nothing ever happens in Falonstown. I know that's been said before, usually about some place where, under the calm surface, an amazing number of social intrigues or passion crimes are going on all the time. "Quiet Neighborhood Shocked"; "Small Town Rocked by Revelations" —that sort of thing. Well, very little shocks and nothing rocks Falonstown.

The soybean crop varies from year to year, giving us something to talk about, as does the weather. We also discuss auto maintenance and home repair, sometimes passionately. I could tell you about my problems with the roof over my breakfast nook, which I have had fixed by four professional roofers, not to mention all the times I've been up there myself. It still stains the ceiling every time it— well, you get the drift.

This is why it was something of a surprise when Dan Patterson sat next to me at the counter of the doughnut shop and spoke before he even ordered coffee. This is not Dan's way. He sits until Sarah brings him a cup of coffee and a bear claw, takes one bite of the bear claw, one sip of coffee, and then talks.

Dan was agitated. "I can't believe this," he said. "I cannot believe it."

I don't have a ritual at the doughnut shop. I speak when spoken to. "Now what, Dan?"

"They're taking the flags out of the cemetery, is what. Vandals are removing the flags."

"What flags?"

"Those little flags for the veterans."

"Oh. Right. Who would do that?"

"I don't know. We should damn sure find out, though. This is an insult to every man who served in the Armed Forces in the history of Falonstown. A damn insult. I'll tell you what I'd do if I caught them..."

Luckily Sarah brought his bear claw and coffee right then, and interrupted his tirade. He thanked her, and continued in a lower tone. "Bob Casey told me about it just now, out on the street. Twenty flags, all gone."

"When did it happen?"

"Bob didn't know. They were there last week, he thinks. But they're all gone now."

I was not as worked up as Dan. I patted him on the shoulder, told him I was sure the flags would be found, and went over to my store. Well, mine and my brother's. He was taking the day off.

The missing flags were quite the topic of conversation all day long. Most of the people blamed "the kids," not that they had any proof, or even any grounds for suspicion. It was just that no one could imagine any adult doing a thing like that.

When school let out, the kids talked about it too. They stop in for snacks I keep on the counter. Their attempts to solve the mystery were no more help than their parents' had been. Most of the kids blamed people from another town, trying to start trouble.

I listened for the next few days and still heard nothing suspicious. Everyone seemed genuinely bewildered. Dan Patterson went from bewildered to something else. He limped into the store a couple of days after I'd talked to him, even madder than he was before.

"I'm telling you, Francis. I'm going to set up a watch. I'm going to do some surveillance on these dirtbags. I'm going to get them on video—"

"Hold on. Hold on a second. What dirtbags?" Actually, "dirtbag" isn't a term we use in Falonstown. Dan had been watching cop shows on television.

"These damn kids have stolen the flags again. Bob Casey and I put up new ones the day after they disappeared, and now they're gone again. They have no respect for anything."

The idea of Dan Patterson setting up a surveillance camera in the cemetery seemed laughable to me. Here was a man who couldn't plug in a set of stereo speakers without the help of two teenage boys.

I didn't reckon with the tide of public opinion. Simply by going around town with his indignation on display, Dan gathered a lot of support. He also gathered electronic equipment and expertise, not all of it teenaged. By the end of the week, he had cameras on two different parts of the cemetery, plus an infrared night-vision at the gate, and a video recorder with a twenty-four hour DVD in it.

The tide of public opinion had an undertow. Virginia Allison came in, on the heels of Dan's technological triumph, looking like she smelled something that wasn't fresh. "Lot of fuss," she said, without preface.

"Lot of fuss about what?"

"Oh, Dan Patterson and his flags. Good Lord."

"It's important to him, Miss Allison."

"Well, fine. Let it be important to him. Why does he have to make everybody else suffer? For a bunch of flags? We're not all quite as nutty as Mr. Patterson about this."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't quite get her point. Did she want us all to laugh along with the prank? A bunch of dead soldiers got their flags stolen. That's a good one.

"A lot of people around here have worked hard all their lives, and died without any fanfare. They deserve a mark on their graves, too," Miss Allison said.

I looked at her. She was twenty-five years older than I was. Dan and I had been in her second grade class back in the fifties, when she was a new teacher. She'd been retired for years.

"Miss Allison. Do you know how Dan got wounded in Vietnam?"

"I know he limps. Why?"

"He pulled his Master Sergeant out of a helo that was on fire. The North Vietnamese were shelling the landing zone at the time, but Dan got the guy to safety. Losing his foot, by the way."

"That's wonderful. So now he lives on that for the rest of his life?"

Dan Patterson's timing couldn't have been worse. He shuffled through the door dressed in his hunting camo and Marine Corps baseball hat, with a DVD in his hand. Miss Allison looked at him sharply.

"What have you got there?" I said. "John Wayne movie?"

"No, it ain't a movie. This is a tape of the cemetery. I got a whole day here. Twenty-four hours. And guess what? A couple more flags are missing. I bet we got them here."

"Got who here?" said Miss Allison.

"The thieves. The people who stole the veteran's flags."

Miss Allison said, "Isn't that going a little far, Mr. Patterson?"

"No, it isn't. There's going to be a little respect around here. This business of taking the flags is going to stop."

"Respect. That's a good one, coming from you. You never respected anything in your life."

"Oh. Well, excuse me ma'am. I didn't think you'd remember when I glued all the pages of the teacher's manual together..."

"I remember a lot more than that. The memorial stone that you browbeat everybody into buying, back in the 'eighties. That money could have gone for library books, but no. You should get off your high horse about the veterans. Lord. A lot of people deserve some respect around here, and not just after they've died. Peace-loving people."

"Well, then we'll give them a nice peace flag. A white chicken on a field of blue. I remember a few things too. Your letters to the editor every time there was some kind of military action. 'Can't we try to negoootiate?'"

Miss Allison gave him a disgusted look and turned to me "Do you have any stove bolts?" she said.

"Yes ma'am. What size?"

After she left, Dan said he was going to review the DVD that night. He threw in an offer of beer, too, so I showed up at his house. We drank as the infrared tape ran. The picture of a greenish cemetery gate and a stone bench for an hour and a half was not my idea of viewing pleasure.

"Old bitch." Dan said.

"Who?"

"Old Lady Allison. Who does she think she is? We've got a right to some respect around here, too."

"I don't know. I think she just wants the respect spread around a little more."

"Bullshit. She goes on and on with her 'peace loving people' like she's Jane goddamn Fonda."

"That woman taught second grade for over thirty years in this town. Do you know every kid in her class could read by May? Every one of those years? Including you?"

"Yeah, she was a great teacher. Still a pain."

Dan turned on the radio. The Tigers were losing to the Red Sox.

After a while a couple walked in to the cemetery and sat on the bench. The infrared camera was pretty good. I could see that it was two high school kids, Marybelle Williams and Victor Parnell. They started kissing, moving their hands around on each other's backs. Marybelle put up a pretty good struggle, but Victor finally got to first base. That was better than the Tigers did.

Neither of them took any flags and no one else came to the cemetery, so Dan put it on fast forward. We saw the whole night and there were no further visits to the cemetery.

Then the daytime tapes came on, with their more expansive coverage. The cameras switched view every five minutes, first the south slope of the cemetery, then the north. Still pretty boring. There were no couples to liven things up, either. Suddenly there was a movement in one corner of the screen. Dan backed the tape up, but it was impossible to tell what it was. A small dog, a woodchuck, a chipmunk. We watched with more attention and were finally rewarded. We saw a squirrel, and he had a flag in his mouth. Dan had his suspect at last.

A thorough search of the cemetery turned up a hollow tree with twenty-five flags crumpled up inside it. The squirrels had ripped them off the little sticks, which were under the flags. Our national symbol had become a cozy nest.

Dan thought about that for a week, and by the time I caught up with him again, he had it in for the squirrels. There he was at the coffee shop, with his bear claw pastry, and a box at his feet. "What's up, there, buddy," I said.

"Fix those squirrels, is what."

"How you going to fix them? Trap?"

"Nah. Got a pellet gun now. Right from Germany." He showed me the box. It had all the specs right on it. "That'll take care of the little buggers."

"Jeez, Dan. Why'd you get a pellet gun? Shotgun would be better."

"Yeah, it would. But they won't let you discharge a shotgun in the cemetery. Town regulations. This will do the job, all right."

I went to the cemetery with Dan and walked around while he set up a sniper's nest behind some bushes. I visited the monument to the five boys Falonstown lost at Shiloh. I also saw the grave markers for men who died at Chateau-Thierry, Iwo Jima and Chosin Reservoir. There was my friend Tommy's grave, who was killed in the A Shau valley in '68. Our latest is Bill Maloney, who died at Fallujah. I didn't want to get in Dan's line of fire, so I left.

Next day at the coffee shop, Dan sat in silence. "What's up, there, pal?" I asked. "Did you get any of the squirrels?"

"I killed four of them before the sheriff showed up. Look at the ticket he gave me. Took my gun, too. How do you like that?"

The ticket indicated that Dan had violated the law regarding the discharge of firearms within city limits. Apparently compressed air counts as fire in Falonstown. Dan said, "Three guesses who reported me."

I was right the first time.

HARRY ON THE BACK DOCKS

Gentle Culpepper

The light watches Harry. He is blind to it. Harry always stares at his past. It pisses him off. He has the mind of a genius, the face of a train wreck. He walks the post office screaming to himself how he is gonna smoke crack when he gets off work. Harry, the creature, lives downtown in a smelly hotel room on skid row. He can pee on himself at will. Jimmy, a new friend smokes a filtered cigarette. They both walk the steps to work. It is 6 a.m. when Clara, a brand new Christian, asks Harry to clean up the women's restroom. He is a custodian.

"Leave me alone woman. I hate women."

"Don't disturb me."

Jimmy stares at him, works with him. Jimmy is a nice man. He is thirty, grows flowers in his window, drinks good liquor, scratches his ass in the sunshine. He smokes weed from corncob pipe, takes care of his girlfriend's baby.

Harry tells war stories about a war he was never in. He lies

"Yes, brothers, they put me in this raggedy plane and dropped me in the war zone.

"I was in Grenada killin' civilians left and right." Harry hears the voice. It tells him to stop lying. He is at the job. He walks into the bathroom, closes the stall door. Nobody sees him for an hour. It is Friday. His workmates, puzzled at his behavior, continue to shoot craps on the back of a small Toyota truck. Harry stands on the back dock ranting to himself. "I'm gonna buy some crack and drink some cheap wine." He walks past the gates that hold the postal workers hostage forty hours a week. "Americans are rich." He talks to no one. "My mother was a whore." The sun burnt Harry's skin while he was in the womb. His eyes are black. "Everybody is nobody." "I didn't know my mother." His skin is black. "My father was a pimp. He couldn't read." Harry finds ten dollars in the restroom. He tells no one. "Skid Row is dirty. I ride to the clean parts of town to work. The stench of my life lives in my nose. People stand in line to pass out from crack, whiskey. I don't sleep well. The skid row elves are up all night. They yell, bark at each other. The people in L.A. come from all over the world to be broke. My heart was in the Army." Harry comes out of the restroom. His hands are clean. Jimmy lights a cigarette. It is still filtered. The streets walk by people staring at themselves. Harry talks to Jimmy. A tiny dog sniffs a sickly tree.

"My heart was in the army. It was my family. It knew where it was at all times. I wanted to be a soldier when I was a kid. I was a John Wayne boy. I took all these tests. The army tested me for two days. I drank coffee and dreamed of a slow death. I saw myself walking through the bush stalking the enemy. I wanted to be infantry. The results of the test said I couldn't carry a gun. I sat in this room. There were pictures of dead soldiers hanging on the wall. Their names were written in gold on the frames. PFC JOHNNIE BRIDGES KIA MAY 10, 1968 REPUBLIC OF SOUTH VIETNAM. I was proud. That's how I wanted to go out, in action, trying to kill somebody. The white officer sat behind a wooden desk with a neat stack of papers sleeping quietly. I didn't smile."

"Harry you're going to be a cook."

"I don't want to be a cook sir."

The two custodians walk to the corner of Hollywood and Prescott. Jimmy takes a small bottle of whiskey out of his pocket. He presses it to his thirsty lips. He can think clearly now. He tosses the empty bottle in the trash. They sit on the bus bench to stare at people's shoes. "Jimmy you drink too much." "Harry shut up and finish the story."

"I want to carry a gun sir."

"Soldiers marched outside the window. Their lines were straight. Hup, two, three, four, hup two, three, four. It was all music to me."

"You're going to be a cook Harry."

"I don't want to be a cook sir. A COOK

IS NOT A SOLDIER. I WANT TO CARRY

A GUN. I WANT TO KILL"

"Harry your test tells the U.S. Army it would

be a grave mistake to issue you a weapon.

There is no such thing as a gun in the army Harry

If you had a weapon you would kill someone, anyone.

You might even kill yourself. If you want to stay in

This army you will be a cook."

"They made me a cook in the army. I peeled potatoes and boiled water for five years."

"Nobody really taught me to cook anything. I got up at three o'clock every morning to empty garbage cans; wash dishes and peel potatoes. The army eats lots of potatoes."

Jimmy pulls another small bottle of liquor out of his pocket. The afternoon traffic is heavy. Toes walk by with shoes in them. Harry sneaks a drink of cheap wine from a wrinkled bag.

"Infantry walked around with their eyes straight, their chests poked out. They were soldiers. I was a lousy cook. When my time was up, I left Fort Jackson. I never forgave the army for denying me my dream. Mom was still a whore somewhere. I hoped dad was dead. The army said I was too crazy to carry a gun, weapon. I just wanted to kill the enemy whoever that was. Who am I? A shadow."

Jimmy stares at a pretty ass across the street. "Yeah Harry you're a shadow; a black fat head shadow. Now get on this bus and take your potato peelin' ass home."

Harry tucks his wrinkled bottle in his back pocket. All winos do this. The skid row bus takes off with a heavy groan. The city nurtures a huge breath of pollutants. It is time for a late lunch of weed for Jimmy.

Jimmy lives in a nice, old building. It never sleeps. A rich white man built it in the thirties. The spirits watch TV on the roof. The rain falls on wicked feet of the unworthy. The Claremont Apartments is the last stop for the elderly. Miss Mary waddles like a duck. She lives on the second floor. Miss Mary is a short brown woman who likes to take her bloomers off in a crowd. She is a retired private nurse with lots of bucks. Her living room is stuffed with thick furniture from the fifties. The old lady, well into her seventies, wouldn't have sex; she just likes to show her wide wrinkled ass to friends. She'd take Jimmy to the Spaghetti House for dinner.

The old building houses strange people: ex-cons, drug addicts, lesbians, musicians, and actors. Jimmy sits on the fire escape staring into the smoky city that he loves dearly. He wonders if Harry should live uptown in a decent apartment. He'd fit in. Jimmy didn't need a best friend. He detests closeness of any kind. Jimmy has a vision of making Harry human. The creature needs a decent place to live. Harry can afford it. The post office pays good money. The crack smoker should move out of the Row. He plays chess with people who soil their jeans. The devil sits in a tree. He wears a gray double-breasted suit at night. Harry smokes crack in the small park where men play chess and lie about what they used to have.

Jimmy knocks on Lucy's front door. He is polite. Lucy manages the building. She is a cute little woman from El Salvador. Steel ashtrays sit quietly in the lobby

Her kids, a boy, a girl are cute too. The air is quiet.

"Lucy I have a friend who needs a

place to live."

"Is he working Jimmy"?

"He works with me at the post office."

"Send him over."

Harry rents a bachelor apartment on the second floor. He has a nice view of the post office parking lot. The bachelor is one small room with a bathroom. Harry acts like it's a four-room mansion. Harry is glad to be free of the row. Jimmy still drinks liquor from those tiny plastic bottles.

"I used to stand in the soup lines. I guess I'm

somebody now, huh Jimmy?"

"No Harry; you're still an asshole. You

just have a decent place to live.'

"Oh"

"Now if you can stop smoking crack you'll

be o.k."

"I like crack Jimmy"

"You're gonna die Harry."

"I don't care, life sucks."

Harry paces the back docks of the post office. He is a wino, crack addict. He peeled potatoes in the army. Harry, blue from the toes up, is in love with hate. His foster mother kicked his ass. His parents kicked his ass by being absent. He wanted a gun. The army knows better. This psych job wasn't getting a weapon. This kid was useless as a soldier. He leaves the army. He smokes crack, drinks cheap wine.

"I don't want to live. I want to die. Life really does suck. I hate my brother. He lives in Philly. My sister has five kids out of wedlock. She ain't even twenty-five yet. She's a whore. All women are whores." Harry sits with Jimmy in that tight-assed apartment. "My foster mother wasn't real. She was made of cotton. She beat my ass all the time. I remember when I was sixteen years old she hit me so hard my eyes rolled back in my head. I could see the front of my brain. I slapped her right back. I walked out the door. She hasn't seen me since. That was years ago. Her name was Janet. We had to call her mother. I knocked her glasses off. She wore those old fashioned cat-eyed glasses. Mother was short and thick but she had these huge long hands. They hurt like hell. My brother told me she died a few years ago."

"Somebody buried that mean-ass woman. I drink my wine; smoke my weed; eat my crack. I DON'T GIVE A DAMN IF I DIE."

"Harry I'm goin' home." Jimmy lives on the fifth floor. He drinks good whiskey from a stolen glass.

* * * *

Harry visits his doctor. He takes regular check-ups. The doctor speaks to the wall. "Mr. Harry if you take one more drink you will drop dead as a nail."

Harry is sad. Jimmy sees him standing on the back dock of the post office. His eyes are watery. He is not ranting, cussing aloud about wanting to smoke crack. Harry stands still with his potbelly sticking out over his Roy Rogers belt buckle. His wrinkled shirt is post office blue. The eagle, symbol of colonialism, sits squarely on his left soldier. Time has died for this young man. Harry looks at Jimmy with crooked yellow teeth.

"Jimmy, the doctor told me if I drank another glass of wine I'll die. I can't drink anymore."

"I thought you wanted to die Harry."

"I thought I did too Jimmy, but when the doctor told me if I took one more drink I was gonna die, the real part of me that wanted to live came out. You know the part of me that really wants to live." Harry walks inside the station. Harry stares into space. The image of an ice-cold beer floats around in his busy head.

Harry doesn't own a car. He rides the bus. Satan allows him to make money. One day Harry decides to buy a motor scooter. Motor scooters are these small motorcycles you ride when you desire a painful death. Los Angeles is a city where cars are used as lethal weapons. Jimmy asked Harry if he had ridden one before. "No Jimmy, but it doesn't look too hard. You just get on the thing, shake your ass and take off."

"Maybe you better take a class Harry."

Harry yells at Jimmy. "I DON'T NEED TO TAKE A DAMN CLASS JIMMY."

Jimmy walks down to the corner of Prescott and Hollywood boulevard. He buys a garbage burrito at the taco stand. It has pinto beans, chicken and a ton of rice. Jimmy thinks Harry is the oddest man he has ever met.

Harry saves a bunch of money. He keeps it under his couch in his tiny room. He buys a shiny new motorbike. It is red. The stoplights turn red, green, yellow. Pigeons drink dirty water from the gutter. They are content. Harry is proud of his new toy. Jimmy smells Harry's joy in the air. His helmet is bigger than the scooter. Harry's huge helmet glows in the noonday sun. Motor scooter boy is speeding west on Hollywood boulevard. He isn't paying attention. His shiny new scooter crashes into a parked car. There is an old lady sitting on the driver's side smoking an unfiltered cigarette. Her face is thick with make-up. The lady's dress is 1950's style, long, wide. She had been in show business during her younger days. Harry collides with a long black 1960 Cadillac. It is a tank made of thick hard steel. Harry's scooter is crushed into a lunch box. Harry smokes a joint before he goes riding on his Italian made motorbike. He can't drink; he stops smoking crack. Marijuana is the only ride he can take to the roof. The foster kid with yellow teeth sits in his little room-smoking weed with Jimmy, his arm in a cast. It is broken in two places. He screams at the parents he never knew. "Black people are whores, scavengers. They live at the bottom of the sea eating the leftovers of the privileged. Jimmy you are an ignorant Negro. I am not a black man. I am white. I think white. Black people have always hurt me; beat me. The only people who have ever helped me in this life have been white. If I could I'd bulldoze the whole black race into a giant sinkhole. Blacks ain't worth a damn." Harry has six weeks before his arm heals. The scooter is ruined.

"I gotta go Harry." Jimmy walks out the door. He lives alone two flights up.

"I'm gonna buy me a motorcycle Jimmy." Harry's voice melts through the door that hides his twisted mind.

Jimmy walks up two flights. Mariachi music holds his hand. The moon covers the sun.

Six weeks later Harry cruises down Hollywood boulevard on a brand new Kawasaki cycle. His credit is good. He wears a helmet shaped like a German WW2 soldier. "I got a new bike Jimmy."

"I know Harry. You're gonna tear it up. A smile pushes through crooked teeth. It's 3 p.m. mid-afternoon, time for tea.

Deep Water – Robert D. Wilson

JOE AND THE CAROUSEL

Neville F. Dastoor

I took the boy to the carousel.

He was so excited and I wondered what celestial alignment was needed for me to get like that again. Whether I was ever like that, caring so much about little and simple things.

Anyway we walked to the carousel from the house to the park and I saw some new houses that came up and others that been foreclosed on and my boy's whole hand squeezed my finger. But I've unnatural large hands— overgrown tarantulas his mom calls them. Or called them. Good for fixing things. Loading things. 240 Bravos. Mk 19s. Can't think of a good reason why a fightin' man wouldn't want those hands and that's not boastin'. The boy felt the scar on the topside of my hand and looked up at me with some old eyes and asked if it hurt and he can't know the different kinds and I said not so much. Just got to let the spider stretch sometimes is all. He liked that.

He's a pretty thing. If a boy can be pretty then he is. If anything I could make could be pretty, that is. I stare at him sometimes and he looks like a messenger from some happy place where everyone has candy canes for mailboxes. I don't know. He skips. Sings funny songs about frogs in ponds and shakes his head real violent. I can't get enough it. He knows that and I think it makes him do it more. His mom doesn't like that I like it. You look at him and you see maybe why some people sit there and polish rocks. Making them smoother and smoother and such. I imagine a rock is the same through and through. But I don't know. Rodriguez polished rocks but he didn't have no kids so maybe it don't make much sense. I don't know. I think he said he'd had a lady back in the rear at Fort Hood but she might have been gettin' it in with some support unit pogue. Don't suppose it matters much now. Rodriguez said something once about the desert all being rocks at one time or other. I don't know.

The carousel has been in that park since I have. And I'd been there near my whole life. I'd spend all afternoon as a kid selecting my horse. I took it serious. I liked the big ones. The black warhorse especially with white wood blocks for teeth and veined flanks like river deltas. Big Black. There's a silver filly next to him that's smaller with its legs all curled in mid-gallop though it's missing its head now. Looked like it was snapped clean off by hands a lot bigger than mine. Like giants' hands or something. Imagine that. I'd ride the filly when I wanted to feel like I was riding fast. I'd pretend it was the feisty sidekick to Big Black always lookin' to mix it up. Like in cartoons. My cousins and I'd switch mounts sometimes during the ride and sometimes we'd get caught and the attendant'd tell us the next time would be the last time but it never was. I don't know how that thing's damn head came off. Can't imagine how, but time seems to know a lot more than me.

The boy picked Big Black right away. He went right to him and slapped the flanks and said oh man that's good. I didn't say anything but it felt nice. Then he raised his arms up without looking back at me for me to lift him. Best thing I've ever seen I think. Not brattish like, or demanding, or anything like that. Just expecting. Acknowledging that I brought him someplace good and wanting to see what it was all about. So I lifted him up and told him to hold on and he bounced on the big saddle and kept on saying cool. His bowl hair kept bouncing everywhere too. He shot his pistol hands and asked me how to shoot the bad guys. I showed him though I never shot a bad with just a pistol. I rode the filly with no head and there were some bottle caps and rust in the neck hole. The carousel hasn't worked in years, but we kept riding.

The boy wanted me to ride with him on Big Black and I was happy to. His hair is so fine. Like sand strings if that makes sense. Don't know where that came from out of me either, something so soft. He asked me where I'd be sleeping and I said in a hotel with a big bed and pool inside and he might be able to stay with me the next night. He said ask mom. I'd thought a lot about that in the desert, about coming back and sprawling out there on a hotel bed with my boy with some coloring books maybe and some cheeseburgers or cheesy curls or something and watching television or me acting like a monster or something and chasing him and him laughing. He turned out to look different than the boy I chased but different in a better way.

When night came there was nowhere else to go but back to the house. Before I'd left, I'd put the down payment down for it with the re-up money, and we had made love that first night like we were the first people to figure out where everything went. Afterwards we lay there on the hardwood and she pushed back each of my fingers and called the hands overgrown tarantula hands. We didn't know each other. Not like you should. The day I left she stood in the doorway there with my baby boy in her arms, crying with my name tattooed on her wrist and I bet already knowing her plans. Crying like she was starring in some movie. And I left because re-up money means you re-up. When it came down through the chain about what she wanted we'd been running patrols and protection for convoys for months, and I got on the phone when I could and then signed her lawyer's papers when I got them in the mail, and I gave her the house because that's my boy and he needs a house. Didn't matter who else was living there. Rodriguez said he respected that. Two days later the first shot made his neck look like meat Jell-O and the second one got my hand pressing on his neck. The hand wasn't big enough.

I put the boy down from my shoulders as we got to the house. His mother in the doorway. Some civvie inside. Computer programmer I think. The boy asked me to stretch the spider for him and I did and made a monster sound. He liked that. I told him that I would see him the next day. He said he would see me the next day too. He asked if I was going back to the beach with no water and I said yes. In two weeks. He said he knew that was fourteen days.

He ran to his mother standing in the doorway. She didn't look at me. She closed the door.

I walked back to the carousel.

BETRAYAL

Dale Day

You sit on the curb, feet atop the thick bed of ice plant. A light mist rises from the sea and the foghorn echoes back from the towering hills on the other side of the inlet to San Francisco Bay. The giant stair steps of units housing four two-story apartments cover the hillside behind you. You stare at the spot not for away. The spot where you buried Chloe, the adventurous Siamese cat whose nightly hunting foray was cut short by a monster on four wheels.

What would it be like to join her? To share her peace?

You don't want to turn around. You will only see a place of betrayal. Another of many.

It would be so easy to stand and walk forward to the edge. A steep drop of a hundred feet or so to the rocks. Nobody would find you until morning. The pain of bleeding out would be terrible. But, could it be more so than the pain you've frequently felt these past few years?

If only she...

Or, is it really— if only you'd been a man? A man who could remove whatever evil inhabits her to make her do the things she does?

C'mon now. You knew it from the beginning. The way you met. The way she wrung the promise out of you when you knew it was wrong. Your own lack of common sense. And then...

You went to her home and saw the little girl lying in her crib. She looked up at you and put a lock on your heart. You picked her up and held her, feeling something you'd dreamed all your life. Could you turn your back on the child? Or, her mother? Could you walk away from this little girl who looked at you with wonder?

You married Lizabeth as much as you married her mother.

Life was good— at first.

Her parents, or her foster parents, were old-fashioned Bible Belt farmers. You met her birth parents and they too were seemingly decent people. And, her brother was a common sense kinda guy with a good job. You heard the problems but none of it seemed out of the ordinary.

The alarms should've sounded the first time you asked about the possibility of doing what filled your heart, adopting Lizabeth as your own. The father was somewhere and Wilma was certain he wouldn't approve of you adopting his daughter.

Yeah. What would he care if he wasn't in her life and hadn't been since her birth?

The closure of the battalion and assignment to a school on the West Coast brought smiles to your faces. A far change from being in the middle of the country with all the storms and tornadoes. The little girl sat in the front seat of the car between you and her mother, delighted with the passing miles. The military was efficient and your things arrived soon after you did. You had a furnished duplex to live in. The school hours were long but you found every possible chance to be with your family. The wages weren't great but, to you, things seemed far better than before.

But, there were some signs of dissatisfaction you either didn't see or simply ignored.

There were lots of things to do when you weren't in class. For most of them, you took your daughter along. That left Wilma at home but she didn't seem to mind. She actually came along a lot of the times. There was lots of sightseeing to do.

The school ended and you were sent to the far side of the country. The idea was to send you through another school but that got short-circuited. You were given a job you didn't want. But, you were close to the nation's capitol and often took your wife and daughter there.

However, the coldness of your marriage bed filled your thoughts. What did you do or fail to do to bring it about? Had it not really been there from the start? Did you not provide enough warmth to thaw her heart? Did you fail to show the proper manners to help her understand she was no longer in the past? You learned her foster parents had treated her and her brother most cruelly in their effort to bring the little half-breeds to the civilized, Christian world. Could you not show her that world was behind her?

You found ways to divert yourself when you weren't at work. Some of them involved Lizabeth. She clearly loved you and gave you something her mother didn't. You also found ways to keep your mind away from your problems at home by playing Tournament Bridge. Those you met were nothing more than others seeking to win at a very difficult game.

Not once did you seek another to share a bed with. You had vowed to be faithful. You had seen those you thought to be your parents separate and divorce. You were not going to let that happen to you.

It soon became clear the additional school was to be denied. The demands of a conflict far away in the land of rice paddies increased daily and your number came. There was little choice but to take your family back to where their family lived. The parting with your daughter was sorrowful, that with your wife a bit on the cool side. "I will write to you, Daddy. Mommy says she'll help me."

That put some warmth into your soul.

The flight passed endlessly. Stops to refuel before your descent into the war-torn land so far away. The damp heat hit you in the face. Then, as you passed poor huts pressed together, the smell of too many people living in unsanitary conditions filled your nostrils. Another, shorter flight, took you to your new place and you settled in. The letters already written went into the mailbox and were followed daily by more.

A month passed with no response. Then another. The letters dwindled from daily to twice weekly and finally weekly. A move came about and you hoped the lack of mail came from going to a new place. Even letters to her foster parents and brother went unanswered. At last, when you got a chance, you found a way to phone, hearing her foster father's voice on the other end saying he didn't know where she was or how to reach her. At least her brother answered and in a terse manner repeated what you'd already heard.

The sadness and sense of loss finally got to you and you found yourself seated in a bar next to a girl who seemed more than willing to take your mind from your problems.

Another betrayal followed. By you. A betrayal of your marital vows. Everything was as you dreamed of in the lonely hours when you'd eased the ache down below by yourself. Even more so. A willingness to eagerly do whatever pleased you.

But, it was hollow. A guilt-filled pastime. The time came when you could no longer live that way and you turned your back.

A little over ten months later, you receive a notice from the Red Cross that your wife was in a hospital in serious condition, struggling to give birth to a child. Would you please fine a way to come home? The army complied, relieving you early of your tour of duty and arranging to get you back there.

You sat in a window seat and glanced out as the aircraft rushed down the runway, fighting to gain altitude. You saw blossoms of fire and smoke and understood the airport was under attack. When you reached the first refueling stop, television accounts indicated a Viet Cong attack. The news was even direr when you reached the second refueling point. What had happened to your buddies and co-workers? Were they okay?

You later learned two of them were killed and dozens injured. Another reason to fill you with guilt. You abandoned them to respond to a woman who, in spite of the lame stories you'd been given, had clearly betrayed you once again. The brightest part of your arrival was the young girl rushing into your arms, screaming your name. Her mother smiled but only gives a light peck, immediately launching into a contrived story you couldn't believe.

The baby was surgically delivered and, after some intense medical care, declared healthy. There was no doubt of her being given up for adoption so you only saw her red, wrinkled face through a glass window.

Your leave time gave out and, with a newly purchased car, you set out for your next assignment, this time on the old Spanish presidio of San Francisco. Your wife stayed in the back seat, resting and napping while your daughter sat up front, chattering and watching the world go by. While she never said anything directly, you learned she'd spent most of her time living with her real grandparents and didn't see her mother all that often.

You reached the new assignment and moved into temporary quarters in a secluded valley across the bay. It was rough but kind nice, close to a deserted beach where you and Lizabeth could take long walks on the beach and explore the tide pools.

While the marital bed was as cold as ever, at least she had the excuse of healing from surgery. You moved into a lovely old house surrounded by towering pines, sharing half with another family. Your work was okay and, as you'd received a promotion for your efforts far across the sea, you no longer had to jump at everything someone else told you to do. In many ways, you were your own boss.

A horrible analogy. You earned success and commendations in your work and had none at home.

Life became less stressful as she seemed to no longer have a desire to repeat previous acts of betrayal. You found diversions such as bowling, playing golf with Lizabeth coming along, going to watch Roller Derby that they very much enjoyed and even professional Wrestling.

Then, came the time to move again. An opening existed for someone of your expertise who spoke German and you were selected. Your family would be able to go with you due to your rank. But, they would have to wait until you got settled in and had suitable housing. Once again you packed up and took them home, this time to stay with her natural parents as her foster parents had turned their backs on her. You arrived overseas to find the job put you in high circles, working for the chief of staff of an infantry division. As it turned out, housing became available sooner than expected.

The biggest surprise was that she returned your letters. And, when you gave her the information on how to ship things to where you were and how to get there, she did it! The reunion at the airport was great.

You settled in quickly and everything seemed fine— except for the same chill in the bedroom. Not that she didn't comply. Only that, afterwards, you heard the question, "Was it good for you?" A clear hint that, if it was, you were the only one.

Within six months, things deteriorated. Constant trips to the hospital emergency room for real or imagined problems. Always seeking stronger pain medications. You were called away for a two week period and, when you returned, you heard remarks you weren't supposed to hear – or perhaps were – about what a fun person your wife was. She supposedly went to a bar and restaurant where she was seen with different men. Often leaving with them. It was difficult to keep things secret on a military base.

This time, you sought the advice of a shrink. He reviewed her records and told you there was not much you were ever going to be able to do about it. He felt she had a serious disorder, giving it some big name, and would never get better unless she wanted to be treated for it. Things got worse on the medical front and doctors suspected she was using drugs other than those prescribed for her. After one particularly difficult episode, it was decided to medically return all of you back to the States.

You all flew back together on a medical flight, changing in New Jersey to continue on to San Francisco where she was checked into the hospital on the Presidio. As it turned out, there was a job for you there and, as you were on a list for yet another promotion, a place to live. You and Lizabeth quickly settled in, you got her enrolled in school and had the home ready when your wife was released.

What could you do? You'd made vows that you too had broken. You no longer had the right to be righteous and just walk away. And, what about your daughter? What would happen to her? You once again sought some way to become her legal guardian but were told that, if her mother was determined to be unfit, Lizabeth would be sent to live with either her foster or natural grandparents. If you wanted to give her a chance, what choice was there?

Things reach a horrid peak. You came home from work one day and asked Lizabeth where her mother was. She told you and you went up to the street to the neighbor's house. She opened the door for you wearing a bathrobe. When you asked where your wife was, she invited you in and pointed to the living room.

You gasped in horror! Then rage. There on the sofa was your unclad wife doing to the woman's husband what she had never done to you. Ever! Before you could react, the woman took your hand and pulled you away. You stared in disbelief as her robe lay on the floor showing she wore nothing underneath. She led you to the bedroom, quickly helped you out of your clothes and did to you what your wife did to her husband.

And, you reacted. In spite of the anger, the shame, the guilt, long burning needs swept over you and you responded. All the while, you could not erase what you'd seen. The confirmation of all the asides and whispers.

When it was over – most unsatisfactorily – you dressed and went to the front door. Your wife was gone and the man sat on the sofa in a robe, smoking a cigarette and cheerfully waving at you.

She was in the kitchen, cooking dinner as if nothing had happened. As Lizabeth was present, doing her homework, there was nothing you could say. Or do. You'd calmed down by then and struggled to find an answer to what your future held. She said absolutely nothing about any of it. And, as she had for some time, slept on the sofa once you'd gone to bed.

But, more was to come.

Loud pounding at the front door awakened you from a deep sleep. Sliding your feet into your slippers and putting on your robe, you went downstairs, noting a light on in Elizabeth's room. You opened the door to find two military policemen standing there. "Get dressed! You're coming with us."

They wouldn't tell you why. One officer went upstairs while you dressed, the other staying downstairs. The neighbor showed up and got Lizabeth dressed, taking her to her place. It was only in the patrol car – they didn't handcuff you at least – that you were told your wife was in the hospital emergency room, suffering severe cuts and bruises.

"She said you did it."

You tried to protest that you'd been sound asleep in bed but that did no good. You were booked in, photographed, told the charges, given jail clothes and informed you had one phone call. Who else could you call but your direct boss? He listened, said he'd look into it and get back to you in the morning.

You picked at breakfast when the colonel arrived. He arranged for your release and listened to your side of the story. He promised to look into it and took you home, No one was there. You quickly dressed for work and left.

"Someone called me and told me that you did not beat your wife as she accused you. She told me where and how it happened but I'll leave that up to you to discuss with your wife." Your boss then told you he thought you should be very careful about the situation. "Do not let this destroy a most promising career. You can go far if you take care of this. I suggest you find a lawyer and look into a divorce."

You had no doubt that he was right.

But, what about Lizabeth?

Fate stepped in. You'd done such a good job at a program nobody thought could work that you were going to be moved up to headquarters in Washington. Your wife just shrugged and accepted that you would take her home and not on with you. You didn't tell Lizabeth.

The girl sensed this would be your last trip together. Although she sat up front with you, you were quiet, her mother in the back seat. Your farewell to her mother was cold and unemotional. You held your daughter tight and cried, knowing you'd probably never see one another again.

You drove away, trying not to stare into the rear view mirror.

* * * *

Was that the end? Not quite.

The divorce paperwork was easy and within a couple of months, you learned it was just a matter of a judge completing the paperwork. You had found a girlfriend who provided what you had lacked for almost ten years. You had a convenient relationship.

And then a letter came. It was from Lizabeth. She had a two-week school vacation coming up and wanted to visit you. It was okay with her mother. You bought bus tickets so she could pick them out there. The day and time came and you waited at the bus depot for hours.

She stepped off the bus and something clutched your heart. You never saw anybody as beautiful. She ran into your arms and chattered all the way as you drove to your sparse apartment. You arranged for her to sleep in the bedroom while you slept on the sofa.

She met your girlfriend and seemed okay with her. Your girlfriend wasn't that okay with her but you expected that.

A few days before she was due to depart, your final divorce decree arrived in the mail. Your girlfriend held a small party and, like a fool, you drank too much. You left the house in a daze to stumble through several patched of brambles and rose bushes. Lizabeth helped your girlfriend clean you up.

You watched her step on the bus knowing that this time would truly be the final time you would see her. You watched as she waved from the window, your vision blurred with tears.

It was the final betrayal. Your failure to find some way to give her a happy, stable life. Something you've carried deep in your heart every day since.

TENT CITY

That beloved incarnation was among matter's possibilities.

—William James

Sally Drumm

Every war zone has a tent city, or several, a canvas-stinking mass of housing for troops to stash their trash, to sleep, to eat, to rest, argue, unwind, to cry. The officers are there, too, planning, manipulating, controlling, preparing to save the day and the mission, day after day. Doctors, nurses, corpsmen, cooks, messmen, engineers— all of them live in Tent City, and all of them build it. From the moment the cargo boxes hit the deck, Tent City is a beehive, an anthill, a maze of noise, tools, equipment, canvas, flesh, and sweat. It is a city like any other, and yet, it is unlike any city in the Real World— it is that space between heart, mind and action where war is planned and how to kill is mealtime discussion, where all are chained together watching the other die.

A war zone. Anyplace, Earth. Evening, all hands unwinding in the many tents that compose this particular city, among them in this ending day of one more war are The Poker Tent, The Officers Tent, The Party Tent, The Mess Tent, and The Tent of Pain. In each, bare bulbs hang from a strand of wire bringing power and light into darkness. Among these tents, Chaplain Damian roams as darkness falls. A priest, a military chaplain, he is peacemaker among warmakers.

In the peace of this moment on the far horizon, blood-orange clouds crash over red sand. The evening colors detail marches to the flagpole. "Taps" sound as the flag is lowered. "Tattoo" springs rays of pink and red slashing across sapphire sky, highlighting the five sets of rifles, boots, and helmets standing tall in the quarterdeck before the flagpole. Day melts into evening. Tent City is perfectly still in this violet moment of seasonless warfare. The world comes to a halt for the earth's about face. In the stillness of this moment, the thoughts of each citizen are filled with the knowing of the void of five empty pairs of boots and five empty helmets posted upon the eternity of the silenced rifleman.

One member of the three-person colors detail shouts, "Carry on!", and the detail marches away.

Tent city comes alive the moment the ceremony ends. Lights come on in the Poker Tent, where conversation resumes as though it never stopped, intensifies to argument, and argument intensifies to violence. One player lunges for another across the table, as though a moment of terror and pain will erase the memory of empty boots, empty helmets, silenced rifles.

A jet-like sound grows closer. The strings of bulbs illuminating this canvas city begin to flicker.

Blackout in Tent City coincides with a mortar hit beyond the darkling horizon.

In response to mortar's impact, each tent erupts in its unique face-the-fear-or-die manner: The Poker Tent is all bravado and war hoops. The Party Tent is all concert whoops & whistles. The Mess Tent is a mass of rattling, banging pots. In The Officers Tent, rules are followed— hit the deck without a sound, dive under cots, hang on for dear life. In all except The Tent of Pain, there is action at this moment of heavy steel meeting earth to create a void. In the now flickering light of The Tent of Pain, the Unknown Soldier lies in a cot, alone, sometimes sobbing, sometimes screaming or moaning, sometimes silent.

Life goes on in the twilight of the unknown, reveling in all the glory of a full house.

Only Gunny K and the chaplain roam the dead space between tents while the mortars crash to earth, each barrage closing in on Tent City. Sipping from a flask, Gunny K stands beside The Officers Tent. The chaplain makes his rounds, popping his head into each tent, checking, offering prayer, ignoring the booze in The Party Tent, turning away from the anger in The Poker Tent.

In The Officers Tent, the wheel is being recreated moment by moment. Colonel Columbus, the commanding officer, despises being placed in this position from which he can neither end nor alleviate the problems he encounters. As a result of his inability to change the course of human events, he has made a vow to speak only in quotes from Shakespeare, to issue orders and immediately revoke said orders only through his mouthpiece, Gunny K. Colonel Columbus spends his breathing moments creating pointless strategies based upon his intellectual symbiosis of fairy tales, Arabian Nights, and Huck Finn's exploits. The troops refer to the Colonel as "Columbo, The Great Explorer." Gunny K addresses as him only as "Sir," with a sneer, the way she addresses all officers.

Major Barnum, The Great Explorer's second-in-command, a Naval Academy grad, who knows he's a far better officer than Columbus, also knows Columbus has lost control, but he and Lieutenant Decante are unsure what to do about it. Should they report him? Who would believe them?

Lieutenant Decante, educated through a college ROTC program, the unit's administrative officer, is secretly carrying on an affair with the chief mess cook. Decante is sick and tired of women's inequality and of keeping her mouth shut about it. Do or Die or Fuck. She still loves to fuck and there isn't a reason in the world she would want to report Columbo. That would only draw unwanted attention on the unit, putting an end to her private war party: Fuck the world and everything they got to say about it, fuck that, too.

The flickering-on of light that follows the blackout is as deafening as the sensation of joy mixed with fear upon awakening from a nightmare. A woman warrior in The Poker Tent blinks and watches the spark of light move across a page in the Book of Life she is reading. The light is followed always by the shadow of knowledge that this night shall bring more of the same to bear upon those souls embedded in Tent City.

So it goes in Tent City moment-by-moment, day-by-day, night-by-night, war-by-war, as if war itself were saying, "Be still and know that I am." And, as in any moment in the Book of Life, the Truth upon Her pages is never as She appears in the dry deception of thoughtful reflection. For the mind can never see its own true face. The reflection seen in this mirror of lightness and dark is only a stroke of the brush on a once empty spot on the stuff of life. Today is merely a stroke of the pen on a once empty page in the Book of Time, a book written in the hand of Time on the face of Time that is every Then and When at once, a face without lines made of lines, one of many points of departure without end expanding and encompassing All At Once in Nature's fire, the fire burning out-from-Nature into no thing and every thing with a flame of infinite shape cleansing as it goes, burning pure, shifting and penetrable like the great dunes and sinkholes and blackholes adopting the shapes that find them traced on a map of the map of the map of all that has ever existed of all that exists of all that has yet to exist.

The Party Tent comes alive as the lights stop flickering, as if to signal all danger has finally passed. As if. Here, in The Party Tent, the children of the middle class, the offspring of impoverished worker and welfare mother, these foster children and half-baked lunatics hoping for salvation, these children of the economic wars who have enlisted in the military because of either inbred patriotism or to pay for an education in hopes of realizing the American Dream by finding a better way of life, are using the old standbys, contraband booze and dope and heavy metal, to escape the nightmare of war they cannot awaken from. The tent is constantly swelling as more rats enter the maze.

In the Mess Tent, men and women are striving to understand each other— just to put another meal on the table. They rarely speak. Their lives are lived in mime choreographed as "Dances with Spoons," a FlashMob parody of Robert Burns' "Green Grow the Rashes, O"!

Green grow the rashes, O;

Green grow the rashes, O;

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

Are spent amang the lasses, O.

There's nought but care on ev'ry han',

In ev'ry hour that passes, O:

What signifies the life o' man,

An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.

Green grow the rashes, O;

Green grow the rashes, O;

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

Are spent amang the lasses, O.

These tents of the city, each with one side open to form a door into the uncontrollable elements, rise like sentinels before the flagpole and its five empty helmets, empty pairs of boots, and silent rifles. An agonized scream rises like smoke from The Tent of Pain. A distant mortar barrage answers in kind. Lights strobe in the tents, and the chaos within each tent is obvious: those inside The Poker Tent leap and shout war cries; those inside The Officers Tent hit the deck or dive under a field desk or a cot; those in The Party Tent let loose as if they're at a concert, riffing one-liners; and, in The Mess Tent, cooks bang pots instead of drums and use lids as cymbals.

In The Tent of Pain, the Unknown Soldier rolls in a cot and mumbles poignant syllables of angst.

Blackout in Tent City. Just another night in the killing fields, the lights flickering off and on, another beautiful night in Mortar-ritaville, a 'ville like any other 'ville in the ancient history of 'villes.

Same story, different war.

In light of the swinging bulbs the occupants of The Poker Tent high five, calm down, sit down. Peach, her short red hair a mass of sweat, each beat of her heart a metronome missing the rhythm of life with her two kids and old man back in the World, lies back on a cot and returns to reading a beat up paperback copy of Moby Dick. Pictures of her family packeted neatly between the pages serve as a bookmark, the edges of pages and pictures frayed, forlorn, curled, these signs of shabbiness the marks of being loved as only great books loved are worn when passed from hand to hand.

Shuffling the deck, contemplating the evening's mortar barrage, Stitch breaks the silence. "It's gonna be a busy night. What's it gonna be this time?" Stitch's best friend is among those five silenced riflemen, all five silenced in a single mission, a single moment, a single day, this day, all five now unassemblable parts in body bags.

"Five Card Draw," Turtle answers, and turning his attention to Peach, he orders, "Hand me a bottle of agua." Turtle, the quintessential asshole of warriors, runs a hand through the stubble on top of his head while sending what he thinks is a charming smile, illuminated by a row of gold teeth, toward Peach.

Without looking up from her book, Peach answers, "Sure – just as soon as you get your ass up and clean my rifle, brush my boots and iron my utes – I'll get right on it."

"Cry me a sea of despair next time, Huh? You're so pretty when you cry— why don't you come here and cry all over my lap...and I'll—"

Neon throws her cards at Turtle and stands up. "Lock and load, Camel Breath, or get back to the game." Her eyes narrow, her face tight, she grabs the edge of the table, flexing the barbwire and crosses tattoo on her biceps.

"Jesus, Neon," Stitch barks. "Now I gotta deal all over again. Gettin' tired of doin' the same thing over and over. Same smell. Different day. A fight a day keeps Doc in sickbay—"

Turtle raises his fist to Neon. "Where's your burka, bitch? Find it and hide in it—"

Crab grabs Turtle's wrist. "Cool it, Man. Tomorrow's gonna be here soon enough, and after today's fiasco, we gotta get along, all of us. Besides—"

Tortured sobbing silences the rift. Neon turns away from the fracas of discontent. "Torch....I gotta go—"

"No...no, sit down," Stitch says.

"Yeah, man, let it be," Turtle whispers.

"War is the motherfucker of all things," Peach adds without looking up from Moby Dick.

Turtle laughs. "You got that right, Baby-girl. How about you and me blow this dive, get in a Hummer and take a little moonlight drive?"

Peach knows Turtle is jiving as usual, ignores him, keeps reading.

Neon hovers near the tent opening.

Sick of Turtle's innuendo and phony bravado, she lunges for him, her fists aimed for a blow to his throat, the knuckle of each of her fingers tattooed with a letter— B-R-I-N-G D-E-A-T-H.

A low hum of increasing intensity breaks through the heat. Light bulbs begin a firefly flicker. A mortar blast rocks out closer to Tent City. Louder, stronger, the earthen floors of the tents shudder.

Blackout.

Tent City breaks into face-the-fear-or-die action. The poker players cheer, the party tent rocks on, the officers in their hooch dive and roll, and the messmen bang their lids. Outside The Mess Tent, the chaplain hits the deck on his knees, sore and raw from many scrapes and falls.

In the breaking light, Gunny K walks into The Officers Tent. Colonel Columbus rises from the sand, brushes himself off, and stands erect once more in enemy territory. Major Barnum and Lieutenant Decante crawl from under cots. Gunny K stands scowling near the tent opening, facing the darkness. She didn't plan on this mess when she enlisted fifteen years earlier. She wanted life without assholes. There had been enough of those in the convent where she had spent the first five years of her adult life. The military had always been her first career choice, but killing hadn't seemed like an option, then. Five years in a cloister can change a woman's mind about that.

"Doesn't matter who's in charge," Gunny K mumbles into the darkness beyond the tent, "they all think they're God."

"Gunny K, You WILL hit the deck when we've got incoming! What are you thinking, man?" Major Barnum shouts. "What's your dog going to do when I send you home in a body bag? I'm signing temporary orders for you to Mortuary Affairs, right this minute. Let's see how quick you hit the deck after pasting together a few pieces of the jigsaw puzzle inside a body bag."

"Bring it on, Sir," Gunny whispers into the darkness of the open hole of a door in the tent. For a moment her mind drifts to vespers, to harmony— until that bitch of a Decante opens her piehole.

Befitting of her rank and the grace of her lightly bunned brunette hair, Lieutenant Decante softly addresses the major, "Sir, do you really think it's a good idea to send the gunny off right now? I mean, after what went down today, Sir—"

"Ah, today, the event, the mass—" Gunny K mumbles, "She's mustering her balls, now. Where the fuck is my rosary when I need it."

Colonel Columbus clears the deck, "All right, now, there'll be no orders tonight. Damned if those confounded missiles aren't as thick as sea monkeys in a bio-globe." The Great Explorer unrolls a map across the table and begins plotting with his finger. Decante moves to his side.

"Sir, are those the convoy plans for tomorrow?" Decante asks.

"Yes, Lieutenant," Columbus answers. "These are they as they are we as we are all together! What do you say we try out Takween Pass tomorrow, since, uh, Fannakha didn't work out so well today."

"Dear God," Gunny K whispers, her voice leaking sarcasm like blood from a stuck pig, "spare us The Beatles—"

Moans mixed with sobs rise from The Tent of Pain. Gunny K, still looking into the darkness, turns her gaze toward that pit of dreams gone wrong.

Columbus's face softens. He stares toward the dark sky beyond Gunny K's shoulder as he begins talking softly to himself. "And what am I going to do about that? Yes, yes, well the path must be mapped, savage though it runs, dreams abuse such wicked nature...and then, of course, there's the dead to celebrate Pale Hecate's offering...." Alert again, he barks, "Gunny K, find Chaplain Damian and bring him here."

"Aye, Sir," Gunny K replies, and exits into the darkness, softly chanting, "Devil dog, shock troop, lean mean fighting machine, born to kill, born to die, but never will. God, I wish he would."

Columbus moves to his rack, and pulls a large round metal washtub from beside it. Dragging the washtub to tent center, he is target fixated. Barnum and Decante watch, stricken, glancing at each other, horrified by Columbus's action.

"Barnum, Decante, bring me a couple of those sandbags from the far side." Barnum and Decante appear confused and dismayed. "Yes, yes, from there to here. Back again, then fill them up, then dump them down. Time for a little fortification," Columbus says to them. "The deed and not the attempt confound us; the noise and not the deed amaze: Consider it deeply stuck in my throat, the vile blows and the world buffets. No thought, no thought, Glamis murdered sleep, so sleep will sleep no more— GET ON WITH IT THEN. Do as I say, not as I do! Get those sandbags over here. To die or not to die is of no consequence when a little sand clears us of our deeds. There's daggers in your smiles— ENOUGH!"

The Great Explorer steps into the tub and sits down. His officers bring the sandbags and pour the contents over him, submerging him in sand in his tub of steel, his armor, his final solution to mortars and powerlessness. Here, in this sandy armor, he might better understand his enemy – if the enemy lives in the sand, he must live in it, breathe it, drink it up, if there will be any chance at all of winning – or so he believes.

The wow-hum of an incoming mortar increases in intensity, and the lights of Tent City begin to flicker. A mortar blast rocks out a short distance away.

Face-the-fear-or-die.

The Chaplain hits the deck upon his weary knees near The Officers Tent. Nearby, Gunny K stands stock-still while bringing her flask to her lips.

Blackout.

Flickering lights illuminate The Unknown Soldier in his dark night of pain. Screaming, rolling, tossing, a mass of bandages drifting like sand in dunes of timeless agony. Here lies a shadow of life, a shade, lost not to others but to self. Amidst the moans, a few words escape, "The muscle of the Constitution...carry the will of the people on your back...strangled by moonlight, lost in purple haze...gonna be there when that foghorn blows— DADDY, you never said it'd be like this...DADDY, you lied...." The Unknown tosses in misery. "PIKE! No...no, it's not right— NO, don't, Pike, don't go in...." The numbing hum of another incoming mortar drowns that voice lost unto itself.

In the shadows beside The Tent of Pain, Gunny K moves toward the tent opening. Another incoming mortar rocks out to the east of Tent City. In the flickering light, Gunny K stands in the opening of The Tent of Pain, facing its interior. She goes in, kneels beside the cot, drops the flask into the sand, crosses herself and begins to pray.

"Lord, make me a channel of thy peace. That where there is hatred, I may bring love; that where there is wrong, I may bring the spirit of forgiveness – that where there is discord, I may bring harmony – that where there is error, I may bring truth – that where there is doubt, I may bring faith – that where there is despair, I may bring hope – that where are shadows, I may bring light – that where there is sadness, I may bring joy. Lord grant that I may seek rather to comfort than to be comforted – to understand, than to be understood – to love, then be loved. For it is by self-forgetting that one finds. It is by forgiving that one is forgiven. It is by dying that one awakens to Eternal life. Amen."

And finally, the relief of silence falls among them. The lights again flicker before coming full on.

Gunny K retrieves her flask from the sand, drinks long, stands, and moves on into that dark night.

In The Party Tent, Gage is holding a homemade disco ball up to the others. "Check it out— let's get this party humming. And check this out—" Gage holds up a contraband bottle of gin and a couple of blunts. Caruso, Udine and Bark make stunned whoops and groans of appreciation. "Okay, now who's da Dog? Who's da Dog? You know who da Dog!"

Grabbing the disco ball from Gage, Udine is genuinely impressed, and remarks on its cleverness, "How'd you make this? Oh Sweet Jesus, you got cracker wrappers turned inside out, pricked with holes and strung on some wire around a bulb. Don't that beat all!"

A radio transmission breaks into the reverie inside the Party Tent that also serves as communications central, the hub of Tent City.

"Cowboy two-eight this is Bronco one-six— Come in."

Bark moves to the radio to answer. "Bronco this is Cowboy— Go."

A broken voice responds, "Target...proaching...pos...rom Point Delta...Notify Charlie Oscar. ...vacuate.......amp."

"What the fuck is 'vacuate amp'," Bark asks himself.

"Fuck, I don't know," Caruso answers. "Go out to the bastard again."

"Repeat, Bronco. You're broken. Over."

"Tar....."

After a few moments, Bark says to the others without looking at them, "Damn. Nothing but static." And, to the incomprehensible other, "Incomplete transmit, Bronco. Cowboy, out." Turning his back on the radio, Bark spits words at the others. "Damn, now I gotta go see the CO. What the fuck was he saying? Did you get it? Shit. It's all bullshit anyway. Hey, save some of that for me." He points to the bottle.

Caruso slugs the gin. "Must suck being an 'O'! Wha'cha you think them O's got goin' tonight? Nothing— ab-so-lute-ly November-Oscar-Tango-Hotel-Indio-November-Golf! The Great Explorer's probably gettin' in his bathtub right about....NOW."

"Yeah, Man, must suck bein' sand in Columbo's hooch," Bark answers, and leaves the hooch with everyone, including himself, in gut-busting laughter.

"Let's get this thing strung up before—" Gage begins.

Screams from The Tent of Pain interrupt him.

"—Before Gunny K starts poking around again. She finds this Kool-Aid and we got nothin'."

"Yeah. She's such a man," Caruso replies nervously. "What're we gonna do about that..." He nods toward the door, in the direction of the screams. "Just layin' there, miseratin'. Man, what we gonna do about that? What about Gunny finding out what really went down on convoy today?"

Udine offers, "Ain't nothing to do for it. It's just the way it is. You know how bad it sucked bein' on the down-range end of our sights after Pike bit it— that's just how it went down. Ain't no different back on the street. What goes down in the field stays in the field. Nothin' to do for it...What's left over in that tent knows it. Don't never stick your rag covered head where it don't belong. Keep low, ride hard, shoot straight...ONE SHOT, ONE KILL! Get over it. What happened today— I'm done with it. Man, my tongue's about to fall out my mouth chasin' down a drop of that gin. Pass it down...pass it down, man."

Gage passes the bottle to Udine, who drinks from it like Socrates sipping poison.

"Gage, you got one sweet connection, Man. Who is it?" Udine asks as he passes bottle to Caruso.

Gage lights one of the blunts. "C'mon Udine, you know I can't give up the M&M Special...and—"

"Yeah, man, I'm groovin'. Don't Ask; Don't Tell— Righty-O Cheerio?" Udine jokes, and begins chanting slowly, righteously, his voice the soul of an ancient river:

Momma, Momma, can't you see,

Bein' mean is killing me.

Woe-oh-oha-ohhhh

Woe-ohh-oh-oh-a-oh

Passing the bottle and the blunt, the others join Udine's chant while hanging the Disco Ball:

Udine: Daddy, Daddy, Can't you see,

What this war's doin' for me.

Others: Daddy, Daddy, Can't you see,

What this war's doin' for me.

Together: Woe-oh-oha-ohhhh

Woe-ohh-oh-oh-a-oh

Udine: Took away my faded hood,

Now I'm wearin' blood for good.

Others: Took away my faded hood,

Now I'm wearin' blood for good.

Together: Woe-oh-oha-ohhhh

Woe-ohh-oh-oh-a-oh

Udine: Took away my dancin' shoes,

Now I'm wearin' combat boots.

Others: Took away my dancin' shoes,

Now I'm wearin' combat boots.

Together: Woe-oh-oha-ohhhh

Woe-ohh-oh-oh-a-oh

Udine: Took away my rock-n-roll

Now I'm singin' for my soul—

Others: Took away my rock-n-roll

Now I'm singin' for my soul—

Together: Woe-oh-oha-ohhhh

Woe-ohh-oh-oh-a-oh

Udine: Neighbor, Neighbor, all I see,

You done gone and forgot about me—

Others: Neighbor, Neighbor, all I see,

You done gone and forgot about me—

Together: Woe-oh-oha—

A mortar blast rocks out. Same old, damn old same-old-same-old. In the flashbulb flickering night, the chaplain is kneeling beside The Unknown Soldier. The Great Explorer is shivering in his sand. The major and the lieutenant hold hands under a cot. The Poker Tent, The Party Tent, and The Mess Tent are strangely silent. In The Mess Tent, dozens of dropped eggs pool in the sand, yellow and white and grit, the golden bowl broken, the pitcher spilt, the silver cord snapped, the earth now rendered receptacle for an offering of unassemblable parts of life-that-will-never-be.

Gunny K, sipping from her flask, crawls into the shadows beside the place The Party Tent door once opened onto the dark night. The truth of the void before her pecks at her mind, startles the ideas growing there like weeds, pushes aside fear like the head of a snake digging a burrow in sandy soil. She wants to believe strength can be built with prayers stacked one upon the other like a wall between fact and fear, but she suspects this thought is a lie and this lie could be her last thought ever. It is this lie – the promise of war, the myth of peace – that replenishes earth with salt tears war-by-war. The Lie. A stutter of the heart. A monumental moment.

"God," she says, no longer wanting any part of this terror called Life, "Only you and me have a lick of sense left in this whole world. That cellblock palace you gave me for a home ain't a minute different from the prisons of these folk's own thinking. I reckon everybody's got their own Mississippi story to tell. Floods, rats, drownings, murders, war. A thousand stories, God, and one more, tonight. What's one more? I'm a hundred years from that old river, and them out there just begun the paddlin'. They don't have to tell what happened. It's ancient history."

BATTLE OF FORT BOWYER, REMIX

Excerpted from the novel Cherokee American

C. David Ellard

Deg, whose full Cherokee name was Degadoga Kermoday, looked out from the top walkway of the fortification called Fort Bowyer, a mile from the mouth of Mobile Bay on February 5th, 1815, determined not to let it be surrendered to the British. It was quiet times like this that he couldn't believe he was a twenty-first century Cherokee attempting to help his People avoid the Trail of Tears. He had overcome the situation on the west bank of the Mississippi at the Battle of New Orleans, but he had not had himself assigned there like he had here. He and his Cherokee would stand beside Chief Pushmata's Choctaw and Chief Colbert's Chickasaw, but for a moment he worried he had made a mistake by leading them here to fight alongside Major Lawrence's American forces. Would this be a vain play for glory? He was willing to risk more, to do more personally, than his father had to win the hearts and respect of the American people and accomplish his mission, but had he gone too far?

Major Lawrence, the Commanding Officer of Fort Bowyer, stepped up to the rail next to Deg, and said, "Beautiful isn't it?"

Deg saw the setting sun in the distance and colors in the water below: the reds, pinks and purples of the sky blending with greens of the surrounding trees, and blues of the water.

"I don't understand," Major Lawrence said. The major was a meticulous man, his uniform clean and pressed, and he had a thin mustache. He would have been as tall as Deg, but his back was perpetually hunched forward. "Just a few months ago, General Jackson said ten thousand men couldn't take this fort. Why would he order two hundred fifty Indians to report here now?"

"Native Americans," Deg said.

"What?" Lawrence asked.

"If you don't wish to say Cherokee, Choctaw and Chickasaw, you can just say Native Americans. You read the orders; New Orleans held against the British attack with our assistance and General Jackson wanted you to know there's intelligence that the British will attack here again. He wants you to be prepared."

"Pushmata and Colbert are chiefs of their tribes," Lawrence said. "Why are you, a Cherokee, in charge of them?" Lawrence searched Deg's face. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Have you gathered in the supplies for a two-week long or longer siege?" Deg asked.

"How did an Indian get Sharp Knife Jackson's confidence? You know he hates Indians almost as much as he hates the British— Right?"

"We'll have reconnoitering teams out to gather information," Deg said. "You should move a couple more canons to the landward side where the fort's vulnerable."

As Major Lawrence stomped away, Deg thought, Pompous prick. Deg fondly remembered the major's surprise when the friendly Native Americans had approached under a flag of truce and then presented General Jackson's orders. Lawrence's response had been, "The officers and men of the second infantry regiment hardly need Indians to help them defend a fort."

Deg walked the fort, checking things out once again. Despite the smell due to men not bathing often, Deg was impressed with the soldiers' professionalism and the fort's thick earth and log construction. The curved section of its fan shape faced Mobile Bay and featured most of the fort's impressive array of big guns: three long 32-pounders, eight 24-pounders, six 12-pounders, five 9-pounders, a mortar and a howitzer. Deg was sure the Fort could hold. He also knew, historically, Major Lawrence had surrendered the fort. He hoped to change that. He had to change that.

* * * *

A fleet of British ships entered Mobile Bay in the dark night and tried to slip by Fort Bowyer; however, the fort's guards observed them coming and sounded the alarm in plenty of time. As the ships approached the fort's position, the shape of the mouth of the river forced them nearer and nearer to the fort, until the fort's many guns opened fire and caused havoc on the fleet. No ships would slip past Fort Bowyer and its many cannon.

* * * *

Deg pounded his fist on a thin, metal plate on the door frame of Major Lawrence's office, just the way his men had said the Major liked troops to report in. Lawrence immediately yelled, "Come in!" But his smile wavered when Deg, two Chickasaw scouts, and Captain Colbert entered his office. "You have something to report?"

"British ship landed over thousand men. Circling around to the east," Colbert said in his clipped English.

"How are they armed?"

"Well armed with couple cannons, couple howitzers, couple mortars, and some rockets," Colbert said.

"Damn," Lawrence said. "I hate those rockets."

One of the scouts spoke to Colbert in Chickasaw. Academically, Deg knew Chickasaw was a Muskogean language, much different from Cherokee, which was an Iroquoian language. Unfortunately, Deg couldn't understand much of it.

Colbert translated, "We can send raiding party..."

"You're going to send an Indian raiding party to attack a British army over a thousand strong?!" Lawrence interrupted.

"Yes," Colbert said. "Go at night and scuttle big guns we find."

"Oh," Lawrence said with a sneer. "Yes. Indians can be sneaky bastards."

Colbert darkened as blood flushed his face.

"Thank you," Deg said facing the Chickasaw while he stepped between them and Lawrence. "The bravery and craftiness of your men is greatly appreciated. I'd like to accompany them if I may, sir."

Colbert nodded, turned, and departed Lawrence's office, followed by the two scouts.

Deg turned to Lawrence, "Are you mad?"

Lawrence sat at his desk, looking left and right, as if he had no idea what Deg was talking about.

"You can't speak to them that way," Deg said barely biting back his rage.

"I didn't say anything that wasn't true," Lawrence said.

"Bullshit!" Deg said.

"What did you say?" Lawrence asked, eyes wide and skin flushing.

Deg gathered himself, "No wonder General Jackson doesn't want you with him in the field. You make enemies out of allies."

Lawrence blanched.

Deg turned and walked out.

* * * *

Deg crept through the dark woods with eleven Chickasaw, moving west towards the quiet camps, having gone further east than the British and circled back. Colbert gave the preplanned arm signal, and they split into four groups of three.

They had shadowed the British long enough to get a rough idea of the locations of the big guns and rockets. They didn't have the luxury of time to be any surer than they were. They slipped between drowsy British guards, posted much too far apart. Deg was nervous as it did not fit his impression of British forces of the time. Someone had made the mistake to feel secure where they were. Deg and the Chickasaw passed soldiers snoring in their tents under the Cherokee constellation called the Great Dog Guardian. They had waited through the night for the quiet hours when most men have trouble staying awake, but there was only a short time before the Morning Star foretold the dawn— when the camp would spring back to life.

Deg was on a team with a thick-bodied man named Tombigbee, a word Deg couldn't translate, and a little man appropriately named Squirrel, who could speak Cherokee. Squirrel took the point, the other two followed closely. Besides light weapons, they carried flint, lighting chord, and small, animal skin bags with makeshift mortar mix and water.

Weaving through the tents, Deg prayed Squirrel could lead them to the howitzers that were their target before they ran out of time. Squirrel isn't drunk, Deg thought as they cut to the left and the right, but does he have any sense of direction? Coming to a sudden stop, they watched a Brit stumble back to his tent, probably after relieving himself. Squirrel then took an almost direct track to the Howitzers.

Deg inserted a bag of gunpowder into each howitzer barrel and Tombigbee followed by splitting the mortar mix between the two guns. Squirrel worked one end of each chord into the firing chambers as Deg and Tombigbee worked the mortar. Deg poured water into one barrel, and then moved on to the other while Tombigbee inserted a long, stout stick, and mixed the mortar and water. They switched back and forth a couple times until Tombigbee held his palms out; no more water was needed. Deg took a step back and looked around. It was quiet and still. He and Squirrel eased between the backs of two tents and crouched down into the deep shadows, the end of the chords not quite reaching them. Tombigbee continued to push the stick into the barrels, getting the load as tight as possible.

Up in the sky, the Dog constellation neared the end of his nightly run and the morning star would soon appear. When it did, all four groups were to light their chords and flee from the camp as quietly as possible. Tom finally joined them in the shadows. Inches away, on the other side of a thick canvas, a soldier snored. Deg pointed to Tombigbee and indicated the slower man should start back the way they came, but he shook his head no.

Counting his heartbeats, Deg scanned the sky. He counted one hundred heart beats. Two hundred. Four hundred. Six hundred thirty-seven beats later, Deg tapped Squirrel on the shoulder and pointed to the morning star peaking above the horizon. Squirrel struck flint to stone; it sounded to Deg like an alarm clock. Deg backed away, pulling Tombigbee with him. A chord lit on the fifth beat of flint to stone, and squirrel hastily lit the second chord with the first.

True to his name, squirrel moved fast and low. Dodging the tent poles, Deg fell ten yards behind and Tombigbee was even further back, when an explosion sounded in the distance. Too far to be their howitzers, another team had set off their charges and Deg could only hope two guns had just been scuttled. Before completing the thought, a closer, double explosion signaled what he hoped was the end of the howitzers. Suddenly there were angry yells of British soldiers, "We're under attack!"

As he cleared the last line of tents, Deg lost sight of squirrel behind the shadows of a heavy bush. He glanced back and Tombigbee was chugging along behind, when, "crack", a gun sounded nearby and a black-looking plume of blood appeared out of Tombigbee's side and he crashed to the dirt. Spinning to the source of the gunshot, Deg located the guard. Squirrel appeared brandishing a knife that was so long it looked like a sword in the short man's hand. The guard had spotted Deg and was reloading but Squirrel's sword-knife took him across the throat.

Deg rushed back to Tombigbee, who had regained his feet but was stumbling. Grabbing a wrist with his left hand, Deg dipped his head under Tombigbee's arm pit, drove his right shoulder into the gut and right hand between the legs. In a whoosh of air from both men, Deg scooped Tombigbee off the ground, turned and pounded into the thicket after Squirrel.

As he trudged along, Deg saw colors developing in the dawn light. Squirrel had taken a following position ten yards or more at his rear, covering his escape with the wounded Tombigbee. Deg tried to remember if there had been any more explosions but could not decide. He hoped there had been more. Deg wanted to stop, take a break and get the weight off his shoulders but he didn't. He couldn't. He also couldn't keep up the running pace. Not hearing any pursuit, Deg walked in long, fast strides that he could keep up for the hour it would take to reach the palmetto bush thicket that was the rendezvous point.

Trudging on, Deg corrected his direction when he crossed an odd, red clay path he'd chosen as a landmark. Trudging on, he corrected his heading a second time, following the edge of what he hoped was the correct swamp. Trudging on, he was startled when Squirrel grabbed his left bicep, pulled him to a stop, and pointed off to the left. There was the small rise capped by what appeared to be an impenetrable thicket of Palmetto fronds. Some of the fans were tan and withered but most were glossy green and the saw-like teeth of the leaf stalks could shred a man's skin if he was not careful.

"Thank God for Squirrel," Deg said. He had been about to walk right past the rendezvous point in an exhausted fog despite the clear morning sun.

Circling around the edge of the thicket behind Squirrel, they found the path inward. Squirrel moved some of the palmetto fans as Deg crouched the best he could with the limp body threatening to drive him into the ground. After a tricky series of turns, they stumbled into a nine foot circle of green light and white sand under the Palmetto canopy. Deg collapsed to his knees and rolled Tombigbee off his shoulders, onto the ground. Deg fell forward, barely getting his hands out to keep his face out of the dirt, rolled onto his side, rested his head on one bicep, and looked at Tombigbee. His wounded friend had landed hard, like a pile of rocks, and did not move on his own. Deg was too exhausted to do anything for him.

Squirrel pulled the big man by his arms and legs, laying him out straight, and started checking the wound. Deg fell fast asleep from exhaustion.

* * * *

Crickets chirping, mild light, the smells of swamp, dried blood, sweat, and early flowering palm fronds greeted Deg as he stretched his stiff muscles and groaned to a sitting position. There were five Chickasaw men reclining in the natural shelter. Deg looked at body types and faces. Tombigbee wasn't there.

Taking the path out, Deg found Squirrel keeping lookout high in a scrub oak. Deg leaned against another tree, eased his head back against bark, and made eye contact with Squirrel. Squirrel shook his head and looked back out into the distance. Tombigbee hadn't survived.

Deg pushed away from the tree, eased over to a palmetto, pushed down outer fronds, and pulled the palm heart from the center. He chewed the palm's soft, juicy, white meat.

* * * *

Two days later, an occasional cannon ball pounded the outside of Fort Bowyer, but they did little real damage. The rockets were a bigger nuisance, setting fires within the compound if they hit something that would burn, but they also did little true damage. A fire brigade made quick work of any flames the rockets ignited.

Major Lawrence met Colbert and Deg in the compound beside their tents.

"You barely managed to return before the British closed their siege lines," Lawrence said. "I was beginning to worry for you."

"We lost five men," Colbert reported, "half big guns damaged."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Lawrence said convincingly to Colbert. "They were brave men. Thanks to them, we've only seen the Brits firing one canon and two mortars. One of the guns exploded when they tried to use it. I didn't count that one." Lawrence smiled briefly then became somber. "Your men were extremely brave."

Colbert nodded.

Lawrence nodded to Colbert and departed.

* * * *

Checking the Native American posts around the wall of the fort, Deg saw the Brits' siege line was two hundred yards off the fort's walls. Musket accuracy wasn't great at that distance but they could reach that far from the tops of the walls, so the Americans were routinely shooting towards the British positions. At times, the Brits took light casualties when their red jacketed troops were exposed: building siege machines, ladders and the like, but they were undeterred.

A British canon ball cleared the wall and came down on a man near the far side of the courtyard, killing the unlucky soldier with a crushing blow. Even though it was the first casualty the American Army suffered in several days of siege, it had a profound effect on the soldiers. After that, many of them would nervously look around any time they were out in the open, looking for incoming cannon balls.

Near sunset that night, the Brits made a three pronged assault. Two British lines curved left and right to the two straight side walls of the fan-shaped fort, and the center fork of the trident moved directly towards the small end of the fan. In a display of coordination, the navy ships closed within gun range and shelled the curved gulf-facing wall as well. The guns of the fort returned fire immediately.

The curved edges of the trident were feints; the British dropped their ladders seventy yards from the walls and closed with the center fork in organized precision. The men of the fort returned constant fire. American soldiers came from their off-duty rests to join in repelling the attack.

The British approaching the short wall were ferocious in their assault. About three hundred men ran straight at the fort, carrying, pushing, and dragging two large siege ladders with them. There were no American big guns that could fire in the immediate direction. American sharpshooters targeted those wielding the ladders but, every time they hit a Brit helping with a siege ladder, another took his place.

"Echo Company," Major Lawrence yelled while pointing to the short wall that was the British point of attack. "More soldiers there! Mortar and howitzer! Take the northeast field and start lobbing just over that wall! Stop those damn Brits!" There was nothing more the Major could do; it was up to the men holding the wall.

American marksmen crowded into every shooting hole, at least two deep. As soon as one fired a shot, he backed out to reload and the next one stepped up looking for a target. Twenty Native Americans with bows and arrows lined up behind the crowded wall and fired a volley of arrows high into the sky and they came down among the British on the other side of the walls. Squirrel yelled directions down to the archers from his position at the top of the wall and the archers adjusted their fire.

The British pushed forward despite taking heavy casualties. Some soldiers were shot by muskets or pierced by arrows and required medical attention, but Brits streamed around them or leapt over them to continue the onslaught. One ladder was leaned against the fort wall, and British soldiers started to climb, but Americans shot each one down before getting halfway up. The American mortar and howitzer finally began to lob their shells over the wall. The first strike landed near the back of the British lines. If anything, the British surged forward. Spotters yelled directions back to the mortar men and adjustments were quickly made. The archers fired another volley, the arrows rained down just on the other side of the wall, and one arrow bit deep into a Brit just mounting a ladder, driving him back down.

Like a cowboy roping a steer, an American threw a looped end of a rope over a sapling sticking out one side of the ladder. The sapling had been tied on the ladder as a rung. The Americans pulled the ladder over to the right, dumping three Brits in the process. The mortar, howitzer, and archers fired another round, which all fell in the thick of the British pushing the other ladder forward. Some lucky strikes ripped the lashings loose from a long ladder step and it swung free, struck a Brit on his head, ripped his cheek open and threw him down. A mortar round also struck, nearly ripping a ladder leg in two.

The British commander for the assault called for a retreat and the broken ladder was left lying on the battlefield as the British hastily backed away. A host of British had to be carried away, wounded or dead, and a few Americans had also been wounded at that point of the attack.

Within thirty minutes of the retreat sounding, all of the British soldiers had pulled back behind the siege lines. Another half hour passed and the artillery fire slowed down to the pre-attack level of an occasional shot.

* * * *

Major Lawrence approached Deg the next day. "It's been three days of this," Lawrence said quietly. "I'm not sure this fort can hold out much longer."

"We can hold out," Deg said. "You always give the right orders in the heat of battle. You have supplies for a couple of weeks at least. And you've got good soldiers; have faith in them a few more days."

"Then what?" Lawrence asked.

"You'll see," Deg said. "Just don't give up."

* * * *

Three days later, under a barrage of artillery fire as fierce as any the fort had endured so far, the Americans loaded their rifles and artillery pieces and re-checked their defensive positions. Every previous heavy artillery strike had been followed by a British ground assault, but the British big guns silenced without the expected attack. The Americans looked at each other with quizzical looks and fidgeted in place where they sat or stood.

"A flag of truce!" a watchman cried out from the East wall of the fort. "Alert the major, there's a flag of truce!"

Deg met Major Lawrence by the gate. Deg was washed clean, his long, black hair tied back and he was dressed in a clean US Army uniform, which General Jackson had issued him. "Major Lawrence, sir," Deg said. "I request to accompany you."

Lawrence stepped close to Deg, and asked, "What the hell are you doing?"

Deg slowly gathered himself, resisting the urge to straighten to his full height, he looked Lawrence in the eye and whispered, "You are not going to surrender this fort. These are good men, and those British know they cannot penetrate us. Let me support you out there."

Lawrence stepped past Deg and stopped, staring at the closed gates in front of him. He turned his head to the right and said, "Major Kermoday, you and Lieutenant Framingham will accompany me to the parlay. Captain Wilson, as my second in command, you will stay here. Just in case."

"But the British wouldn't pull anything at parlay under a flag of truce," Wilson complained.

Lawrence motioned for the soldiers to open the gate. "You have my orders gentlemen. Let's hear what these British have to say."

Walking the hundred yards to where the British contingent was waiting, Major Lawrence grew taller. Lieutenant Framingham carried the American's flag of truce, a white square of bed linen tied to a lance, and walked just a couple feet to Deg's left, who walked just a couple feet to Lawrence's left, in military tradition. It allowed the senior man the most space to draw a weapon with his right hand, but Deg hoped nothing like that would be needed. They came to a halt just five yards from the British.

"General John Lambert for her majesty's British Army," announced the man standing out front, decked out in his thick wool, red, dress uniform, complete with medals and a white wig on his head under a large, decorative, black hat that vaguely resembled a boat. Two men stood behind the general. According to the rank insignia, one was a major and was dressed similarly to his general; the other had the large chevrons of a sergeant on his bright red coat. The sergeant held the British flag of truce and openly sneered at the American lieutenant.

The Lieutenant and Deg were a half step behind Major Lawrence, who was standing stiff-backed. Deg worried Lawrence's legs might have been locked at the knees and that he might pass out if they stood there for long.

"It's only a matter of time," the general said without preamble, in a firm, grandfatherly tone. "Think of your men sir. Tell them to stand down, and let them rest. We'll treat them well. Keep fighting and they'll all die a long, hard, unnecessary death."

Major Lawrence swallowed loudly and his mouth eased slightly open, but nothing came out.

"May I tell him sir?" Deg asked in Lawrence's direction, speaking in the clearest English he could.

"What do you have to tell me?" the general asked.

Lawrence said nothing, just slowly turned to Deg with little color in his face, and lost the height he had gained walking out onto the field.

"The Treaty of Ghent has been signed," Deg said. The confident words shook the general's resolve, the British major paled and the sergeant looked aghast.

"What did you say?" the general asked.

"The treaty was signed," Deg said. "Our nations are now at peace. You are not supposed to be attacking this fort."

"We haven't received any such communiqué!" the British major said. "How could you have received word before the British Royal Navy, you swine?"

"The message will reach you soon enough," Deg said. "Check with the fleet. Until then, I'm sure a temporary truce on the field is warranted."

Lawrence looked from the general back to Deg, "A ceasefire?"

"A ceasefire then," the general said. "For the moment. If this word of a treaty is not confirmed in a week, we'll burn this fort down with you in it." The general turned about-face on his heels, catching his men by surprise, something Deg doubted had happened very often. The general walked through his parted men, and they fell in behind him, the sergeant glanced back once.

Major Lawrence followed suit and executed a weak about-face of his own. As he walked by Deg, he gave a shaky smile, and beads of sweat on Lawrence's upper lip shook loose and dropped. Deg took his place at Lawrence's left hand and Lawrence squeaked a whisper, "What have you done? How could you tell the general such a thing?"

"It's true," Deg said. "I'm sure of it." Deg had just changed history and he hoped that in the middle of their other attempts to change history, the signing of the Treaty of Ghent hadn't changed.

The days during the cease-fire at Fort Bowyer drug by slowly. Soldiers in the fort, American and Native American, buried their dead, tended to wounds, cleaned their weapons, wrote letters home, played games with marbles, and a hundred other little diversions that took their minds off of the thousand British soldiers encamped around the land side of Fort Bowyer and the British ships in Mobile Bay. As often happens when soldiers don't know what to do with their time, rumors and gossip circulated among them.

"You best keep lookout behind you," Chief Colbert said to Deg. "The soldiers sacrifice you to British if they attack again. They say you lie to British General."

"I didn't lie," Deg said. "Why do they think I would lie like that?"

"Don't know – lie or no lie – no matter. Some say you devil them and cause them suffering. Say Major Lawrence should have accepted surrender. Others say Lawrence would never surrender anyway. Some even say General Jackson sent you with the word but you wanted to watch men fight and die."

A soldier on the Fort Bowyer wall complained, "I have great targets but I'm not allowed to take a shot!"

"Yeah right, Bill," another answered loudly for all to hear, "You'd miss anyway!"

Soldiers laughed. Time crept by. Men complained.

Some men passed time throwing knives at a wooden target.

A crowd gathered around to watch two soldiers "Indian wrestle." They lay down side by side, each one's head by the other's feet, then they each raised the leg next to the competitor, locked ankles and pushed until one flipped the other one over. Another took the defeated one's place but officers quickly broke it up, evidently worried anxious soldiers might start a brawl.

A nail biter made his fingers bleed.

A soldier wrote a letter he never intended to send. It contained his last will and testament.

* * * *

After a tense two days of watching the British patrol around the fort, an excited watchman on top of the wall facing the bay yelled out, "Ships are closing in! Ready the cannon!"

Deg rushed to a ladder and climbed to the walkway around the top of the wall where he found Major Lawrence, bleach white complexion and shaky hands, looking towards the British ships with a spyglass.

"What flags are they flying?" Deg asked. "I don't see a white flag."

"No," Lawrence said. "No flag of truce can be seen." He handed the glass to Deg with a disgusted shake of his head. "I should have taken his terms."

Deg looked through the glass and read the names etched on the sides of the ships until he found what he was looking for, the HMS Brazen. The history book said it brought the news of the treaty. "I don't know why they don't raise a flag of truce, but I assure you they've gotten the word. The war is over. Anyway, you could hold them off for another two weeks."

"You're staking your life on it," Lawrence said.

Deg prayed to the Great Spirit his history was right about this. The history books had been so specific about the HMS Brazen bringing the news to the British here. But he and Adahy were here to change history after all. It was possible history had somehow changed and these British didn't get the word.

From across the fort, another watchman called out, "They're packing up! The British are forming up to march!"

Lawrence and Deg raced along the wall towards the voice.

"What direction?" Lawrence asked as he looked. The British were formed up pointing away from the fort and towards the south beach.

The guard yelled out to the fort below, "The British are leaving!"

A growing muttering from the floor of the fort crescendoed into a roar of "Hoorahs" and "The battle's over!" and "The battle hell, the war's over!"

One soldier boldly proclaimed, "The United States of America has won the War!"

Another added, "We beat them British bastards back again!"

Lawrence turned to Deg, "I doubted you major. But not surrendering this fort was the right decision."

"You don't have to thank me."

"I wasn't going to. You were just lucky." Lawrence turned his attention back to the ships.

Soldiers climbed stairs and ladders and packed the walls around the top of the fort. Many with muskets still in hand, they merrily watched and some openly prayed to God it was for real.

It took until late in the afternoon for about a thousand silent British to march away from the fort and to the beachhead, where long boats waited to retrieve them. It took a couple more hours for sailors to row several round trips in the long boats to retrieve all of his majesty's soldiers. The siege was over.

American soldiers maintained their watch from the wall tops and a couple men unfurled American flags on their spear-like guidons and marched the colors back and forth along the walls facing the departing British.

Once the British soldiers were safely aboard, the ships moved forward again. They turned in a slow, arching maneuver that used up most of the bay to turn the fleet around. When the largest of the ships had its starboard sides flush to the fort, bay doors lifted open and cannons protruded from the side of the ships. Deg envisioned a swimming porcupine. "Damn! Get down! Everybody down! They're gonna strafe us before they go for sure!"

"What the hell are you saying?" Lawrence asked.

"They are going to bomb this fort before they depart!"

Men slid down ladders and hurdled down stairs so violently Deg feared they would break their necks in the process. "Boom. Boom-Boom-Boom-Boom." It sounded like a hundred huge kernels of popcorn blasting open behind him as Deg stood stooped down, urging the rest of the soldiers to get down below. Crashing sounds and tremors in the wood floor under his feet indicated the cannon balls impacting the fort as he waited his turn at the ladder. Deg was struck in the back of his head; all went black as he was propelled off the walk, tumbling forward into nothingness.

TACTICAL PANTS

Jeffrey Armadillo Mother Forker

"I thought we had an agreement on pants."

I am so sick of talking about pants. What's the damn problem? A man needs good pants, substantial pants, pants that can stand up to hard times. It is ridiculous how they keep referring to my pants as 'combat pants.' Silly bastards don't know shit. The pants I wear to work are not even military issue pants, not ACUs or BDUs, not even camouflage. I have gone to great lengths to find appropriate pants. I have them in tan, black, khaki, dark green, grey, brown, even navy blue. Navy blue, for Christ sakes! They all have cargo pockets on the legs. Some of them have other pockets, down low, on the calves, or in front, next to my junk, in place of pleats. My favorite pair has pockets within the cargo pockets, a series of different sizes, for magazines, pens, flashlights. Several have plastic D-rings strategically placed in different plats along the belt-path. I found most of them on police supply web sites. Some came from web sites that cater to military contractors. I've saved two pairs of jeans, but never wear them. I gave away all my slacks to charities and trash collectors. It is true that my pants are 'tactical,' but they are by no means 'combat' or 'military.' But you can't tell them that, especially not Phil nor my wife.

"We do," I said.

"Good," said Phil. "Then you'll get rid of the pants."

"That was not our agreement," I said.

Phil is sitting in his dark blood-colored plush leather chair, behind his flight-deck sized mahogany desk, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth, the way he does when he is trying reassure himself of his seniority and superiority. He is older than me by just a few years, but matches my ancient father in feebleness. His hair is thinning on top and long on the sides, which he brushes behind his left ear with a practiced and effeminate casualness. He does this when he is nervous. It is at times like this that I tend to notice the pathetic softness of his hands and the frailty of his fingers.

"Look, I get comments," said Phil, nodding, trying to seem sage about it all, "from clients, even from interns. Pants like that just don't look right in a law office. It looks odd. 'Odd' is not the right image for our firm."

I was looking around his office as he droned on. It was a ridiculous death trap. We were in a corner office on the 9th floor, looking out over The Plaza. The entire exterior was glass. If someone opened up on this building with a 20mm we would be minced into human hash. God forbid this building should suck in some artillery rounds. If the rounds didn't take us out the glass shards would. What idiot would design such a building, so vulnerable? I tried not to, but imagined the melee in my mind, the vortex of fire, blood and glass. That made me think of Bob Doyle's room in the Sheraton Hotel in Bagdad after the second rocket attack, in April of '04. The flood of emotions came back to me, the relief of not seeing Bob, then the realization that Bob was actually there, in the room, all over the room. It took two young specialists from graves registration nearly two hours to bag up the remnants that were Bob.

"Are you listening to me?"

Bob was a tax lawyer, not a warrior. He stayed in the reserves to placate his father, who had retired a two-star. Not until much later did I understand that also he was chasing war as a tonic for middle-class malaise that was the result of over-abundant comfort and sedentary civilized lifestyle habits that had converted him from predator to prey.

"Hello?" said Phil. "I said are you listening to me?"

I admit, a few years ago me doing this, wearing these pants, would have seemed absurd to me. I would have been as appalled as Phil and my wife. My mind was filled with normatively logical constructs of the absurdum. But that was before I had seen the evisceration of absurdity.

"I am," I said. "Of course I am."

I heard him saying, "We feel we have been very patient," as I struggle to put out of my mind the fact that this building is much worse than that hotel, more exposed, more vulnerable, more inviting to attack.

"Patient, yes," I said.

I have been back for nearly six months. Fourteen months in A-stan. Two tours in the sandbox before that, ten months at Bragg in between. I am known as an authority on rules of engagement, war crimes, international war law and UN Resolution 1441. I host a blog that focuses on 'Just War.' It gets hundreds of hits and posts each week. Generals and admirals email me. The State Department calls me. Phil does not know about any of this, and certainly not my wife. He is ready to fire me. She is ready to divorce me. They don't understand that war is not like a year-long sabbatical that you come back from, shovel all your notebooks into storage boxes, drown your burned out brain cells in bourbon, forget it all and move on.

"Poplin even would be OK. But this . . . What's it called? Rip back?" Phil has not made eye contact with me for several months. I am not certain if this is due to his deep personal shame or something that scares him, something he sees in my eyes, or my posture, or the way I now hold my hands. I hope the former. But also, sociopaths in positions of power tend not to make eye contact. This suits me fine.

"Rip stop."

"Right. Yes. That. It simply is not appropriate workplace fabric. You do see that, don't you? Couldn't you at least wear some kakis or poplin slacks? Would that be so bad? And don't say 'pockets.' For God's sake, what in the hell do you need all those pockets for anyway?"

If Phil knew the things I secret away in the many pockets of my pants he would have a shit fit. Knives and guns would be the biggest issues. I have various designs of blades and barrel lengths. Sometimes I carry a small frame .25 and a balisong, or a Buck Ranger and a Walther .380. Often I have pen lights, a Silva compass, light-sticks, gum, pens, 550 cord, notebooks, demo knives, Swiss Army knives, butterfly knives, Buck knives, folding knives of various types; nothing too large, but nothing too small.

No, Phil would not understand. For him to understand he would have to understand the real dangers that make this world turn, the primal struggles and barbarities that blacken the human heart. He never will. None of them ever will. I am not certain I ever will. We lawyers learn all about right and wrong in classes beginning in kindergarten and ending up in law school. But class really began for me in Iraq.

"Did you hear me?"

Iraq was like a half-complete country, built on top of ancient ruins, but populated with buildings and culture that seemed half-baked, in spite of the desert sun. Most buildings were just bare cinderblock or concrete. Many of the structures in the towns and villages were made of mud bricks. Few buildings were taller than two or three stories. They couldn't be taller. Buildings in that part of the world have a bad habit of falling in on themselves. In the cities, like Baghdad, the tall buildings that looked modern only looked so from a distance. Up close, driving by them, or walking in, you saw how crudely they were constructed, slapped together by Lord knows what sort of unskilled local and foreign dumb fucks. I never noticed before the blurbs in the papers and online about apartment buildings spontaneously collapsing in places like Cairo and Karachi. Now I do. Now I know. They are a lot like people. They just aren't built to last.

"Do you know of any other lawyers who wear combat pants? Huh? Do you?" Phil is starting to sputter as he talks. "Even the ambulance chasers in tiny strip-mall offices down on Troost wear slacks from Walmart or Target, for God's sakes. Even they portray some semblance of being a lawyer. You, on the other hand, a lawyer in one of the largest law firms in this city, look more like a narco cop showing up to testify in court."

Where is it written that lawyers must wear wimpy slacks. Can someone please point that out to me? Fashionable, light-weight slacks scream "Weak!" Is it not better to portray an image of strength? How has weakness become strength? I need someone to explain that to me. It must link back to the Renaissance when men started wearing wigs and frilly shirts, when masculine feminization began its celebration.

"This law firm has standards that it must hold to," Phil said. "Now, we have been very patient with you, given your military service. But there is a reasonable amount of limit for patience. It is time for you to get over whatever it is that is bugging you and move on. The war is over."

It will never be over.

"Pardon me? You said something?"

Shit. Did I? What the hell did I say? Fuck. I don't even know. "Nothing," I said.

"Right. Look. You are a good lawyer. You are up for partnership. We have been grooming you for years. Don't fuck this up."

How many times in past weeks has my wife cast that exact same threat. I am not an unreasonable man. I understand protocols and conventions, that the workplace is not exempt from fashion dogmas. But I simply cannot wear slacks around, even to work, anymore than I can go to work in my wife's underwear, drink beer through a straw, or talk to Alyssa in Accounting without getting evil thoughts. It simply drives me insane to wear wimpy pants, pants that would not hold up if the shit hit the fan, when things go to hell. I cannot even stand to see myself in mirrors anymore wearing slacks. The image sickens me, gives me panic attacks. The thing is you never know when the shit will hit the fan, when you will find yourself moving across angry terrain. When that happens you do not want to be wearing pussy pants. Huh uh. And in such situations foot gear, shoes, are even more important. There is a portion of hell where people run for all eternity across smoldering rubble and debris wearing loafers. I am certain of that.

"We've had comments from clients."

"Which clients?" I said.

"I am not at liberty to say. But the most damaging comments have come from partners."

It is not just the partners. The young associate lawyers all seem to whisper and point at me. Some of the interns and paralegals giggle. The secretaries, God bless them, just smile. I am not entirely certain all this is about pants. But it is the rookies, the punk-ass pretty boys and bubble-headed Barbie dolls straight out of law school who I want to grab by the throat and shake and explain to them in no uncertain terms that they are failing, that they are losing sight of the law and what is right. I want to ask them if ever they sought to serve the law. Did any of us?

"Are you listening to me?"

I look from my hands in my lap back up to Phil. "Sorry. Of course."

Phil frowns at me. "I was saying that the partners are worried that if we allow you to wear your pants then the younger, less experienced associate lawyers will all soon be wearing camouflage pants and T-shirts and God knows what else. And that would not be disastrous. There is no room in the law for camouflage."

Camouflage. Ha. The law is nothing but camouflage. But he is referring to clothing and I have my share of it, military camouflage, of course. Actually, I have more than my share. I have been in the Army, active duty, reserves and National Guard, for over twenty-eight years, all my adult life. I started out as an enlisted swine, in the 82nd and Special Forces, then went to college and ROTC, then law school and the JAG Corps. I have three sets of ACUs, four sets of woodland BDUs, two sets of OG-107 "jungle fatigues," straight and slant pocket cuts, and even one set of the old "pickle suits," permanent press, not cotton. Don't ask me why. I have three sets of the ERDL Nam era jungle camos that look like they would fall apart in a stiff breeze, one set of "chocolate chips," three sets of DCU/DBDUs, "coffee stain cammies," one each olive drab wool winter shirt and field pants, and four sets of digicams. I even got ahold of one set of mulitcams, and they have not yet even been issued.

"We thought," Phil was saying, "that allowing you to continue your service as an Army lawyer would benefit both you professionally and the firm politically. We figured it would be good to broaden our market if we could offer expertise in the issues and intricacies of war."

I nearly laughed, but was able to choke it off before it got out. Intricacies? War? I spent years as a JAG officer, never thought I would actually go to war, spent my drill weekends reviewing disciplinary cases involving bored young privates acting out of adolescent angst. Our worst fear was that we would be called to some disaster site to oversee the filling of sandbags. Then came 9/11. Next thing I know I am on a plane to Iraq, excited to be finally going to taste the elephant, hear the roar, all the while trying to talk down a sour fear deep in my gut.

My job was oversight, to make certain our troops did not make mistakes of international warfare law that worked against us. I reviewed ROEs, rules of engagement, spent countless hours trying to refine and clarify them, making them easier to understand and follow for our troops, and gave too many presentations to count to arriving troops, telling them how to stay out of legal trouble in a combat zone. My thinking on ROEs changed over time. I started out intent on avoiding another My Lai. But over time my thinking changed to wanting to avoid American troops getting killed. I saw too much of that. It is hard to do both, like serving two masters. Spare the enemy or spare our troops. Hmm. Choose and choose wisely. I came to realize that there is no law in war. There cannot be. There is only win or lose, kill or be killed. You either do what it takes or you don't.

"By the way," says Phil, "I do like that tie though. Is it Italian?"

I started going out on patrols. As a JAG officer I was not supposed to go outside the wire. But my Special Forces tab carried weight, got me different looks than the other JAG jockies, got me outside the wire with a rifle in hand. I told my chain of command, and myself, that I needed to see and understand what the troops were facing in order to better frame and enforce our rules of engagement. I thought I would learn some things. But I never expected a complete re-education.

"You've changed," my wife told me one evening in bed, after some subdued sex. My wife approaches sex like she approaches her charities, with appropriate decorum and detachment. I had been home about a month. "You're different."

"How so?" I said.

"When we have sex now it is like you just got out of prison, like you are some sort of wild animal. I feel like I am being assaulted when we have sex." She had, around that time, been often mentioning the need for a week in the Bahamas, as solatium for my bizarre behavior.

"There's a fine line between sex and violence," I tell her. I thought I had needed sex when I got back, thought that I had craved sex. But it was not sex that I needed. I needed my wife to cleanse me, to sit with me in a tub of hot water and squeeze the pain and confusion from my muscles and my mind, to laugh with me, cry with me, to help me get my feet back under me, to welcome me back into the world.

"That's what I mean," she said. "You don't talk like a civilized gentleman anymore." I asked her to clarify. She cited my temper and overall lack of civility. "It's like there is a beast inside of you rattling a cage."

"The difference between you and me," I said, looking her in the eye, "is that I realize there is a beast in each of us."

She laughed mirthlessly. "You used to joke about being a hunter, taking down the beast and bringing home the meat," she said. "Now you talk about being a beast."

My wife, God bless her, is a vindictive idealist, going about her days militantly espousing a zealotous form of happiness that does not allow for frowns or negativity in any form. She is also an avid practitioner of retail therapy and an enthusiastic supporter of hopeless charities and banal balls, all of which I am the principal funding authority.

"I'm still a hunter," I said, "of men and my own beast."

She rolled her eyes. "Must you be so melodramatic and unstable? Although I do prefer that to the stoicism."

"You think I'm unstable?"

"Case in point," she said, her voice taking on that triumphant tone it gets when she thinks she is circling for the kill, and the corners of her mouth curling into that evil little grin, "You came back, sold your BMW and bought a Hummer."

"Humvee."

"Bullshit."

"Beg your pardon?"

"The civilian version, which is what you drive in around this town like Patton on an autobahn, is the Hummer. The military version, which you drove around in your little wars and fell in love with, is the Humvee."

I hate it when my wife is right, especially on military matters. "Whatever."

"That is what I am talking about. Gentlemen do not say, 'Whatever'."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Whatever."

Men are hunters. That is how humans survived for hundreds of thousands of years. Oh sure, there was the gathering, and then farming, which only got started like ten thousand years ago. But hunting preceded it for a very long time. It is in our bones, in our DNA. We rose to the top of the food chain and became the top predators because we became the top hunters. Entire species disappeared before the power of our predation. The need and abilities to hunt drove mankind to survive the worst of time, the most formidable opponents and forces. It was inevitable that we became our own prey. I hear lawyers and other high-powered dick wads in expensive suits talk all the time about hunting, "Going in for the kill," "Bringing back the carcass," "Eat what you kill," and "Taking home the meat." But doing a hostile corporate take-over is not the same as stalking and killing a large mammal. And tiger and bears are nothing in comparison to an armed human opponent.

Being hunters taught us to be warriors. The core skill sets are nearly identical. A warrior, like the hunter, must face his days with the knowledge that each one may be his last, that his quarry may be his end, that he must master spear and rifle, stealth and tactics, fire and force, if he is to prevail in the defense and feeding of his family and his tribe.

But most men today are neither hunter nor warrior, even as many think they are. We are preyed upon in ways our primal nature, our reptilian brain, cannot identify or comprehend. Corporations and governments prey on us, target all of us as simply revenue sources, customer-citizens, each categorized and targeted by earnings and spending potential. We are stuffed into pens and cages called cubicles or offices where we sit and spread as ancient hunter and warrior muscles and instincts that saved and sustained us for millions of years succumb to atrophy and disuse. The most fully alive men that I have known carried automatic rifles, walked willingly into harms way and wore boots and tactical pants.

We did a cold jump onto a hot DZ in a semi-secure area, but not far from an al-Q village called al-Qaruk. Me and three other JAG guys, all of us majors, showed up at the Bagram airstrip without rucks. There was room on the manifest. We each wanted a combat jump, so we chuted up. Waiting to board the aircraft was this brigadier who I immediately tagged as a guy too full of himself. His chest was thrust out so far I figured his spine should snap. His ACUs were starched. A pearl handle stuck out from his under-arm shoulder holster. He sauntered over and asked us who we were and who we were with. We told him. He said, "You mean to tell me we're going to have four lawyers with us on this jump today?" I said, "Yes, Sir, that is correct." He got this odd look on his face, then turned to the captain next to him and said, "Tell Shubert to meet me on the DZ with my skeet gun." His staff all roared with laughter. The two guys with me laughed. I somehow managed a smile and to refrain from saying something that would have had me requiring my own legal services.

My wife had asked me the other day why I am always on our son so much about his pants. "Because he wears them under his ass," I said. She told me all the kids do it and not to be such a jerk about it. It drives me insane to see kids with their pants below their asses. It makes absolutely no sense. They can't walk or move with any fluidity. Far enough down and they have to shuffle with their legs splayed to keep their pants from falling down. Some continually grab and pull at their pants, to hitch them up just enough so that they do not hit their ankles. I understand the concept that teen trends are often simply about pissing off adults. I get that. I did that. But this sagging pants bullshit is more than that. It makes them vulnerable, makes them slow. Fools. Weak. Pathetic. My wife said I need to focus more on my career and less on my son's pants. Pants, she said, were just one of many examples of my lost focus and ambition.

Ambition?

Later I thought of telling her that I am more ambitious than ever, that I have very radical ambitions about being happy, about being with a woman who supports me and actually fucks me more than once a month. I ain't getting any younger. I thought also about pointing out to her that I have gone from JAG officer to CO in an infantry battalion. Pulling that off was a lot more difficult and ambitious than making law partner in a firm that represents corporations in the fleecing of America.

"What are you," says Phil, giving me this troubled look, eyes dark, brows furrowed, fingers steepled in front of his thin lips. "I forget."

"Male. Sagittarius. Kansan. American. B-positive. Not sure what you mean."

"Rank. What rank are you? Aren't you a general or something?"

"Colonel."

"Ah. Right. Don't colonels just hang out at the headquarters or whatever?"

"I spent some time in tactical operations centers. But I also went out on patrols. I needed to know what our troops were facing in order to better do my job. My last job was commanding an infantry battalion."

In Afghanistan I was attached to an infantry battalion as their JAG liaison. My JAG CO, Bob Wallace, a district judge in St. Louis, tried for two hours to talk me out of it. He said I was nuts, that I would get killed. In the end he had to OK it. They were short officers and my Special Forces tab and short stint in a Kansas National Guard artillery company got me the job. Eventually, due to circumstances, I doubled as the battalion XO. I had enough time in the field in Iraq, and the right leadership schools, to qualify for the job. The CO told me my first job as XO was to find a legal loophole to allow him to give his boys beer. I laughed. He didn't. Two weeks later fifty cases of beer showed up. I told the CO that sometimes it is easier to ask forgiveness than for permission. He laughed his agreement.

Going to Afghanistan was like stepping back into some sort of stone age. Fighting the Taliban was like battling Neanderthals. My battalion was in the field twelve of fourteen months. Our CO got sent home after picking up some shrapnel from a road-side IED. While they were patching him up at the MASH they detected some serious cardiac arrhythmias, bad enough for a ticket home. I was named interim CO, until he came back. They said it would be for two to three weeks. He never came back. I was in command until we rotated home.

I went out to visit the troops in the field as much as my sergeant major allowed. I went on a few patrols with my boys, when the sergeant major allowed. I loved going out with a platoon, or a company, driving the dusty roads with the men, being part of a group of well armed and superbly trained men, some of whom were barely shaving, but within whose hands I still placed my life. On one such patrol, out to check a COP, the fiddy call gunner up top was very chatty over the radio. One portion of it in particular caught my attention.

"What do you get when you send a Taliban to law school?" he said over the radio for all in the vehicle to hear.

"Can't imagine," said the Spec4 in the back.

"A lawyer you can shoot. Hoo-ah!"

They erupted into laughter. I laughed with them. "Hey, dumbshit, knock it off!" roared my sergeant-major. "Sorry, Sir. I forgot," said the kid up top, after a heavy silence. Then it hit me: Holy fuck. He's right. They are talking about me. It had not even occurred to me that I had stopped thinking of myself as a lawyer. "No problem, Nelson," I said. "Nobody appreciates a good joke better than me." But it occurred to me that they did not think of me as a lawyer, or maybe even know that I was one, or care. Nelson went home in a body bag seven weeks later because his platoon leader was unsure over the rules of killing the enemy.

There's a sushi bar down by the court house called Sosumi. It's always packed with loud lawyers and half-drunk judges. I go there for the raw fish and language. No one is more obscene than lawyers with their ties pulled down. I met my buddy, Dave, there for lunch last week. Dave is a tax lawyer. We met in law school. He rides a Harley on the weekends to an indoor climbing gym thronging with bobos all wearing Patagonia pants and pullovers, Starbucks travel mugs clipped to their seat harnesses, so that he can assure himself that he is not one of them.

"My wife is pregnant," he announced as he tore into a California roll.

"Congratulations," I said. "Do you know yet if it is a boy or a girl?"

"No. But I know it will be a lawyer."

"How's that?"

"My wife constantly has an uncontrollable craving for bologna."

"Funny."

"I see you're still wearing those snazzy pants."

"For fuck sake. Not you too."

"Hey, I see those pants and it's hard not to think you're a SWAT guy, that's all."

"What is it with everyone and pants?"

"They don't quite blend."

"Blend? You blend smoothies, not clothes."

"Blend with normal people."

He pulled me into a discussion about PTSD, TBIs, depression and sex. Dave manages to weave sex into every conversation. It is his masculine anchor, what reminds and assures him that he is a man, that he has a cock, that he is, or can be, some sort of alpha. His wife lost interest in sex after their second child. Dave has short affairs to "make up the sex deficit." He has boned most of the female paralegals in his firm. He likes to tell me all about these trysts and always ends with assurances that he still loves his wife. "I just have needs," he says. "And I deserve to have them met." I told him I thought there were better ways of getting that done than sleeping around.

"Hey," said Dave, not looking at me, trying hard not to pay attention to my words, "Do you know how a lawyer sleeps?"

The question stunned me for a moment, before I realized it was a joke. "Uh, no," I said. "How?"

"He lies on one side. Then he lies on the other."

"Nice."

"Yeah, that's about the best I got."

"Don't give up your day job," I said.

Phil asks me about the Tryon case. It is the biggest joke of my professional life. Our client, Tryon Corporation, fleeced the state government out of several hundred million dollars. They did the same to several other states. They used patents and copyrights to extort and extract revenue and collusion from clients and competitors. Then to cover all this up they cooked their books. And I don't mean a little bit. Their SEC-directed restatement of their financial earnings showed that they had over-stated their assets by three times their actual market value. Three times. Oh, and the CEO used corporate funds as his personal piggy bank. He threw his wife a birthday party in Greece and flew in all their friends, and paid for it all with corporate funds. The Party cost over three million dollars. His attitude was, "Hey, I'm the CEO. What's the problem?"

I lead the defense team for this pack of miscreants and constantly feel that I should call the prosecutor's office and share some tips of the really big things they are missing. Every executive and board member should go to prison. It is a shining example for the case for greater transparency in corporate finances. And I am defending them, even though no one believes we can win, that this case will have long-term negative impact on our firm, and all because several of the senior officers at Tryon are members at the same country club with several of our partners. Some are even fraternity brothers.

I give Phil the same tired status reports on the Tryon case. He knows I don't like it. But they trust me to be a trooper. He goes on to lecture me, to tell me, in a very didactic tone, that a man needs to carry logic and introspection with him every moment, every day, so that he can know himself and make good decisions. I tell him I agree that a man must carry those essentials, traits that allow him to negotiate the modern world. I am talking about honor an integrity. I suspect that Phil is not.

A man also needs to carry essential items, things that you do not want to be caught without, like a knife, GPS, compass, 550 cord, sunglasses, laser range finder, laser pointer, water purification tabs, gravity pens and mechanical pencils, chemlites, a beacon or strobe light, just to name a few. On any given day, I have such items secreted in pockets, in pants and in jackets, all over my person.

I still wear suit jackets and white shirts. I still love to put on my trusty old blue blazer, my tailored Brooke's Bros shirts and my Vacchine silk ties. My khaki operator pants actually look pretty killer with my Armani jacket. And my coyote-colored SpecOps pants go very well with the JoS herringbone blazer.

My shoes are still fashionable. But I no longer could wear loafers of any style or variation. My footgear now has to be substantial, come up to or over my ankles, and have substantial soles, the promise to my feet for when the shit hits. But they all were purchased at the best shoe stores, allowing me the privilege of overpaying for them. If I had my druthers I'd wear boots to work. Don't get me going on boots. And that would definitely be pushing it a wee bit too much at work. And I understand that. Kinda.

"What would prehistoric man have done if someone had placed loafers in his hands, say 30,000 years ago?" I asked Dave one day over sushi and beer, after I had just got back from A-stan.

"Probably would have eaten them."

"Exactly."

"So what's your point?"

"Just that loafers have more of a place on my plate than they do on my feet."

"You of the prehistoric appetite, of course," he said. "You going to order the bronto-burger?"

"All the partners met just to discuss your pants." Phil said, pacing in front of the plate-glass window that was the west wall of his office. Man, I thought, my kingdom for a sniper with a Barrett .50. "And it as unanimous that we present you with this option: This firm or the pants."

I was amazed that he stated it so succinctly. That was in direct violation of the verbose rules of lawyer-speak. Something made me think of my wife. I even felt her presence in the room. I had an impulse to peek under Phil's desk. But that thought made my pulse pound. No telling what I would find. I have found it is often dangerous to let the eyes lead the mind into the unknown.

"If I don't need to see it then I don't want to see it," Tony Pistano, my sergeant-major at 2nd Battalion, used to joke. Tony was one of those NCOs that made you believe in super heroes. He was hard as woodpecker lips and he was one of the nicest and smartest guys I have ever known. He loved his troops and they all loved him. He told me that I should be flattered that he did not want me killed, that it was only because he liked me and, more importantly, that he did not want to lose a good CO. The day an IED got him I was at Bagram, at a commander's briefing. They handed me a note about his death while a brigadier was talking about NCO retention.

I remained sitting, forced myself to focus on facts and statistics about the quality of life issues of the U.S. Army NCO, their families, kids and wives, long term career prospects, time with their families, benefits, healthcare. Tony had a wife and four kids. I managed to keep my mind off the fact that their quality of life just changed dramatically.

"What could be so damned terrible?" my wife screamed at me one night. "Whatever happened over there, whatever you saw, it is over. It's done. Get over it. It is time to get back to living your life."

Living my life. Is that what I was doing before, living a life? Before war I thought I was a hunter, a top predator. I drove the car of the hunter, a BMW, wore the clothes of a predator, Armani, lived in the house of a predator, small mansion with a pool. But I was prey. I wore prey clothes and walked in prey shoes and ate prey food and had sex like prey. I wasn't living a life. I was living a lie. That all changed in Afghanistan.

We were on patrol. Bob Grandin was a the 2nd platoon leader. He grew up in Nebraska and played basketball at Iowa State. He was the sharpest young officer I ever knew. Good kid. Good leader. If I gave him a task I knew it would get done. I went out on several patrols with Bob and his boys.

The day of the blast we were en route to a village to meet with the elders. It was sunny and clear. The blast knocked me off my feet and the air from my lungs. Eventually I was able to stumble over to where Bob was sitting upright on the ground. That simple act seemed impossible, because his legs were gone. And his guts were spilling and pooling around him. The most amazing thing was that he was saying, "I'm OK. I'm OK." His eyes looked sleepy. He looked up at me and managed a weak smile. Then he followed my eyes and looked down. God, why couldn't I have kept my eyes up, on his. Until that point his shock-numbed mind did not grasp his condition. In an instant it did. His head went back and a primal scream erupted from his ruined body the likes of which I have never heard before, and hope I never will again. It was a scream of total terror and anguish, a terrified animal scream. It cut through me, flesh and soul.

Bob was dead before the echoes of his scream died. He didn't so much 'bleed out' as all his guts just sort of gushed out. He was a good kid, one of the best human beings I have ever had the privilege to know. I will never forget him. But it is that scream that I will remember most. It is lodged in my memory like a red-hot poker. I hear that scream every day, several times a day. And every time it goes off in my mind the waves start smashing against the strewn rocks that once were my stolid soul. The waves are the guilt that I came back without a scratch, that Bob died and I did not.

"I do not have a fucking clothes fetish."

"Yes, you do."

Wendy, my paralegal, made this absurd assertion one day as we ate Italian subs in a park near our office. We often got outside for lunch. She was the only other person in the firm who liked to eat outside. Other than me. Sometimes even in the winter we ate lunch outside. We once ate gyros in a blizzard. Watching the flakes catch in her hair while her breath turned to smoke was one of the most beautiful things I ever witnessed. In spite of that I tried to explain how women have fetishes, in regards to clothes, and men have needs for "substantial clothing."

"Substantial clothing?"

"Yes, clothing of substance." She laughed at that. I hate it when she laughs at me. And I love it. I explained that while women focus on things like dresses, scarves and blouses, men harken to things such as hats, gloves and boots, things that will stand up to hard times.

"You have a thing about hard times, don't you?" she said. I was not sure how to answer that. "Never mind," she said. "It's OK. What kind of hats?"

I went on about my hats, military headgear— patrol caps, boonie caps, berets, as well as my numerous baseball caps and several cowboy hats. From there I rambled into gloves, belts and then to boots. She asked me how many military boots I had. I tried to catalogue them in my mind, all the jungle boots, leg boots, mountain boots, M-1993 brown boots, desert boots, arctic boots, jump boots, and on and on.

"So you men have your clothes fetishes," said Wendy. "And we women have ours. What's the difference?"

"The difference is that the clothes I collect are substantial, they're functional. They stand up to work, like gloves and boots. The clothes that you tend to hoard are purely for fashion. It is a difference of function and fashion. You make your body vulnerable when you wear weak clothes, clothes that cannot support the body when the shit goes down."

"Vulnerable?"

The human body, yes. Vulnerable. It is amazing. It can stand up to the most brutal abuse. One time we dragged an Iraqi from a car that had blown twenty feet into the air. It landed upside down, thirty feet from the blast point. The guy was dead, of course. But his body was intact. Nothing missing. Sergeant Klaussen kept rolling him over looking for wounds, shaking his head. "Don't make sense," he kept saying. "Just don't make sense."

Other times the body seems like an assembly of intricate parts crystal. We once came upon an IED attack in Iraq and helped out. We pulled three troops from a Humvee. One was OK, alive, for the most part. The other two were like puzzles shaken in a bag. It took us over an hour to find all the parts, some of which had gone to mush. But most were solid and in perfect order, except that they had detached from their respective attachment points, like some sort of soldier-sized Mr. Potato Head. I found that day that I have a particular talent for finding fingers. I don't mention that around here, even though I find it a bit ironic.

"The pants have to go."

I was relieved when he said that. I no longer fit in here, in this office, this practice, this society. I share more in common with the Tallies and tangos now than I do these pathetic cretins and their pansy pants. I have to get back to the war, or something like it. Civilization is no place for a warrior.

"Gosh, Phil, I had no idea you feel this way," I said. "But, really, I am happily hetero."

"I'm serious, dammit."

I was nodding and smiling when I said, "And I have to go with them."

I called my wife to let her know that I quit. She made a derisive snort on the other that made it clear she was not surprised. Then she informed me she wanted a divorce. It was my turn to make the sound. "No problem," I said. "I'm a lawyer."

I drove straight to the Bullet Hole indoor pistol range and fired up a couple hundred rounds. Maybe more. I'm not sure. Usually I am pretty good about counting rounds, being aware of my ammo consumption. But I didn't care that afternoon. I was thinking too much about what I was going to do, what I had done, to think about what I was doing. In the middle of a mag my hand started to shake. I couldn't breathe. I placed the pistol down on the bench. I thought, "Oh shit. I'm about to have a heart attack." But the tearing in my heart was not cardiovascular. My head went back and a scream erupted from my chest that seared my throat and made my teeth rattle. It went on and on. How do I stop this? I was thinking. Finally it ended, ran out of oxygen, and I crumple-sat to the concrete floor. I leaned against the plywood wall of my alcove and held my head in my hands. I felt several other shooters approach, felt them watching me. No one spoke and eventually they all went back to their lanes and let me be.

I moved in with Wendy. Went to work for the DoD on a consulting basis. I travel all over the country giving presentations. It pays real well. Got a concealed-carry license. It helps me to sleep. I do a lot of work with vets groups, helping guys get the help they need, legal and health services. Tryon imploded when the prosecution somehow got ahold of some very damaging information. Their CEO is going to prison. Phil and his other partners are scrambling to save their necks, due to troubling implications involving the firm. My wife finally got her just solatium, in the form of a recently divorced plastic surgeon, a roly-poly little guy, who had just bought a house close to The Plaza, her shopping Nirvana. Every day I go to the gym or the karate dojo. Wendy likes to show off her collection of thong underwear and camisoles. I encourage her.

I bought some new jeans and slacks. I wear them from time to time, more and more. It was never really about the pants. It was always about the scream, that part of me left over there, that part I can never get back. It was about the fact that we left so many good soldiers over there, so many boys, our boys, my boys, and I came home. I need to be worthy of that, of them, still over there, bits and pieces, splatters and stains of them. Someone should go back and get them. I should go get them. But I can't. But I could, if they call, because I still got the pants.

PTSD Is Real – Robert D. Wilson
WE GOT 'EM ALL ACROSS THE REGION, TOO

Eric Forrester

The bathrooms at Al Udeid Air Base, Qatar, were forty feet or so in length. The men's had showers, toilets, urinals and sinks lined neatly against the wall. The women's bathrooms were the same, except they had twice as many toilets instead of urinals. They looked like single wide trailers and were made out of the same material: shiny metal roofs, brown metal siding, linoleum floors and white panel interior walls. There were dozens of them situated in-between the dormitories; one bathroom for every six dorms. The dorms were really just a longer version of the bathrooms. They were a hundred yards or so long, with ten-by-ten rooms on each side of the brown paneled hallways down the middle. Each room had a set of cheap metal bunk beds, wall lockers, a wooden coffee table and a nightstand; very different from my luxurious dorm room back in Spangdahlem, Germany, which I had just left.

It was June of 2005. At the time of my deployment, I had risen to the rank of Senior Airman, a 'three-striper,' an E-4, pretty low on the pay grade. My direct supervisor at my home base in Spangdahlem told me that as long as I volunteered for the deployment and I passed the written test when I got back, I was a shoe-in for Staff Sergeant.

My deployment job was to escort Third Country Nationals, aka TCNs, who performed manual labor such as cleaning and construction normally accomplished by members of the Air Force Services Squadrons. It was a lot different from my career as a 'fueldog,' refueling F-15s. In fact, it reminded me a lot of my first job as a hospital janitor before I cut my hair and joined after high school. Only this time, lucky for me, all I had to do was watch the bathrooms being cleaned.

When I landed, I immediately began a two-day escort duty training program at the Security Forces Squadron. I was taught how to watch the TCNs, what to look for, what comprises suspicious activity and what to do if any violations are discovered. They had told me that the TCNs searched for copies of ID cards, discarded external hard drives, mailing addresses and Battle Dress Uniforms, aka BDUs, in the trash cans. These items are valuable to the Air Force because the TCNs could be paid a lot for information about the base and its coalition of forces by so called terrorist organizations. This threat made the TCNs out to be a sharp contrast to the non-threatening American and German civilians who worked at Spangdahlem. But in time, they had said, I would get used to them.

When we arrived at the first bathroom nearby the dorms, Staff Sergeant Summers, my partner and interim supervisor, told me to do the men's side first because she needed a catnap. She was always tired, and I don't know why I didn't realize sooner that her pudgy stomach had something to do with it. She napped in the driver's seat of the van with her floppy hat pulled over her square brown glasses, like the ones they issue in basic training. Her BDUs were always creased and ran in a straight line from her hips to the front of her brown issued boots, the same ones we all wore. She tucked her hair in tight underneath the hat, all except for a few red strands hanging loosely around each ear. These are the things that I remember about my first deployment.

She stayed in the van a lot that first day, hell, the entire week for that matter. I immediately became responsible for most of the initial inspections, a great way to start off the deployment, I guess. While Summers was napping, I told the men to wait for me at the door to the men's bathroom while I did an initial inspection. With sweat trickling down the middle of my back, I went inside and saw an Airman shaving in one of the sinks. He still had the left half of his face covered in shaving cream and his brown T-shirt was hanging next to the sink on a hook. We made eye contact in the mirror and I nodded. The rest of the sinks were available, but they were caked with little black, brown and red hairs around the faucets, dried up cream around the edges of the basin, muddy water puddles on the ground. On the mirror farthest to my right somebody had written with shaving cream covered fingers: 'go air force.'

Around the toilets were small pieces of ripped toilet paper. One of the urinals was almost overflowing but stopped just shy of the rim. The showers and toilet stalls were empty. The showers, each hidden behind a thick white PVC curtain, were stained with soap scum and had curly black pubic hairs scattered around the chrome drains. I swung each curtain open. I was looking for anything that the TCNs may be interested in. When I left the showers I pulled my M-16 off of my shoulder and poked it around inside the four trash cans lining the hallway to the shower stalls. Inside were brown paper towels, shaving cream bottles and one pair of white underwear. I'll never forget that damn underwear. Who had it belonged to and why had it been discarded? After finding nothing valuable in the bathroom, I yelled, "Okay Phillip. Come on in."

Earlier that morning we had picked up the TCNs from the main gate where Security Forces were stationed. When we walked into the Security building we saw Phillip and five other tan men sitting across a row of blue plastic chairs. Being so used to profiling everything when I walked into a room, I counted eight rows of chairs and ten chairs in each row. In front of the chairs sat a big screen television displaying the war efforts on CNN. Next to the television was a door and a bulletproof window where two guards sat inside a small air conditioned room. It was hot inside the main room where the men sat; some of them were very sweaty. But they sat patiently watching the television, the outside temperature on the corner of the screen: another 135-degree afternoon. I shook my head and tried to hide my armpits, which were already staining my uniform, by forcing my elbows into my ribs while I walked.

I followed Summers who approached the two Guards. One of them spoke through a bunch of small holes in the middle of the window. "Hey, Sergeant Summers. This the new guy?"

"Yeah," she said into the holes. "It'll be him and my replacement in one more month, not that I'm counting down. Look here, Wilson..." she said, pointing at a piece of paper, which the Guard had slid through a hole in the bottom of the window. "We have to sign off for them every morning and again when we drop them off."

"Okay," I said.

The Guard picked up his .38 caliber pistol from the desk, looked at me and pointed it at the men sitting in the chairs. "There they are, new guy," he said. "You want to have him sign today?"

"Nah," she said, nonchalantly signing the paper. "He's not authorized yet."

"Hooah," he replied, setting the pistol back onto the desk.

I nodded at the Guard and Summers faced the men while they stood up. They were all wearing blue one piece suits with stains around the knees. Only two of them looked as if they had had a hair cut recently, as most of them wore their black hair around the bottom of their ears. All except one of them grew beards, lucky sons-of-bitches. I missed not having to shave everyday, but such was the life in military. The clean shaven man wore his one piece unzipped a little, exposing a gold necklace with a little medallion. It was his name written in Arabic. He took a step forward in front of them and smiled at Summers. She put her hand on his shoulder, tapped it a couple of times and said, "This is Phillip. He's the only one who speaks English, but, the other ones are trying to learn."

"My real name is Bayani," he said, "but, because I am from the Philippines, Summers calls me Phillip."

Summers took a half step back from Phillip and smiled proudly as I shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, Phillip." I said. He had a loose grip. My hand was sweaty and I didn't squeeze very hard either. The rest of the men shook my hands loosely, too.

* * * *

I unlocked the little janitor closet, which was built in the wall between the showers and the toilets after I had yelled for Phillip. The men took out three mops, yellow gloves, a bunch of cleaning supplies and an orange cone with a sign attached that read: Please Be Patient, Cleaning In Process. While the men spread out in teams of two, I took the cone and sat it outside the main entrance. At the sink the Airman slapped his face with after shave, toweled off, put his shirt on and walked out of the door. Phillip walked into a toilet stall with a scrub brush, a bright orange sponge and a bottle of Lysol and began spraying the toilet in the first stall.

I stood behind him and dried my hand inside my right cargo pocket. That's when I remembered the apple muffin that I had taken from the chow hall at breakfast. It was good, better than the bread that had been sitting out all night. I often shoved food into my pockets; a left over habit from basic training when I could never get enough to eat. After a few bites I looked down at Phillip and said, "So how much longer are you going to be here, Phillip?"

"My contract is up in a year, sir." Phillip said, wiping off the bowl with his sponge, sweat dripping from of his forehead.

"Don't call me sir," I said, referencing the famous military discourse heard so often in movies. "I ain't no officer."

"Sorry."

"How long you been here?" I asked.

"Two years."

"Jesus Christ." I pointed at the rest of the men and said, "What about these guys?"

In a low voice Phillip said, "We have all been here two years."

I watched the men in the showers scrub the plastic walls for a couple of seconds and said, "Are they from the Philippines, too?"

"No," he said. "This other man cleaning the toilets is from the Philippines also, but the men in the showers are from Nepal, so is one of them cleaning the sinks. The other man cleaning the sinks is from Bangladesh."

"Do you like it, here?"

"It's okay."

He scrubbed the inside of the bowl with the brush. Its wooden handle was water stained, but the bristles were straight and stiff. While he swirled it around, drops of dirty water jumped onto his yellow gloves and his wrist a little. Those damn yellow gloves. They reminded me of the morning before my tenth birthday when Mom forced a pair into my hands and told me to clean the toilet before the big party.

I smiled and said, "That's a long time to be away. Do you ever miss home?"

"Yes," he said, wiping the toilet seat. "Yes it is. And you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you miss your home?"

"Yes, I miss my home." I said. I thought about the rocky shorelines back home and the green mountains lining the Oregon coast. I closed my eyes and felt myself lean against the hallway wall across from the stall where Phillip worked. I thought about my little sister. Did she have to clean the toilet before her birthdays, too? I knew that it was cool in the mountains for her, perhaps raining sometimes. She was about to become a freshman at Parkrose High School on Shaver Street and I wished that I could have been there to introduce her to the teachers. I hadn't seen her since she came to my basic training graduation in San Antonio, with my mom, two-and-a-half years earlier. Her school picture in my wallet, which she had sent to me in the mail before I left, reminded me that her hair had gotten darker and that she had filled out a little bit during middle school, my old middle school.

When I opened my eyes I looked back down at Phillip, took another bite out of my muffin and said, "Would you like half?"

"No thank you," he said. "I have eaten."

"What do you do back home?"

"My family leases a banana farm and I am working to pay it off," he said, spraying three shots of Lysol around the base of the bowl. He wiped the cleaner away and said, "But, my mother is sick. I am very sad for her."

"I'm sorry," I said, looking at the double knot I had tied on my boots. The ends of the laces were hanging onto the floor and getting soaked from the water in the hallway. There was always water in the hallways of the bathrooms because of 'shower sandals' we were told to wear. Every step taken after we were clean would soak the hallways, swish swosh, swish swoshing out of the bathroom and back to our dorm rooms; where we spent our only time to ourselves.

"When I get old," Phillip said, wiping a stain from the flush lever, "my kids will take care of me, too. I will live with them, on the farm, and they will take care of me."

"Does all of your family live with you?"

"Of course." He flushed the toilet, turned around and said, "Excuse me."

I moved out of the way so that he could walk into the next stall. He began spraying the cleaner and wiping off the urine on the second toilet seat, and I said, "I would go crazy if I had to live with my family."

Phillip looked up at me and said, "What do you mean by this?"

I nodded at the toilet and Phillip began working again. He made small fast circles in the bowl with the brush. It made a scratchy sound and when the streaks began disappearing he said, "You do not take care of them?"

"Well," I said, "I don't live with them."

"Oh," he said, using a small white towel to dry off the toilet seat. "Of course not. You are a professional soldier."

"Well," I said, thinking about the professional soldier remark. That was a term that the German army used when they reenlisted. I wondered where he had gotten that from and if that was what he had thought of me. I guess I would be a professional soldier after I got back and got promoted because, yes, I would have to reenlist. So I said, "Yes, I am a professional soldier, but we call 'em Airmen in the Air Force."

"Professional Airman," he said.

"Yes," I said. "But, I've never heard anybody call 'em that."

About that time I remember looking up and seeing that there was condensation dripping from the ceiling. Dozens of tiny water drops were hanging from the roof, ready to fall. I watched one of them fall into Phillip's toilet and I said, "Usually, in America, when we turn eighteen, you know, we can't wait to move out of the house. If I had to live with my family, I—"

"In the Philippines we always take care of our family," he said. He put a new roll into the rectangular metal dispenser on the wall next to the toilet and said, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to interrupt. Please."

"Oh," I said. "It's okay."

Phillip flushed the toilet and the bubbles from the Lysol spun into a vortex and disappeared. He walked past me and began spraying Lysol onto the third toilet. I looked over at two of the men, the Nepalese, working in the shower stalls. The other Filipino was in the fourth toilet stall next to Phillip. My M-16 was strapped around my shoulder with the safety on. I reached behind my hip and held the butt while I walked back to the sinks. There, the third Nepalese and the Bangladeshi, wiped away the water stains on the mirrors in circles with paper towels, which they took liberally from the dispensers next to the sinks. There was a never ending supply of paper products in the janitor closets, so I guess it didn't really matter to them how much paper they used to clean. When they discarded the paper in the trashcans in between the sinks, they used sponges to wipe away the hairy shaving cream spots. One of them, the one from Bangladesh, whistled a tune while he worked. It sounded like a nursery rhyme, which made me think of him as if he were a father. Maybe he was thinking about his son, or perhaps his young daughter, if he had one, lying in her cradle waiting to be changed. He must have concentrated better with the whistle. Sometimes he used the inside of his throat to hum, as if singing without using words, too. The song echoed off of the walls and the men and I did not speak. It distracted me from all the questions I had for them. Did they all have sick mothers and a banana orchard, I wondered? Did they have kids? Why were they hired to do the cleaning instead of us? Did Summers always sleep on the job?

The Bangladeshi ran the cold water in a sink for a few seconds and ceased his whistling. I watched four or five beads of sweat run across the lines on his dark forehead and drip onto the floor. His hair was turning grey here and there, but only in strands of three and four. To this day I can't help noticing people's hair, probably because I still miss mine. Anyways, he had a full head of hair that hung below his shoulders, further than any of the men in uniform on base. There was a hole in the right knee of his coveralls. I could see that the skin on it was a little red and he bent over and placed it next to the base of the second sink while he scrubbed the grime away from the floor. Every so often he would clean off his sponge with a spray of water. He wiped clean the entire base of the sink, getting all those little hairs that dropped down from the hundreds of Airmen living nearby this particular bathroom.

The Bangladeshi began whistling again and, while I was wiping the sweat off of my forehead, I saw a man with a very 'high and tight' haircut standing near the doorway. His hair was short brown on top and so thin on the sides that I could see beads of sweat seeping from his pores. In his left hand was a battery powered toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste with the brand name written in Arabic. "Is it gonna be much longer?" he asked.

"Hold on a sec," I said. I turned to see where Phillip was and I saw his black high top shoe sticking out from one of the shower stalls. I walked past the toilets, looked inside the shower stalls and saw that they were dry. "How much longer do you think, Phillip?"

"Maybe, five minutes," Phillip said. "I am just about to start the urinals."

"Thank you," I said. I brought my boots together loudly and pivoted my right ankle behind my left heel. I pushed down on my toes and spun around facing the main entrance. When I saw that the men hadn't seen my movement, I marched coolly back toward the door. It had been two and a half years since Tech Sergeant Carrillo taught me how to do an about face in basic training. I was out of practice, and perhaps one of the men would have laughed at me had they seen it. When I arrived at the door the man was looking around in the sky.

"About another five minutes," I said.

"What?" the man asked, his hand cupped around his ear.

Just then three fighter jets, I think they were F-18 Hornets, flew over that part of the base and nobody could hear anything. We stood by the door smiling and watching them fly by. After ten seconds or so the noise faded away and the man enthusiastically said, "That's the sound of freedom!"

"The latrine will be clean in five minutes."

The two TCNs by the sinks began using mops. They pushed and pulled them in short quick straight lines next to each other on the floor. They worked as a team, virtually wiping every square inch. I stood outside a little so that they could get nearby the doorway. The Bangladeshi was whistling the same sweet melody as he scrubbed bits of dirt off of the cheap chrome threshold. My armpits were saturated with sweat. I stared at the floor as they passed and admired the white linoleum, which bore no signs of shaving cream or mud anymore. When they got to the other side of the room, nearby the last sink, they left a little trail by the wall so that they could walk back to the supply closet without leaving any footprints. The Bangladeshi smiled as he whistled and dragged the mop behind him while he walked on the trail.

When they reached the end of the room they picked up the sponge and the Lysol bottle that Phillip had left near the urinals. Phillip and the other men had finished and, while they were putting away the supplies, Phillip walked up to me, reached nearby my waist in between me and the 'high and tight' man and grabbed a hold of the cone. As soon as he began walking back to the closet to put the cone away, the man walked to the sinks and began brushing his teeth.

I told the TCNs to go ahead and wait in the shade next to one of the dorms until Summers came to inspect the women's bathroom. When I got to the van her head was leaning against the window. I knocked on the door and told her it was her turn.

She got out, walked past the men and did a quick inspection in the women's bathroom. When she came out she said, "It's all clear, but I need to sleep for a few more minutes. You don't mind, do ya?"

"Go ahead," I said. What else was I supposed to say? She asked me so nicely with her sweet southern accent, nicer than anybody else used to ask before I got promoted. Plus, I didn't want to say anything, but maybe her pudge was more than meets the eye. My mom said that she was always tired during her first few months of being pregnant with my sister.

Ten minutes later they finished the women's bathroom and the TCNs followed Phillip into the van. I shut the double doors behind them and hopped in. It was cold inside the van and Summers had had her hat pulled down with her hands resting on her stomach. There was a British man on the Armed Forces Radio Network reporting the month's regional roadside bombs. I turned the dial down a little and she opened her eyes.

"You didn't hear the doors close?" I asked.

"No," she said. "I've been real tired lately."

"Yeah, it's hard to sleep out here," I said, "knowing what I know about what's going on back home, anyways."

"Well, we all got problems back home," she said. "Ya married?"

"No wedding ring here," I said. "You?"

"Hell," she said laughing. "That don't mean anything. Lot's a guys take 'em off when they get deployed. Lots a women do, too."

"I heard about that before I got here," I said. I let a few seconds go by, hoping that she would break the silence. Finally I said, "But, the question remains."

"Not married," she said. She looked into the rearview mirror at Phillip who was sitting in the seat nearest us and said, "I don't believe in marriage."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Ya know how it is in the military," she said, staring into the mirror. "It's too hard when you're apart all the time. Come on, Wilson, it hardly ever works."

"Oh well," I said. "I heard one of the trainers say that you're stationed out of Barksdale. Is that true?"

"Yep, close to home."

"You from Shreveport?"

"I'm from Greenwood, roundabouts the border of Texas," she said. "But, close enough. What about you?"

I reached up by the dashboard, pushed the rear air conditioning button for the men, turned the knob to full blast and said, "I'm from Portland."

"Yankee boy, eh?"

"Oregon, not Maine."

"Same difference."

"I've heard that before," I said. "And I always wonder why southerners call people from the west 'Yankee boys'? We're nowhere near New York."

"That's just what we say, I guess," she said. "You're stationed in Germany?"

"Spangdahlem."

"Where the hell's that?"

"Near Luxembourg."

"Ya got anybody waiting there for ya?"

"No," I said, looking off into the desert. I could see heat waves rising off of the road around the dorms. My eyes started to get lost in them as they disappeared into the sandy background. It was mostly flat, but there were a few tall sand dunes, too. The dunes probably went deep into Saudi Arabia, I figured. I looked back at Summers and said, "I've just been thinking about my family, you know. I haven't seen my kid sister since basic."

"Have you called her since you got here?"

"Haven't had time," I said. "I was too tired after all that training to go buy a phone card from the BX."

"I got one. I'll give it to ya when we're done tonight."

"Thanks, but they haven't hooked up the phone in my room yet."

"We'll fix that too," she said. "I got a friend in Comm. We'll stop by after lunch and fix ya up."

I thanked her and locked the seat belt into its holder across my lap and it made a snapping sound. My rifle sat in between my legs, pointing at the floor board with the safety on. I turned around and looked at the four men in the last two rows. They still had on their yellow cleaning gloves and were talking quietly amongst themselves in Nepalese and Filipino. The Bangladeshi, who had had his eyes closed, was whistling just loud enough to be heard. Phillip and I made eye contact, and then he looked at the Bangladeshi and smiled.

"Just wait until he begins singing," Phillip said.

"He has a pretty good voice," Summers said.

I smiled and said, "Is this your first contract, Phillip?"

"No," he said, unbuttoning his cuffs. "I worked also in Saudi Arabia."

"How many years?"

"Again, three," he said, rolling his sleeves up. A small smile began rising from the corner of his mouth and he looked at Summers in the mirror and said, "It is where I met my wife."

"Really?"

"She was working as cleaner. For laundry."

"Oh." I looked over at Summers who was staring at Phillip in the mirror, and asked, "She did dry cleaning?"

"Yes."

"For a base?"

"Yes. Her contract was up after two months pregnancy. He is boy."

Summers abruptly took the van out of park and we began driving forward on the trail between the dorms. I stared out at the gravel that we were driving over for a second, the air conditioning blowing into my face. Then I turned back at Phillip and said, "Were you still in Saudi, you know, when he was born?"

"My contract was up in eight month. From there," he said, trying to raise his voice louder than the sound of the gravel, "I go home and see my baby born. After one year we needed money again and I come here."

"What's his name?"

"We call him Datu," he said. Phillip's smile made his cheeks rise and his forehead wrinkled up. "It is my grandfather's name."

The hot white gravel crunched loudly underneath the tires and the dust floated into the open doorways of the dark entrances to the dorms. When we inched closer to the bathroom, she looked into the rearview mirror at Phillip and said, "You like this kind of work, Phillip? Tell Wilson how much you like this kind of work."

"Before I leased the banana farm," Phillip said, looking at the floor, "there was not work in Philippines."

I don't know what Phillip had said wrong, but it must have touched Summers the wrong way, and with a little aggravation in her voice she said, "Oh, yeah?" Then she stopped the van and she pushed the gear shifter over into park as hard as she could.

"Was the base in Saudi an American base, too?" I asked.

"Yes."

"So," I said. "You've been working for us for a total of five years."

"It is a company from Doha," Phillip said. "And I have only one year left."

"I don't think they pay very well," Summers said, tugging on the strap of her weapon. "I mean, seven days a week for three years at a time. I sure as hell couldn't do it, not for that kind of money anyways."

"The pay is good for my country."

Summers laid her weapon across her lap so that the rifle butt was facing me. She had twirled the strap a couple of times around her free wrist while Phillip was speaking. She put her hat on, and said, "Tell Wilson how much you make, in dollars? You know, per month?"

"I think..." Phillip said, looking at the grey clothed roof of the van. He started moving his right fingers up and down, and then he began doing the same with his left fingers. After a few seconds he looked down at his hands and said, "Maybe eight hundred American dollars."

"What!" I said. My heart started beating fast and my stomach started to hurt. I felt thirsty and my boots seemed tight around my ankles. I looked at Summers and said, "Jesus."

Summers leaned over and whispered, "You know the pay scale, Wilson. I make five times that much. How in the hell is he supposed to raise his kids on that kind of money."

Maybe it would have been rude, but as soon as I was going to correct her and tell her that Phillip had only mentioned one kid, she turned around and opened the door. The hot air rushed inside the van and I tried to lean away from it by getting as close as I could to my window. Summers slammed the door as she strapped her weapon behind her back in one motion. The strap went between her breasts and made her blouse wrap tight around her stomach. I watched her disappear into the women's bathroom while I took my seatbelt off.

Phillip leaned his head against the middle of the double doors, pulled on the handle and said, "This is good money in my country."

"Do you all make that kind of money?"

"We are all paid the same."

Phillip began pushing on the door and I said, "Wait. So no matter how many hours you work, or how much seniority you have, you always make the same?"

"Yes."

"Do you get any time off?"

"No," Phillip said, looking at the rest of the men. The Bangladeshi quit his melody as if he had understood us and Phillip said, "We work every day."

"No midterm leave?"

"What is this?"

"Never mind," I said. The men were leaning over as if ready to exit, too. "So basically, you have worked every day for the last two years, twelve hours a day, seven days a week, and you did the same thing in Saudi for three years?"

"Sometimes," he said, opening one of the doors. "We finish in ten hours."

He crawled out of the van and ran to the bathrooms. He went inside with Summers while the Bangladeshi opened the second door. He and the rest of the men squeezed between the bench seats and the loose seatbelts dangling from the roof. The last man gently closed the door behind him. I pulled my floppy hat over my forehead a little, rested my head against the window and watched them stand in the shade. A few minutes later, Summers and Phillip came out arguing and waved them on in. After Summers and Phillip stopped talking, she came back to the van alone and asked me to go to the men's bathroom with them so that she could rest.

* * * *

That was Monday morning. I spent the rest of the day checking the bathrooms, moving the cone to the doors and back to the janitor closets and talking to Phillip. Summers had stopped off at the Communications shop and gotten my phone hooked up for me while we were busy. I asked Phillip why Summers was so tired and why they had been arguing, but he told me that I should ask her because he was not permitted to answer.

While in the van, Summers drove and I reviewed the map and got to know the base pretty well. Later that night, after we had completed what seemed like six dozen bathrooms, Summers and I made a quick stop at our dorm. She told me to wait with the men in the van while she went inside and changed. When she came out she was wearing a loose collared shirt, though not showing any cleavage, white running shoes and a pair of khaki pants. Her curly hair hung down to the middle of her back and she had on a different pair of glasses with round lenses and spring hinges, and big gold earrings. She looked pretty good out of uniform and she smiled at me when she stepped into the van. I never really had a thing for any of the women that I worked with, but I was starting to see why Phillip liked her, if that was really the case.

"Well, if you wanna go with us you should go get changed. Hurry up now."

"Where are we going?"

"To the TCN housing," she said. "I can't stand the base. Phillip's housing is so much nicer than here."

"You know," I said. "I would like to see where they live and all, but right now I'm still really jet-lagged. I'm not used to this heat either."

"Yeah," she said. "It takes a little while to adjust."

"I think I want to use your phone card and call home, too."

"Oh, yeah," she said. She grabbed her wallet from her cargo pocket, reached inside and pulled out a phone card for me. "Here ya go. Ya can just go with me to the gate and take the van back. We never take this van anyways. The cops give us a ride in their Explorers off base. A little less conspicuous, ya know."

"Maybe I'll go with you guys some time next week," I said. "After I'm caught up on sleep."

"We'll see," she said, turning back to look at Phillip. He lowered his head toward his chest and she said, "That all depends."

"I got at least one more month with you anyways," I said. "I'm sure there's plenty more time."

"Yeah," she said. "Catch up on your sleep and maybe next week, if me and Phillip are still good."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She laughed a little and looked at me as if I were supposed to know something.

After I drove the van back to the dorms I went inside, and without even taking my boots off, I called home. There was nothing particularly interesting about the phone call— Sis and Mom thankful that I was safe, me telling them about my job as janitor watcher, aka escort duty, the decent food at the chow hall, Sergeant Summers and the men. I told them that I would call every night for the next week and that no, I was not going to get forward deployed to Iraq like they had heard was happening to many of the young men and women stationed in the region. In sum, we all felt a little more comfortable with my whereabouts and I was finally able to sleep without worrying so much about things out of my control.

* * * *

I'm tempted to say that the rest of the week went along splendidly for us, but the fact is there was nothing very different about the methodical work I was forced to witness every day. I had kept a pretty good journal during my deployment, and during my after hours that week I called my supervisor once and told him how it was going. Each night, as promised, I put my sweaty feet up on the coffee table and called Oregon for thirty minutes or so just before I went to bed. My sister was getting along fine and was excited about high school. My mom, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck and was getting easily annoyed at my sister. She had been watching too much news about the war and she didn't understand that there were safe bases in the region, as if I were lying to her. I assured her that I was going to be okay and that she should relax a little because Qatar is south of Iraq and separated by the gulf, out of harms way. After a few phone calls she finally got the point, and things were back to normal around the house. Sis thanked me for talking to Mom and she promised to write.

The only thing that really stands out about that first week is that by the end of it Summers began letting me drive while she sat in the back row talking and leaning against Phillip. During these times the Bangladeshi rode in front with me, and sometimes he sang to us instead of whistling. He had a real nice voice, very tuneful and dear like Summers had said, and it helped the time go by, which for me, was already dragging. It was hot and miserable, but sometimes his strange sweet-toned songs helped me forget about being there.

I didn't need to understand his words. I could tell that there was both pain and hope in his voice, and the more I concentrated on the low and high notes he hit, the louder he seemed to sing. It was as if he knew I missed my friends at my German base, my regular job, my family in my small Oregon city. My coastline, my mountains and cool summer air. I'm sure I wasn't the only one, as the rest of the men, except for Summers and Phillip who were always content amongst themselves in the back, shut their eyes and listened patiently to him in between jobs.

Summers didn't go to the TCN housing with Phillip every night. She probably would have, seeing as her and Phillip looked pretty close, but she was more exhausted than I was.

One night, after we had dropped the men off at the main gate, she asked me if I didn't mind if she lay on one of the bench seats during the drive back to the dorms. I said that it didn't matter to me, just as long as she didn't fall asleep again. I needed to talk.

"We're tired now," I said. "But what about those guys?"

"I know," she said, lying on her back. "I wish we all didn't have to work such long hours, too."

"It has to be worse for them. I mean, they never get any time off."

"They're not the only ones doing it too," she said. "There must be hundreds of them on base."

She pulled her hat off and tossed it against the windshield and onto the dashboard. We were getting closer to our dorm and I stopped at a stop sign. When I accelerated and turned right, her hat slid to my side of the dashboard and dropped onto my lap. It was heavy and dark from all of the sweating she had done over the months. "Here," I said, tossing her the hat over my shoulder, "that reminds me."

"About what."

"Well, I don't mean to be nosy," I said, looking back at her. Her head lay against the arm rest and her hands were across her stomach. "I noticed you and Phillip are pretty close."

"Yeah," she said.

"It's just that," I said. "I don't know, but you're showing all the signs of—"

"You still don't get it?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "I think I do. But, he's probably gonna be pretty lonely after you leave. And I'm gonna be the one stuck with him after you're gone next month. You haven't extended your deployment for him, have you?"

"No, I'm definitely leaving this crap hole," she said, looking off into the night. After a few seconds she said, "Phillip and I, it could never work."

"Why not?"

"For starters," she said, "he's a Muslim Filipino who's been cheating on his wife for the past three months. How could I ever trust him?" Her eyes started to tear up. After a while she said, "I'm having it by myself."

"There is no way he can come to Louisiana and help you?"

She sighed and said, "It's against all the rules, Wilson. I can't become his sponsor because he has a year left on his contract. Plus, he has that stupid farm back home and a child of his own."

"Do you really want to have it by yourself?"

"Whatever," she said. "My parents will help me out. We decided this is best anyways. Just bad luck, I reckon."

"What do you mean?" I asked, taking my foot off of the gas pedal. I turned into the parking lot near our dorm, slowed to a stop and said, "Bad luck for who? You or him?"

Summers sat up straight, took a deep breath and said, "For me, for him, for all of those guys. Hell, what can I do for 'em anyways? They signed their own contracts just like you and me. Sure it sucks that we can't, you know. And it sucks that they make such a crap living. Eight-hundred lousy dollars per month, what the hell is that? You make four times more than that after only what, three years in uniform?"

"Two and a half," I said. I put the gear shifter into park, turned the keys toward me and the air conditioning stopped blowing.

"Well..." she said, pausing while she loosened the seatbelt. It curled slowly into its holder. "All we can do is our best to get by. I reckon that's all they can do, too."

"Why don't we just do the damn dirty work ourselves? Isn't that what we've done in all the other wars?" I asked. "Have they been here ever since the invasion?"

"I don't know," she said. "I'm not too big on history. But I know we got 'em all across the region, too." Summers put her hat on, took her glasses off, rubbed her eyes, squeezed the bridge of her nose, put her glasses back on, and said, "You ready to call it a night. I need to get some shut eye. The little one is wearin on me."

"Yeah," I said. "Look, I'm real sorry I brought it all up. I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's okay."

"One week down, eh?" I said.

"That's what I'm talkin bout," Summers said, "You got to look ahead, Wilson. As it stands now you got a-hundred-seventy-one-days and a wake up left. But, try not to think about 'em too much, okay. Just accept it and let 'em go about their work. It's the nature of the beast, ya know."

"Are you gonna keep in contact with Phillip?"

"I don't know," she said. "But you guys seem to be getting along pretty good. He'll be fine with you."

"Yeah," I said. "He's a real nice guy. A good ol' boy, like you say in the south."

She smiled and I looked out the window. There was no moon and it was windy. Dust began gathering on the windshield and I put my hat on and forced the door open. Summers opened her door and we both got out at the same time. The wind caught the doors and they slammed shut. We looked across the van at each other for a few moments until the sand got in our eyes. Finally, she turned around and we both slung our weapons around our backs.

"Good night," I said.

"Good night."

We marched up the stairs and into the dorm. One-hundred-seventy-one and a wake up to go.

FLASHBACK MORNING

Robert G. Fuller, Jr.

The concussion blows out the windshield and hits me like a rock made out of air and noise. The M916 truck I'm driving bucks up and the thirty-foot trailer behind it jackknifes sideways. The left wheels lift off the road, then slam down. I'm stunned and confused for a couple of seconds.

Oh, shit ... a damn IED. I grab my locked and loaded M-4 and bail out. Am I all right? I guess so, except my face is full of glass bits and dust. It feels like it's been stung by wasps and then sandpapered. God, thank you for those Wiley-X ballistic sunglasses. My ears are ringing. I'm one hurting puppy.

I can see flames all over the place. The air's full of dust and smoke. I'm about to barf from the stink of oil and diesel fumes. Hey, is that a meat smell? Holy Jeez, some guy must have been burnt.

What's happened to my driver, Tib Tibbetts? There's a lot of hollering and screaming. Then I see Tib. He's down on his hands and knees, shaking his head.

"Tib! Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just banged up a bit."

Ed Spiller, the driver of the M916 in front of me and just behind the lead gun truck, comes up.

"Les got his arm cut up some and he's bleeding." Les Carver's his assistant driver.

"How bad?"

"Bad enough. Do you have your CLS bag? I can't find mine."

I check the truck, dig out my Combat Lifesaving Bag and go find Les. He has a deep cut on his left forearm but his OTV body armor keeps him from getting hurt worse. Our LT is real squared away and had us mark up our CLS bags so when we opened them every item was labeled— "scissors," "bandages," whatever. Sometimes there's medics with the convoy, sometimes not. Like this trip.

I can tell Les is just beginning to feel pain. But he's one tough critter and tries his damndest not to show it. I get a field dressing on the cut. No arteries cut, looks like, but I slap a tourniquet on it anyway. Then me and Tib haul him down to the wrecker, which is the primary CASEVAC vehicle. There are a few more guys there. Erlon Chubbuck has bad burns on his face and his left leg mangled up some. Him, Billy Orff and Rene Ducharme were in the point vehicle. Erlon was driving. Rene was the gunner. I see Billy. He was the assistant driver. Looks like his right arm's broke. They're taping it up his chest and he's moaning something awful. They were in the kill zone when the IED went off.

We all have our blood type written on our helmets and the tops of our boots so if we get hurt real bad the combat medics back at the FOB will know what to do. Billy, who's sort of a wild man, anyway, has his tattooed on the side of his neck.

Everyone else besides him and Les is about like me, not too bad off. I see Buddy Dunn, the wrecker driver.

"See the son of a bitch who set it off?" I ask him.

"Nope," he says. "Usual— they set it off with a cell phone. We didn't see anyone running away with one. If we had, we'd sure have taken him down in a hurry."

I can hear the LT calling in on the SINGAR.

"Chamberlain two-six, this is White Knight four-one. We're on MSR Lexus about a click from the Tigris bridge on the far side heading toward Patriot. We've been hit by an IED. We have casualties. Repeat, we have casualties. Request QRF support for possible follow-on attack. Upon confirmation from you we will switch frees to request MEDEVAC assistance, over."

The SINGAR crackles.

"White Knight four-one, this is Chamberlain two-six. Roger that. We will get QRF en route and monitor your transmission with MEDEVACs, over."

"Roger that," the LT says. "So far eight casualties counted. We've got them fixed up as best we can and ready to CASEVAC, over."

Then I see two fellows coming down hauling someone. You could tell right off that he was dead. His helmet was all squashed in and his legs was just dragging in the dirt.

"Oh, geez," says Erlon. "That's Rene. The gun truck must have landed on him when it flipped."

We hear the LT again.

"Chamberlain two-six, we have one KIA, over."

* * * *

It all gets back in my head when I'm tweaked up and stressed out, which I was. Not every day when you find a burglar in your kitchen and shoot him.

There're headlights coming up the driveway. My mind changes channels and I'm back in the world. It's 4:30 on a late November morning and I'm standing in the garage in just my T-shirt, my shorts, my parka and my low-cut Bean boots, freezing my butt off waiting for the police to show up. I'd called 911 about twenty minutes ago. I was already working on my third Marlboro when Chief Casavant showed up in the town's cruiser with a State Police cruiser right behind.

I'd turned the light on in the garage so the cops'd see me real good, and both the chief and the trooper killed their headlights. The chief got out of his car. Well, "got out" isn't really the right way to describe it. Roland Casavant is a big man, maybe six-five, maybe 230 pounds. First off, you could see him moving his head around to check out the area before he even opened the door. Then he swung one big leg out at a time, bent over carefully so's not to hit his head on the door frame and just sort of pushed himself out and up real quick, like he was doing a squat lift. The trooper was a smaller fellow, kind of wiry-like. You could see his eyes moving around, too, just covering the chief's back and making sure nobody missed anything.

The chief spoke first.

"Hey, Dale. Even with that parka, you must be pretty damn cold."

"The rest of my clothes are up in the bedroom, Roland," I said. "I didn't want to go back up there and then out again through the kitchen. Didn't want to mess up the crime scene. If shooting a fellow that's in your house in the middle of the night and has a machete in his hand's a crime, that is. I was lucky that I had the parka and my boots in the closet next to the garage door and this door mat, some kind of fiber or something, to keep my feet off the concrete. Otherwise, I'd be hurting more than I am." I took another drag on the Marlboro. The smoke tasted good and warmed me up some.

"This is Trooper Fernald," said the chief. "He'll be handling the investigation. The fellows from CID are on their way."

"Hello, Mr. Peaslee," said the trooper. He didn't offer to shake hands. That was okay by me. I figured he might do that. Probably didn't want to get any evidence on him if I had any on my hand.

"Hello, sir, " I said, figuring it was best to be real polite under the circumstances. "You want to go in and have a peek at the guy?"

"No, we'll wait till CID shows up. Know who he is?" asked the trooper.

"Never saw him before," I said. "Could be a local. I don't know most of the youngsters around here these days. He's maybe late twenties, early thirties. I didn't spend a lot of time looking at him after he was down. Figured I'd call 911 and let you sort it all out. Geez, it's cold out here, Roland. Can you move the cruiser up and we can talk there?"

"No problem," said the chief. He went over to his Crown Vic, fired it up and parked in front of the garage. I stubbed out my cigarette. We all got in, the trooper and Roland in the front seat and me in the back.

"Let's talk about what happened first," said the trooper. He was all business.

The chief held up his hand. "Wait just a minute. Dale, where're Barb and the kids?"

"Barb's still in the bedroom upstairs," I said. " I hollered at her not to come down until you got here and said it was okay. She didn't give me any argument."

The chief gave me a knowing look and I sort of grinned back a little. Barb's the kind of woman who isn't shy about speaking up and the chief knew it.

"Tyler and Britney are up at Sunday River with some of their friends, skiing. Guess we got pretty lucky on that score," I said.

"Sorry," said Fernald. "Okay to take up what happened?"

"Sure," I said. "Barb and I were asleep in the upstairs bedroom. She's a light sleeper and poked me awake. She whispered something like 'Dale, I think there's someone downstairs.' So I listened and, sure enough, it sounded like there was someone moving around down there. That got my attention right off. I sat up, reached in the bedside table next to me, got out my .38 and took off the trigger lock. Told Barb to stay in bed and keep quiet. Then I got out of bed and padded over to the stairs and listened some more. Damn right there was some bandit down there, roaming around. So I went down the stairs real slow, stepping on the far side so the stairs wouldn't creak. You can bet that I was some careful. I could tell whoever it was, was in the kitchen. The kitchen's on the right at the bottom of the stairs."

Fernald said, "Mr. Peaslee, when homeowners decide to take on prowlers, the result usually isn't good for the homeowner. Why didn't you call 911 when you heard the noises?"

"I thought about it," I said. "But I figured by the time you got here, the fellow would have either come after Barb and me or heard you coming and skedaddled without me getting a good look at him. Besides, I was riled up that someone was in my house. Dang it, I knew we should have gotten another dog to replace old Samson. He's been gone about three months and we just haven't gotten over it enough to go get a puppy, I guess."

"Then what happened?" asked the trooper.

"I edged over to the left of the doorway. I could see the guy and that he was holding something big, maybe a baseball bat. So I stepped in and flicked the light switch on the inside wall. I had my .38 pointed right at him, and I yelled, 'Drop it and hit the floor, you son of a bitch!' He lifted up his arm and I saw that he had a goddamn machete. He yelled back, 'Give it up!' and started toward me. Well, that was it as far as I was concerned. I have a laser sight on my .38. It's a Smith and Wesson Bodyguard. You'll see it. I left it on the kitchen counter. I put the red laser light right on his chest and drilled him— twice."

"Why twice?" asked the chief.

"Geez, Roland, you was in the Marines, I'm in the National Guard. Didn't your DI tell you anything worth shooting once was worth shooting twice?"

"Come to think of it, he sure did," admitted the chief.

"He went down flat on his back," I said. "I use a jacketed hollow point round for personal protection. Course, you can't shoot those at the indoor range at the Fish and Game Club, I use plain old lead for that. Plus they don't give those hollow points away— twenty-two dollars for a box of twenty-five. You can get fifty lead target rounds for about fifteen dollars. Anyway, that's when I called 911. Barb shrieked a bit after I plugged the scumbag and called down to make sure it wasn't me that got shot and I told her I was okay, the guy was on the floor and she should hunker down and stay in the bedroom like I said earlier. Then I went upstairs and used the bedroom phone. Didn't want to mess with the kitchen phone. That's about it."

"Any idea why he picked on you?" asked the trooper.

"I figured you'd get around to that," I said. "My dad had a big coin collection. He was a twenty-year Navy man, retired as a senior chief boson's mate. My brother, my sister and I were Navy brats. We lived in Norfolk, Virginia, May port, Florida, San Diego, Pearl Harbor— that was a real good three years. He did sea time all over the world and, every port call his ship made, he'd pick up a couple handfuls of the local coins and try to find ones from other places. He got hold of a lot of older coins and bills, too— don't ask me how. Had almost a footlocker full by the time he was done. I had 'em appraised by this outfit down in Portland. Some of 'em are worth quite a bit of money as collectors' items and he had some ones made out of real gold. When he died he left 'em to me, seeing as I was the only one who was in the military like him and had done a tour in Iraq with the 133rd. Folks around here knew that I had this collection, see, and I figure he found out about it. Plus I live here out in the country. Roland'll tell you my nearest neighbors are Paul and Tammy Frenette, half a mile down the road in that double wide."

"I thought you kept that collection in a safe deposit box at Wabanaki Savings," said the chief.

"I do, most of it," I said. "But Barb asked me to keep a few around to show to the kids in her class at Coburn Elementary every so often. Also, this scumbag might've thought I'd have some cash in the office out in the barn he'd get me to hand over. I don't usually have much more'n a hundred dollars or so in small bills and loose change, though. Lots of the folks I work for pay in cash. The local contractors and summer people, those are the ones who write me checks."

I run an excavating business with a big old Kubota backhoe and a Jimmy Top Kick eight-yard dump truck. Got both of them used, not too hard, for a real good price. Foundations, septic tanks, you name it, I can dig it. Before the housing market went bad, I subbed for a lot of home builders around here and as far away as South Paris. That's pretty much dried up. The summer folks on the lakes, though, they've always got some small job or other they want done, and they don't for the most part care about the price so long at you show up when you say you will. I put in their docks in the spring, take 'em out after Labor Day. I can fix most anything, too. During the winters I plow snow with my Chevy four-wheel Silverado 1500 and shovel snow off of the summer folks' camp roofs. It's hard work but I'm used to that and between Barb's teacher paycheck and what I net we get by. I have a pole barn I built to keep the equipment in and I got a small office in there with a desk, some file cabinets and a counter with a cash register on it. My sister-in-law comes in three days a week to take care of the paperwork. I get most of my calls on my cell phone and there's voice mail and my cell phone number on the office line. But she answers the office line when she's in. So far it's all worked out pretty good. When things perk up a bit I'm thinking of asking Matt Littlefield, the loan officer down at Wabanaki Savings, for a loan to build some of those storage units where people can keep their gear and the summer folks can put up their boats and such over the winter.

About this time the CID crew from the State Police showed up with the evidence truck. They talked with me and the officers first, then went in through the garage and into the kitchen. They strung some of that yellow crime scene tape in the doorway and outside the back door.

Chief Casavant came back to the cruiser and called Coburn Ambulance Service to come out with a body bag.

"Whyn't you go back in through the front door and warm up in the living room?" said the chief. " You won't get in the way of the CID boys."

I came in, took off my boots and settled down in the recliner in the living room. Then the adrenalin started to wear off. My mind changed channels again and I was back. Back in the shitstorm that was OIF— Operation Iraqi Freedom.

* * * *

We were running a six-truck convoy out of FOB Marez, hauling two shower T-huts over to FOB Patriot. FOB Marez is a lot larger, and we're in the old Iraqi Republican Guard base. We got all the grunts and engineers. We pick up the supplies from a nearby airfield and convoy 'em down. Patriot used to be one of Saddam Hussein's palaces. It's HQ and has more officers than Marez so they're always needing gear and what not.

The point vehicle was a gun truck with a big ol' M2 .50 cal "Ma Deuce" in the turret. A round from one of those babies can ruin your whole day. Take an arm or a leg right off. Next was me and Buddy Dunn in our 916s with trailers, hauling the shower huts. Then the wrecker in case one of the vehicles broke down or got hit. That has a gun turret too, mounting an M240 Bravo machine gun firing the standard NATO 7.62 mike-mike round. Then a bobtail 916 as backup for any other 916 out of action. Bringing up the rear was another gun truck with an M249 SAW machine gun in the turret. Fires a different round— a 5.56 mike-mike. Nothing like automatic weapons to raise your happy level.

We boogied out of Marez at zero-five-dark-thirty. Just enough light to see where we was at, and you hope most of the hajis are still in the sack. Our intel briefing said we'd be moving through a hot zone. Like there's no other kind, for Chrissakes. Our LT tried to anticipate everything that might go wrong and looked after us real good. He has us double check the frequencies in the SINGARs to make sure they could reach Chamberlain or MEDEVAC if we got hit, and check the batteries in the hand-held Motorolas we carried so we could talk to each other. The SINGARs use secure wireless transmissions and our orders are to shoot 'em up if there's ever any danger of them falling into the hands of the hajis.

Our trucks were crap. When you come in theater, you don't bring your own but take what's there from the previous unit you replace and go with it. We got mostly beat-up old Viet Nam-era vehicles left behind by the Mississippi National Guard. Lots of them had manual shifts that the younger kids had no idea how to drive. Would you believe it, we took whatever extra flak vests we could find and duct-taped them to the sides of the doors to give us extra protection.

We always change our routes so the hajis will never know for sure where we're coming from or where we're going. Today our orders were to head out on Main Supply Route Toyota, ram through Mosul on Alternate Supply Route Saab and then after we cross the Tigris get on MSR Lexus into Patriot. We named our routes after cars because we couldn't pronounce the names the hajis called 'em.

The first problem is getting through Mosul. It's a big city with about one point two million people. We drive through there like Mad Max, just as fast as we can go. That way some haji up on a roof can't draw a bead on us. The horns on our trucks were pretty much worthless so our LT, whose folks run a boat yard on the coast, had his dad ship over a box of those big air horns. Those get the locals' attention right off quick. If a car don't move out of our way we can shoot it up and push it off to the side. And a car could be packed full of C-4 explosive with some haji sitting on a roof with a cell phone ready to trigger it, you never know.

Intersections, rotaries, ninety degree turns— they're all choke points and potential kill zones so we blast through them and keep the horns going. The worst are overpasses. There might be some one up there with a grenade waiting to drop it on you. Or somebody'll pop up with a rocket launcher. Only thing to do is weave and don't keep the same interval between vehicles.

If you make it through Mosul, there's only three bridges over the Tigris to get to Patriot and they can be death traps. We just blast across them too and hope like hell that Ahmed in Mosul hasn't figured out our route and called ahead to his brother Talib to tell him which bridge we're using today and for him and a couple of his buddies to strap on their explosive vests and prepare to meet Allah. The locals scatter like chickens and I've even seen a few jump into the Tigris just to get out of our way. We don't win any hearts and minds doing that but I could care less. We have a mission to perform.

I've given up on understanding how Iraqis think. Maybe we should just have let Saddam keep on running the show.

* * * *

"Dale? Dale?"

It's Roland. The remote control in my head switches channels again and I'm back in the world.

"We're heading out. CID's got everything it needs. You and Barb can go back into the kitchen if you want to. The kid's name was Lucas Boynton. We found his ID. Barb was a bit broke up. Says she had him in grade school and he was a sweet kid. Don't get spun up about charges. I never saw a clearer case of self-defense. Roy Colder won't even take this to the grand jury. We'll wait until the autopsy and the tux screen, but from what you said about how he acted he was probably on some kind of drugs and broke in to steal your coin collection and sell it to feed whatever habit he had."

I swivel my recliner and see the two EMTs carrying the kid out on the gurney in a body bag.

Channels change again. I see Rene Ducharme, his neck broke, what's left of his head oozing blood and brains, being zipped up in his body bag.

I hear one of the EMTs. His voice sounds far away.

"Nice group, sir," he says.

"Always best to get 'em in the kitchen," says the other one. "Lot easier to clean up and you don't have to throw out a rug."

I give them a stare that's as cold as outside. They've never been in combat and if they're lucky they never will.

"Get out of here, dickheads."

* * * *

I got nothing much to do tomorrow. I think I'll call the VA and see if I can get another appointment with that doc who handles PTSD cases. I've been talking to him and he's been real helpful. Only once in a while do I get these flashbacks now. Takes something like this to set one off.

RX IN EFFECT

Nathan Douglas Hansen

I.

It was then, after service, in-service, when living was like finding a rhythm in wind chimes; be it gust or gale, the mind unable to sequester a tone, whistle a tune, or hum that irrational hymn we envisioned adjacent to the preacher's lectern— numbers of a page bookmarked by a church program.

It was then, when the twenty-four hour hold turned forty-eight, and three days became six; as classes and quantities of pills the size of fists grew exponentially and patrons wheeled in and shuffled out, lost on the inside, blank on the out.

It was then, when we became property; numerically-tabbed manila folders containing our past and present— futures burned one match at a time by aides hoarding packs of cigarettes from us condemned, single sparks and lingering sulfur stench turn pursed lips and exhaled identities wafting into traffic cough and congestion.

It was then, when the square feet of tiled rooms infinitesimal broadened and distanced our ideologies of one another leaving existentialists clinging for existence on corduroy walls that caved in and choked us cowering under cubic foot by closing cubic foot.

It was then, when more fluids – blood, bile and semen – were extracted, and like a Sonoran lake, long were the days of finding comfort in our mannequin skin.

It was then, when time slowed and pinstripes grew thicker until our government-issue ensemble, button-up tops and elastic band bottoms, were the same tone as the community room— muted.

It was then, when throughout our tribal initiation – the wailing whispers, back-peddling back talk and ominous hall intercom; all blended into a deafening yawn – that a gasp amidst an exhausted reality began fading into blindness.

It was then, when rest became the prescription for the rest – a cure all for Prognosis Ambivalence – as we had no relevance or circumstance, just permanence.

It was then, when days bled into each other, and every moment was an inventory of our surroundings; eyes wide shut, hugging malaise and lethargy that flowed from injection sites on our arms, swallowing the metallic taste of medicine pooled in our mouths.

It was then, when we first woke, lightly sucking whatever drool escaped overnight, cheek and neck damp and numb from the evening's vegetative state; testing our psychedelic paralysis.

It was then, when we clenched and unclenched our hands running our open palms and fingertips over abrasive sheets worn thin, toes curled beneath a thin wool blanket scratching an embrace.

It was then, when we opened our eyes and saw a wall papered in the guts of cardboard – beige and rippled – and our breath blew white sheets in waves in front of our faces.

It was then, when the single bed beach on which we lay was a chilled draft of Lysol, bleach and urine, all succumbing to the same hot breath that flurried our sheets in surrender.

It was then, when we rolled to our side, an effort that took an eternity, and pushed up the sleeve of our green pajamas to watch the cinema of bruising and the torture of pain deep in the tissue from which we cried.

It was then, when we watched our heart beat in the violet circle and blinked out of synch with our breath, lying there trying to recount every minute of every hour up to this moment.

It was then, when we saw our hands and how they have aged – labored and loved – looking ten years older now, and now, and now, and...

It was then, when we looked around the room and saw a wall locker, three additional beds – fully made – a stainless steel sink, toilet and a radiator, a mirror above the sink, one's destiny.

It was then, when we swung our legs off the bed and walked to our reflections to witness years gone by, only to fall, wondering what snake oil salesman could have given us this paralysis.

It was then, when we wondered if all of this was permanent: the blood, the bile, the semen we were poisoned with; the matter of brain matter and if it mattered; and words thought out that fell on indifference.

It was then, when we wondered if it is our will, or lack thereof, feeling blood replenish our sleeping limbs as we rose slowly, expressing exhalations of exertion.

It was then, when strangers looked into our eyes from inside dormitory mirrors, disappointed with the mask we chose to wear: porous face; bushy brow; nostrils flared; red and bleeding gums running the length of yellowed incisor and molar.

It was then, when we spat in the toilet and knelt and watched the pink froth swirl slowly around our reflections cast from water the same shade as our teeth.

It was then, when tears ran down our faces and dropped rippling an image we had already grown to appreciate; the blood, the guts, the sense of whom we truly were and are.

It was then, when we lost grip, handing over all we ever held, cherished and loved.

It was then, when we saw Sartre scream, "Hell is here. Hell is with you all," hallucinating down the hall and into open showers where men plunged down each other's private inferno.

II.

Ask us where our universe lies and we'll recall the solid oak door with stainless steel panels at the bottom and wire mesh window running four inches wide head to knee near the knob; an astrological enigma out an open door into a sky of fluorescent stars.

Ask us where our world lies and we'll recall where we've walked, treading black and white tile and how it met the cardboard gut shore so similar to corduroy jeans we once wore on the outside.

Ask us where our state lies and we'll recall a common area; a large vacuous room filled with items meant to distract us from feeling we're anywhere other than where we belong.

In this existence, one doesn't exist, nor is there any sense in senses...

... a wall locker of board games blocks out the sunlight set free from caged windows, a black hole...

... contents stack high as if to suggest the ward's level of care is superior, but box upon box repeating itself says differently...

... checkers on checkers on Parcheesi on Parcheesi on checkers on chess and Battleship on Candy Land on Life on chess on Monopoly on checkers is the ward's redundancy and our routine, business as usual, expect the expected...

... being unique is unoriginal in a place that shuns difference...

... boxes stack high and topple every day, a game in and of itself...

... pieces lie scattered on shelves with lost and missing cards; Gumdrop Mountain is in California, one resident said...

... a yellow "Get Out of Jail Free" card will taunt others...

... we want to account for each game piece; there have to be 52 cards in a deck or we can't play, and we feel as if we're one of these misplaced pieces, maybe a two of clubs...

... other pieces will never be sought after or used; a pewter Monopoly thimble has long been swallowed and all chessboards remain deserted and forgotten due to past bishops' visits to various human orifices...

... mismatched vinyl couches – some rose-colored, some lime, some aqua – horseshoe around a 54-inch big screen television set in the corner at the far end of the room...

... more vinyl chairs the same colors, high backs most, line chipped and peeling walls – we've asked if it's lead-based – in between bookshelves, also mismatched and old...

... one bookshelf looks like it came from my grandmother's bathroom in Fort Lauderdale; it holds a library of Reader's Digests along with a few Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew mysteries, Louis L'Amour in paperback, magazines from the American Association of Retired Persons and the National Rifle Association— all laid out and sprawled open and torn, shoved onto shelves in no specific category not unlike the multiple diagnoses that run the halls during daylight hours...

... every seat in the house, supported by worn rusty springs ready to pierce through thin cushions, is aimed at the giant tube projecting the outside world 24 hours a day, only pixilated and accompanied by show tunes...

... cartoon characters take turn being God, here...

... commercial jingles are Christ...

... guests on talk shows are disciples sitting down in virtue like Da Vinci's Last Supper, a print that hangs crooked beside the locker of games...

... television personalities will be rejoiced and praised through this altar wired to a dish satellite aimed out over a gray landscape and grounds three miles from the nearest house, a half-hour drive from city limits; these made up faces rule the outside world but have nothing to do with the people inside this cage...

... even hope is a visitor here.

III.

And time eludes us as we jostle between the safety of drug regimens and the escalator slip and slide of humility and forgiveness; reminded in night terrors of who we were and forever will be; paraphrasing pharmaceuticals, living double lives bi-polar, clinically clowned upon and trumped in our treatments by therapeutic thespians who preach prescriptions.

"You are about to re-enter the real world but this time with the tools to make you a more functional part of society," we are told. "We've established who you are but in order to make you more successful – and we can't truly expect that – you need to take heed to the following pieces of advice."

And without pen or paper we put into memory rules and regulations for the rest of our lives, our standard operating procedures.

"We know it works from this point forward," they say. "Every person is different; people with your diagnosis need medication; these are the medications that work best for people like you."

And with the sense we left long ago, we can only surmise a sound of straps outstretched.

"Take 150 milligrams of Sertaline Hydrochloride each day," voices continue. "These are the blue pills the size of Skittles, but sometimes orange and small like TicTacs.

"Take a half tablet of Quetiapine Fumarate 300 milligrams, one half in the morning, the second half in the evening," one hurries. "There's a pill cutter in the bag we're giving you; take 2000 milligrams of Depakote each day, but separate them in two doses – morning and evening – 1000 milligrams each dose or 500 in the morning and 1500 before bedtime because you would not have had anything to eat and it is a medicine that doesn't sit well on an empty stomach; you have the option of using Depakote, either white or orange tablets, or the generic brand which is cheaper but in soft capsule form called Divalproex SA; both types of medicines contain Valproic Acid which requires food or milk be taken."

And we do without question for we are questioned; labeled, manila envelopes of hysterical histories passed over islands of tile and circles of psychiatric hell.

"Don't think of this as a coping mechanism; block out any stigma that might alleviate the stressors in your life; you are Bi-Polar and Manic Depressive, not crazy," another says. "Monitor your behavior; keep a journal and note your mood, whether or not you feel overly sad and depressed or elated like when you do with women or spending exhorbent amounts of money."

And we want to be understood, void of pill programming that resets our chakras.

"Avoid relationships; don't mistake lust for love; don't find comfort in sex; expect a decrease in your libido," one reads from a script. "Don't forget medication; forgetting medication risks relapse and you don't want to return here; there are plenty of medications to try in the future but stick to the ones we have given you and let us know how you feel."

And we know to examine the silverware; to avoid knives of any sort whether paring or bread.

"The medications you are on can damage your kidneys, pancreas, and liver," the script continues. "You will fit in better; establish a routine and follow it religiously; begin each day not by getting up at the same time, rather by going to bed early the night before; begin each evening not by preparing for sleep, rather by winding down after the day then rise regularly each morning; use nighttime to recuperate from the day and understand excessive alcohol inhibits the ability to rest, as does caffeine and sexual promiscuity; use daytime to savor the energy saved from a good night's sleep; use the night not as a venue for promiscuous activities; try meditation; yoga; acupuncture."

And we wonder how many of us are there, really; to unionize or bastardize, any way to increase numbers, be it protest or porno.

"Here is a list of phone numbers of agencies – some charitable – that will help you get back on your feet; if you need transportation to your residence we can arrange that; if you need to make an appointment there is a shuttle service free of charge; if you need dietary advice we recommend calling this number; again, the medications you are on can be damaging to your kidneys, pancreas, and liver so watch the alcohol intake; we recommend abstaining from alcohol; stay away from drugs.

"We recommend abstaining from sex; the medications you are on will cause a decrease in your libido; do you have anyone to go home to?"

And for whom our heads shake in the negative.

"Let routine be your religion; allow steps be your god; make lists and obey them as you would the Ten Commandments, even if there are only six things to do throughout your day; don't put too much on your plate, you have a lot to deal with; break the monotony of your routine with time spent doing the things you love; you don't want to come back to this facility but we are here with open arms if you need us; here is a toll-free number if you have any other questions."

There's so much. And in this, it's so little.

"Son, this is your life."

GHOST

Danny Johnson

The sun beat down hot as a baker's brick; sweat ran down my arms and got between my palms and the wooden grubbing hoe handle. The ground I hacked was hard as a three-day-old biscuit.

I was eighteen years old, had two years of school left, at least, and the only thing I knew how to do was grub potatoes and steal hogs. From the time I could walk good, I must have dug a million pounds. Growing up on a sorry-ground farm in North Carolina, it was about all we had to eat, that, collard greens, turnips, and mule corn. But every year around Christmas I would walk with my daddy in the middle of the night two or three miles to one of the farms a good distance away. We would sneak down to the pigpen and daddy would whap one over the head with a baseball bat, drag her out, stick her in the neck, tie her legs over a tree limb and we would tote her back. Once we set into that hog, there was nothing left but the smell and toenails. Him, momma, and me ate pork until we all had a case of the worms. I wondered from time to time why nobody ever came looking for their hog.

I had no ambitions to farm the rest of my life and was sick to death of my circumstances, poor with no prospects of things getting any better. It felt like it was time for a change. The next morning I put on some clean overalls and a shirt, walked and thumbed to Raleigh, and asked until I found the military recruiter station. I went up to a Marine man. "Mister, my name is Ray Jacobs, and I want to sign up.

"When do you want to go in?" He asked.

"Today." I was through with living like a starving dog. At least in the Marines, I figured we would get to eat on a regular basis.

"You want to call your parents and let them know?"

"Got no phone. They'll know I'm gone when I ain't home for supper."

"If you're sure that's what you want, we can make it happen." On Tuesday July 12, 1960, I took the oath to join the United States Marine Corps. By Wednesday, I was at Parris Island, South Carolina, preparing for sixteen weeks of hell. It wasn't so bad, mostly hard work and a lot of yelling, but man, did we eat good. I added twenty pounds to my six-foot frame pretty quick, and even made expert on the shooting range, guessing all those days hunting rabbits and squirrels wasn't for naught. I didn't make any fuss, just did what they told me and kept to myself mostly. All that hollering didn't bother me, neither did the marching, or any of the other shit the Drill Instructor made us do. The hand-to-hand combat was pretty fun, and I never did go against anybody whose ass I couldn't whup, probably because of grubbing all them potatoes.

In December, a group of us was sent to Camp Pendleton in California to get more training in assaulting beaches and different ways of how to stay alive in a war. At the end of March 1961, they shipped us out to Camp Schwab in Okinawa, where we trained even more. There were starting to be barracks politics about this place called Viet Nam. Nobody really knew much about it, but it didn't keep them from starting rumors everyday. I kept busy on the base during the day and the bars at night. The Asian girls were pretty and cheap, and for an old country boy who'd never even been laid, life just didn't get much better.

The next year I got shipped back to California, and was sent to see a psychiatrist who said he was going to do a personality test on me. I was assigned to sniper school the next month, so I guessed they didn't think I was crazy, and must have passed whatever they were testing me for.

We spent a lot of time training how to use a Winchester Model 70 .30-06 rifle and a Unerti scope. The instructors taught us how to allow for wind, humidity, distance, and a whole lot of other things I'd never thought about. What I enjoyed most was learning how to disguise and make myself invisible; I was good at that. The job was to work pretty much alone when they said you was ready, but first, you had to be a spotter for a regular sniper, learning under him about what it took to do the job.

After my four years were up in July of 1964, I re-enlisted, not bothering to go home on leave. There wasn't anything back there for me. In June 1965, I was assigned to the 2nd Battalion, 3rd Marines, and we shipped out on a boat to Hawaii where we stayed a few weeks before going on to land in Da Nang, Vietnam. I was part of a Scout Sniper Team, something new to the Marines and not well regarded. Once there, I got sent to Hill 282, which was above DaNang and close to the DMZ. Our job was to keep the NVA from infiltrating to the South. It took a week to get settled in before I went out with a senior sniper everybody called Snake. He told me the old guard of the Marines didn't want us and really didn't give a shit what we did, so we made up a lot of our own missions and went to the bush to do what we had trained for. He said not to worry about getting killed because Marines guarded the Pearly Gates, and they always had room for one more brother. He let me make my first kill at a distance of three hundred yards, what he called a "confidence kill."

Thinking back on it, I don't know if it was a purpose target or just some poor guy that had the bad luck of wandering into range. Sarge had a lot of combat experience from Korea, so I paid good attention to him. He was a big-jawed ol' boy from South Carolina, easy going and friendly. Every time we got ready to go into the bush, he'd say "come on, Son, let's go put some meat on the ground." I never asked why they called him Snake or what his real name was. After a few missions, he said I was as natural a sniper as he had ever been around. "You know why?" He asked me.

"Because I like the aloneness of it?" To me that was the best part.

"That too, but it's because you never try to change circumstances; you just adapt to what is. That's a good trait for a sniper, and not a bad way to live your life." It took me a long time thinking trying to figure out how he knew me that well. If a hole had water, I wouldn't try to bail it out, just sit and endure it. He got serious with me for a minute. "Ray, you're starting down a road that's got a lot of bumps and gulley's and it ain't paved. There's going to come a time in your life when you might wish you had took another way. You ain't never going to be the same." I didn't really understand it at the time, but it was something I never forgot.

The first time we went into the jungle at night, I knew I was home. Back on the farm, I had a habit of roaming the woods in the dark, able to sneak up on rabbits or squirrels, staying quiet and learning what natural animals do, plus they tasted mighty good with biscuits and gravy. In the jungle, my sense of becoming invisible developed stronger, allowing me to vanish, become a shadow of the shadows. There was no fear being in the bush because it felt natural. The dark seemed to make me calm, like it was letting me know this was the place I would learn to taste life at it's sweetest, and know death was insignificant.

"You know something Ray, you can be one scary fucker. Most boys working out here in the jungle at night would be pissing in their pants at first, but you took to it like a duck to water. And you're good at it. I think I'll call you Ghost from now on."

I smiled at Snake, pleased I had earned a nickname. "This is going to sound crazy, Sgt., but I think I've been training for this all my life." The night belonged to me, and killing was a job, one with no remorse and no mercy required. Snake told me never to look the man I had to kill in the eyes, that way he'd never come visit me in my dreams, that they weren't people, just targets. I tried to do as he said, except the part about looking them in the eyes. I sealed in my brain the shock on every face when my bullet delivered. Sometimes spit would drool out of my mouth. It was a sense of absolute power I'd never understood existed before. When it came to killing a man, there wasn't any real drama, they usually didn't holler and thrash around, just folded like a paper sack. It was mostly silent, deadly and final.

In two months, I was cut loose from Snake, out every day, training a new guy to be a spotter, letting him learn from me. At first he was like Snake said, piss-in-his-pants scared. I tried to teach him patience and the secret of how to become invisible, but he never did catch on too good.

Sometimes we would hunt targets, laying in hiding for hours along trails. Other times we would go in ahead of ground assaults, having time to get positioned to support the regular force. We learned to live like animals, think like one, smell like one, with only one thing on our minds, killing. When we had the shot, everything jacked up; I could smell the scent of fear; the excitement in the air would sometimes actually give me an erection. Squeezing the trigger and watching the impact was as good as any orgasm I got from the whores around the village. We walked on the edge of the razor blade, knowing any slip would be fatal, and it was the most exhilarating sensation I'd ever felt. I was finally somebody other folks respected. And I was growing.

It did become lethal for Mo. It was the only name I ever called my spotter, because I never wanted to know his real one. We had been dropped by helicopter into the A Shau Valley, and slipped up the South end close to Laos where the NVA operated openly, stockpiling stuff to be sent down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. We made our kill and had to inch along in mountainous cover for five hours to get to a place we could move quicker. NVA were all around us. About sundown, we came out of some elephant grass at a tree line. I was ten yards in back of Mo when I heard him cussing. "Help me, Ghost!" By the time I worked my way up, he was pale and having trouble breathing. Two puncture wounds were high on his right cheek. "What was it, Mo? Did you see what kind it was?"

"Krait," he groaned. We had been taught about snakes in the jungle, and the banded Krait was the worst of the worst. There was nothing I could do. He was going to choke to death because the poison attacked a person's nervous system. I went into my rucksack and got a sock. Mo was hurting bad and his face was swelling and changing to a sick yellow color. I stuck the sock in his mouth to quiet his moaning, and jabbed him with a morphine shot to ease the pain. "I'm going to sit here with you, Mo." I wrapped my arms tight around him. He nodded, tears running down his face.

I rocked him like his momma would, whispering in his ear. "Mo, I want you to know that peace is coming and your pain will go away. It doesn't hurt when you die. You just go to sleep. Ain't nothing to afraid of. That's what I want you to think about. In that instant you go from this life, you'll be in a better one. Don't mean nothing. I'm going to sit and hold you. You go ahead on when you're ready."

He was dead in ten minutes. I pulled his life force, the St. Christopher around his neck, and put it in my pocket. We all carried one kind or another. I rigged a stretcher; the thought of leaving him behind never crossing my mind. By the end of the second day, Mo was stinking something awful. On the third day, I got to a pick up LZ and a chopper lifted us out. I got Mo's address from the Chaplin and wrote his momma a letter.

Dear Mrs. Morris:

I wanted to let you know your son was a good man and brave soldier. You should know he didn't die alone. I held him until he was gone. His St. Christopher is here. I thought you might want it to remember him.

Your friend,

Ray Jacobs

At the end of my one-year tour, I had thirty-three kills I could document, and a bunch more I couldn't. The legend of the Ghost began to be whispered about, and regular grunts tended to avoid me. Something had indeed changed. Instead of just rubbing on black and green camouflage, I began to cut nicks in my arms and outline my face with patterns of red, trying to copy visions of ancient warriors that came to me in dreams, like they recognized a kindred soul.

I killed a vulture and wove its tail feathers in my hair, absorbing its powers of knowing death. Ray was disappearing, becoming hard for me to recognize or remember. In his place, a beast was growing. Each time I readied to go out, the taste in my mouth sweetened and my senses were honed so acute even the wind had a natural voice I could understand. I was evolving, becoming the breeze that moved the trees and elephant grass, a shadow in the darkness that slipped silently, confusing any eye that could be watching.

I refused the chance to rotate back to the States, and extended for another year. After Mo, I wouldn't train anybody else. Unless they gave me a specific job, I would slip into the bush, stay gone for two or three days, sometimes a week at a time, killing targets of opportunity. Nobody seemed to care, happy to avoid me and what I represented: the thing they were afraid they would become.

The Captain called me in one morning in October. "Jacobs, I've got a mission for you. You like to work alone so this should be right down your alley. If you fuck up, you'll be on your own; I'm telling you up front the Calvary won't be coming." He sat and stared over the table at me. I guess he was looking for a reaction. He didn't get one.

He showed me a map detailing a valley above the DMZ. "We think the gooks are building up in this area. We have reports of sightings of a white man working with an NVA regiment. The locals say he's an American, but we think he may be Russian, probably helping set up SAM sights in the mountains. We want you to find and eliminate him." He sat back.

I studied the map for a few minutes. The territory had lots of open spaces between the hills. If I got caught on their side of the DMZ, death would be the easiest outcome I could expect. I pushed the map back to the Captain. "When do I leave?"

"You feel confident you can handle this?"

I leaned over towards him. He refluxed, getting a whiff of my odor. "If I didn't think so, I wouldn't go."

"Get your stuff ready and we'll chopper you in after dark. You know you smell like shit don't you?"

I grinned, showing teeth that hadn't been brushed in a month. "Wouldn't have it any other way." I stood up to leave. "Be seeing you." I had quit saluting assholes months before.

In my bunker, I rolled a joint to take the edge off, lay down on a cot and was asleep in minutes, knowing I would need the rest. It was a mental discipline practiced to perfection. Waking up around six in the afternoon, I stuffed my stomach with as much protein as I could, checked my gear and packed both side pockets with peanuts I'd bought from villagers. It was going to be a long mission and I didn't want to be loaded down with C-rats as extra weight. There was plenty to eat in the jungle.

At dark I headed to the helicopter field, and found the Captain. He showed me to the chopper that would be taking me across the DMZ. It was all black, no insignias, and the crew wore black uniforms, no insignias. Their faces were camouflaged and they carried two big fifties, one strapped to each open door, and a pod of rockets. These boys meant business. The Captain stepped back when the rotors began to stir. He threw me a salute, like he was in a John Wayne movie. I just started laughing as we lifted off and faded into the darkness.

We rode about two hours, low around the hills and through valleys. The sky was cloudy and gave good cover. The pilot signaled thumbs up, then dove for ground, pulling level just above tall elephant grass in a flat area. I threw on my rucksack, shouldered my rifle and jumped the final three feet to the ground. I hadn't hit good when the chopper was hauling ass. Immediately I moved five hundred yards towards a tree line in the distance. If the gooks had spotted the chopper, I didn't want to be sitting and waiting for them to come and have a look-see. When I got to good cover, I wrapped myself in grass and bushes, snuggling inside a high stand of bamboo. There I waited until first light so I could get my bearings and start moving.

At dawn, with the sun to my front, I began to walk, staying inside heavy jungle where possible, pausing and listening every little while. Steamy heat sucked the strength right out of a man, thorn bushes and razor sharp elephant grass ripped skin, and every creek was loaded with leaches. They were just inconveniences.

The NVA base camp was about four klicks as close as I could map it, and, doing it the right way, would take two days to get there. By the second night, I came to the edge of a large open field of elephant grass dotted with bomb craters. I went up a big banyan tree to get some vision across, hoping I was in the right place. From that vantage point, lights from cooking fires and headlights of vehicles moving around beyond the end of the field told me it was what I was looking for. I dug clumps of grass, fixing them to my back, legs, helmet, and shoulders, then took my rifle, leaving the rucksack buried, and began to work my way into the field, trying to look as natural as possible. By morning, I had covered half the distance and could clearly see the encampment. I lay where I was to wait for night.

During the day, a lazy NVA patrol walked all around me, one guy stopping to piss so close I could smell his sour urine. I controlled my breathing and slowed my heart. The atmosphere was intense until they moved on. Things in the camp died down around midnight, and I moved quickly to a giant ant mound so as to have some cover and be high enough to see clearly. The peanuts gave me the energy necessary to stay awake. They also worked on my bowels pretty hard, the other reason I kept them, so before sunup I had to scoot down a ways, cutting off a piece from the bottom of my fatigues to wipe with.

At dawn, sunlight crawled over the mountains to the east and started to roll down the valley. Activity in the camp soon followed. I watched through my scope, adjusting for wind and distance. It would be about a seven hundred yard shot. Soldiers squatted around, brewing tea and talking, no reason to be concerned this far north. No white man was visible. Then, a curtain moved on one of the hooch's, and out he came. He stretched and yawned, lifting his cap to scratch his blond head. He was a big bastard, and I centered on the middle of the triangle between his armpits and his bellybutton, it was too far to risk a headshot. I couldn't tell if he was American or Russian, but that wasn't my job. My job was to kill him. Letting out my breath, then waiting between one heartbeat and the next, I squeezed the trigger. The hat was still in his hand when he pitched backwards. I imagined the round blowing open his breastbone, tearing through his heart and turning it to jelly, then ripping apart his spine. His body twitched for a few seconds. The other soldiers froze where they were, in shock at what had happened. They went to jabbering, grabbing AK47s, and firing in all directions. It was obvious they didn't even know from where the shot came.

I began crawling as controlled as possible, moving quickly, but not to attract any attention. Slithering on my belly, I covered about a hundred yards before hearing vehicles coming to life and human noises coming my way. I sunk into the red earth on the underside rim of a bomb crater, covering myself with dirt and mud, in my mind making my body invisible, my face buried into the ground, not daring to twitch.

NVA soldiers swarmed, shouting instructions, firing off weapons at anything that moved. They went over the field like a colony of Army ants. But, by some miracle, they didn't find me. When night fell again, the sky clouded over and it began to rain, coming in buckets. The NVA moved on, leaving me the chance to cover the rest of the distance, recover my pack, and boogie.

The next day I was on the move South when I became aware a squad of gooks had somehow picked up my scent and were trailing me, keeping me from going to the pick up point. Tired of their bullshit, I backtracked and slipped up on their camp that night. I found a perimeter guard dozing, gagged him, and dragged him off. After interrogating him, he got across to me that the NVA had teams out hunting, and put a big reward for anybody who could kill the Ghost. I took his rice and water, then sawed off his head with my K-Bar, stuck it on a bamboo pole and left it on a trail his unit would travel.

It was fun matching wits with the little fucks, and I was in no hurry to get back to base camp. The greatest pleasure was hiding right in among them, then silently cutting a throat while the rest slept. I always left a wad of peanut hulls so they would know the Ghost had visited.

I was void of any emotions, thinking nothing more about killing a man than I would a gnat. After a week of hide and seek, I could smell their fear as easy as momma's cornbread. They finally pulled off the pursuit and I was disappointed.

It was three weeks before I got back to the firebase. Other Marines avoided me. I didn't blame them. When I looked at a mirror in my bunker I scared myself. My face was drawn in weird angles, and my eyes seemed to be fixed wide open from working so much in the dark. The blood stripes had liquefied and run down in ragged trails from my face to my neck. I wouldn't take a bath or rub off the camouflage. I reported back to the Captain the next morning, assuring him the job was done. He suggested I take some down time, and a bath. I told him I didn't need either one, and headed out again that night.

Three days later, I came in to resupply, slipping past the forward guard post, walking through the gate before anybody noticed. Early the next morning the Captain hauled me in. Him and the Chaplain sat me down to have a conversation about what I was doing, how I was fucking up big time. They insinuated I was over the edge. "Jacobs, you're out of control. You just go and come as you please; I have no fucking idea where you are half the time. Hell, if you get killed out there, I wouldn't even know it. What the fuck are you thinking? You act like some kind of animal."

Things got silent, no incoming, no outgoing, just the whirring sound of the fan on his desk. I pulled my chair closer; letting him get a good look into eyes red from lack of sleep, whiff the stink of my body from never using soap because I knew how Charlie could smell. I smiled for him to see the blackness of my teeth from chewing betel nut to take the shine off.

"I am an animal." The low growl of my voice made them shift in their seats. "Made by you. An animal you think you can keep tied to a tree, then unleash when you got shit nobody else has the balls to do. You think you can control me?" I spit on his dirt floor. "The only control you got is what I let you have. The Marine Corps sent me here so cherry I didn't know whether to shit or go blind. I was lucky to survive the first month. You wanted me to kill people, just run out there in the bush and start knocking them down. So simple for you to sit here and hide like a bunch of bitches. Well, I learned, and I learned good. Yeah, I'm an animal," I ran my finger down my face, tracing patterns of my own blood, "and I'm the king of this fucking jungle." I gripped the sides of the chair, my body and face so intense the two of them involuntarily leaned back.

After a minute, I forced myself to relax, then lit up a joint, slowly sucking it in deep, watching them look at each other, trying to know how to react.

Everybody in the bush knew there was a line if a man crossed, it would be better to kill him than let him back among civilized people. I had crossed it a long time ago. My mind was in a world to itself, the darkness in my soul fully exposed and unleashed; nothing else existed. I no longer knew who I was or who they were and the color of the uniform didn't matter, if I wanted you dead, you would be dead. "Nobody's give a damn this long, now you're suddenly concerned about my well being? Fuck you. Hell, I've killed more gooks than most of your squads put together. My body counts make you look good, so as far as I care, you can kiss my ass." I got up and walked out.

Evidently they didn't take it well, because that afternoon three soldiers with guns came and arrested me. I was put on a chopper to DaNang, then Stateside with orders for a mental evaluation. They took my rifle.

At Camp Pendleton the psycho docs started to work on me, insisting I stay in the hospital, "to re-adjust," they said. Old habits were hard to break. It was a month before I could sleep more than an hour at the time, wouldn't take a bath, and some nights used shoe polish to camo my face and roam the halls. After a few weeks, I was escorted to the head of the Psychiatry Department. A Navy Captain was reading my file. When he looked up, I could see concern in his face. "Is there any particular reason you sleep underneath your bed?"

"Just more comfortable." I stared at him, over him, around him, and moved my chair so I could see the door, not wanting my back exposed.

He watched me, then looked down at the papers. "Says here your commanding officer thinks you have lost touch with reality. Do you think you've lost touch, Sgt. Jacobs? Given what you've been through, it's perfectly understandable."

"Never thought about it like that." I sat perfectly still, like something wild waiting to pounce if given the chance. I could tell he was uncomfortable, squirming, sensing the danger in the room with him.

The Captain eyed the door and I knew he was considering his chances if I went berserk. "Spend some time thinking about it. In the meantime, we can't have you up wandering around all over the place at night. You're scaring the shit out of the nurses and staff when you just suddenly appear." He leaned back. "We can put you in a locked ward if you would feel more comfortable, if it would alleviate some of your fears."

I never moved or blinked, knowing I could go over the desk and kill the bastard before anyone could save him. He leaned toward me. "You're not in the war zone any more, Sgt. Jacobs. There is nothing to be afraid of here. No one is going to hurt you. We're trying to help you, but you need to help yourself as well."

"If you want to help me, send me the fuck back. I'll find my own way home when the war is over." I lit up a smoke and blew it in his face.

"You know there is no way that's going to happen." He looked at me with impatience, the tone of his voice scolding. Both of us knew he wasn't nothing but a lap-licking piece of Sailor shit who couldn't make it as a Marine.

They gave me pills and I began to sleep longer. Nightmares came regularly, seeing faces frozen in death, just like Snake warned me. It was like my brain was doing a replay of each kill. In my dreams, I could see every expression, smell every smell, and relish the sweet taste in my mouth. It became hard to know if I was awake or asleep, so I would lie still under my cot until something told me which it was. The docs kept giving me different stuff, trying to help me distinguish what was real from imagined, but I knew I wasn't getting any better; drugs would never cure what I had.

Convinced I would never get out unless something changed, I finally quit taking the medicines, started telling them what they wanted to hear, and lying on my bed pretending to be asleep. I even began to shower every day, and agree with all their bullshit babble. After nine months, they thought I was under control and assigned me to a training outfit in the sniper school. I hated it.

It seemed some days, my sky would start to clear; and slowly, I did begin to remember. Flashes of my life would show up unexpected when I smelled a certain scent or heard a person say something that triggered a memory. Ray Jacobs was starting to reappear.

Regular duty didn't do it for me anymore. Having to deal with other people only increased my frustrations. Most of them had heard stories of what I did in Vietnam, and knew the name Ghost. I tried to help train the young warriors, envying their future, but wasn't any good at it. How do you teach a man to become invisible? I saw my face in theirs, knowing what was coming for them, and repeated Snake's warning about the road they were fixing to take. Just like I had, they all ignored it.

Alcohol became the best medicine for me, starting with a pint a day, then working up to a fifth. Pretty soon I was carrying a forty-five, slipping around at all hours of the night, occasionally being dragged in by MPs to sleep off a binge. Finally, the Marine Corps had enough, sent me to Camp Lejeune in North Carolina, gave me a medical discharge and took me to the bus station. They never even said thank-you.

At my old home the house was empty, and looked like it had been for a while. So, I roamed from place to place the next twenty years, wandering around on the tips, living under overpasses, and sleeping on cardboard, longing for the freedom of the bush. One day I decided to hitchhike to the Great Smoky Mountains, pitched a tent deep in the woods, and survived the best way I could, sometimes doing work for local farmers in trade for food or rotgut moonshine. My nickname got a revival when I would walk out of the fog of an early morning, on top of a man before he ever heard me. If you're out camping high in the mountains of North Carolina, you might hear tall tales of the Ghost of the Appalachians. If you find peanut hulls around your fire, and you feel that slight rise of the hair on your neck like you're being watched, you just might be right. Sleep well.

Warrior – Robert D. Wilson
OF VANISHING TANKS, MUSTACHES, AND OTHER DEMATERIALIZATIONS

John M. Koelsch

"Lieutenant, the good news is you're healing nicely except for your left ankle. We'll need to keep an eye on that and may have to operate."

Jack squinted at his doctor. "Uhh, and the less than good news , Sir?"

"Oh. We've already given you sixty days recuperative leave. We need to discharge you and return you to duty."

"Duty, Sir? Doing what? If I may ask."

"I suppose whatever the commander of the 54th Battalion assigns. It's the only infantry unit here at Ft. Knox. Don't worry though. It'll be a desk job. I'm giving you a medical waiver on the ankle. I don't want you wearing anything other than low-cuts. No boots, okay?"

"Yes, Sir. No boots." No boonies either, and that means no return ticket to sunny Southeast Asia. I can live with that.

* * * *

Lieutenant Colonel Josiah Benton, known to many of his men as Bent 'Un, stared at the young officer. "Here in the 54th we're acting largely as a transition unit for returning troops from Vietnam. Many of these soldiers aren't career people and are merely finishing their service here." Benton thumped his fist into his hand. "This does not mean, this is not a STRAC unit. We are professional, and we maintain professional standards at all times. Is that clear?"

Jack nodded. "Sir. Yes, Sir."

"All right, then. We understand each other. You'll be assigned to S-4. Take it seriously. Supply is the backbone of any organization. Any questions?"

Supply is the backbone. Wonder how the grunts I was with would take that comment.

"Sir, no questions about the assignment, but I wish to advise you I've been given a medical waiver for my ankle. The doc says it may need to be operated on and wants me to wear only low-cuts. No boots."

"That should be no problem, Lieutenant. You will simply wear Class-A khakis to work."

"Uh, Sir. I don't think that solution will work. You see, I have only two pair of class As and less than four months left in the Army. I can't see much sense in spending money on khakis, so I'll just wear low-cuts with my fatigues. If that is okay, Sir"

"Lieutenant, apparently you have not been listening to what I've been saying about professional standards. My standards require you to wear Class As."

I see where he gets his nickname. Too bent to be rational and reasonable, let alone straight. Like the Light Colonel I dealt with back in 'Nam, whose standards almost got me and three others killed. Well, he can't override a medical waiver here any more than they could in Sunny Southeast Asia. What's he gonna do anyway? Send me to 'Nam?

"Sir, I don't believe performing my duties in a professional manner will be adversely impacted by my wearing low-cuts with fatigues because of a medical waiver." Jack stared straight into Benton's eyes. "And that is my intention, Sir. To follow my doctor's advice for my healing and health."

"Damn it, Lieutenant, I..." The Colonel's face glowed a deep cherry and his chin quivered with anger. He slowly realized an order to override a medical waiver couldn't be enforced and asserted some self-control. "Okay, Lieutenant. So be it. Report to Captain McFee at S-4. Dismissed."

"Sir." Jack saluted and slipped out of the office as quickly as he could manage without actually running.

Somehow, I don't believe that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Ten minutes later Jack had limped over to S-4 and reported in.

Captain Rory McFee turned out to be Hispanic-Irish with dark black hair, light brown skin and Irish humor.

"Lieutenant, it would seem you've made an impact with our glorious leader on your very first day."

"Just lucky I guess, Captain."

"Doubt that. Very few incoming people cause Bent 'Un to call their immediate commander and read the riot act before they are able to walk across the street and report in. Got to be some kind of record."

Jack shrugged.

Rory smiled and continued, "Just so there's no confusion between us. I'm a career soldier and fully expect to command my own battalion someday. Therefore, I kiss ass when appropriate and necessary. I also watch out for my troops and have an extreme dislike for stupidity.

"So, here's the deal, Jack. The Colonel wants me to 'persuade' you to wear khakis. He'll be on my case about that for a while. I'll tell him I'm bustin' my butt to persuade you. I'm workin' on you like a greedy Mick trying to get gold from a leprechaun. I'll say I'm appealing to your pride, your honor, your good sense, your native intelligence, and any other lie I can manufacture.

"If any of this gets back to you, you'll confirm I'm after you like a redneck lusting after a deep-fried, chocolate-wrapped hunk of hog-jowl."

"I think we have an understanding, Captain." Jack smiled.

"Meantime, your actual job will be to get the coffee and donuts in the morning, the cokes in the afternoon, and do the weekly report on heavy equipment, tanks and such, coming in and out of the battalion. Takes about fifteen minutes to do. That work for you?"

"Sounds challenging, but I think I can manage it, Sir."

"Okay. 'Sir' is fine for the military situations. Call me Rory. My friends do."

"Right, Rory." They shook hands. "Thanks."

"C'mon I'll introduce you to Lieutenant Craig, Fred is technically second in command and to Mr. Robinson. Warrant Robinson's been in the army since..."

"Since Christ was a corporal?"

"Hell, who do you think pinned the stripes on Jesus? Anyway, Mr. Robinson doesn't run the Army, just that portion of the Army which resides in North America."

"Sounds like a good man to know."

Rory grinned. "They both are. We've got a good crew here. By the way, I like my coffee black."

* * * *

Mr. Robinson shook Jack's hand. "Guess the word on you was accurate, Lieutenant."

"Word? There's word on me?"

Mr. Robinson grinned at the quizzical expression on Jack's face. "The intel is you have a proclivity for making yourself a target in combat. Appears you don't much like backing down from a fight. Must be true, you've already got Bent 'Un zeroed in on you and haven't even been here a full hour. Must be a record."

"Hmmm. I see the Captain was correct about who runs the Army in this neighborhood. They always get the real intel and they always know how to get things done. Gotta tell you though. The word isn't precisely correct. I'm actually a devout coward. I just tend to get pissed at people trying to shoot me."

"Well... expect a few rounds coming your way with Bent 'Un. He doesn't support young officers being outspoken. Does he, Fred?"

"Come on, Mr. Robinson. That was only one time and I didn't know he was standing there."

Jack looked at the slender, pale blond fellow, who was clearly embarrassed by some previous minor incident, and smiled to himself. Never met a light-colonel who wanted to hear more than Yes, Sir or No, Sir from any Lieutenant."

* * * *

Jack settled in and the week proceeded without further incident until late Friday morning. Jack was looking forward to a cook-out at Rory's mobile home on Saturday afternoon when the phone rang.

"Lieutenant, this is Lieutenant Brown at S-2. I've had to make a roster change. You will be Officer of the Guard tomorrow from 0800 to 0800 Sunday. Muster your troops at 0730 on the parade ground outside Company C. Any questions?"

No asshole! A few unprintable comments but no questions. I know when someone is shooting at me.

"No questions. I'll be there."

He set the phone down, less than gently. Mr. Robinson looked up. "Lieutenant Brown-nose sending greetings from Bent 'Un?"

"Uh huh. Puts the screws on hamburgers at Rory's on Saturday."

"Don't let it get you down. You knew some shit was coming."

"Hell, it takes real bullets to get me down. I was getting hungry for some good barbecued cow though."

* * * *

Guard duty is a pastime designed by the military to be beyond boring. Great design. Especially when the troops are all Vietnam returnees with anywhere from one week to five months left in the Army. Jack, being "short" himself identified with the troops and things went smoothly.

In part this was because Mr. Robinson had provided intel on the C Company Commander, Captain Slattery.

"He's a spit and polish jerk." Mr. Robinson had said. "He has a company filled with short-timer, combat veterans and runs surprise "white glove" inspections, He cancels weekend passes over nonsense. He's never heard a shot fired in anger. He has guys who know what real fighting is and schedules them for parade ground drills like they were raw recruits.

"He's passed the point of being unpopular with the troops and has proceeded to the point of being ripe for fragging in this country. Lord only knows how he'll survive 'Nam."

Jack heard more than a few negative comments from the men about Slattery. They included: "Troops will follow him into the bush in 'Nam only to be sure he won't come back out."

"If he tries to run those white glove inspections in "Nam, they'll be able to bury what's left of him in one of them."

"I wouldn't say he ain't a leader. It's just that no one wants to follow where he's going."

Jack nodded in sympathy a lot and got through the duty. On Sunday afternoon he had burgers at Rory's and spent an hour throwing a tennis ball for Rory's German Shepherd, Rebel, to retrieve. Fortunately, Rebel wore out before Jack's arm did.

* * * *

A month slid calmly by. On Friday morning Jack took a cup of black coffee to the Captain. "Hey, Rory. The Doc wants to operate on my ankle. It's not healing and he thinks there's some shrapnel needs to be removed."

"Well, that'll be less fun than I'll be having. I'm headed to Leavenworth."

"Sorry to hear that. How many years did you get for that lousy sense of humor?"

"Nope. Justice hasn't caught up with me yet. I'm going for command training on temporary duty. The extra pay'll cover the beer and women and the training will set me up for my next promotion. Whoohoo!"

"Whoohoo, indeed. I'm in the hospital on Monday. When are you headed out and for how long?"

"Departing Wednesday for thirty days."

"Nice paid vacation. Enjoy."

"Trust me, I will. You too. Sorry no extra pay for you."

"No extra women either."

Rory laughed. "Well, Maybe a nurse."

* * * *

Jack was a pretty good patient except for two things. He saw no need to get up for the lousy breakfast served by the Army and he saw no reason to shave if he was going to lie around in bed all day. Once the nurses understood his reasoning or tired of arguing with him over it, the time went smoothly.

The doctor removed a piece of... something... from his ankle. It looked like metal and felt like metal but the machine for checking it didn't register it as metal. No matter— poof, gone!

Jack was released for return to duty on Friday with his waiver on his ankle intact.

On Monday, he got up and shaved. Oh, just for the hell of it, he left the mustache intact.

Fred and Mr. Robinson agreed the mustache was distinctive.

Fred's comment was a simple, "OHMIGOD!"

Mr. Robinson was a bit more expansive. "That should ignite Bent 'Un's fuse. Especially with the crap going on over at Company C. Slattery's threatening some men with court martial over diddly-squat. He's got the troops ready to revolt and Bent 'Un is backing him up. You might want to consider whether style is worth the likely storm."

"I dunno. I kind of like it and Army regs do allow it don't they?"

"Neatly trimmed, above the lip. Yeah. But Colonels like Bent 'Un don't much care about regs unless they like the result."

"Mr. Robinson, you have a gift for understatement. But, I haven't jacked up Bent 'Un in over a week. Besides, I had the same situation in 'Nam. The XO there explained the officers had agreed to be clean-shaven. I shaved that 'stache without a whimper. I'll do the same here. All Bent 'Un has to do is ask."

Mr. Robinson grinned. "If you used the same approach in "Nam, I understand why Charlie kept shooting at you."

* * * *

Captain Slattery's orders to Vietnam came in on Wednesday. His replacement, scheduled to arrive on Monday, was a two combat-tour Green Beret Captain. The men were optimistic about the new Commander, but revenge against Slattery, rather than revolt was in the air.

Jack made it to Thursday before encountering Bent 'Un. The Colonel was moderately displeased, in the same way that Krakatoa was a modest volcanic eruption. However, he simply stared at Jack for a long moment, said nothing and turned and left.

At Friday's staff meeting, Bent 'Un ordered Acting S-4 Fred to order Jack to shave off the mustache.

Jack's predictable response was, "Nahh. I think I'll keep it. Army regs allow it so that's an unlawful order."

* * * *

On Monday, the men passed the word to Captain Williams the new Company C Commander that he shouldn't sign for any property he didn't personally see. An experienced leader, Williams told Slattery, "A simple hands-on audit to protect us both; it isn't any big deal."

On Monday, Fred told Jack, "The Colonel said you should consider the shaving of the mustache to be a suggestion not an order and that you would be well advised to follow the suggestion." He added, "I think you should shave it. The Colonel is really pissed."

Jack shook his head. "Ahh, Fred, Bent 'Un knows that most orders are phrased as suggestions. It's still an order. Personally, I'm getting really fond of how I look with a 'stache and Army regs allow it."

* * * *

On Wednesday, the audit failed to locate one minor item. Missing was one each M-60A1 "Patton" Main Battle Tank. Value approximately $500,000. Slattery assured Williams, "It has to be around here somewhere. A fifty-ton Tank can't just vanish. I mean... It has to be somewhere."

Williams said, "I agree. But I ain't signin' for it 'til I see it."

On Wednesday, Fred relayed Bent 'Un's latest message. "Jack, the Colonel agrees that Army regs allow you to have a mustache, but he says it must be a full mustache and the regs don't allow you to grow one on his time. So, since you grew it on his time you have to shave it off."

Jack acknowledged, "Bent 'Un might be right about the growin' part. Interesting theory for sure."

"You'll shave it off then?"

Jack considered the idea for a moment. "Nahh. I grew it while I was in the hospital. That's my time, not Bent 'Un's."

* * * *

On Friday, Slattery pleaded with Williams, "C'mon. you know the guys are just playing a trick. The tank is here somewhere. Just sign for it and it will show up."

"Sign for a half-million dollar piece of equipment on your assurance that it's here somewhere? Don't think so."

On Friday, Fred was nearly in tears. "The Colonel's really upset. He said we can't find a tank that should be here and can't seem to get rid of a moustache that shouldn't be here. He is questioning my leadership ability and threatening me with a bad Officer Efficiency Report. Do you know what that means?"

"Yeah. I got a terrible O.E.R. in 'Nam. Two weeks later my Captain put me in for a Bronze Star with a "V" Device for Valor. You need to suck it up and maintain perspective, Fred. This too will pass and... Army regs do allow it."

* * * *

That weekend Slattery started sneaking onto the post from different entrances in the early AM in an attempt to find the tank he was sure the men were hiding. No evidence of said tank was discovered. A few radio calls relaying Slattery's location as he searched the massive post were alleged to be overheard.

This went on all week.

Every day of the week, Fred had a discussion with the Colonel and a pleading with Jack. Nothing changed. Every night of the week Slattery searched for and failed to find the vanished tank.

The status quo continued for another week. Late afternoon on Friday of that week, the S-4 was nearly deserted. Fred was off getting his daily butt chewing. Jack was searching for a text in the bookcase he needed as a reference for his weekly report. Mr. Robinson sat at his desk on the other side of the bookcase.

Jack heard the door open and a quivering voice say, "Uhh, Mr. Robinson could I speak with you. I need help." It was Slattery.

Jack listened as Slattery expressed his tale of woe.

"I don't understand why this is happening. I was just trying to do my job. I never hurt anybody. I didn't do anything wrong." He went on and on.

Mr. Robinson listened patiently for a while. Then he interrupted, "Look, Captain. This isn't happening because you're a wonderful guy. It's because you've been a jerk. The men under your command are all Vietnam veterans. Most of them combat veterans. They don't care if you're tough and demanding. They do care if you're a nit-picking prick and don't respect them.

"You've shown them no leadership because you look at them as being beneath you. What the hell do you think will happen in 'Nam if you act like that?'

Slattery sat in stunned silence for a lengthy period. "I... I don't know what will happen. I didn't mean to..."

"Well, I'll tell you. The betting is you won't last a week. You'll get fragged and come home in a bag. That what you want?"

"Oh God! No!" Slattery sobbed.

Mr. Robinson let him cry for a couple of minutes and cut him off. "Here, have a Kleenex and quit weeping. Have you learned your lesson? If we take care of this do you think you can find a way to be a decent leader and care about the men you command?"

In between deep, sobbing breaths, Slattery said, "I can change... I will change... just let me have a chance... please... oh please."

Mr. Robinson cut him off. "Okay. Get out of here and do better. We'll take care of this situation."

Slattery went out the door as if closely pursued by a fifty-ton tank.

When he heard the door close, Jack walked around the bookcase. Mr. Robinson looked up. "Did you hear all that?"

"Yeah. You think he'll straighten out?"

"One can always hope." Mr. Robinson picked up the phone and dialed a number. He waited a moment, then calmly said. "Put it back." He hung up the phone.

"That's it?" Jack asked. "That's all it takes?"

Mr. Robinson smiled. "Never takes much if you know the right number to call."

Jack smiled and nodded at Mr. Robinson. "And those who really run the Army always know the number."

A half hour later Jack encountered tears for the second time that day as Fred begged him to shave off the mustache.

Finally Jack raised his hand. "Okay. I can't have you whimpering around like this. For your sake, I'll shave it off. For you, not for Bent 'Un."

At 0600 Sunday morning, perfectly maintained, clean and shiny, one each M-60A1 "Patton" Main Battle Tank appeared on the parade ground. Slattery would get to go to Vietnam.

At 0700 Monday morning Jack shaved off his mustache.

* * * *

Two Mondays later, Jack entered the S-4 and Fred came running up waving his hands. With a pleading look on his face, he squeaked, "I didn't know. It's not my fault. I didn't have anything to do with this. You've gotta believe me. Honest, I..."

Jack cut him off. " If you had nothing to do with it then it ain't your fault, but what are you babbling about?"

"The Captain's back."

"Rory's back. Great. I better report to him first thing."

Jack knocked on the door, heard "Come in." and stepped into Rory's office.

Rory was standing at rigid attention behind his desk, clearly showing the strain of an uncertain situation.

Jack took a long look and doubled over in laughter. He howled. He moaned from the hilarity of it. Breathless, he sobbed to a halt. He looked at his friend. Quietly he asked, "You haven't reported in yet?"

Rory shook his head. "Not yet."

"Rory, I know you're career. I know it's asking a lot. But, promise me you won't shave it off until Bent 'Un sees it. Promise!"

Rory stroked his lovely, black, bushy mustache. "You mean this?"

"Oh yeah! You can shave right after you report in. Tell him it was just a minor bit of playfulness to impress the girls. Shave it in front of him if you like, but the gods require this. And, I sincerely request it of you as my friend."

Rory thought for a moment. "Okay," he said. And, he did.

Krakatoa spumed a bit but didn't erupt.

* * * *

A few weeks later on his last Monday in the Army, Jack's phone rang at 0700. It was Fred. "Jack, wear your best set of fatigues today so you won't be embarrassed."

"What the hell for? What's going on?"

"There's an assembly on the parade ground at 0800. Bent 'Un is presenting a bunch of medals. The first one is the Bronze Star he's gonna pin on you. He didn't want to do it. They were just gonna hand it to you on the way out the door on Thursday, but I threatened call to the Judge Advocate, so they said they'd present it to you if you were there."

At 0810 that morning Colonel Benton pinned the Bronze Star with a "V" Device for Valor on Jack. It hasn't been proven, but it has been said that the best photo modification equipment ever created could never erase Jack's massive shit-eating grin from the picture taken as the Colonel shook his hand.

* * * *

On Tuesday Jack received a call from Lt. Brown at S-2. "You will be Officer of the Guard from 0800 Wednesday to 0800 Thursday. Muster your troops at 0730 on the parade ground outside Company C. Any questions?"

"Yeah, are you nuts? I'm being discharged from the Army at 0800 on Thursday. This is crazy."

"Yes. Well I am in charge of the roster and you are still in the Army."

"True. But at 0801 on Thursday I won't be in the Army and I will be seeing you." Jack hung up before anything more could be said.

At 0805 on Thursday, Jack turned in his report on the guard duty. At 0810 he walked out the door and saw Lt. Brown come out of the building across the street. Brown looked up and saw Jack, who took one step in his direction. Brown vanished around the building on the run.

Jack shook his head, grinned, and turned to go say goodbye to Rory, Fred, and Mr. Robinson. Things vanish. Sometimes that's good.

FINAL LEG

Mike J. Krentz

"Just dial Flight Service. Don't call Rachel again."

Roy Rogers (Not the cowboy, he would tell you) picked up the cell phone next to the unopened bottle of Glenlivet. He paused for a second, and then hit a speed-dial button with a trembling index finger.

After three rings, a flat recorded voice answered. "I'm Rachel. You know the drill."

"Rachel, it's Dad again. Please pick up the phone."

Silence.

"Rae, I know you're home. It's Daddy. I must speak to you."

Still silence.

"C'mon, Rae-Rae, please answer." He swallowed hard. "I'm very sorry. It won't happen again. I promise. Talk to me, Rae."

"Beep," and then dial tone. Roy looked at his watch. Just past 10 p.m. She must be home.

"Get out of my life," she said to him a week ago as she pushed him out her front door. "Don't come back. Don't call. Stay away from us."

Did she say that? Or did his sodden mind just imagine it? A sober week of conversing only with Rachel's answering machine told him that this time he remembered it right.

Still, she couldn't mean it. She would take him back, after her anger died. If it died. No, when it died.

Roy opened the Glenlivet. "Too late for flying tonight. I'll call Flight Service tomorrow." He poured a neat glass of the golden liquid, took a quaff, and welcomed the warmth into his throat and esophagus. With a trembling hand, he raised the glass, as if for a toast.

Tomorrow is another day.

* * * *

The next afternoon, Roy's finger again hovered over the speed-dial buttons on his cell phone. This time he punched the number for the local FAA Flight Service Station.

"This is Mooney 1-2-3 Romeo Mike," he said. "I want to file a VFR flight plan from Santa Monica."

* * * *

Even parked on the ramp, the sleek white Mooney single-engine aircraft, with its sporty blue and gold trim, appeared to soar into the encroaching dusk. Roy relished the exhilaration that a pending flight always brought to him.

Once he completed the preflight duties, he assessed his situation and asked himself the pilot's fundamental question: "Go, or no go?"

"Go!"

* * * *

Seated in front of the high-tech Mooney instrument panel, Roy initiated the engine-start routine. As the propeller came to life, a familiar but unwelcome image invaded his reverie. He saw Justin's broken body, in the aircraft carrier's medical department the night of the mishap. Justin's lifeless eyes bored into Roy's soul.

The vision stopped Roy's preflight routine. He gasped and fought for air, just as he had done that calamitous night, and many nights thereafter. He reached into his flight case for the familiar bottle, took a quick swig, and welcomed the burn in his throat. He rationalized that a single swig would steady his nerves, not cloud his judgment.

"Relax," he said. "Just a routine sortie."

He perched the Glenlivet on the seat beside him, along with the full bottle of Percocet that he'd conned from a former Navy flight surgeon.

"All set," he said. He switched off his cell phone and tossed it aside. Then he picked it up and opened it; one last check for missed messages. None. He kept the phone on and placed it on the seat next to the Percocet.

Just in case she calls.

* * * *

Roy positioned the Mooney on Santa Monica Airport's Runway 3, and verified instruments and controls ready for takeoff.

"Santa Monica Tower, Mooney one two three Romeo Mike, ready at Runway 3, west departure."

"Mooney one two three Romeo Mike, cleared for takeoff Runway 3, departure to the west approved."

"Cleared for takeoff Runway 3, Mooney 3 Romeo Mike."

Roy released the brakes and advanced the throttle. He watched the panel's fuel flow meter, manifold pressure gauge, tachometer, and airspeed indicator spring to life as the turbocharged aircraft bolted down the runway. When the airspeed indicator needle passed 60 knots, he pulled back on the yoke. The runway – and earth – fell away below the windscreen. A familiar sense of freedom washed over him.

I have slipped the surly bonds.

* * * *

Roy Rogers and Justin Wright met on their first day as plebes at the U.S. Naval Academy. Roy hailed from Oklahoma, the eldest son of a middle-income ranching family. Through toil, grit, and a little luck, Ed and Bertha Rogers had built a thriving enterprise from a small initial spread. They had little time or energy for extracurricular activity; but they allowed themselves one indulgence: a passion for cowboy movies. If a new Western came to the town's lone theater, Ed and Bertha would always be there for opening night, even during branding or shipping season. When their firstborn son entered the world, his parents surprised none of their friends when they named him for the King of Cowboys himself. Proud as they were, they never understood how they had sentenced their son to a lifetime of mocking and peer abuse because of his name.

Lacking natural talent, Roy clawed his way to academic and athletic success through determination and perseverance. He was neither handsome nor agile. But growing up on a cattle ranch gave him strength, endurance, and indomitable courage. His stocky build, hardened muscles, and minimal body fat rendered him as formidable as a granite boulder. In his junior and senior high-school years, he made all-state middle linebacker in a region renowned for brawny beef, be it on the hoof or on the dusty turfs of rural football fields. When the Naval Academy recruited Roy to help rebuild a lackluster football program, his gridiron achievements became his ticket to a life dream far away from the Oklahoma prairie.

When he met Justin – also a football recruit – on the first day of practice, Roy thought "queer." Justin grew up in Santa Monica, California, and sported blond surfer hair and a polished physique, rippling muscles stretching out smooth, tanned skin. He carried himself with confidence, the aura of a natural leader, hardened in competition and accustomed to winning— a cocky young man born to play quarterback on any football team he chose.

Prior to their first freshman scrimmage, Justin sauntered up to Roy. He looked down his nose at the stocky young man from Oklahoma.

"Your name really Roy Rogers?"

"Damn right," Roy said.

Justin smirked and looked around. "Where do you park Trigger?"

Roy had heard that line too many times in his life. He walked away without reacting. Later during the scrimmage, Roy blitzed through the offensive line as Justin dropped back to pass. His accelerating body block sent the Californian airborne. Justin lost his footing, the ball, and his breath, and then crashed head first onto the turf. Roy took his hand and jerked him to his feet.

"Hope I didn't hurt you none, Miss," he said. For a moment, the two men glared at each other with clenched fists. Then Justin sized up the odds against him, relaxed his fist, and offered an open hand.

"I'm Justin Wright," he said. "And that was the hardest tackle I've ever felt."

"You should feel it when I go flat out," Roy said in his best Oklahoma drawl. Then he shook Justin's hand.

"I'm glad we're on the same team," Justin said. "You can save the hardest tackles for the Army pukes." From that day, the two became fast friends.

Justin's physical attributes did not include keen visual acuity, or an agile brain. He got by with a well-developed gift of charm, and with academic support from Roy and others. But in their senior year, when he and Roy opted for the aviation pipeline after graduation, Justin failed the vision screening for Navy pilot training. He refused to give up his dream of flying in combat. He got into the naval flight officer (NFO) program, which had less demanding vision standards.

* * * *

After graduation, they both ended up in Pensacola, Florida— Roy for primary flight training at Whiting Field, and Justin as a student naval flight officer at Pensacola Naval Air Station. Their friendship endured, even while Roy met, courted, and married a local Pensacola deb, Miriam Huber.

Every Friday night, regardless of what else was happening in their lives, the two aspiring Navy flyers spent their Friday evenings drinking and carousing together in the Pensacola Naval Air Station's Officers Club. One night, because he was barely the more sober of the two, Justin drove Roy to the nearby Naval Hospital, getting him there just in time to attend Rachel's birth.

"Yee-ha!" Roy yelled out the open top of Justin's Corvette as it raced over the Escambia Bay Bridge. "Ah am gonna be a naval a-vee-a-tor, and a gin-u-wine daddy!"

* * * *

Roy and Justin split paths for a while after primary training, but then they reunited at the F-14 fleet replacement squadron in Oceana, Virginia. Roy had graduated at the top of his class in jet pilot training, and Justin had earned his NFO wings with average performance scores. At Oceana, they would learn their respective jobs in the two-place F-14 Tomcat, and then join a fleet squadron as full-up naval aviators, ready to do the nation's business wherever the President of the United States needed them.

Soon after they arrived, they discovered the Oceana Naval Air Station's Officers Club and resumed their Friday night drinking ritual. After one raucous night, Roy staggered through the front door of his junior officer quarters at 3 a.m. He found Miriam sitting on the cheap living room sofa with arms crossed. Little Rachel slumbered beside her. Two packed suitcases stood next to them.

"You love those damned jets and that pretty Justin guy more than you love me and Rachel," she said. "I found someone else. I want a divorce." With no further discussion, she took Rachel and walked out of Roy's life.

With Miriam and Rachel gone, Roy resumed the life of a single naval aviator. He and Justin expanded their O Club sorties to several nights per week, and seldom had difficulty picking up game young females enamored by their "Top Gun" panache.

"I could die tomorrow, so I need to live tonight." Spoken with the right tone of boyish sincerity, timed to the maximum anti-inhibition influence of alcohol, that line seldom failed. They enjoyed even better success later as full-fledged aviators on liberty in foreign ports, especially along the northern Mediterranean coast that teemed with multinational targets of opportunity.

* * * *

Roy tried to maintain a relationship with Rachel, even as she grew up apart from him and he spent most of his time deployed at sea or in far off lands. After he left the Navy, Miriam's persistent efforts to poison Rachel's head against Roy made their relationship all the more difficult. Roy did not give up, and as Rachel emerged into young adulthood she chose for herself over Miriam's vitriol. During one of her court-mandated visits, as a high-school senior when Roy persevered in one of his sober interludes, Rachel demanded a different relationship with her dad.

"You don't even know me, Dad," she said. "And I know less about you."

After floods of tears – sorrowful, angry, and then joyful – they promised each other a more meaningful, personal relationship. He hugged Rachel just before she boarded her return flight, and promised to call and write at least once a week. On the way home, he stopped at the liquor store. He never got around to writing the first letter, or making the first phone call.

* * * *

Midway through their second Tomcat tour of duty, with the air wing at home base for three months, the frantic ringing of Roy's front doorbell jolted him awake at 2 a.m. on a Sunday morning. His head pounded from the effects of last night's O Club sortie, from which he and Justin both egressed with new companions for the rest of the night. Awake, he slipped away from his bedmate (What was her name?) and padded to the door. Justin stood on the other side in his underwear, a black shiner over his left eye, and a look of terror on his face.

"She didn't tell me that she was married," he said. "Much less that her father is an admiral big-shot in the Pentagon."

Although never officially documented – to protect the young lady's reputation and spare her father from embarrassment – that exploit derailed Justin's Navy career as an officer and a gentleman. A series of non-competitive performance evaluations, declining grades in leadership and teamwork, guaranteed that he failed to select for promotion at a critical juncture in his naval aviation career. After the selection results came out, the Navy invited him to leave the service to make room for officers with better stuff.

Roy, on the other hand, not only selected for promotion, but also screened for future aviation command.

And so it happened, as the air wing neared the end of its deployment to the Persian Gulf, that Lieutenant Commander Justin Wright launched from the carrier deck on his last scheduled Navy flight, as the radar intercept officer in the back seat of the F-14 Tomcat piloted by Commander (Select) Roy Rogers; the night that the right engine caught fire.

* * * *

Crossing his first GPS-programmed waypoint, Roy's autopilot-controlled Mooney banked into a graceful climbing left turn to its new southeast heading of 131 degrees. According to Roy's time-distance and rate-of-climb calculations, the plane would turn back to the southwest over Catalina Island. From there it would continue to climb out over the ocean until either the thin air overcame the engine's upper limit of performance, or the fuel ran out.

In either event, by that time Roy planned to be unconscious.

The panel instruments depicted the autopilot-driven aircraft stabilized on its programmed path. Roy settled back and fondled the bottle of Percocet as if in autoerotic foreplay. He twisted off the top, stuffed four tablets into his mouth, and swallowed them with a full swig of the Glenlivet. Welcoming the flood of numbness to his brain, he took a second quaff of scotch and released his mind to relive that last Tomcat flight with Justin.

* * * *

The air wing had returned to the Persian Gulf for the first time since winning an easy victory in Operation Desert Storm a few years earlier. Now they played in Operation Deny Flight, where they flew combat air patrol missions to keep Saddam Hussein's depleted air force within its own airspace.

Just after dusk, Roy and Justin catapulted off the deck in a Tomcat bound for the southern Iraqi border. Like a Rottweiler holding a yapping Chihuahua at bay, these flights presented little challenge. They mainly served to build green ink combat time in the aviators' log books, so they could qualify for air medals before leaving the region.

After an uneventful mission – not even a light-up by Iraqi radar – their jet went "feet wet" over the Persian Gulf on return to the carrier. The two friends had just relaxed into casual conversation when a sudden flashing yellow light on the instrument panel caught Roy's attention.

"Shipmate, we have a fire, right engine. Get going on the PCL."

Roy shut down the right engine while Justin read aloud the engine fire emergency procedures from his pocket check list. The Tomcat lurched into a violent yaw and roll as the unopposed left engine pushed the nose to the right. The unexpected lateral force tossed both occupants like rag dolls against the left side of the cockpit. Roy jammed his foot on the opposite rudder to regain control of aircraft.

"Extinguisher. Extinguisher," called Justin.

Roy pulled the fire extinguisher handle for the right engine. A few seconds later the warning light went out. He realized he'd been holding his breath, and now let it out in a long gasp.

"Light's out," said Roy. "I think we got it." He scanned the panel for signs of other problems and found none. "Panel's normal," he said.

"Twenty miles to Mother," said Justin. "We can make it back."

"Sure," said Roy as the adrenalin rush eased. "What better way to end a dreary night than a single engine carrier trap? You up for that? Or do you want to eject now?"

"Sacrifice a 30 million dollar jet? Think of the paperwork, man. Let's press."

With gentle control movements, Roy banked the plane toward the carrier's position, and then leveled the wings. Without warning, the Tomcat lurched out of straight and level flight and rolled to the right, out of control. Roy pushed the control stick to the left, but the aircraft did not respond. The roll accelerated toward 90 degrees on the horizon. The G-force pinned Roy against the canopy. He could not reach the ejection handle.

"I've lost control! Eject, eject, eject!"

Justin had already started the ejection sequence. The aircraft canopy jettisoned sideways just before the ejection seat fired Roy out of the jet like a mini-rocket. He lost consciousness due to the sudden acceleration, but seconds later the opening parachute slap in his groin jerked him awake. Now he floated toward the water. Estimating the distance to the surface, he struggled to recall the procedure for after water impact. In spite of scrambled thoughts of his own self-preservation, he searched in vain for another open parachute. He saw none. Did Justin survive the ejection?

Roy could neither see nor hear his friend.

* * * *

Months later, the official report of the aviation mishap investigation board summarized the sequence of events that led to the fatal outcome:

1) Inadequate aircraft maintenance supervision, Roy's collateral responsibility in that squadron, might have prevented the engine fire. "The squadron failed to perform timely engine oil analysis."

2) Pilot error. "The pilot in command continued to fly the crippled aircraft toward the carrier, and failed to recognize the residual fire in the hydraulic system until it burned through the control lines, rendering the pilot's control stick useless. If the pilot had initiated ejection sooner, before the uncontrollable jet rolled inverted out of the safe ejection envelope, the radar intercept officer's parachute would have deployed normally and he would not have struck the water surface at a speed of impact and resulting G-force incompatible with survival."

In short, as the aircraft rolled upside down, the ejection sequence shot Justin like a bullet directly toward the sea. His parachute never opened, and he died on impact.

* * * *

Now in his drug and alcohol induced fugue, Roy recalled the sight of Justin's mangled limbs and torso, and his face smashed beyond recognition, on the gurney in the carrier's medical department. Like he did years ago, Roy vomited on himself. No matter, he thought. Why should his death be any more aesthetic than Justin's?

The instrument panel indicated the Mooney still climbing toward Catalina Island. Roy reached again for the narcotics and whisky. He swallowed a handful of pills and washed them down with gulping slugs of the bronze liquid.

With the Glenlivet bottle two-thirds empty, and the open Percocet container cradled in his hand, Roy felt himself blurring out. The panel instruments became a multicolored light show, random numbers and dials devoid of meaning. His arms felt heavy, like petrified wood. But he remained conscious. He needed to plunge deeper. He forced the hand holding the Percocet to his mouth. How many left? What matter now? He sucked the remaining pills into his mouth, and then drained the Glenlivet bottle, spilling whiskey on his vomit-soaked sweatshirt. His head drifted slowly to his chest and his eyelids drooped over sightless globes rolling upward inside their sockets.

Like grainy old movie scenes running too fast through an archaic projector, Roy's life with Justin streamed across his dim consciousness. Shadowy caricatures blurred together: Justin's face and body lost in a collage of blue and white; olive green and khaki; and brown leather— like the Navy uniforms they once wore in the proud service of their country. Bright images of idyllic times prior to the tragedy came and vanished in his mind, just as Justin had vanished from his life. The vitality, camaraderie, future promise, and – yes – love that they once shared died with him; all faded except that one hideous face of death that Roy could never chase away.

How he had struggled to erase that memory of Justin's dead body. All efforts proved futile. Even the alcohol and drugs – after he gave up on the shrinks and pastors – failed to relieve him of the unwanted memory that could invade his mind at will. The specter would arrive at any time; awakening him at night in sweat-soaked panic, or in the daytime to immobilize him into a trembling shadow of a once courageous man. Desperate for relief from the haunting memory, self-medication became his escape. Therein he eroded his naval and flying careers, his relationships, and now his soul.

The memory would die only with Roy's own death.

A sudden thought invaded his gelatinous mind. Would the memory die with his brain? Could he kill Justin a second time? What then? Would that act damn him to an even more terrible hell than his present life?

For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come?

"I should go back."

But he could not raise those leaden arms.

Momentary clarity flitted by in a microsecond as the freshly ingested narcotic flooded across the barrier from blood to brain to obliterate Roy's final lucid interval. His respirations became shallow and irregular, his pulse decelerated, and his blood pressure dropped too low for sustained circulation to tissues starving for oxygen. One by one, his brain cells succumbed, and the blurred images floating across his mind became disembodied, disjointed, and delicate as snowflakes. Paralysis gripped him. For an instant, he thought he heard Rachel call to him. Then all was nothing.

* * * *

By the end of her ICU nursing shift at Riverside Hospital in Hampton, Virginia, Rachel Rogers pronounced it the most annoying day of the most difficult week of her life. Her anger peaked in the hospital parking lot when she struggled to open her aging car's stubborn door and dropped her keys on the ice-cold ground. With a sigh, she paused to collect herself before retrieving them. After all, Mr. Phillips did not go into acute renal failure just to make her late for her appointment. Her patient would soon die. Prior to his departure, he did not deserve her misdirected wrath.

She picked up her keys, opened the car door, and paused to reconsider confronting her father again. Why, after all the painful years, would she rescue the man who had never been present for her when she needed him? Did she have the guts to see the process through? She recalled the awful scene in her doorway a little over a week ago when she told her drunken father to leave her and her family alone and never return. She and Roy had said nasty things to each other that night, in retrospect a much overdue catharsis.

Once the tears of rage stopped flowing that night, for the first time she saw Roy not as the self-indulging, ineffectual father she inwardly despised, but as a vulnerable, desperate human being flailing for help. She must rescue him, for her own sake as much as his. Otherwise, neither of them would ever know peace. Already divorced and a single parent, she could end up with a life as wasted as her father's miserable existence. The next day – in what she considered an act of deepest, most unconditional filial love – she called the alcohol treatment center and began the intervention plan that she now must carry out.

Before starting the car, she called the center. "I'm just now leaving Hampton, and I have to drive to Virginia Beach to pick him up. I hear it may snow, and traffic may be bad in the tunnel."

A calm voice came back over her cell phone, "No problem, Ms. Rogers. Someone will be here for you. Just take your time and be safe."

"Someone will be there for me." She winced to herself. "Isn't that ironic?"

* * * *

Almost two hours later, Rachel brushed snowflakes from her hair as she rang her father's front doorbell. Nothing. She rang again, three times with no answer. Her heart sank through the concrete stoop as she considered that her planned intervention might not happen.

"Has to be today. I've taken this long to screw up the courage. I may not get there again."

Could he have gone away? But where would he go? He had left all those phone messages. Why would he leave town? Perhaps he was inside the house, maybe too stuporous to hear or heed the bell. She pushed on the door. To her surprise, it gave way. Uncertainty washed over her as she realized that it had been unlocked all along.

Inside the apartment, all was dark and quiet except for an odd bluish-green glow from around the door to her father's study. The air seemed thick and heavy. Each step took more effort as she sensed something terrible on the other side of the partially ajar door. When she pushed it open, the stench of fresh vomit and regurgitated alcohol assaulted her. A wave of intense nausea and fear halted her in the doorway.

Rachel had never entered her dad's private study. Now she struggled against the icy fear in her limbs, her hand searching in vain for a wall switch, while her eyes focused on the sole light source in the room. Along the opposite wall, a large counter-desk supported a prominent semicircular bank of three LCD monitors. They displayed a panoramic computer-generated image of an airplane cockpit's interior, including a working instrument panel. Rachel stared at the elaborate, realistic setup. She knew that her father had remained obsessed with flying after he lost his civilian pilot's license, but this?

"Dad? Are you in here?" Silence.

She noticed a high-backed chair facing the make-believe instrument panel. "Dad?" And then louder, "Dad?" No response.

Then she saw the open whiskey bottle and overturned pill container on the desk, and the pallid hand draped over the armrest just next to them. Frozen fingers of fear squeezed her heart and brain. She screamed. She ran to the chair, turned it, and found her father slumped there. A set of earphones set askew on an unconscious head that dangled on his chest. Congealing vomit covered the front of his old Naval Academy sweatshirt. She shook him, but he remained limp and lifeless. She yelled in his face.

"Dad!"

She put her ear in front of his mouth, hoping to hear a breath. Nothing. She felt along the side of his neck for a carotid pulse, and she thought she felt a faint one. Or was it just the trembling of her fingers? She needed light. She found and switched on a desk lamp. Under harsh illumination, her father looked as dead as any ICU patient she'd ever lost. The area around his mouth had turned purple, even beneath the gray stubble of a beard streaked with dried saliva and vomit. Her heart sank through the floor. Then the purple lips inhaled a quick, shallow gulp of air. And then another.

The nurse pushed aside the daughter as Rachel overcame her paralyzing fear and sprang into habitual professional action. On her cell phone, she called 911. Then she pulled the headset off his head and lifted Roy to the floor and laid him on his back. Overcoming her gag reflex, she pursed her lips around his torpid mouth and blew twice. Then she pumped his sternum in rapid strokes. Counting aloud, she alternated between breaths and compressions, as she had done many times before in her job.

But now she worked to save the life of her own father. How many times had she wished him dead?

Within minutes paramedics arrived, and Rachel relinquished the nurse role to be the daughter again. She stepped aside, her tears flowing as they took over the resuscitation. They continued the CPR, now blowing 100% oxygen into his lungs. They started an intravenous line.

"Too purple," she thought when she saw the color of his oxygen-deprived blood.

Rachel could watch no more. She averted her eyes from Roy's agonal struggle, observing the scope of his simulated airplane environment: The wrap-around triple monitors were driven by a single computer, to which were attached a realistic yoke, throttle quadrant, and rudder pedals. An authentic radio panel contained working knobs and dials. Aviation charts and records were strewn about the desk. On the simulated instrument panel, needles moved and LCD numbers changed. Whatever imaginary flight Roy had programmed into the computer still progressed, in spite of the real life drama unfolding in the room.

She looked back at the resuscitation scene in front of her. She did not want Roy out of her life, not yet. "Keep flying, Dad," she said. "Please keep flying."

* * * *

Four days later, vestiges of snow remained in Virginia Beach when Rachel returned to her father's house. The past 96 hours ran together in her mind, a blur of agony and defeat. Aided by mechanical support, Roy's heart and lungs fought to survive, but his brain never showed a whimper of life. After two futile days, in an intervention quite different from the one she'd planned a week earlier, Rachel herself switched off her father's ventilator and stopped the IV fluids. She watched over him for almost an hour longer before a final breath and flat-line heart tracing signaled the demise of an organism whose soul had already vacated.

Rachel had busied herself with funeral arrangements, and now she hoped to find Roy's old Navy service dress blue uniform. She wanted him to wear it to his final resting place. Even though the events surrounding his separation from the Navy made a bitter memory, Roy remained proud of his service. But military leadership sought to deglamorize suicide, so there would be no formal recognition of his final rite of passage, no memorial ceremony, no stilted admiral touting Roy's service to his country, or his courage and accomplishments as a combat naval aviator. No white-gloved hands would pass the stars and stripes to her, his last living kin, on behalf of a grateful nation. Official Navy would discount him as one who had failed to measure up to the core values.

At the very least, Rachel thought, he could wear the historic uniform that he had donned with such pride when he first arrived at the Naval Academy.

As she passed his study, Rachel found herself drawn to the fantasy flight setup. A hired cleaning service had eradicated the mess from the frenzied resuscitation effort four days earlier. Now the three computer monitors sat blank and dormant. No lights blinked, no numbers flashed. The charts and documents that had been strewn about the room lay neatly stacked on the desk. Rachel noted an 8" x 10" typewritten thick document on top. The faded and tattered pages had been turned many times. The title page described it as a confidential report of an aviation mishap from twenty years ago; the event that changed the course of her father's career, indeed his life – and hers – when Rachel was a child.

Sitting in the chair where her father died, she read the entire mishap report. She forced herself to look at the graphic post-mortem photographs of the other aviator who was killed, her dad's best friend. She did not understand all the jargon in the report, but she realized that it blamed Roy for the mishap and the fatal outcome. Tears filled her eyes as the fragments of her father's life coalesced in front of her. She realized what he had done, alone and unsupported, to kill his pain. The same event today would have garnered a plethora of support and assistance. But in Roy's prime, the stigma of mental illness forced him into the only "manly" way out.

* * * *

She found the service dress blue uniform in the back of Roy's spare closet. His air medal and individual awards still adorned the jacket breast where he had pinned them the day he left the Navy. Removing the uniform from the closet, she discovered behind it a desert khaki flight suit that Roy wore when flying combat missions over the Middle East. His "Black Aces" squadron patch remained velcroed to the right breast, and over the left breast was a khaki name tag embroidered in brown thread with naval aviator wings; below them his call sign, "Trails." Mocking his given name, Roy's first aviation squadron mates had so dubbed him during a Friday afternoon happy hour. As he left the gathering early to pick up his young daughter from day care, the drunken crowd serenaded him with the King of Cowboys' theme song, "Happy trails to you, until we meet again..."

Rachel returned the service dress blue uniform to the closet. She cradled the beige flight suit over her arm and left the house. For his final launch, Trails Rogers would wear his finest uniform.

STRATEGO

Michael Lund

After that time near Katum, Copy started to make his own Stratego game. He traded cassettes for poster stock from Bob, one of the photographers, and drew the board. Then, keeping himself out of sight in the sound booth, he made the pieces, designing symbols for the different officers, the bombs, the flags. It took a while for the others to make the connection: a war game and an actual firefight.

All the audio specialists used the sound booth to hide things— letters they were writing, books of a decidedly unmilitary nature, personal music tapes they copied to send home (taking advantage of free air shipment for U.S. military overseas). They would sit behind the glass in front of the microphone as if about to begin a recording session when, in fact, they were entertaining themselves with their own interests. It was all, as they said, part of their "military strategy."

Among other guidelines carried down from one generation of clerks to the next in the era of the draft:

X Hand-carry all personal papers.

X In transit, always grip a manila folder, even if empty.

X Frequently request clarification.

X When in doubt, come to attention and let your eyes go out of focus.

The enlisted men lucky enough to end up handling paperwork could not refuse orders, but they could often obfuscate, redirect, or delay their implementation. And they knew how.

When he'd caught a ride from Long Binh to Cu Chi, Copy thought he was going out on a routine story about Donut Dollies who entertained troops. He planned to watch one of the audience participation programs and then interview a new member of the team. A friend back home had written him, saying if he ever, by any chance, ran into Christine Rule, he should say hello. She was a sweetie.

Copy, a good reporter, drew on the established network – personnel specialists, information specialists, pay records specialists – and a generic list of interview questions. He located her within a week of her arrival.

"Tough assignment," he said winking to Standby/Stanley. (All their names had been transformed to radio terminology. Copy was really Cody.)

"You should be able to get the basic job done in what . . . two days tops?"

"Well, to do it right – in depth, you know – could take a bit longer. I'll need quite a bit of studio time, too, for editing, adding sound effects, lead, close."

Wilco (William) chimed in. "Ah, strategy, my man, strategy!"

There was an unspoken agreement among the correspondents to keep expectations about their production low. They worked with deliberation and explained to Top that composing a good feature required a lot of research, review, revision. They didn't know for a long time that Top saw through their game.

"Guess where I'm off to today?" asked Roger-So-Far.

Standby suggested, "Your rocker?"

"Nope, but I bet they have them there. 24th Evac." This was a Long Binh base hospital.

"Ah, so you are looney tunes," concluded Wilco, twirling an index finger as his temple.

"You couldn't guess: hometowners."

Hometown news releases (hometowners) were standard announcements of promotion, transfer, training sent to news agencies back in the States. The fixed format irritated the HQ enlisted men, most of whom had had more flexibility in their civilian writing jobs— or thought they should have; but the strict formula made the work easy.

Copy congratulated Roger-so-Far. "Good job! You'll get to talk with the nurses while I romance the ladies of the Red Cross."

"Well, it's not my main mission, which is to interview patients; but somebody's got to take me to them. And I figure the ladies in white can check my vital signs, review my symptoms, and fix . . . what ails me, if you know what I mean."

Standby reminded him. "Follow protocol, Troop: fingers extended and joined, correct trigger control must be employed, utilize tried-and-tested pick-up lines."

Copy thought for a moment. "Aren't most of the bad cases shipped out to Japan A.S.A.P?"

"That's S.O.P. I'll be interviewing those with superficial injuries or routine sickness – minor flesh wound, appendicitis, jock itch – things they know how to treat."

"Well, Wilco, that leaves you to do the daily feeds. And to devise a step-by-step fantasy consummation with the Playmate of the month." Old issues of the magazine were stashed (in a file labeled "Teases") at the back of the sound booth. Copy's friend back home said Christine was as good looking as any of those girls.

After the trip, not only did Copy begin to build his own game, he researched Stratego's history, calling guys he knew at other bases and sending inquires to family back home. It quickly became an obsession.

"Milton Bradley's Stratego derives from ancient China," he reported thoughtfully. "'Game of the Fighting Animals.' Later there was a more complicated version, 'Lu Zhan Jun Qi,' Army Chess."

Standby asked, "What's your approach, following that model or the current American product?"

"A little of both. Then, there's the French L'attaque! a game patented two . . . no, three wars ago. Huh! I almost dropped Korea from the list of glorious conflicts in our century." They noticed that his voice had an odd coldness. Later they would remember.

The object of all versions of Stratego was to conquer the enemy, capturing the opponent's flag. The two players' pieces – bombs, military figures of different rank, the flag – are arranged on opposite sides of a 10X10 grid (the board) with their value or identity hidden from the opponent. Pieces advance in alternating moves, besting other pieces or being destroyed until the flag is seized.

The men had played in the World, and each had a favorite strategy: Standby liked his flag in the corner, protected by powerful pieces; Roger-So-Far would put his out front and count on his opponent pushing past it to the back row; Wilco claimed to be unpredictable. Copy wouldn't discuss his tactics, just kept cutting, gluing, and drawing.

"You gonna' print up a rules booklet, too?" asked Roger-So-Far one day. "That might be hard to get right from memory."

"I hadn't thought of doing it, but great idea. I'll ask my brother if he can find our old set and send me the rules. Of course, I'd still have to make my own copy."

"Why? I mean, the goal is to play Stratego when you finish the set, isn't it?"

"Maybe. Right now, I'm focused on construction, building a reasonable facsimile."

"Gonna' make the original box?"

"Oh, yeah. Got to have a box. That's going to take some time!"

The others could talk among themselves when he was in the sound booth, and Wilco was the first to express concern. "He's spending more and more time in there. You think he's okay?"

Standby scratched his head. "There are long periods when he doesn't even look up. Got his head down. I guess he's doing something . . . "

The sound booth's double-pane window formed the top half of the outer wall. There was a counter waist-high inside, but it wasn't visible from across the production room where the giant reel-to-reel production machines and several desks were positioned. The announcers put the microphones and their scripts on the counter, hiding their own interests underneath (their "privates," they said).

"I think he's kind of zoned out some of the time." Roger-So-Far paused. "You know what I think? I think something happened on that Donut Dollie story. He hasn't written a word, and he's been back what . . . ten days?"

"I heard him transfer the cassettes onto a 10-inch reel," explained Wilco. "There's good stuff there. This girl – Christine something – is all bright and cheery. And he's got great recordings of her yukking it up with troops out at the firebase."

"Maybe he can't figure out how to shape the piece. You know, a good tease for the start, how to finish." He grinned. "Could be writer's block." This, of course, was one of their regular excuses for working slowly.

"Hasn't ever happened to him before. He usually comes back almost as if he composed the story on the way in— beginning, middle, and end all figured out, like they actually taught him how to do it at DINFOS back in Indianapolis."

Copy had signed up on the eve of being drafted so he could get a 71R20 MOS and take the skills into a civilian career after his service. The enlistment deal guaranteed training at the Defense Information School, Fort Benjamin Harrison. The other three had journalism degrees or civilian experience and reshaped their skills for the military with on-the-job training. They liked to tease him that he had a secret plan: to re-up and become a lifer.

A few days later, Standby announced a clue. "He fired his pistol, out near Katum."

The other two were stunned. Regulation required each correspondent to carry a weapon when traveling on assignment, generally a Colt .45, the M1911 pistol. No one wanted to be in a situation where it had to be used, but they dutifully qualified on the firing range every six months. The instructor invariably criticized their technique.

"How do you know?" asked Roger-So-Far.

"Top told me. It has to be reported, but he wouldn't say anything about 'where, when, and why'"— three of the standard "W" questions that guide reporters in covering a story.

"Shee-it!" Wilco concluded. "But look, we should find a way to learn what the hell happened. He's still not doing jack on his story, just polishing up his Stratego game. Yesterday, he threw away his first generation pieces and started making new ones. Said they weren't strong enough to last."

Copy had initially cut a shallow groove across the middle of a one-inch square of poster board and glued another one-inch piece standing up in the slot. From the side, it formed an upside down T, with its identity (bomb, military figure, etc.) pictured on one side, the other (seen by the opponent) a gothic letter S for Stratego. Now he was doubling the thickness of the base.

"He's also writing and rewriting the rule book every time he hears from someone. And he's integrated some special provisions from the Chinese game."

"In other words," concluded Standby, "he's going off his rocker."

Wilco concluded, "We better talk to Top again."

First Sergeant Corse was the company's senior enlisted man, called "Top" as such NCOs were by custom. Because he unobtrusively worked to keep them from being sent into dangerous situations, the men had come to respect him.

Top knew this war was approaching an end; and, like some combat commanders, he didn't want one of his men to be the last to die in Vietnam. This was also his own final overseas tour, and he looked forward to pursuing a retirement dream: setting up a fishing camp on land he and his wife had bought in Alaska.

"Yeah, I know what happened," he told Roger-So-Far, who was selected to ask about Copy. "You all want to hear, huh?"

"We're not sure he's okay. Kind of unfocused, out of it, but we don't know what to do."

"All right. Tell Standby and Wilco, roll call, the recording studio, 0800 hours on Wednesday."

"But Copy . . . ?"

"He won't be there."

They were reassured but puzzled. And when their colleague was sent out on a story the next day, no one seemed to know where. At the meeting on Wednesday, Top explained everything.

"Here it is, men. Specialist Brock, the Dollies, and the escort troops took a truck out of Katum to an even more remote post. Shouldn't have done so, even with a squad for security. But the girl – Miss Rule, was it? – Was so damned enthusiastic, wanted to do her part, bless her."

The men had seen Donut Dollies at USO centers in Long Binh and on other bases. But because of their own relatively comfortable assignments, they didn't feel the need for the same morale boosts that the grunts did and tended not to pay much attention to these Red Cross volunteers.

Top went on. "She was well prepared, even though she'd just been in-country a few weeks. She knew how to be bubbly and excited and get the men to play along. But they should have stayed away from the last post. They were ambushed on the way back."

They'd all imagined something like this happening to themselves, but could never fully conceptualize the reality. And their training hadn't instilled a true readiness.

"They let the lead vehicle go past, opened up on the truck. She took a round right in the heart— sitting up too straight, leading every one in a song. Two others were wounded before the infantry guys opened up."

"Jeez! What they hell do you do when that happens? I guess Copy used the .45."

"Well, if you're talking strategy...." Top smiled, but grimly. "When the shit breaks loose, you put your head down, point whatever you've got that goes bang, and shoot at wherever bullets are coming from. At that point, there ain't no goddamned such a thing as strategy."

They were all silent. Then Wilco admitted, "I doubt if I'd have gotten off a round. And, if I did, I don't know where it would have gone."

"Then what?" asked Standby.

"Charlie retreated into the bush. It was over in less than two minutes."

Again, they didn't know what to say.

"So what's to be done with Copy?" asked Roger-So-Far gently.

Top pushed his back again the door to make sure it was closed tight. "You didn't hear this from me, okay? But here's what will happen: I sent Copy to Malaysia for a week. They've got major floods down there, and the Army is sending relief supplies and choppers to get people off of hilltops. He's going to interview the pilots and the crews, but stay on the ground in Kuala Lumpur. Even got him a room in a hotel, bed and all."

"Get his mind off Katum?"

"Roger that. And while he's gone, Wilco, you take his tapes, do the story. Leave out any names, just talk about Dollies and Special Services personnel. Standby, help him with the script. And, of course, nothing about the ambush. I want it done and shipped out to AFN before Copy returns."

"Got it."

"By the time he gets back and has the flood story together, he'll be short " He smiled. "Especially the way you guys work."

They looked down.

"After that I'll keep him on base and hope he can hold it together until he goes home."

They were trying to figure out how to thank him. Then Standby asked, "What about the CO? Can you keep this from him?"

Top smiled again. "The CO is always informed, Troop."

He turned and put his hand on the doorknob. "Oh, and one more thing . . . "

"Yeah?"

"Let's get the fucking Stratego game the hell out of the sound booth."

A SHAKING EMPTY PLACE

Vinnie Lyman

Like a lot of soldiers, Private Marani was convinced before he deployed that he was going to die in Iraq. Unlike most soldiers, he was right, and after he died Sergeant Glasky, his team leader, was given the job of inventorying his stuff.

The job was standard procedure and served two purposes— one, to make sure everything was accounted for, and two, to take out anything unpleasant like pornography or pictures of dead people that would otherwise get shipped home to his next of kin.

Sergeant Glasky was assigned two privates to help him, but this didn't seem proper and he didn't want the company anyway, so he dismissed them beforehand, got a key from the TOC and walked over to the trailer barracks that Marani had shared with the company medic.

He paused at the door and took out a tin of dip from his shoulder pocket, popped in a dip and stood there and spit. "Alright," he said.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside and was caught for a moment by the smell of stale sweat and unwashed clothes that came from Marani's overfull laundry bag. He closed the door behind him.

* * * *

Sergeant Glasky was twenty-three. He was thin and small and he had crewcut black hair and a wiry frame and the permanent expression of someone who's just seen something vaguely amusing and vaguely disgusting on television, which was how he took life in general. Nothing much ruffled him; one of his soldiers had once described him as the calm center of the pool where the ripples don't touch. He had achieved this effect by focusing himself on his family, a wife and two boys, and by being in touch with his feelings, which were, at this moment, hesitation and regret.

* * * *

The room was small and the two sides were furnished identically— a bed, a small wardrobe, and a nightstand with a small lamp. A single window looked out on another barracks building.

Marani's half looked like the room of a teenager who's never lived away from home before. The bed was unmade, most likely unwashed. The floor hadn't been swept or mopped in a very long time. Marani's rucksack was open and clothes and equipment were strewn around it. The space beneath his bed was crammed with old boots, kneepads, odd pouches and unopened chemical warfare gear. Weapons cleaning supplies were laid out on an MRE box Marani used as a coffee table.

A FHM calendar hung on the wall by the bed. It was opened to January, even though it was June now. January had a picture of Vida Guerra— Marani had kept it up year round. He had a ritual, every night before he went to sleep, of kissing his fingers and touching Vida Guerra's ass, gently, and whispering "g'night girl." Glasky had seen him do it, and he appreciated it for what it was, one of the few moments of tenderness a soldier would allow himself around other soldiers.

* * * *

He reached into Marani's rucksack and dug around, fishing for something he was pretty certain was there, and then, finding it, nodded knowingly to himself and pulled out a contraband half empty fifth of Jack Daniels.

"You little shit," he said. He twisted off the cap and smelled it wistfully... and then he opened the window and poured it out on the gravel.

He found Marani's box of porn under the bed— the amount was impressive. Glasky scanned through the titles with an amused expression, feeling empty and blown out inside, like laundry on a line.

* * * *

Private Marani was a live wire. He was known as the most arrested soldier in the battalion. In the eight months he was in Charlie Company prior to deployment he had been arrested for assault, destruction of property and drunk driving. They were all pretty standard crimes for a new soldier, but Marani kept committing them. He lost rank as soon as he gained it. There was something restless and searching about him, a drive that had nowhere to go. This energy manifested itself in little twitches— he cracked his knuckles to the point of distraction. He was constantly fidgeting and itching. His GT score was 129, which meant he was nominally one of the most intelligent soldiers in the platoon.

He was short and squat, with a body shaped like a sponge with a head. He had brown hair and eyes that twinkled like a puppy's. One drunken night before deployment he had confessed to his buddies that he was convinced he was going to die in Iraq, and then he started throwing beer bottles at his own car, which was, admittedly, a '86 Nissan Sentra.

Word about this had gotten around, and Glasky had to talk to Marani about it during an awkward professional counseling where Marani said he was drunk and laughed it off as a case of jitters. Glasky, who was about to begin his second tour, let it be, because he knew there was no easy way of dealing with the possibility of your own death and because he had come to the realization that laughing things off was how Marani dealt with life.

Marani's sense of humor was reinforced by his timing— he knew the right time to drop a joke or a story, when the men were at their most tired and dreary, stressed out or pissy. His one-liners had become common property— "This MRE tastes like prison dick!" "It's so fucking hot out here you could fry an egg on my nuts." "Who made this coffee? I've eaten ass that tastes better than this." "One day I'm gonna look back on all this and beat my wife. If I ever get a wife."

Sergeant Glasky enjoyed having Marani around because a wiseass was good for morale, and also because he genuinely liked him, for reasons of his own.

* * * *

Glasky sat down on an MRE box in front of the laptop, keyed in the password he'd gotten from Marani's roommate – "fuckthis" – and logged in, feeling intrusive.

Marani's background was a picture of him standing beside a humvee on Route Tampa, smiling and giving a thumbs up. Behind him, there were several shrapnel scars on the humvee— it was the first time he'd been blown up. Glasky smiled at the memory.

* * * *

...when the IED went off no one was particularly alarmed. Sergeant Glasky was riding in the humvee behind Marani and he could see it was nothing much, probably a 60 millimeter mortar. They would've pushed through but the bomb was rigged to a can of gasoline, and a few burning hunks of it had gelled to the side of the humvee and were burning themselves down slowly.

The convoy slowed to a halt and the soldiers inside the burning humvee climbed out, looking at the flames happily, like guys watching a crazy football play.

"Check it out!"

"Spread out," Sergeant Glasky said, walking up, holding his M4 down at his side, casually, like a pistol. "That shit'll die down in a couple minutes."

He looked around. They were out in the open, with no cover other than the humvees, but he wasn't concerned because Route Tampa was a heavily traveled six lane highway and anyone shooting at them would either be shooting from a moving car or from a few hundred meters away. A flat landscape of scrubland and small, tan mesas unspooled alongside the highway.

"I felt that in my asshole," Marani said, and then— "Hey Sergeant. Sergeant I gotta shit."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah I had to shit before...and I really gotta shit now!" He didn't sound scared or in shock, but rather amused at the situation and his body's reaction to it. Sergeant Glasky looked at him, a little charmed, because it was good to see the privates growing into soldiers – not panicking, taking things as they came – and it was especially fun to watch Marani, who seemed to enjoy these rites of passage more than anyone, or, at the very least, was more fun to watch doing it.

"Well...go over there."

Marani walked over to Glasky's humvee, dropped his pants and grabbed the grill for support. The guys inside laughed and threw empty water bottles at him.

"Hey, fuck you!" Marani yelled. "I'm seriously shitting right now!" Some kids walking down the side of the street stopped and pointed and laughed.

"Get outta here!" Marani yelled at them, laughing himself, and that's when the shooting started.

It sounded distant at first. Glasky thought it was coming from the Iraqi Army checkpoint behind them until the dirt on the side of the road started popping up like someone was skipping invisible stones across the shoulder.

"Contact right!" someone shouted, and the gunner two trucks up panicked and started firing at the wrong side of the road. "The other side, retard!" someone else shouted.

Glasky grabbed Marani and pulled him behind the humvee.

"Fuck me!" Marani giggled. Two rounds pegged off the humvee in quick succession. Glasky threw his M4 up around the trunk and saw what looked to be smoke from a gun rising from a grove of palm trees two hundred meters out in the scrubland.

"See that palm grove?" he yelled at the gunner. "Light that shit up!" The gunner swiveled and dumped a long burst into the trees, then another, then another. Glasky turned to Marani, to tell him to get his SAW up, but Marani already had his gun up on the hood and was squinting through his sight.

The expression on his face caught Glasky. He recognized it immediately. It was an expression of not just excitement, but almost relief, as if something inside him had clicked and said, finally. Marani's breathing settled and he started firing. Soldiers have a lot of reactions to combat – tunnel vision, excitement, frustration, fear, a kind of disbelief that the situation is as serious as it is, but Marani's reaction was startling. He was home.

Marani muttered to himself as he fired – "little up... right there..." – talking himself on target.

* * * *

Glasky flipped through the pictures on the laptop. He had seen many of them already. They all had photo files, ones they showed family and ones they only showed each other, and he recognized a few pictures of his own...a sunset behind an apartment building, framing the roof in red light...Route Malibu, the road pockmarked with blastholes...a joint patrol with the Iraqi Army...the irrigation canals that lined the roads, marked out from the tan scrubland around by the tall green reeds that grew on their banks...graffiti on storefronts, courtyard wall....

* * * *

"...I think I'm gonna reenlist," Marani said, his whole body leaning forward, excited, cracking his knuckles eagerly.

"You're fucking retarded," Glasky said, spitting in an empty Gatorade bottle and wiping his lip.

The guard tower looked out over a small wood of palm trees, tall grass and brambles. The wood was dry and cracked with the summer. The moon was full and low. The woods echoed a faint silver in the moonlight, like the sound of fingers rubbing on the rim of a crystal wineglass.

"I mean, it's good money, I can relax in my downtime, watch movies, y'know, there's always something crazy going on—"

A couple days after the firefight Marani had started talking like this. He told Sergeant Glasky that he felt different now, that the world seemed clearer. It wasn't the combat itself, which he had enjoyed, it was the realization that the Army was a place he could focus all his restless energy and aggression and actually be successful. He had it all mapped out— first Ranger School, then getting promoted to Sergeant, then another tour, then going drill sergeant.

"It's a dog's life," Glasky said.

"You're just all fucking burned out old man."

"You're only four months in. Wait'll you get to nine."

"Whatever old man. Seriously though, I'll be all set up for the board a couple months after I get back—"

Marani went on like this for most of the shift.

* * * *

Being a team leader is different from other leadership positions in the military, because there is little to no separation from the men. There is no removal, because there they are. A team leader goes on patrol with his Joes every day, he often shares the same humvee, the same room. He trains them on everything from how to clear their weapon to how to wear their uniform to how to walk on patrol. In the rear he signs off on their leave forms, helps them get their wills and powers of attorney, picks them up when they got arrested. This creates, for better or worse, an intimacy between a team leader and his Joes.

Between Glasky and Marani, this relationship had formed into an older brother and prodigal son. They weren't friends, in the sense that they hung out after work in the rear – Glasky had a family, after all – but they did share a mutual fondness. Glasky made sure Marani's promotions came through, and he made sure Marani's pay got straightened out when he got demoted.

Marani couldn't adjust to life in the Army – he couldn't adjust to life in general – and to Glasky, who had joined up at nineteen because his girlfriend was pregnant and had never known anything else, this was endlessly endearing. He wanted to see Marani get out because he knew that he never would.

* * * *

Glasky stretched and looked at his watch. He looked over at the Vida Guerra poster, his eyes blank, and he sat like this for thirty seconds or so before he came back. He opened another photo file.

The first picture showed a bodybag resting on the hood of a humvee. The body belonged to an unknown Iraqi who had been tied up and shot and dumped in a canal. For some reason headquarters had wanted them to bring it back, so they had fished it out and threw it on the roof. The body had leaked through the bag and the humvee stank for weeks. Glasky clicked on the picture and deleted it.

The next few photos were taken at other death scenes. The photos had been taken for intelligence value, hours or days after the killings, and then turned into headquarters after patrol. The bodies had usually been taken for burial by the time they got there. To a casual observer the pictures would've been meaningless— a house number, a street, a brother holding a picture of the deceased, the front of a house. Glasky deleted them, one after the other.

He paused at a picture of a one floor mud brick house. A mule shed sat out back, a haystack piled beside it. A few other houses sat out in the scrubland, far in the background of the shot. He clicked on the photo and deleted it.

* * * *

...the old man talked quickly and softly, his voice straining around the words. Andy, their interpreter, strained to hear him.

"They came in the night and took him," Andy said. "They shot him out there, in the mule shed."

Glasky nodded, scribbling in a notepad. He looked back to check on Marani, who was pulling security out the window and couldn't help but overhear it.

They were standing in the living room, talking in hushed tones. The living room was small and crammed with furniture, couches and end tables, a bookshelf filled with plants, a television on another end table. There was a shaking empty space in the house you could feel.

"Who took him?" Glasky asked.

"Bad men. Al-Qaeda, he thinks."

"Why'd they kill him?"

"He is, he sells movies at his barbershop, and he— they wanted him to take down a poster of Angelina Jolie. He said no."

Glasky blinked. "That's it."

"That's it," Andy said. "They're fucking crazy, these people. They're not human."

The old man continued talking, and they listened for a little longer until Glasky couldn't take it anymore and said they had to continue on patrol.

* * * *

Glasky opened another photo file and stopped. The folder inside read "Family Pics."

He stared at it for a long moment, and then he moved the cursor away. Going through the room for things that were potentially upsetting to family was one thing, and going through it for things that were purposefully upsetting to himself, because they dealt with family, was another.

There was no resolution, and there wasn't going to be. The boy was dead.

...a farmer leading his sheep away from the road...

He put his head down and closed his eyes, and inside he felt like his heart was scratching out of frame like a skipping movie in a theater.

"Ah Sarah," he said. "I'm in it now."

* * * *

"...That shit's fucking ridiculous," Marani said, almost imperceptibly shaking his head. "I mean over a fucking poster."

Glasky looked out from the guard tower at the woods, the air wavering in the afternoon heat. It had been three days since they talked with the old man.

"They also shot him in front of his mule," Glasky said.

"That's some hard hearted shit. Think a' the mule. He's probably scarred for life..." Marani paused, and then his voice sounded, suddenly, touchingly sincere. "I mean what the fuck do they care? You give them democracy, freedom, and at the end of the day they're terrified some cocksucker is gonna come kill them because they put up a picture of Angelina Jolie in their fucking barbershop. What the fuck is that? Is that supposed to mean something? Is—" He stopped, gesturing to nothing.

"I wouldn't hold your breath," Glasky said, and he spit over the edge of the tower.

They looked out at the wood, the leaves of the palm trees bowing slightly in the dead breeze.

"And now I'm reenlisting and shit," Marani said, "and I mean...."

"Maybe this shit ain't for you, man," Glasky said, as gently as he could.

"Why don't you get out then?"

Glasky shrugged, as way of an answer. "You stay in, you'll deploy again. You'll do two deployments. Maybe three."

"Yeah." They sat there for a few moments, and then Marani started talking about something else, some movie he'd seen, and the conversation moved on. In the end it didn't matter whether or not Marani got out, because he died the next day.

* * * *

The photos in the last file were innocuous enough— walking on patrol, soldiers standing in front of humvees, looking tough, a few shots from the guard tower that Marani probably took bored. Glasky logged off and shut the computer down and packed it in the cardboard box where he was putting Marani's personal effects. He leaned back and exhaled through his nose, like sighing.

He thought of his family, briefly, not like someone clinging desperately to something, but as a kind of barometer, checking himself against the elements...photograph of his two boys...Sarah's voice over the phone, "Baby, I'm so sorry. Did you know him well?"

* * * *

"What do you miss?" Marani asked, one night on guard.

"Fall," Sergeant Glasky said. "The seasons really. But mostly fall."

* * * *

...the humvee ahead of them rounded the corner. Sergeant Glasky scanned tiredly, searching the side of the road, barely focused, watching the scrubland unroll alongside...reeds waving in the dead breeze... the canals that lined the road, intersecting with other canals and moving out into the fields...rustle of tires over dirt...a palm grove, bowed low with the heat...a farmer leading his sheep away from the road...

The dull hard whoomp of a bomb sounded outside the humvee. He looked up.

"Where was that?"

"Holy shit," his gunner said. He could see around the corner, to where Marani's humvee had been hit. "They just flipped into the canal!"

"Fuck me," Glasky said angrily, pulling the door open and running up. Marani's humvee had rolled off the road and overturned into an irrigation canal, landing upside down in four feet of water.

The tall reeds that lined the canal had been flattened by the humvee and the embankment on the lip of the canal had collapsed. Glasky took off his body armor and his helmet, dropped his M4 and jumped into the water. Another soldier followed behind him.

The water was cold and slightly green and he gritted his teeth as it slapped against his chest. His boots sank in the soft mud bed. He grabbed the corner of the bumper and started pulling himself around the humvee to the far side. The other soldier started wrenching at the passenger door.

"It's fuckin' combat locked!"

"Try the other door!"

The driver's side door had come open in the blast or the roll, and water was lapping up into the humvee through the door. He reached in and pulled the driver out— "You alright?"

"Uhh."

Sergeant Glasky passed him to another soldier who was climbing down the embankment. He couldn't remember where Marani was in the humvee— gunning? Passenger seat, rear?

The water had risen up through the gunner's turret and was coming out the open door. Glasky closed his eyes and pushed into the water, practically swimming now. He tried to open his eyes in the water but it stung him badly, and he clawed out, grasping at anything, finding the seat, something metal, a box of ammo, and then finding an arm and pulling. It stuck, and gave a little, stuck. He started to panic, jerking again and again, feeling something tear, and then the soldier came out so quickly that he tripped backwards and hit his head on the door, and then they were both falling out into the canal.

He stood up gasping as someone pulled the other soldier away. He couldn't see who it was. Someone else pushed him out of the way and dove into the humvee. He stood there in the water, his heart beating so hard that little black spots were appearing at the edge of this vision. He moved to the side and leaned against the bank, breathing hard.

The other soldier flailed out of the humvee, gasping and yelling— "He's fucking stuck in there! His fucking body armor's caught up in something, man—"

"Who?"

"Marani!"

* * * *

Glasky went to spit in his bottle and realized that his dip had gone dry and his mouth tasted like sandpaper.

"Blah," he said, spitting out the dip. "Fuck." He stood up and looked around the room to see if he'd missed anything. Marani's things were all packed up in two duffel bags, a rucksack and a cardboard box. Only the Vida Guerra poster remained on the wall.

"Alright," he said. "That's it then." He looked down at his watch, nodding to himself. "Okay." He frowned, looking around at the room. Then he kissed his fingers and touched Vida Guerra's ass, gently.

"So long, man."

He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. The click of the door was neither final nor conciliatory, but the job was over, and he put his hands in his pockets and looked around the barracks area with an empty expression, taking in the gravel paths and white trailers and the faint haze of dust in the air. The sky was white overhead, smeared behind the dust. He stood there for a bit, and then he walked back to his room, feeling like an old worn out tire.

Shadowland – Robert D. Wilson
THE OLFACTORY SENSE

William Masters

4BN was known throughout Barber's Point Naval Air Station, Hawaii, as the scented barracks. The name evolved not through any special cleanliness of its inhabitants or secret bowl cleaner used on its fourteen toilets, but from the steady arrival, three times per week, of heavily perfumed, pale yellow letters. And although the letters had stopped arriving some two or three years before, they had the endurance of a legend and the addressee had seemed, briefly, the genius of the base. The facts are simple.

With the exception of one sailor who had successfully gone AWOL, barracks 4BN had produced no person or event of noteworthy importance. The forty-six sailors of 4BN were silently, but heavily aware of their spotless record as they listened to the distinctions and recognitions brought to other barracks: fires in the head, explosions in the laundry room, two AWOL's and a stash of beer hidden in a secret closet. But the blotter for 4BN remained embarrassingly clean.

It couldn't be said, however, that the inhabitants didn't try to create a record. Cases of beer were consumed in the barracks and even after the empties were dropped from the second story window to the crabgrass below, they went unnoticed, or were mistaken for soda cans, or were cleaned-up (under the direction of Chief Petty Officer Malcolm) by a Seaman Apprentice who had the most barracks' demerits.

It couldn't be said, however, that the inhabitants didn't try to create a record. Cases of beer were consumed in the barracks and even when the empties were dropped from the second story window to the crabgrass below, they went unnoticed, or were mistaken for soda cans, or were cleaned-up (under the direction of Chief Petty Officer Malcolm) by someone chosen who had the least barracks' demerits.

After two weeks of beer can removals, barracks 4BN hung across the 140-foot width of its first floor a poster reading, "PUSSY FOR SALE: Inquire within."

As soon as Chief Malcolm saw the poster, and afraid that the barracks would receive some unwanted attention which might lead to an investigation revealing that he rented the extra barrack-bunks to the civilian night-time workers, he made an anonymous phone call to the Marines stationed at the base. Within seven minutes an amber-eyed, grey metallic truck, blaring its siren, but not exceeding the 35 miles per hour speed limit, arrived with a bottle of jarheads. With at least a hint of force, they entered the barracks, like walking mirrors, reflecting their belt buckles, buttons, shoes, and noses, Chief Malcolm was gone. The MAA (Master at Arms) shack was empty except for a Seaman Apprentice on phone duty awakened by the siren.

One of the Marines, a Lance Corporal, walked over to the MAA's window. "Did you call us?"

The Seaman Apprentice, visibly impressed, said, "No sir. Did someone call you?"

"We got a call saying there was a riot in this here barracks." "How long ago was the call?"

"About ten minutes ago, sir."

The Seaman Apprentice, afraid that there might really have been a riot while he was sleeping said, "Yes. Yes, sir. There was a riot. But it ended about five minutes ago."

The Lance Corporal, not someone you could easily put one over on, said, "I am not a sir, sailor! Me and my men will look around anyway. Do you know where the riot started?"

"All the noise," the Seaman Apprentice replied stealthily, "began in the topside head."

The Lance Corporal said thanks and he and his men marched, at double-time, topside. Approaching the head cautiously, they removed their pieces and entered the head. It was empty and the water wasn't even running.

They turned to leave when someone yelled out, "Hey. Is that anyone?" The Lance Corporal and his men walked around to the other side of the head and found a sailor sitting on one of the toilets.

"Am I glad to see you," he said to the Marines.

The Lance Corporal, never glad to see a sailor doing anything legal, wondered why the sailor on the toilet was glad to see him. "Why are you glad to see me?"

"I've been sitting here for ten minutes. I'm out of shit paper. Would you mind asking someone to bring some up for me, please?"

The Lance Corporal, always glad to serve a sailor in a legal action, said "Sure." He turned to the Marine standing behind him. "Go down to the MAA's shack and report a shit paper shortage in the topside head." The Lance Corporal turned back to the sailor on the toilet. "You really need that paper, uh?"

The sailor, who had been sitting on the toilet for fifteen minutes and who had begun to itch, said, "Yes, I really do."

"Well, you won't get it unless you tell me what that sign on the front of the barracks means."

The sailor, shocked that a Marine didn't know what pussy was, asked, "Don't you know what pussy is?"

The Lance Corporal, smelling something fishy, said, "Where ya hiding it?"

"It's in the laundry room."

The Lance Corporal and his men marched below to the laundry room that was empty except for three washers, two dryers, and a box of black and white kittens underneath the window. The Marine, who had gotten the shit paper for the sailor on the toilet, walked over and picked up one of the kittens. The kitten began purring. And the Lance Corporal began shouting. Seconds later the Marines, almost unwrinkled and without prisoners, left the barracks.

Within minutes the sailor, who had been on the toilet, told everyone in the barracks what had happened. And by movie time everyone in Barber's Point knew that some Marines had gone to 4BN to look for pussy, had helped to wipe a sailor on the toilet in the topside head, and that one of the Marines had petted a kitten. The men of 4BN were excited at the prospect of enjoying such an honestly earned reputation. And the news might have reached a greater momentum, but later that night a young, comely civilian woman was discovered, hidden in barracks 2CS. For days the sailors of 2CS were respected, admired, and even visited in the brig. And when the weekly newspaper, The Wing, came out at the end of the week, its headlines read, "HAWAIIAN BEAUTY FOUND SLICING PINEAPPLE IN BARRACKS 2CS."

Two weeks later, after the kittens had been donated to a local Hawaiian orphanage, Glen Hanson arrived at 4BN. Fresh from boot camp, he still mistakenly saluted petty officers embarrassing them to give him extra duty for ignorance of naval etiquette.

Coming back from extra guard duty for saluting a third class boatswain mate, Glen stopped at the MAA's shack to check for mail. A heady aroma of peaches and apricots filled the air. A pale yellow letter, propped up on one side by a copy of the Uniform Code of Military Justice and on the other side by a copy of Bigger Muscles in Minutes, stood on the desk. The Seaman Apprentice on duty sat in a chair, his eyes closed, his nostrils wide.

Glen walked up to the window. "Have you got any mail for me?"

"That's your name?"

"Hanson."

The Seaman Apprentice, suddenly alerted and suspicious, asked, "Let me see your ID."

Glen showed him his identification card.

"You are Hanson..." The Seaman Apprentice handed him the pale yellow letter. "Some broad got a heavy case on you, mmh?"

Glen said thanks, walked to his bunk and sat down. Then he opened the letter, read it, tore it up, and threw the pieces into the shit-can. He went to bed before movie call.

When Glen awakened the next morning, Saturday, he saw what looked like ash or soot clinging to the screens. Some of it had gotten through and floated in the air. His sheets were smudged. He felt it on his face. And then Glen saw in the middle of the cubicle, hanging on a string from the overhead, his pale yellow envelope. The sailor, who had given Glen his letter, laid, eyes closed, on his bunk underneath the window. Glen sat up and the sailor opened his eyes.

"What is all this," asked Glen?

"It's ash." The sailor, a Seaman Apprentice named Jock, obviously though the explanation sufficient.

"Is there a fire?"

"Yes. Local planters burn the remaining plant matter after harvesting the sugarcane. They burn the sugarcane fields to get rid of the leaves and shit. Jock looked possessively at the envelope. It was in the shit-can so I hung it up. OK?"

"Sure."

"This is the only cubicle in the barracks that doesn't smell like it's burning up. Maybe the only one on the base."

Glen dressed and then he and Jock walked across the street to the chow hall for breakfast. The sky rained ash. White hats looked like walking chessboards. Inside the chow hall all the watch-standers, who had been relieved for breakfast, bitched about how hard it was to keep their whites clean and all the others, about to go on watch, bitched about how hard it would be to keep their whites clean. Glen and Jock ate breakfast and on entering their cubicle, found it packed with sixteen sailors.

One of the sixteen sailors, the biggest, stepped forward. "Which one of you is Hanson?"

Jock pointed to Glen.

"We came in here because it smells good."

"Yeah," said one of the other sailors, "like fruit."

"Yeah, like fruit," said the biggest sailor, "and we wondered if you had any more of those envelopes left. If you haven't thrown then away yet."

Glen, sensing a certain potential, said, "Sure, but that's the only one I've got."

"No, it isn't," said one of the sailors, "there's another one at the MAA's shack."

"There is?"

"Yeah. Morning mail call." Glen walked to the MAA's shack followed by a tail of sixteen sailors. There was another letter. Glen excused himself to read the letter and walked into the head. He opened the letter more carefully than the last, read it, tore it up, and threw the pieces away. Then he walked back to his cubicle.

"Who gets it," asked one of the sailors?

Glen, anticipating trouble, looked at Jock who looked back at him and smiled.

"I'll take care of that," said Jock. The sailors matched coins for the envelope. The winner, the biggest sailor, took the envelope and Jock kept the quarter.

For the next three weeks, even though the ashes were gone, sailors continued to match coins for envelopes and Glen continued tearing up the letters, but without reading them. After three weeks of coin matching, all twelve cubicles, six topside and six below, had pale yellow, heavily scented envelopes dangling on a string from the overhead.

Since 4BN stood directly opposite the chow hall, the sailors standing in line noticed the aroma from envelopes. Soon every sailor in Barber's Point knew that in every cubicle of 4BN there hung, on a string from the overhead, pale yellow, heavily scented envelopes. So it was out of both curiosity and raw interest that 4BN received a flux of visitors. But it was out of the visitor's pockets that the sailors of 4BN charged fifty cents admission. Other sailors, not from 4BN and on duty, but not on watch, preferred to come to 4BN to write letters, play pool, watch television, or just sit and sniff.

The barracks became so popular that by 1900 every night an ALL FULL sign hung outside the barracks. And when The Wing came out that week, its headlines read, "WHO IS GLEN HANSON? WHAT IS IN THE YELLOW LETTERS?" Alongside the article was a picture of both the barracks and sailors of 4BN. Glen wasn't in the picture. The sailors of 4BN hardly noticed because they were too busy enjoying their newly acquired fame with nautical pride. When passing each other on base, they winked and smiled. Civilian personnel, and even other white hats, asked 4BN men for their autographs.

The advantages to Glen were innumerable. At movie time, whoever went from 4BN saved Glen a seat. All his geedunks were paid for by 4BN men. And somehow he never caught the midwatch.

Of course, everyone at NAS speculated about the origin of the letters. Barracks 2CS spread the rumor that the sailors of 4BN, desperate for attention, wrote and mailed the letters themselves. No one believed this (except residents of 2CS) because the letters were postmarked from San Francisco. Another rumor implied that since the letters were postmarked from San Francisco (and everyone knows for what San Francisco is notorious) they were written by a homosexual who had been smitten with Glen during and unsuccessful effort at "picking him up."

By and large the most popular and widely accepted story went as follows: while Glen waited at the San Francisco airport for his plane to Hawaii, he met a girl in the coffee shop. (The description of the girl ranged from short, dark and sensuous to tall, blond, and voluptuous.) But whatever she looked like, it was agreed she was beautiful. Well, anyway they hit it off, and after a couple of drinks (milkshakes or gin paid for by the girl) they walked hand and hand or head on shoulder in and out of stores and up and down the streets of San Francisco. And it was sometime during this up and down and in and out period that Glen took something away from the girl that she could never recover. At plane time they tearfully kissed good-bye and the girl got Glen's name, base address, and APO number. It was she, everybody agreed, who was writing the letters. Glen neither confirmed nor denied any of these stories and merely ignored them with interest.

Six weeks after the arrival of the letters, the annual Admiral's white glove inspection was scheduled. 4BN was confident of winning. The money, which had been collected from the admissions, was used to buy Ajax and Brillo pads (the only things which really worked) used to clean the barracks voluntarily by all the sailors of 4BN during the two weekends before inspection. During the Sunday before the inspection Monday morning Chief Malcolm ordered all the envelopes removed.

"Don't blame me," he said to the sailors, "for every envelope dangling from the overhead, the barracks will receive a demerit for gear adrift." And that was true. However, some clever sailor taped all the envelopes to the inside vent of one locker in each cubicle.

On Monday afternoon, precisely at 1400, Admiral Irwin entered 4BN. So far the admiral had used four pairs of the six pairs of gloves he brought for the inspection. His own arbitrary minimum number of pairs to be used for an inspection was six. Since this was the last barracks to inspect, Admiral Irwin was determined to find dirt.

For thirty minutes he ran his gloved hand over windowsills, chairs, tables, and even the pipes under the sink in the head. Everything was clean. So it was with desperation that Admiral Irwin stood on his tiptoes, in plain sight of the inspection team, pressing his gloved hand as hard as possible, over the tops of lockers, notoriously known for dirt. The metal locker tops had been shellacked the weekend before and dusted just hours before the admiral arrived. Through with the inspection and still wearing the original pair of gloves with which he had begun the inspection, he addressed the 4BN men in a shaky voice, trying hard to conceal his emotion.

"Men, in my twenty-seven years in the Navy, I have never seen such a phenomenally clean barracks. I give you a well done and my personal compliments." After leaving 4BN the admiral commented to the base captain, "The barracks even smelled like clean, well-scrubbed sailors should smell."

The following Friday the headlines of The Wing read: "4BN RECEIVES FIRST PERFECT INSPECTION SCORE IN HISTORY OF NAVAL AIR STATION—ADMIRAL SUPPORTS BARRACKS SMELL."

Amidst 4BN's celebrations, Chief Malcolm, who hadn't been able to rent out bunks for the last month and who hadn't even received a cut from the admissions money, did some research revealing that Hanson was NTT personnel, which meant that he was in transit waiting for a ship, instead of NAS personnel, which was permanent duty naval air station.

Armed with this rejuvenating news, Chief Malcolm visited Chief Gordon, head of the NAS personnel office and made a deal with him. Instead of waiting the customary four to six months before Glen received his assignment to a ship, Chief Gordon, who was also barracks chief for 2CS, arranged for his contact in personnel to cut Glen's orders prematurely.

Four days later, Glen Hanson received his new orders to report to the USS Mount Katmai, AE-16, a 459-foot ammunition ship. The news stunned the sailors of 4BN into silence. Nevertheless, they recovered their aplomb in time to escort Glen to the ship, which was just about to leave on its annual Westpac cruise to the orient.

With Glen's departure, the letters stopped arriving and within a month the peach-apricot scent had completely dissipated, but was not forgotten. Whenever sailors walked past 4BN they automatically turned their heads, widened their nostrils, and said, "That used to be known as the scented barracks." And that was Barber's Point.

WAKING UP IN SCILIY

Keith Onstad

1.

I woke up that morning to the sound of the Iron Curtain falling all across Europe. I was in a field behind a low stone wall, and I knew exactly where I was, but not how I got there. I raised my head from the dust and opened my eyes as wide as I dared, but I already knew that Jeremy was gone. Gone. Off the island. Back to the real world. Beneath my body the box of take-out was smashed flat and the leftover calzones were squashed beyond all recognition. The bottles at my feet were empty, but when I turned my head I could see a full bottle leaning against the wall.

2.

We did not know, at first, that Mount Etna had erupted. We saw the mushroom cloud off in the distance towards the Naval Air Station at Sigonella, and everyone had a theory. Some thought it was a nuclear accident (although the official line was that we could "neither confirm nor deny" that there were nuclear weapons at Sigonella). Some thought one of Qadhafi's terrorists had finally made it to the big martyr's paradise in the sky. One man thought it was a test explosion in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. And, a few even thought it might be Mount Etna exploding.

One at a time we slipped back in to the barracks to grab our cameras. We might not have known what caused the sky to darken in such an unnatural fashion, but we all wanted to record it on film just in case it was the beginning of the end of the world. After I opened my locker and removed the camera I reached under the bed (in the new Air Force we don't call them bunks) for a bottle of Vino Locale. The first thing I discovered upon landing on the island was the Vino Locale served in most restaurants. A bottle cost less than a dollar. Most of the girls mixed theirs half and half with Seven-Up to tone down the, often harsh, flavor that was an acquired taste. Quickly acquired. The alcohol level ranged somewhere between barely noticeable to kick-you-in-the-ass-and-knock-you-over-for-a-week, with a tendency towards the later. The magic of Vino Locale, however, was that you would never know what you were getting from bottle to bottle.

Back outside I snapped a roll of film that would never develop properly, and then opened the bottle of wine, lifted it to my lips, and took a long drink straight from the neck. It was the kick-you-in-the-ass variety, so I made the requisite "god-damn-that-is-harsh" face before I passed the bottle to Gordon Bradley, a buck sergeant who worked in the Comm Center and had come in on the same plane as I did three weeks prior to the eruption. He wiped the mouth of the bottle on his fatigue T-shirt and took a healthy swallow before he passed it on. In very little time there were several bottles making the rounds and a couple of little barbecues cranking out hot Italian sausage from the open air market in Comiso. Someone moved a pair of speakers outside the barracks and snaked the cable in through the window. We sat outside and listened to Pink Floyd tell us how they wished we were there as we got drunk and watched the mushroom cloud get bigger and darker and realer until it filled the whole sky like a storm hovering on the horizon just waiting for an excuse to let loose a torrent of destruction and mayhem on our peaceful little Ground Launched Cruise Missile (GLCM) base.

3.

GLCM is properly pronounced "Glick-em" and the unofficial motto at Comiso Air Station was "Glick-em till they glow, and then shoot 'em in the dark." Although we too could neither confirm nor deny that there actually were nuclear weapons in the bunkers behind the triple layer of fences topped with concertina wire and constantly patrolled by both U.S. and Italian security forces carrying M-16s.

4.

The consensus was that it had to be Etna, because if there had been any sort of incident there would have been a recall and we all would long since have been called to our stations. About half an hour later, as the sun was disappearing from the sky, someone heard from someone else that one of the guys in the Comm Center had told him that it was Mount Etna erupting, but at that point no one cared anymore.

It was the next day that I first spoke with Jeremy.

Looking back now it seems that my entire relationship with Jeremy was bracketed by events that could be seen either as massive forces of destruction, or miraculous opportunities for life and renewal. Depending on your point of view. The day I met Jeremy Mount Etna was still spewing ash and lava high into the sky above Sicily, and the last time I ever saw him was the day the Berlin wall came down.

5.

One of the first things you figure out about Air Force Dining Facilities (in the new Air Force we don't call them Chow Halls) is that if you order an omelet they have to make your eggs while you wait, but if you order anything else it comes out of huge, industrial, metal cafeteria bins where it could have been sitting for hours. Everyone ordered omelets. The cooks carefully measured out the ingredients using special ingredient measuring equipment designed in top-secret ingredient measuring laboratories costing millions of dollars, so that every omelet received exactly the most efficient amount of ingredients to guarantee that our taxpayers were not being overcharged, but that our boys in uniform still received the nutritious portion of eggs, sausage, ham, and cheese required to defend our country from the communist hordes.

It was late in the morning, and there was no one I knew from the Comm Squadron in the chow hall, so I picked an unoccupied table in the corner and sat down to read propaganda in the Stars & Stripes newspaper and enjoy a late Saturday morning breakfast. A few minutes later the tall, blonde cook who already remembered that I always ordered a no-cheese, two egg omelet with mushrooms and onions, sat down across from me with a tray holding enough food to feed a small army.

"You're a vegetarian, aren't you?"

I nodded, wondering if he was going to play the "why do you still eat eggs?" game that so many non-vegetarians do to trick vegetarians into admitting that they really eat meat.

"How are the eggs? I cleared a section of the grill of all the ham and bacon grease before I cooked them."

"The eggs are okie doke," I said in a very bad imitation of the Swedish Chef in The Muppet Movie telling all his Muppet pals that the film was fixed.

I am not sure how I knew that he would get The Muppet Movie reference. Men in the Air Force are far more likely to get references to Debbie Does Dallas, which doesn't even have a cool soundtrack, but I didn't even think before speaking, and from the way he laughed I knew he understood.

For the next ten minutes we did bad impressions of Beaker, Fozzie, Professor Honey-Dew, Dr. Teeth, and the whole Muppet gang, and then he introduced himself. His name was Jeremy, but I called him the Swedish Chef, and before long the nickname caught on and every one in the Comm Squadron was calling him The Swedish Chef, and then The Swede, and finally just Swede. I don't know what the other chow hall people called him, because people from the Comm Squadron don't really hang out with people from the Services Squadron.

6.

Comiso Air Station, Italy was a remote tour of duty. Remote means the tour only lasts a year, and you can't bring your wife and kids. For the married guys it was like a yearlong "get out of jail free" card. Most of them spent every weekend at the combination Officer/NCO/Airmen's club getting smashed out of their minds on American beer and listening to amateur DJs play a combination of seventies rock, country music, and bad 80s pop. Weekends at "the club" were interrupted by occasional trips to the third bridge in Ragusa. I don't know what went on at the first two bridges in Ragusa, but in a row of slowly disintegrating concrete buildings next to the third, married men could have sex with bored, middle aged prostitutes who would pretend not to speak any English and would never ask them to pick up the kids for soccer practice, take out the trash, or bring them to orgasm. It was the only time in their lives when most of these men were ever actually honest with a woman.

For the rest of us the island was like a Mediterranean playground. Jeremy and I went in fifty-fifty on a red and black, 1978, Lancia Fulvia. It cost almost a million lire, but that was still less than a thousand dollars, and that little car could move. They do have traffic laws in Sicily, but they only come in to play to determine who is at fault after an accident. No one cares before it happens, but after an accident everyone always wants to know who is at fault. It was not unusual for us to be passing a Fiat on a two lane road on our way to the beach at Marina de Ragusa and be passed at the same time by a maniac Italian driver who did not care that it was a two lane road, or that there was a corner up ahead, or that there were three cars heading towards us doing exactly the same thing.

We spent every weekend, when we didn't have to work, driving all over the island to look at ruined temples that were hundreds of years old before the time of Christ, or explore medieval castles, or try and see the mafia trials in Palermo. We spent countless days at the beach barbecuing and drinking cheap wine, body surfing, exploring the World War II bunkers, and trying to pick up Italian chicks at the few "discotheques." I think we saw more of Sicily than most Italians ever did.

Did you know that there was a statue of a black man breaking free of his chains on Sicily? The plaque underneath tells the story, in less than 25 words, of how Abraham Lincoln single-handedly freed the slaves in America. I still have a picture of Jeremy standing on one side of the fifteen foot statue of a muscular black man who is holding his broken shackles high above his head.

Jeremy can read Italian, and was walking forward to read the plaque when he tripped over a rock and smashed head first into the statue— but he never hit. His forehead was on a collision course with the hard rock base underneath the muscular figure when the statue leaned forward and caught Jeremy in his arms. Then he lifted him to his feet and they stood in the middle of the square shaking hands and looking into each other's eyes. The statue straightened up just as I snapped the picture, and, as far as I know, it never moved again.

7.

There are no secrets on any Air Force base, and even when there are, there are no secrets in the Communications Squadron. The Comm Squadron processes all incoming and outgoing messages for every unit on the base, and in the days before email this meant that whenever anything happened someone in the Comm Squadron knew about it. Which is how I knew, even before anyone in the Services Squadron, that Jeremy was facing a court martial on charges of homosexuality.

Of course he did not get the court martial, but he was taken into custody, and he did get an Article 15. An Article 15 is what they give you after they threaten you with a court martial. The difference is that an Article 15 is administrative, there is no trial, there is no federal conviction, and they can have you off the base and on a plane back to the civilian world in less than a week. They had him off the island so fast he did not have time to say goodbye to anybody. Anybody but me that is. We had time for one last night in the town of Comiso before we said goodbye forever.

8.

The sound of the Iron Curtain falling all across Europe woke me that morning, and the clang of metal crashing to the ground echoed loudly in my ears as I looked around and tried to remember. I was in a field behind a low stone wall, and I knew exactly where I was, but not how I got there. I raised my head from the dust and opened my eyes as wide as I dared, but I already knew that Jeremy was gone. Gone. Off the island. Back to the real world. Beneath my body the box of take-out was smashed flat and the leftover calzones were squashed beyond all recognition. The bottles at my feet were empty, but when I turned my head I could see a full bottle leaning against the wall.

The label on the bottle read "Bianco" but the wine inside was red, and on the outside Jeremy had written "capelli del cane" (as if I could read Italian). I dragged myself to a sitting position against the wall made from stone, brushed the ants off the calzones, and opened the bottle of Vino Locale. I wasn't worried about Jeremy. He would not miss the bus to the Navy base at Sigonella, or his flight out. Jeremy was never late. He was always where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be. Always.

I looked around and could see bits and pieces of concrete littering the ground and the events of the previous evening started to flood back in to my mind.

9.

The Lancia was in the shop again, so we hitched a ride downtown with a couple of guys from Inside Plant and then walked to our favorite local restaurant. I am sure it had an Italian name, but we called it "The Mama Mia Pizzeria," because the first time we went there we spent two hours talking to the daughter of the woman who did all the cooking, and the only thing we understood, this was before Jeremy learned Italian, was that when she got frustrated with us she would actually say "Mama Mia!" like a New York Italian in a bad 50s movie.

We had an unspoken agreement to pretend it was a night like any other. We drank the local wine, flirted with the daughter and the mother, joked with the father, and when the evening was over ordered several bottles of wine and two calzones to go.

Also by unspoken agreement, we did not check any of the bars or restaurants to see if anyone was heading back to the barracks, but instead started walking down the cracked concrete road towards the base. By about three a.m. we were only a mile or so from base, and we stopped and sat down in the middle of the road to eat our calzones. To drink our wine. To talk.

"It isn't true. You know it isn't true don't you?"

"I know."

He took a long drink from the bottle and passed it back to me.

"This whole thing is a fucking lie. My roommate says he walked in and saw me blowing one of the fags from Supply, but it isn't true."

"I know."

"It doesn't matter anyway. The Article 15 doesn't show up on any civilian record. All it means is that I go home a few months before you. We're all going home soon. I heard on the radio in the Mama Mia Pizzeria that they were tearing down the fucking wall in Berlin."

"The actual Berlin wall?"

I opened a new bottle, and Jeremy tossed the empty over his shoulder into the field on the side of the road.

"It's coming down man. The cold war is over. Russia folded. We win. And, just like after World War II everyone will be going home. I guaran-fucking-tee it."

I could tell Jeremy was pretty drunk. He only swears when he has had too much to drink. "You are witnessing the last days of the military-industrial complex. There is no way congress will keep throwing money at the military without the Russians to fight— they would have to invent a whole new enemy, and that ain't gonna happen my friend. That just ain't gonna happen. In three months you will be stateside and the U.S. will have an Armed Forces the size of England's."

I nodded my head, and for a few minutes both of us were silent.

"It wasn't me. I walked in on him, and he said it was me."

He leaned forward and rose to his knees to grab the bottle. I did the same and for a moment, we were face to face— inches from each other.

"It isn't fucking true. If I were a fag I could fuck anyone I wanted. I wouldn't have to blow some Supply loser."

We each had a hand on the bottle. In the reflection of his eyes I could see my own.

"I could rape you right now if I were gay."

I could feel his breath on my face. We were not touching. An invisible force field separated us by a fraction of an inch.

"I could drag you over that wall and fuck your brains out and there is not a goddamn thing you could do about it. They're already kicking me out."

My mouth was dry and I tried to swallow but could not.

"But I won't, because I'm not gay."

I wanted to jerk the bottle from his hand and take a long drink. I wanted to push him away from me. I wanted to ask him what he thought he was doing. I wanted to tell him that he was my friend and he did not have to prove anything.

I wanted to force my eyes away from his.

A large object crashed into the ground next to us and the spell was broken.

A few moments later another object fell in the field behind us. Then something smashed into the pizza boxes, and we could see that it was a chunk of concrete about the size of a man's fist.

"It's the wall. It's the fucking wall."

Jeremy was right. All around us pieces of the Berlin wall were raining down on the Sicilian countryside. Something hit my leg and it felt for a moment like I had been shot. I screamed in pain. A small piece of concrete, about the size of my thumb, had smashed in to me, and when I looked down at the tiny rock I could see that it was engraved with the word, "Freedom."

Another piece hit right next to us, and Jeremy jumped to his feet, dragging me with him. He pulled us both behind the low stone wall and then went back to get the wine and calzones.

We huddled together in the meager shelter provided by the stone wall and waited for the concrete storm to end. Neither of us was hit again, and after a while the rain of cement slowed, and then finally stopped. When it was over I rested my head against Jeremy's shoulder and went to sleep.

A WOMAN IN THE BOSS MAN'S YARD

Thomas Patchell

None of the officers seemed certain about where we were. I had been confused because I thought we were going to the capital of North Korea, but we hadn't seemed to have moved that far. Pyonyang? Pyonggang? Something like that. We were coming through a sort of a suburb, though there was also some industry here too. I hadn't completely stopped trying to make sense of everything and considered myself a slightly educated soldier, so the lack of idea about where we were annoyed me a little bit. The place was also deserted, and there were no bodies here— very unusual for Korea. It seemed like all I'd seen was bodies since we got here. Mostly one story buildings and no one around. We'd been taking banzai style attacks from small groups of gooks, but nothing serious. As we walked down a street with a large walled building at the end, the strangeness of life and how quick it could change floated through my mind. Not too long ago, I studied literature and philosophy at the University of California. I dropped out for a few different reasons and decided to join the Army. I didn't just want to be in any unit and recalled reading newspapers about the paratroops fighting Nazis in Europe when I was first in high school. That would be the adventure for me. My head had been full of The Odyssey and The Iliad and Henry the Fourth, the World War One poets. Lord Byron Marching with the Greeks against the Eastern Hordes. I thought Korea would be my heart of darkness, but it wasn't exactly the same. Years later I would note the similarities, but at the time it didn't seem very literary. Just cold and dirty. I had a copy of The Iliad on the way over and reading it closely, I decided that the Greeks were a bunch of bastards. Hector seemed much more noble than Odysseus— it was Odysseus who convinced them to throw Hector's toddler son, Astyanax, off the battlements of Troy to his death. I got that from Euripides.

I was a sergeant. Ranks didn't make much sense either. Many of the officers had as much college as I did, and some were even younger. It was all about the channels a soldier had come through; maybe even family. My partial education and NCO rank made me both close to the officers and held in suspicion by them. I wasn't in the club. I also seemed to be a novelty to the men, but at the same time too much like an officer to be fully accepted by them. It wasn't bad being a sergeant.

We walked mostly openly down the streets; we were a large force, and we knew there were other friendly units around us too. This was not a tactical, building to building running attack. We had vehicles and even some armor. There was an anti-aircraft battalion with us somewhere, the 88th. We were 2nd battalion of the 187th ARCT. Paratroopers. We'd seen combat and buddies killed. This walk through Yung Dong Po wasn't as bad as some of the other things we'd done, but it was still high tension. We were all on edge. One of the most terrible things about war and combat was the constant possibility of attack and sudden death— worse than the attacks themselves: a soldier in a war's always got to be on.

We'd stopped.

"Flannery! Up front."

It was my platoon leader, Kusack. I didn't break my neck getting up to him. He wasn't a bad guy. Short and stout and very motivated; his eyes were screwy. He wore special glasses to correct them, and I couldn't believe the Army actually took him, but he was a hard charger and a decent officer, one of the best I'd worked for. When the first shirt told me about him, he said he liked him, but he just couldn't tell who the fuck Kusack was looking at when he gave orders. Kusack already wore captain's bars.

"We've got a wide alley with a large building at the end and what appears to be some sort of warehouse next to it." I tried to meet his eyes under his helmet's shadow. He pointed through some buildings down another broken street. "We want you to take Pascal's squad and maybe Smiley to make sure it's clear.

"What was that last banzai crew yelling when they attacked us and killed d'Amatto and O'Brien? Did Smiley ever tell you?" I asked.

Kusack moved his head, and I tried to meet his eyes as he answered, "He said they were yelling something about how Mao told them to devour the capitalists; fucking cannibals— fuck 'em; they're dead."

* * * *

The alley opened large before our small squad. The plan was we'd case the area and radio back down for battalion when the coast was clear. Pascal was with H Company, heavy weapons, typically a machine gunner and had been a radioman. Pascal was a good trooper— tall, thin, bad teeth, intensely unimpressed look on his face: Brooklyn kid. Had been at the War Crimes prison at Sugamo and was a sergeant. He'd got the prison guard duty for looking sharp and scoring well on a test of some sort. Said he'd seen Tojo interrogated. He had jumped into Sunchon with us too— bad times. Just recently he was busted for being AWOL in Korea, now a PFC. Good guy in a fight. Kusack wanted someone tough, resourceful with experience and respect on this one, and at twenty-one years old that was Pask. He held his M1 ready to fire as we moved down the street. Ten guys alone in a world of stinking shit.

In general, the whole of Korea stunk, but that didn't usually bother me. The men looked at me with suspicious eyes because I ate the local foods and drank soju. Pascal would probably never eat galbi and kimchi or drink soju even though he'd probably like it. This street smelled a little different than the rest of Korea. Fresh and homey not garlicky and sour.

"Do gooks make bread?" Pascal breathed out to me.

"They must because that's a bakery." I threw my chin up toward the pile of bricks at the end of the street. The building was squat and small— I don't know how I knew it was a bakery. Must've been the smell— flour and yeast smell the same everywhere.

Tiredness crashed down on me now and again.

I was only awake because of all the tension. Only a couple of days ago I had finished off one of the canteens of tequila I'd brought with me from California and since then I hadn't got shit for sleep. I thought maybe if we secured this area, I could get some sleep. The absolute misery of exhaustion with no rest was agonizing. My entire body hurt with tiredness. I felt like shooting myself half the time. The street was mostly clean, quiet, and as empty as the rest. We'd all been running on adrenaline. It seemed the only worse thing than being shot at was constantly worrying we were going to be shot at or attacked— that thought again. We were all on edge. Even our dirty boots seemed to make too much noise during our rushes down the last part of the street.

A loud metallic staccato noise ripped me away from my thoughts of sleep and tequila back to the reality of Korea. I didn't have time to curse myself for being lost in my thoughts. A banzai squad ran out from a side alley firing burp guns and screaming loudly as they ran at us. I saw one of our guys fall in my peripheral vision as I started firing my M1 into the advancing chinks. A lot of thundering gunfire and yelling seemed to become everything. From my few experiences, combat was lived and recalled in slow motion, but it went by fast. The banzai squad was already down in the street. I looked at Pask, and he nodded at me and ran up to the bodies.

"No insignia or rank, just like the others, sergeant. Chinks," Pask reported.

Smiley ran up breathing hard. He looked at the fresh bodies. "Yeah yeah, chink," he confirmed.

Smiley was our South Korean civilian interpreter; he spoke Korean, Chinese, and English. I think he was a college student before the war too. I wasn't sure if he had any military training aside from the bullshit class or two he'd had from Civil Affairs. He wore the 11th Airborne uniform and even wings though he'd never been to any jump school except the informal (and probably illegal) one we put him through. Nobody knew Smiley's real name— I certainly didn't. His hair was a non-graduated crewcut and he wore thick army-issue dame repellant glasses making his eyes appear smaller than they were— the short hair made his ears seem giant. He had a big wide grin for us, but he seemed to like lording his uniform and wings over the locals and the chinks. We all liked him.

My eyes scanned up and down the street. I looked at one of the dead guy's faces, something I tried not to do: as usual just a young kid. They all looked like college kids to me. His face looked pained, and not as evil as it seemed moments before. I turned my attention back to our boys. Caver was sitting on the sidewalk behind some boxes with a couple of the other guys. He'd been hit.

"Let's get off the street," I ordered. We low ran back over to the other guys. One of them was bandaging the sweating trooper's arm. His helmet was off revealing a mop of dark hair sticking up above pale skin and dark eyes. He looked at me, still hot from combat.

"It's okay, sergeant, I'm fine," he said sharply turning his eyes to the street. "I got the bastard that hit me."

"Good," I said, my attention snapping back to the job. I looked to the warehouse at the end of the street.

"Let's go."

I split the boys up, and we came up both sides of the street. I kept Smiley with me. It was a short distance to the buildings. I looked up at the Han Ghul signs. The figures always looked more geometric and mechanistic than the Japanese or Chinese characters we saw around. Straight lines and circles, and what looked like little hats. Just when I was thinking how sick I was of this place and all this bullshit, Smiley broke the biggest grin I'd seen on him. His glasses shined under the darkness of his helmet as he nodded and pointed to the warehouse. I didn't ask— we just followed him.

The place was a beer storage warehouse. Bottles and wooden kegs were all over the place. It looked like it had already been pilfered by the Marines. Someone had painted the simple circle with a "T" atop it in one corner, but they must have been moving fast or they would have cleaned the whole stash out. There appeared to be no one else around. I lowered my rifle.

"Have a couple of rounds on me fellas," I invited.

We discovered a lot of the stuff was green, but some was pretty good pale lager. I looked at Pask dumping out a bottle, "Baa!" He gave a quick grunt of disgust. "Gook beer!" he exclaimed. At least the stuff was cold. Late November in Korea had been chilly. Smiley came running up to me excited about something.

"Come fast, sergeant, this is jing-jing!" he blurted. I'd slammed a large bottle and was already starting to feel the tension of the war slip away— finally, but I raised my M1 and followed him with the guys coming up behind. Caver had already pounded three large bottles. He was wounded, so I figured that was fine. We stopped at a doorway with a large paper photo of a good-looking Korean woman's head and shoulders. She had a short fashionable haircut and was winking and had her index finger pointing up across her mouth. Her face was more angular than a typical Korean woman's and her one open eye was mesmerizing. Han Ghul writing spread across the bottom of the picture. She seemed to be winking right at me. I stared at her – the first woman I'd seen in a while – intensely as I could not break eye contact with her one eye.

We looked up.

"She's a good looking doll— what is it?" I asked.

Smiley winked at me, "Beer poster— she say, 'Welcome to my Joo Mak!'" He signaled me to follow down the hall; I looked at Pask, and he gave me a crazy smile and an intense nod. I looked at the other boys. Caver was already notably getting stewed and seemingly forgetting his wound. The others had gone from looks of fear and anxiety to hope and deviousness. It seemed we'd finally found relief from all the shit. The hall ended at a gate that still had a large lock on it. A gook lock too— the Marines hadn't been down here.

"Break the bastard!" I ordered. Pask raised his weapon and we all stood back as he shot the lock to pieces. We were all cussing and laughing now, holding our helmets on our heads. This was big shit.

"You crazy bastard!" One of the guys yelled, "One of those ricochets could have killed me!" we all laughed. The guy from Virginia squealed and rubbed his hands together, "Beer Purple Hearts!"

We herded through a couple of messy office type rooms and then down another hallway into a large hangar like room with a massive tank. The central vat. One of the boys found a tap and put his head under it. The room was cold, and he proclaimed the beer to be too. Without a thought, the guys started dumping water out of their canteens and filling them at the vat taps.

Smiley came up to me and handed me a bottle, "Soju for the sergeant!" he snorted out a crazy laugh and ran back to the taps. I took a good ripper off of the soju, a little rough but warming to my soul. A crackle upset the room as the radio belched, "Easy-Five-Foxtrot, this is Two-Baker, over." The lights were on bright now. I told Pask to tell them to come up quick.

They brought the jeeps up and soon troopers were running in with five gallon water cans filling them with beer. We were back home. Somehow, there were some tables in the place, and soldiers sat raging around them. The place was loaded with warm olive drab suddenly. Arm wrestling matches broke out spontaneously. Quiet only minutes before, the place was like a crowd at a major sporting event. Roars rose and fell as some paratrooper would beat some anti-aircraft guy at arm wrestling, or lose. Fist fights and brawls broke out. Singing cowboy songs in off-key drunken choruses let every Chinaman within ten miles know we were here. I saw a Marine artilleryman who had somehow been picked up by us along the road stand up on a table, jam his dog tag chain into a nostril, pull the other end out his mouth, and start sawing back and forth with the two tags as handles, head thrown back in barbaric reverie. Groups of G.I.s had their arms around each other, swearing oaths of eternal buddyhood. The war slipped away, and everyone was laughing and smoking and drinking, and the quiet edgy tension seemed gone. I was getting pretty stewed on the bottle of soju and the beer I'd drank back in the warehouse. I also couldn't stop thinking about the gook beauty back on the wall— something strange about her. I'd have to remember to ask Smiley if she was famous or he knew who she was. Fresh beer from the vat! It was like an oasis in a sea of insanity. Already drunken mixed similes. Someone kept singing a Hank Williams tune,

My bucket's got a hole in it, yeah

My bucket's got a hole in it, yeah

My bucket's got a hole in it

I can't buy no beer

The 88th Anti Aircraft were the worst. They got word they had to leave quick, so they were really drinking. I saw a soldier pour beer out of a five gallon water can into his open mouth and all over himself. The place was becoming a big party— it was like we were all somewhere else all of a sudden, not in foreign deadly Korea, but a familiar and friendly place. Helmets were off, rifles sometimes staked in teepees, some just laying around— olive drab littered the floor. The AkAk boys filled their water cans and canteens and then pulled out in their jeeps and trucks in a merry procession.

I was outside smoking a Lucky Strike with Smiley and Pask when Kusack bounced up with a drunken grimace on his face. It was late afternoon. His uniform still looked good and he was still wearing his H-harness like I was. The short stocky officer's eyes roved all over the place.

"Flannery!" He bellowed. I saluted, and he gave a cursory return then continued, "Leave it to some Irish fucks like you and Pask to find a brewery in the middle of a war!" He took a swig out of his canteen after clashing it against my soju bottle. "And don't worry, 1st Battalion has this place secure— holding the fuckers off out there on the outskirts! Fuck! They have no idea we're in here getting loaded— yet. Isn't this great? I'll have the colonel give you a fucking medal for this!" Something caught his attention and he was off.

Well I went up on the mountain—I looked down in the sea

I seen the crabs and the fishes—doin' the be bop bee

The woman on the poster came back to me in my warm euphoric buzz. What a doll. I shouldn't get too loaded. We could still be attacked. Had to keep a hand on it all. She was beautiful. I thought of the jade Guan Yin necklace Smiley had given me before we came in— superstitious, but still comforting. For some crazy reason, I felt like she watched over me on this strange journey. I had a girl back in the States, but that Korean dame had charmed me – almost felt like I had her in my arms – or she had me in her hands. She had all of us – turned us into a bunch of slobbering drunks – but I had her. Guan Yin was supposed to be some sort of protector; a female manifestation of holy power. Here I was between her and Kirke. I impulsively checked my M1, slung it, drew my .45 and checked it – beautiful piece of killing metal – blowing out smoke, as I looked it over. Guys were taking their shirts off and showing off muscles and guts; chugging contests let us all know who the toughest bastards were.

Well there ain't no use—of me workin' so hard

When I got a woman—in the boss man's yard

A calm overcame me, and I laughed as I holstered my pistol and thought of the gook broad on the poster. That cute short hair and that wink— right to me, specifically. It was meant for me— my crew found this place. An island of sanity. What a doll. She'd given us all of this beer and relief. A break. Are you Kirke or Kalypso, baby? I thought to myself.

A commotion from inside spun me back around. Some officer was yelling. I knew this had to come. They couldn't let us enjoy anything. The other canteen of tequila on my belt came to mind. I don't know why, but I took some strange comfort in that. What was he yelling about?

"Stop drinking! Stop drinking!" He yelled from an upper level at the top of the giant reservoir of suds. "There's a dead gook in the vat! There is a DEAD GOOK in the VAT!" In a second the mood turned grim again. Kusack glared a drunken dirty look from up by the vat. Later, the lieutenant told us there was a gook suspended in the vat, preserved and pickled by the beer, and we'd all been drinking. He said they saw something black floating in the white suds. They thought somebody had dropped a watch cap into the vat. When they fished it out, they discovered that it was black hair on a piece of skull. Next they pulled up the dead gook. He was pruney as hell. A big yellow raisin bloated slightly by the beer— they let him sink back down.

Just as suddenly as it all started, guys were emptying out their canteens and water cans, mostly pouring them out in front of the brewery in the cold Korean November day.

The yellow and white streams of beer flowed down over the water dumped there so recently; bathing the dead banzai crew in the middle of the road in water and beer and the essence of dead Korean and joining with their blood in a rivulet down the street. It was dead silence except for some intense cussing. I saw one trooper shake his head unsteadily and say, "Fuck it! I'll drink gook—!" and chug down his canteen. The rest of us sullenly marched out of the place and regrouped in a tense and obviously drunken formation ready to move out. Soldiers swayed around and rifles were canted everywhere above the ranks or just sagging down. Bloodshot eyes glittered under helmets, and few knew what to think by the dazed expressions on the faces.

Pask came running up to me. "Son of a bitch and fuck it!" he swore. "Should I radio the 88th and tell them, Sergeant Flannery?" I took a slow drag off of my cigarette, and looked down the road.

"Nah, fuck it, Pask. They may wonder why they get the shits, but it's probably better they don't know. Don't want to ruin their party too." His red face slowed into an unsure smile then he laughed and hefted his pack. For a second, I thought of sending a private back in to get the poster, but you can't take Kirke back on the boat with you. I drained the soju, threw the bottle away, and flicked my butt into the wet street. Something, maybe the soju, made me smile in spite of it all.

"Let's just get ready to move out."

Doin' the be bop bee!

ONCE A MARINE, ALWAYS A MARINE

Dick Reynolds

About seven o'clock on a June morning, I left our motel room looking for some coffee that would jump start my brain. My wife and I had stopped overnight in Flagstaff, Arizona, and were heading home to Santa Fe after attending my youngest son's wedding in Long Beach, California. It was cool, the sun was up and the motel had filled up during the night.

The only activity in the parking lot was a family loading a minivan parked about twenty-five yards to my right. I spotted a Marine Corps sticker on the rear window, a Hawaiian license plate, and three seabags stacked in the open rear cargo space. The father had a closely shaved head and wore deck shoes, bright red shorts, and a yellow T-shirt— clearly the Marine in the family. He moved about the van quickly, checking on the loading process and barking orders to his wife and three kids.

"Liz, get your mom's makeup bag and put it between the seabags," he shouted at his oldest who looked about sixteen.

I went over to him and said, "Couldn't help noticing the Marine Corps sticker and your license plate. I was stationed there long ago, just before it became a state."

He glanced at me but continued fiddling with the seabags. "You a Marine?"

"Yep, twenty-four years. The best three with the 4th Marines at Kaneohe."

"I was in the 3rd Marines. I think the 4th is in Iraq."

The family's other two children, a boy about thirteen and another boy about eleven, stood quietly nearby. The younger son wore an oversized scarlet sweatshirt with the gold initials USMC arranged vertically on the right front. Dad commanded him, "Keith, go back and get our pillows." Keith did a smart about face and scampered back into the room to retrieve the designated bedding.

I watched in fascination as dad and mom got on each side of the minivan, stood on top of the rear wheels and wrestled with a large floppy rubber contraption that rested inside the luggage rack. The container was open on top with a zipper running around the upper edge. The parents stuffed things into it as the kids brought them out of their motel room. This activity brought back many memories of my own cross-country moves with a similar container on top of our station wagon, jammed into the luggage rack and tied down with canvas strips. We once lost an entire suitcase of the kids' underwear on the Pennsylvania Turnpike but that's another story.

The loading continued. I decided that our Marine-to-Marine conversation was over and resumed my quest for coffee in the motel's front office. The staff had prepared several pots of java and put out a tray of assorted donuts. I helped myself to a glazed sinker, grabbed a USA Today from a stack on the desk clerk's counter, found a comfortable chair and started flipping through the sports section. After several minutes, the youngest in the traveling Marine's family came through the door.

"Good morning, Marine," I said. He was about halfway between me and the donuts and my greeting startled him, but not enough to stop his forward progress.

"I'm really not a Marine," he said sheepishly. "My dad is. He got me this sweatshirt for my birthday."

He took a few more steps, picked out a big chocolate donut and plopped down in the chair next to mine. He was enjoying the donut a lot and got more chocolate on his face and fingers than in his mouth.

"I noticed you and your family loading up the van out in the parking lot. Looks like you're moving somewhere."

"Yeah, we're on our way to Virginia, some place called Quantico."

"I've been stationed there myself a couple of times," I said. "You don't look too excited about it."

"I'm not. I had lots of friends in Kaneohe – we lived on the base there – and I was starting to get real good with my surfboard."

His sadness got my fatherly juices flowing so I told him, "You'll make lots of new friends in Quantico and you'll get to see some exciting things in Washington like the monument, the Lincoln Memorial and the Air and Space Museum. And you should stay in touch with your friends in Hawaii because the chances are pretty good that you'll see them again, sooner or later. Keep those friendships alive with Facebook."

"You know about Facebook?"

"Sure, I'm on it all the time with my grandkids." By now I was on a roll and couldn't resist quoting the old bromide, "You know, there are only two good duty stations in the Marine Corps; the one you just left and the one you're going to."

He jerked his head sideways and looked a me with wide eyes. "That's what my dad says!"

"Well there you go. By the way," I said, "Why aren't you out helping him load up the van?"

He became serious again and replied in a quiet voice, "I think my dad's mad at me and doesn't want me around. Besides, he'd rearrange our stuff anyway, the way he'd do it himself if I wasn't there."

After pausing to let that bit of wisdom sink in, I had a suggestion. "Why don't you take some donuts back to your family? I'll bet that would make you a big hero."

He readily agreed, stacked four donuts on a handful of napkins and headed back to the van. I read some more of my paper, refilled my coffee cup and paid our motel bill. I was about ten yards away from our room when I glanced over to my left where the Marine family's van had been parked. As expected, it was gone, but Keith was sitting on the curb in front of their empty room. What the hell is going on here?

I walked over and quietly sat down next to him. He had his chin down on his knees looking straight ahead, his hands clasped together while pulling his ankles inward. My heart ached for him. What could I do to make him feel better?

"You know, they probably won't get very far until they realize you aren't in the van. Then they'll come back in a big hurry. You want to wait in the office until they get here?" He didn't answer and kept staring straight ahead. I wondered whether he was in shock or might start crying. I was also angry with his family. Someone must have noticed that he was missing. How could they just take off without him?

The silence continued for several minutes until I noticed the wayward van pulling back into the parking lot, varooming straight for us. With screeching brakes and a sharp left turn, the van stopped with the driver's door directly opposite us. Marine dad was driving and, without shutting off the engine, he looked down and said in a loud voice, "Well Keith, what do you think? Are you ready to get on the road?"

I stood and yelled at him, "What the hell are you doing? I was about ready to call the state police and have them put out an all-points-bulletin on you."

"Stay out of this, pal. It's not your problem."

That was enough to get Keith moving. He jumped up and started for the other side of the van when I yelled out, "Hey Keith, you forgot your donuts."

"Oh yeah," he answered and came back, grabbed the donuts, turned back around the van and jumped into the only empty seat.

I stood and watched the van leave the parking lot and turn toward the interstate. The door to my motel room opened up and my wife stepped out, dressed in a dark blue warm-up. "What are you doing out here?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Just watching a Marine discipline his son."

"What did the boy do?"

"Scarfing up a donut in the office with me instead of being Johnny-on-the-spot when dad wanted to get underway. So they left without him, intending to put the fear of God in him, I guess. But they came back and got him."

She laughed. "Sounds like a typical Marine learning lesson."

"No way," I protested. "I'd never do anything like that to one of our boys."

"Really? How about that swimming lesson you gave Chris at the O-Club pool? Telling him it was either sink or swim after you nudged him over the edge?"

"I was right there all the time. He got the message."

"Or taking Joe into Camp Pendleton's back country so he could learn all about rattlesnakes for his science project. If memory serves, I think that was the last time he went anywhere in the boondocks with you."

"Hey, nothing happened. The rattlers took off the other way when we found them. Besides, he got an A on that project."

"And don't forget about Mike. Remember when he went on that hunger strike when you refused to let him have lobster in that restaurant? Want me to go on?"

"Your memory serves well."

She moved closer and put an arm around my waist. "But they turned out pretty good . . . in spite of your peculiar brand of discipline."

"We had a good system. I was the bad cop and you were the good cop." I gave her a one-armed hug and said, "Let's go see if they have any donuts left."

Girl – Robert D. Wilson

THE DUKE'S BLACK BAG

Tom Sheehan

Just pronounced ex-Navy and having breakfast in a small diner in Idaho, road dust claiming him as much as it did his old Ford convertible gracing the parking lot like an abused antique, he met Maybelle Hustings slinging homemade hash, the air full of morning's riches. She was tall, neat in her apron for a hash house waitress, wore her hair pinned back severely yet evoking promise in its loosing. Corded movements in her neck, supple and graceful but fully pronounced as a woman's, brought him early hungers, caught him leaning in the booth. Their eyes locked, gave out announcements, were decoded, and then, so as not to embarrass the other, were allowed to wander. Initial signals had been made, and illustrated; acceptance, of some order, duly noted.

Between the two the attractions were limitless, yet were essentially bound up in her needing to get out of the one-horse town and his, being as horny as three full months at sea, each of them airing their own broadcast.

"Breakfast can do that to some of us," he remembered a wise old shipmate saying, about shore leave in general and women in particular, "but only if you're lucky."

Drake Ulban Kincaid (Duke to all), 42, looked like a bag of razor blades, tough as a bag of nails and for almost ten years running had been the Navy middleweight boxing champ. His face was a series of acute edges and angles, and he could be the model for a bronze bust on a foyer table, any table in any foyer. The boxing leavings were permanent but worn badge-like, and lifted his eyes. All first impressions made him, at once, serious and of keen interest. He came to Idaho's foothills from twenty-seven years in Uncle's Navy hardly trusting anybody who didn't pack it up as he did himself (like comrades in deck-hidden gun mounts, knowing each other's sweat, arm strengths, their attention to detail, their own page of saltiness). Men pass the test or they don't; women might ride the fence.

All he wanted was a big wad of money in his hands, to lay it out on a motel bed, count it, sleep on it. Shore leaves about the world had created certain hungers. The motel money dream had been the one most insistently repeated. More often than not, tide reaches and changes setting up his thoughts, rapacious reading of favored Patrick O'Brian novels done for the day, he dreamed of finding a gold mine in the mountains of Idaho or Utah or Montana, not being too particular where: or perhaps, all things of the dream world at extension, of taking a lot of money from a bank.

He had declared those wishes to a few of his last shipmates before parting from Uncle's Navy. Leaving a ship was about the saddest thing he had ever known, and though he had done it almost a dozen times, the feeling still rang true. It was the saddest thing, he agreed, because the marks left were indelible on a man; most men would carry them a long time; the lucky man would carry them forever; any time the tide changed, salt stung an open eye, the wind shifted out of the northeast, a boat bobbled its fenders against a dock, the marks would be known again, old marks in a new setting.

And all along he knew what the chances were of finding gold in Idaho or Montana or Utah.

Dropping the menu at his table in a window booth, Maybelle said outright, as part of her introduction (along with already assuring two buttons were open on her blouse), "I'm Maybelle and I bet you got a story or two. Guys in here know you, at least what you're like. I can tell. They noticed you when you walked into the place, sized things up. I see three or four of them by the window pegging you right off the bat just after you parked your car. Like how they thought they might have been, way back. You know, when they had it all together, not like now." She punched the last comment with a gesture of futility. "They know the swagger, the instincts in your tote bag. I saw the signs myself, you coming across the parking lot after you tossed a travel bag from the back seat into the trunk of your car. The strut's personal, like your name's on it. Says you've been around, know things, places." She looked about, dropped an empty hand in a peremptory salute, and said, "More'n this."

Her whole life had been swept up in quick changes since she had left home; behind the barn with Ricky Sims, him shooting his mouth off later about his 14-year-old blow job, her father packed off to jail for two months for beating the crap out of Ricky and then his father, her mother on a continual crying jag about her own failures as a mother, the trucker who drove her the first 155 miles out of town and dropped her at a motel, paid for her room for two nights, went home to his own daughters too long ignored.

A hundred jobs she'd had coming here to this diner, long hauls and short hauls and no cemented romances. When she saw him get out of his old car, the tingle began, the old tingle, the good stuff rearing its head. Where it started out she never knew, but it would seep a while, crawl around on its belly, touch here and there, and then leap for the core of feeling. More than once since he had come into the diner she swore she had touched herself in secret, with a phantom hand, like some amputees have a phantom pain. All of it brought a flicker of a smile to her face.

Her more'n this gesture he loved, the idea of loneliness that went with it, so innocent, so open. A sense of grace filtered through her movements. Not in a long time had he been so impressed.

"You always go at it this early in the day? Is it trade talk, making me sociable and easy, digging for a tip? Take it from me, you don't have to do much of anything for a tip. You dress this place up from the git-go. Ought to pay you for that. Put your name up in lights. Drag every boy in here from miles around. Empty the hills. Cowboys and glow boys and weed whackers, they'd all come."

"You're as smooth as I thought you were," she answered, "and a peck of trouble with it, I bet."

But with that one line from him, she was suddenly more upright, two inches taller beside the booth, it seemed. Her morning, she was thinking, hadn't started that brightly. Now, a pellet of sweat walked easily on her forehead. A small vein ran its bluish scar-like run across one temple telling him part of a story. The brows and lashes were dark, lightly massed, yet ran their routes with a quick slimness, a neatness. If she stood other than nude in front of a morning mirror, he didn't want to know, preferring his own picture show, and found, above eggs and bacon, above morning grease, a thin sheet of new air carrying her signatures, all of them.

The tieback of her hair promised again a softness once let go, him thinking it was a perfect matting for a pillow. It matched an elegant ankle bracelet looking much out of place in the a.m. diner. The bracelet was pure gold, he knew; probably from some long-hidden lode of riches a far mountain might have yielded. It was one of the first things he noticed in the whole room, that most intimate promise a woman deals with daily, that thin, delicate letter opener of sorts, that bearer of ultimate secrets. He wondered how long it would be before he could look sideways at the bracelet, measuring, looking for an inscription. Perhaps it would say, "Welcome aboard, captain."

With that thought, the jumble of arms and legs, the early motions of a morning erection came and went, as if an electrical plug had been pulled from a socket. Yet she was not a stray, not at all, having a carriage, using it, lessons accrued in its employment. He could tell that she was alert to everything going on around her, the early morning talk, the cigarette coughs, the rough faces talking of their rough evenings, the long eyes coming out of long nights, nights breaking loose in the morning in occasional repetition. An early stain worked on her pink shirt by her left underarm. In the midst of the morning hash crowd, eggs and bacon floating their grease in layers of air, like pages in a book or a menu, one breast rode its early titillation behind a damp spot on the shirt. Duke knew the code, waited to reciprocate.

He liked her eyes first, even before her hips sent messages walking away from the opening coffee pour. The pink dress rode her the way silk rides its prisoners, the hips engaged. He thought about two ships on the tide change, might have been in Honolulu or Singapore or somewhere in the Leyte Gulf, with a hawser swinging between them, tempo, music, a beat; man becomes electra, and then his woman whenever she comes from landside. When she came back with his plate of home-made hash and two-over light, he gave her the twenty-seven-year eye from his shore leaves.

"Women know you too," she said in rejoinder, exploring his eyes, his assessment, owning up to her own portions. "At least I do, and there's a blond in the corner booth thinks you're a smooth hunk." Looking back over her shoulder, she added, "Told her I'd let you know, just in case, but I think you call your own shots, don't you?"

"What's your take on it?" Duke said, putting a hand on the corner of the table so she could lean against his hand if she wanted to.

She did, the message running right up his arm.

"What time you get off?" he said, seeing the smoke float across the green of her eyes, more stories being told.

"I'm done now if you want. Nothing holding me, not even two day's work coming to me. Where you headed?" She didn't know why she had asked, it sounding as distinct as an invitation.

He thought about his last ship, leaving Mahoney and DePalma and Moxley in the gun mount. The slow taste of all the years was in his mouth. He gave her the whole salvo, all barrels at once. "I'm going to find a gold mine in Idaho or Montana, or maybe rob a bank. I haven't made up my mind yet."

"They both sound exciting, but I like 14 carat stuff, if I have a choice." She leaned over, tapped a finger on her ankle bracelet. Her breasts gave promise the way she bent over.

When she walked past the blond's booth, the blond said, "What'd he say? Is he jake or joke? I won't quit easy." Her hands were pressed on the table, as if deliverance was hers.

"He's taking me with him," the waitress said, a sudden hitch in her strut, and an approximately measured caesura pointing out the balance of her message. "Says he's going to find gold in the hills, or rob a bank. You want my job, you got it. Tell Marvin behind the counter." She pulled her apron off and dropped it on the counter, looking at a small mustached man standing there in his starchy white apron, his eyes still sleepy, his cheeks puffy, saying, "I quit, Marvin. I told you it'd be fast," and looking over her shoulder added, "and his breakfast is on me. Take it out of my pay. Blondie over here might take my job if you talk to her like a sheriff. She likes her men hard, too. Same as me."

They were more than a hundred miles into the road dust and the hills promising never to flatten. His attractive looks became a smoothing agent to her excitement at being alone with a man, little but the land their company. In that quick travel they learned what the other liked, in food, entertainment, sex and books, the intrusions that television carried with it into silence, appreciation, deep thought, loneliness when loneliness was wanted. It was, they agreed, a miracle that each one of them liked to read, would spend hours at it when able. At sea it had been a snap, with a ship's library always open. "Two guys with one mule found a gold mine in Montana once. One shot the other, and then he froze to death with his pack full of Twinkies and gold dust. I don't know who wrote it or what the title was, but it had a picture on the cover of the two of them looking down two trails in the mountains."

"Make you think about the gold mine all the time? Where'd the bank come into all of it?"

They were in Pocatello, across the street from a bank with high, wide windows, a few banners stating a special day for new investors. "The high come on," she mouthed, then giggled lightly seeing a quick antipodal scene rush across the back of her mind... Duke with a bag filled with money, walking out the front door, getting in beside her, driving off into the sunset, silence sitting behind them like Buddha, all Pocatello lethargic, still, unperturbed.

The face of the building rose seven or eight floors high, yet still seemed an impenetrable fortress. A vision of one of his battleships came to her, one he had described in such intricate detail that she knew he was missing it, had trouble letting it go. The understanding of such longing in the face of reality was abruptly hers; she'd been home only twice in sixteen years. When she looked up, at the topmost floor, the sun's last reflection gleamed into her eyes off the glass of a large window, and came down like a silent shot. Duke made noise putting coins in the parking meter, the new investor at the first move of money moving.

He came back to her side of the car and said, "You on for the long ride?" His eyes sank right down to where she was having her tingles again; she could absolutely feel them dropping down through her body, abrading all the way but with a smooth touch, an old hand at an old game.

Gawd, he owns me, she thought, closing her knees tightly, holding on to the tingle for a brief minute as it began to fade, losing itself in a quick contraction in her throat, on an unsaid word.

She looked around, both ways on the street, seeing the traffic flow, both car and pedestrian, life at its full level in a slow gear, evening beginning to settle its claims, the sun falling fully behind one hill.

He could tell she was in measurement, looking for her play in his thing, trying to find an answer in herself. At length she said, "I'm still here."

Then he was standing at the back of the car, those deep character lines still vibrant but near-bronzed in his face, marking him the way no man had ever been marked. In the rear view mirror she saw his lips pucker up as if he were going to whistle a salty tune, with a new adventure at hand. He keyed the trunk, pulled out the black bag, closed the trunk, tossed the keys in beside her in the front seat and walked into the bank.

A swell of admiration came upon her; I'll bet he's going to fill the damn bag up with money!

Thirty minutes later he was still in the bank. She tried not to fidget, but fidget she did, all the while saying what was apparent really wasn't apparent, or so she thought. It was an underworld argument, possibly deep in her soul, or on the fringe of a kind of immediate madness. Eventually, minutes more dragging by, she assented voluntarily to what had come across her mind; she would be painted an accessory to robbery, armed robbery most likely, thinking about the bag and what might have been in it. Only once had she touched it in the ride from Marvin's diner, reaching over to get a sweater out of her own bag, shoving his black bag aside, feeling it full of something, never guessing that it mattered what it was. After that, at a gas stop, he put the bag in the trunk.

Here in the middle of somewhere nowhere, evening dropped around her as if it had arms. Yet in the midst of that curried favor she waited for signals, signs, noise, the hallelujah trumpet itself, the call to accounting. Not a single siren's wail was heard. No alarms went off on the bank's outside wall as if a knockout punch had been thrown. No klaxons doing their haughty deed, raising the skin bumps galore, bopping the ears with the wild static of the universe in full throttle. The new investor banners, against the face of the bank and spanning the width of the street, rattled their plastic sounds in a slight breeze. A rope caught on the breeze and tried to whistle a small tune.

A gum wrapper and a used napkin rolled in the gutter aimless as hobos looking for one more haven for the night. She knew where she was, who she was. Barn smells came back to her as thick as yesterday. She saw Ricky Sims' ultimate smile and dismissed it as quickly as it had appeared. A man passing by, looking at her face over the car door, noting the convertible's sexy intrusion in the middle of the city, smiled a message she had seen before. He nearly fell down when she gave him eyes, rolled her tongue across full red lips. It made her wonder how long it would be before Duke took off her underpants, brought everything home. She thought, on a second accounting, she'd save him the trouble.

The tingle came again. Spinning about in the seat, looking back over her shoulder, she saw no police car coming down the street, heard no siren. She tingled again, trying to gauge the impact, the true message. Suddenly she pulled the keys from the ignition block, thought a moment, put them back. She slipped out of the convertible, stood at the open door in contemplation. When she closed the door, she walked across the street and stood against the window of a small delicatessen. Inside and below her belt, where the tingle had been, a slight hunger tantrum evoked its yearning. Rich odors rode on the breeze, while the breeze still worked the ropes of the banners. A few cars passed by, then a bus and a truck spitting a taste of monoxide. Another man passing close by dared look into her eyes for a second, as if he had been there before. He hurried off at her return gaze.

She thought she could have walked off down the street with him. She could walk off in the other direction. In a split second, she could! What the hell, the bank was like any other building, any other barn. It was easy to leave. It was not like a ship; not like leaving a ship. She understood him, understood the differences.

And there he was, coming across the street with the black bag bouncing at his knee. And he was all dressed up in his sailor suit! My God! Her eyes fastened on the cut of man he was, on the stripes that raced up and down his sleeves, at the conglomeration of colored ribbons pinned across his chest, the way the salty, white sailor hat sat across his forehead, cocked in a cocky way. Nothing ever like it. He was elegance and confidence and man galore and she knew what had kept her in place.

Into the back seat he tossed the black bag. She listened for sounds. None came. No klaxon. No sirens. When he turned the key and the engine came to life, she slipped in beside him. The car slid away from the curb, joined traffic, aimed for the distant hills. Again she listened for life to scream out behind them its impossible possibilities. Nothing came. They cruised. The wind came over the windshield as stiff as a sea breeze. He tossed his hat into the back seat and put his arm around her. She snuggled comfortably close, inhaling her own dream. Eventually his hand slipped down into her lap, moved easily on its way, found the triangle, found her tingle. Twice he turned her loose into her own feelings. A trucker, passing by them on a wide stretch of road, blared his diesel horn at such roadway gaiety. Before the third episode on the ride to wherever, she slipped off her underpants without an exchange of words. She touched him lightly. He touched back.

At the Moosehead Motel, cranked tightly against a high cliff rise, they registered. In the room he asked her to go to the office to get some ice for a few drinks while he changed. She went off to the office, smiled easily at the woman behind the counter smiling at her. When she came back, he was out of his uniform but in Navy skivvies and was lying on the double bed on which was spread a million dollars in hundreds, fifties and twenties. The floor was covered with assorted money bands: 100s, 50s, 20s, 10s, the whole floor littered, accountant's mosaics.

"We're going to sleep," he said, and rolled over on his side. She took off her clothes and lay down beside him. At three in the morning they were properly introduced. And then he told her everything.

"I had a hard time with my father. He had no give, none at all. It was always my mother who would cement things, put things back in place after an argument, crazy words bouncing all around us."

He sipped on a drink. "Suddenly, she wasn't really there. She just evaporated. Withered away. She went down to about 80 pounds you could pick up with one hand and move her to a clean bed. We had two beds for her, changed beds for her a couple of times a day. But she just withered. Her arms got so thin I was afraid they'd break on me. Arms wretched as toothpicks. The frailest things I've ever seen in my life. Worse than any newborn on a farm or what you see in films about hunger and famine, like in Africa."

He paused and she knew he was scaling differences in things he had known, had seen. "The only thing she had left was the look in her eyes. It always said, 'I love you, it's been worth it. Keep things neat. I'll be watching.' My father lost it all when she stopped breathing one morning just as the sun came in the window. He couldn't count on her any more. She was the real iron in the family and he knew it. My grandfather tried to plan on college for me. He had a few bucks put aside he said, could take care of me. I didn't want any part of college. So, at 15, things breaking apart for me, for us, just about every day, I left, faked some papers, joined the Navy. It was the best place in the world for me. I found out on one return visit that my grandfather had set up a trust for me that I could tap into when I was 25. Into that bank back there. I just made believe it was not there. Pulled my twenty-seven plus years, but the dream kept coming at me.

"So, here we are. I never have to work if I don't want to. You'll never have to sling hash again. You can write your own ticket, with me or without me. I bring no pressures."

She told him about Ricky Sims, the big mouth on him, the rotten looks she'd get from classmates and their parents, from Ricky himself.

Duke kept rubbing her back where the spinal column made the sexiest groove he could remember. Once he promised, "I'm going to look at that in the daylight, see what it does for you." She laughed and hugged him. He passed his fingers down over the groove again, knew her spine moved in response, felt the bills sticking to her skin and loved the idea.

For her, Ricky was gone forever. Duke's dream was real. One time during the night, after knowing him all over again, head to toe, front to back, she woke with a start when she heard a distant siren. Soon, silence flowing its weight in the room, his breath beside her as steady as a ship's wake, she went back to sleep.

Even with the smell of money filling the room, seeping up under her, making slight noises when she moved on the sheet of it, she marked him forever.

On the small bureau of the Moosehead Motel, the black bag sat empty for the rest of the night.

In the morning they filled it up, left a hundred dollar bill for the maid, along with all the printed money bands.

BOX OF LIGHT

Warren Slesinger

Late in the afternoon, he drummed his fingers on his desk, and placed his hand against the wall. He liked his little cubicle and felt safe inside it. He liked the size and weight of the filing cabinet because he could rest his arm on top of it. In fact, he liked the office life because it was predictable. With each tick of the clock, he followed a routine from the staff meeting in the morning, to lunch in the cafeteria, to beer with the boss after work.

He watched the woman who plopped a folder on his desk, and walked into the office across the hall because she looked like his ex-wife, and he was glad to see her go.

"She shopped," he thought, "while I fought."

Even so, he tipped back in his chair, and told himself he didn't care about the baby and divorce. The point was self-protection, and he got it on the job. Each day, he came to work on time, stayed at his desk, and did what he was told because his boss had given him a good evaluation, and his boss was another vet.

So he was not worried when his boss walked in with another man until he said,

"He wants to take a second deposition."

"Why?"

"To solve the case."

His boss rolled his eyes, and looked at the clock. It was after five. He heard a chair bump against a wall, someone rummage in a drawer for keys, and the laugh of the woman when she left the office.

There was cunning in his coming as it was getting dark, and the office closed with the man standing in his personal space. He switched on the light. As soon as the man came forward, he knew that he was not looking at another empty suit from the same department because he moved with a surprising quickness for a big man, and stared with an intensity that made it hard to hold his gaze.

"You're divorced."

"That's right"

"Whose fault: yours or hers?"

"Depends on your point of view"

The man dragged the other chair across the carpet, and placed his hard-knuckled hands on the desk.

"What was the problem?"

"We fought"

"About what?"

"I had a hard time sleeping."

And that was the problem before the divorce. His wife would turn out the light and tell him to settle down, but he could not go to sleep. Even the soft bump of her behind would make him mutter, jab the pillow with his elbow, and move his feet as if to find more solid footing in the sheets, and soon they were arguing in the middle of the night about his "inability to adjust to civilian life." He was easily startled by the creak of a board when his wife went to the bathroom, and came back to bed. He would lie in the dark, and listen as if something intangible were there.

* * * *

One morning, she slammed a drawer when he came into the kitchen.

"A drawer of knives," he thought.

She faced him with an exhausted look.

"Another one of your damned nights!"

"I'm afraid so."

"What about me?"

"I'm sorry."

"Me too!"

The high pitch of her voice came down hard on his nerves, and he raised his hand, but his threat was met with sarcasm.

"What's that?"

He made a fist, and lightly tapped her on the chin with it.

"You'd better not," she said, and went into the bedroom to get dressed.

* * * *

The man at the office waited for him to come back to the present moment in the office, and met him with a curious smile.

"You're not hard of hearing?"

He shook his head. The man sat back and studied him.

"And you live alone?"

"Now and then."

The man moved close enough for him to smell the tobacco on his breath.

"Which is it?"

"Not if I find another woman."

Of course, he could. The last woman that he brought into the bedroom only laughed when he locked the door, and asked him if he expected someone else. While she undressed, he looked out the window at the street. That was when he knew it wasn't a woman that he wanted, but a safe place to sleep. And it wasn't going to be easy to find it, if the man made it hard to forget what happened. He kicked back the chair, and stood up.

"You said that you had a hard time sleeping, but according to the other deposition, you slept through the beating of Sgt. White."

I didn't sleep through it, but I didn't see it either. It was dark, and I was too damned tired to get up."

"And you didn't hear a thing?"

"I heard the shovel hit something— someone, and then a body in a sleeping bag dragged through the sand."

The man's eyes moved as though going over the same old ground.

"What else?"

"In the morning, I saw blood on the shovel."

"And?"

"That's all I remember."

But he remembered much more: the weight of the body in the sleeping bag, and the sound of nylon as it slid through the sand; the sand in the shovel, the heat of the mid-morning sun; the blood that seeped through the bag; how the handle of the shovel was wet with sweat when they were finished.

"What happened to the shovel?

"We buried him, and left it on the ground."

"With all of your fingerprints on it?

"Yes."

The man stepped back from the desk.

"Would anyone in your platoon want to kill him?

"I don't think so."

"Why?"

"He was from another unit."

The man seemed to measure the distance between them.

"Think he had it coming?"

"I wouldn't know."

With that the man moved toward the door, and stood for a moment as if confronted with something he couldn't leave behind.

"Think about it."

"Are you coming back?"

The man smiled as if amused with himself.

"Perhaps."

* * * *

Left alone, he felt no compulsion to go home to an apartment that was furnished with what his ex-wife hadn't wanted: a Formica table, shag rug, and a sagging bed. So he stayed in the office, and drew on a piece of paper, a diagram of what happened in the sand.

* * * *

That night he lay down late and did not dream until the early morning. He had pushed his unmade bed against the wall, and once again, a heavy chair against the door. He lay on his right side like he did in the service, and closed his eyes against the growing light. He saw himself inside a house with bars on the window and a bolt in the door. It was on a hilltop without a tree or a bush to block the view. He would take up a position on the rug in the living room with his rifle in the cradle of his arm, and wait for whatever came his way on the only road.

Blue Moon – Robert D. Wilson
CONTRIBUTOR NOTES

Sean Brendan-Brown is a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop and currently resides in Olympia, WA. A medically retired Marine, he is the author of three poetry chapbooks (No Stopping Anytime; King Of Wounds; West Is A Golden Paradise) and a fiction chapbook, Monarch Of Hatred. He has published with the Notre Dame Review, Wisconsin Review, Indiana Review, Texas Review, Southampton Review, and his work is included in the University of Iowa Press anthologies American Diaspora and Like Thunder. He is the recipient of a 1997 NEA Poetry Fellowship and a 2010 NEA Fiction Fellowship. His first collection of short fiction, Brother Dionysus, is forthcoming from MilSpeak Books.

Thom Brucie is a Vietnam veteran. He teaches Creative Writing, Folklore, and American Literature at Brewton Parker College. A collection of short stories, Still Waters: Five Stories (Tight Curtain Press), was a Georgia Author of the Year nominee in the short fiction genre. Cervena Barva Press published his chapbook of poems, Moments Around The Campfire With A Vietnam Vet. Poet Laureate of Louisiana, Darrell Bourque, has featured his work on Louisiana's PBS poetry program. Some of his writing is anthologized in Battle Runes and in War Stories. Shorter works appear in such journals as Pacific Review, Southwestern Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, and San Joaquin Review. Thom's novel, Weapons of Cain, is forthcoming from MilSpeak Books. Please visit Thom's website.

Caleb S. Cage is a 2002 graduate of the United States Military Academy and a veteran of OIF. His first book, The Gods of Diyala: Transfer of Command in Iraq , was co-authored by Gregory M. Tomlin and published by the Texas A & M University Press in 2008. He is a founding editor of The Nevada Review, a journal dedicated to promoting and understanding the literature of his state.

Michael B. Christy served in the U.S. Marine Corp for two years and retired from the U.S. Army in 1984 as a Lt. Col. He served two tours in Vietnam, first in Project Delta with the 5th Special Forces and a second tour during which he commanded C Co. 1st Battalion, 12th Cavalry Division. For service in Vietnam, Michael was awarded two Silver Stars, six Bronze Stars, and two Purple Hearts. He is qualified airborne, ranger and Special Forces. Michael currently works in the entertainment industry as a writer and producer, and formerly as an actor.

Debra Anne Cook has been an active member of the Florida National Guard since February, 2009. She writes short stories, nonfiction and poetry and has been featured on Action News for fantasy writing courses she specifically tailored for women. She currently resides in Jacksonville, Florida with her two girls.

Patrick Cook served on active duty in the US Navy from September 1968 - September 1970. He attended Naval Hospital Corps School at Great Lakes Naval Training Center, and served aboard the USS Lexington and the USS Sanctuary, AH-17. After a series of jobs, including elementary school teacher, proofreader, social worker and bookstore clerk, he made a career of the Postal Service and worked as a mail handler for nineteen years. He has been retired since 2008. Patrick holds an MA in English Literature (Northeastern University, 1975) and has published stories in The MacGuffin and RKVRY. His poetry has appeared in Muscle and Blood, About Place, and Fogged Clarity. He lives with his wife of 38 years, Valorie, who is also retired from the postal service. They have a married daughter named Flannery.

Gentle Culpepper (Spec. US Army, Veteran) has been involved in the arts in some capacity since he was honorably discharged from the Army in 1970. He has written plays, screenplays and short stories. Culpepper's first novel, The Blood Runs, is forthcoming from MilSpeak Books.

Neville F. Dastoor serves as an active duty Army Judge Advocate. He is specialized in international human rights law. In 2012, he published the short story Lord's Resistance Army (HUMANUS: NYU Journal of Human Rights, 2012). Prior international relations publications include The Responsibility to Refine: The Need for a Security Council Subcommittee on the Responsibility to Protect (Harvard Human Rights Journal, 2009), Revisiting Obama's Peace Prize (Global Brief, 2009), and Recasting Justice: Securing Dalit Rights in Nepal's New Constitution (Center for Human Rights & Global Justice, 2008). He is currently seeking publication of his first novel, Far Away Down. Currently stationed in Fort Bragg, North Carolina, Mr. Dastoor has previously lived and worked in The Hague and India, and he has deployed to Kuwait and Afghanistan. He shipped his espresso machine to all locations. Joe and the Carousel was written in Mr. Dastoor's personal capacity.

Dale Day grew up in Southern California. After high school, a kindly judge suggested he might learn some discipline by enlisting in the US Army. Dale originally signed up to be a veterinarian assistant but was sent to school to be a heavy construction equipment mechanic. After a short time in southern France, he found himself working as a parts clerk, then company clerk. He later tried to be a heavy truck driver but ended up as a finance clerk. That set the theme for his twenty-three years in the military, one spent in the Southeast Asia vacation spot and twelve in France, West Germany, and Austria. After retiring, he moved to Las Vegas, where he plied the trades of junkyard parts clerk, city bus driver, tour guide, cab driver, and professional slot player. He met his wife, Alejandrina, in Mexico and she has taught him fluency in Spanish – to go along with the German the Army taught him. Agent Orange related problems caused 100% disability. Not one to sit idle, Dale has written a book on Las Vegas, along with several novels and short stories available at major online retailers. He currently has contracts with Bluewood Publishing for novels on the founding of the California missions. They are also considering two novels about a modern soldier suffering from PTSD who is treated with Native American healing and another about one of the Spanish governors of California.

Sally Drumm served 20 years active duty in the United States Marine Corps. After earning an MFA in Creative Writing from Queens University of Charlotte, NC, while participating in a Veterans Administration education program for disabled veterans, she founded MilSpeak Creative Writing Seminars (MCWS), a free creative writing program for military people. MilSpeak Foundation evolved from these creative writing workshops. Drumm's writing has appeared in The Gettysburg Review, Gargoyle, Mythic Passages and other publications. Her essay, "Letting Go," earned an honorable mention in Best American Essays 2005.

C. David Ellard is a retired U.S. Marine Master Sergeant. Originally from Interlachen, FL, David currently resides in Ridgeland, SC with his wife Marty. Thanks to the G.I. Bill, David is a graduate of Queens University of Charlotte's MFA Creative Writing program. The short story "Battle of Fort Bowyer Remix" is an excerpt from the yet unpublished novel "Cherokee American." David has six memoir stories published in "MilSpeak: Warriors, Veterans, Family and Friends Writing the Military Experience," which are available in  MilSpeak's Writers Gallery. David continues to facilitate  MilSpeak Creative Writing Seminars at Marine Corps Air Station Beaufort.

Jeffrey Armadillo Mother Forker served in U.S. Army Special Forces during the Cold War years and still has the frost bite marks to prove it. To compliment his Special Operations Communicator training he has an M.A. in English from the University of Missouri Kansas City and B.A.s in Philosophy and Political Science from Kansas University. Jeff has three sons and lives with two of them, plus a she-demon assuming human form, a dog, two cats and a weredog currently playing pet who often drains Jeff's beer and bourbon late at night. Jeff and his weredog are collaborating on a novel and on a conex load of short stories.

Eric Forrester received an MFA from CSU Long Beach in May 2012, where he spent his second year as editor of the school's annual literary journal, RipRap, issue #34. His fiction has also been published in RipRap, issue #33. Eric received his BA in English with Emphasis in Creative Writing from UC Irvine. During five years in the U.S. Air Force he was stationed in Greenland, Guam, Germany and Qatar, and has since traveled and lived abroad extensively. Eric curates and hosts literary events throughout Long Beach, and is currently writing a collection of short stories chronicling military life during the 2000's.

Robert Fuller, Jr. describes himself as a "recovering lawyer." He practiced law in Maine for over thirty-five years. He also served in the Navy's Judge Advocate General's Corps as a reserve officer, commanded two JAGC reserve units and retired with the rank of Captain (0-6). CPT Adam Cote of the Maine Army National Guard, an OIF veteran, contributed his recollections for this story in an interview with the author. Fuller has also written Unnatural Deaths, a mystery/police procedure novel set in Maine and published in 2009. Visit his web site, http://www.unnaturaldeaths.com.

Nathan Douglas Hansen has served in the United States Army as both an Arabic Linguist and Combat Flight Medic. He is a graduate of Antioch University Los Angeles' MFA Program and currently teaches Senior Literature, Classical Literature, and Creative Writing at a private boarding school in Arizona. His novella, Forget You Must Remember, is forthcoming from MilSpeak Books.

Danny Johnson, USAF Vietnam veteran and Distinguished Flying Cross recipient, is a writer of Southern based Literary/Commercial fiction. Praise for his writing includes: "Not since Breece D'J Pancake has a writer the likes of Danny Johnson emerged from the South with all the glory and hell of life attached and intact in his fiction. Add a measure of Tim O'Brien's stylization of military life and you still have only a glimmer of the storytelling you'll love." Danny's stories have been published by The Camel Saloon, Sheepshead Review, Mr. Zouch, Creative Aspirations, Flash Fiction Offensive, Main Street Rag's Best of Raleigh Reading Series, Best of Fuquay Reading Series, and The Legendary. His short story "Dancing With My Shadow" placed in the top 100 in Writer's Digest in 2010. His short story collection, Harry & Bo and Other Stories from a Rambling Mind, was published by MilSpeak Books, also in 2010, and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize for fiction. Additional publications in 2012 include a nonfiction article "Fast Dance" in South Writ Large, and flash fiction,"Cyrano" and "A Boyfriend Conversation," in the 2012 edition of Best In Fuquay Reading Series. He is currently nearing completion of his novel Fireflies, a literary Southern fiction work. His collection of flash fiction, A Flash of Light, is forthcoming from MilSpeak Books. Visit Danny's website!

John M. Koelsch, as a Platoon Leader in Vietnam, was awarded a CIB, a Bronze Star with "V" Device for Valor, and a Purple Heart w. Oak Leaf Cluster. His novel, Mickey 6, based on his Vietnam experience, was published by MilSpeak books in 2011. Once The Bullet Leaves The Barrel, his companion book of poetry to Mickey 6, is forthcoming from MilSpeak Books. His short story, "A Christmas Pony," was published by Patchwork Path in 2010. In the National Veterans Creative Arts Festival Competition in 2009, 2010, 2011 and 2012, his writing won four First Place Gold Medals, three Second Place Silver Medals, and one Third Place Bronze Medal at the National level. John resides in Salem, Virginia with his wife Nancy. Contact John at his website.

Mike J. Krentz writes short stories and novels about the lives and conflicts of military men and women, especially their relationships and families. He draws on twenty years' experience as a Navy physician and flight surgeon. From personal immersion with courageous yet sometimes flawed warriors, he portrays the human dramas that challenge military men and women— battles often more provocative than combat action. His short story, "Final Leg," first appeared in MilSpeak Memo VII.WI.11. Mike's debut novel, Riven Dawn (Book One of the FLAGSHIP! Series), was published August 9, 2012 by Purple Papaya. He is currently working on the second book of the series, Spratly Sundown. He also maintains a blog, Ancient Mariner Redux and an author website.

Michael Lund grew up in Rolla, Missouri, and now lives and teaches in Virginia, where he is Professor Emeritus of English at Longwood University. He is the author of ten novels inspired by Route 66 and a collection of short fiction, How To Not Tell a War Story (MilSpeak Books, 2012). An Army correspondent in Vietnam (1970-71), Lund's current, ongoing work, At Home and Away, chronicles an American family during times of peace and war from 1915 to 2015 and will include material from How to Not Tell a War Story. Two volumes of At Home and Away are available in paperback from BeachHouse Books (Chesterfield, MO).

Vinnie Lyman served two tours in Iraq with the 502nd Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division. He now teaches in Baltimore.

William Masters is a Vietnam veteran. Short stories, from his unpublished anthology, Portraiture, currently appear in The West Marin Review, Vol. 4, in the 2012 collections of stories from Down in The Dirt Magazine and Purpose Magazine, and as the anchor story in the premiere edition of the new literary magazine, Writing Tomorrow.

Keith Onstad was born in California and grew up in Washington State. He enlisted in the Air Force a few days before his eighteenth birthday and served for six years. He currently works in the manufacturing industry in Los Angeles.

Thomas Patchell entered boot camp for the United States Marine Corps in May of 1987 after leaving a year of college ('85-'86) in Virginia and crossing the United States in a '73 Celica. A life-sized cardboard Elvis Presley rode shotgun for Patchell going back to his native California. In October of '87, he attended Artillery School at Fort Sill, Oklahoma then spent the rest of his career in the Reserves in Oscar Battery, 5th Battalion, 14th Marines at Chavez Ravine in Los Angeles, California. While in the Reserves, Patchell pursued degrees in English at the California Polytechnic State University in San Luis Obispo. His battalion was mobilized for the First Gulf War, but due to the short duration of that conflict, Oscar Battery never made it out of the States before the end of combat operations. Patchell received an Honorable Discharge in 1995 at the rank of sergeant and has since taught English at various L.A. area colleges and universities. He remains active with writing groups for veterans, especially the Veteran Writers Workshop with Maxine Hong Kingston in Sebastopol.Koa Books published his short story "Fragments of Bacon" and his poem "Graves Reg" in the anthology Veterans of War Veterans of Peace (2006), which Patchell also co-edited with Kingston. Greenwood Press published Patchell's work on early American writer J. Hector St. John de Crevecoeur in the collection Early American Nature Writers (2008). Patchell currently teaches writing and literature classes at Cuesta College in San Luis Obispo. He lives with his wife, three sons, a dog, three cats, seventeen hens, and three roosters.

Dick Reynolds has been a career Marine, a university teacher and a system engineer for a large defense electronics company. Shortly after his retirement from the business world, he began a fourth career— fiction writing. His forty-plus short stories have appeared in such publications as Literary House Review, Skyline Magazine, Barbaric Yawp and Imitation Fruit Literary Journal. Two of his stories have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He has also published four novels, all romantic thrillers: Averil, MyAnchor, Mayhem in Mazatlan and Nightmare in Norway, all published by MilSpeak Books and available at the MilSpeak Books storefront. Dick's fourth novel Filling in the Triangles is available at major online retailers. Dick and his wife, Bernadette, live in Santa Fe, NM.

Tom Sheehan served in 1st Bn., 31st Regt., 7th Infantry Division, Korea, 1951-52. His books are Epic Cures, 2005, and Brief Cases, Short Spans, 2008, both published by Press 53 (print and eBook issues); A Collection of Friends and From the Quickening, 2009, both published by Pocol Press; and three manuscripts tendered. He has 18 Pushcart nominations. Tom's work has appeared in Dzanc Best of the Web 2009, and he has 305 stories on Rope and Wire Magazine (all being collected in an eight volume western series published by MilSpeak Books). Tom has work forthcoming in his 5th issue of Rosebud Magazine, 5th issue of The Linnet's Wings and 8th issue of Ocean Magazine, among others, and his work has been published in hundreds of online sites. His newest eBooks from MilSpeak Books are Korean Echoes, 2011, and The Westering, 2012, the latter nominated for The National Book Award in 2012.

F.P. Siedentopf (SIED, pronounced 'seed') is cofounder of MilSpeak Memo. Sied retired from the Marine Corps after serving thirty years on active duty. Starting as a Reservist "grunt" in 1959, he integrated into the Regular Marine Corps upon graduation from recruit training and opted for aviation training as an avionics technician. After aviation training at NAS Memphis, TN he was assigned to Sea Duty aboard the USS Boxer, LPH-4. After Sea Duty, he had various postings to aviation units in North Carolina, Okinawa, and Vietnam. In 1968 he retrained as a technician on the Tactical Air Operations Center (TAOC), a tactical data computer for aircraft interception. Until his retirement in 1990, he served in various technical billets and in logistics billets as both a Supply Officer/Supply Chief and Logistics Officer/Logistics Chief. His personal decorations include the Good Conduct Medal, The Navy Achievement Medal (2 awards), The Navy Commendation Medal (2 awards), and the Meritorious Service Medal. He wrote an online column, "Imp-Revised News" as "The Bad Sied," for Bruce's Really Good Quotes. Sied passed away unexpectedly on Memorial Day 2009. MilSpeak Foundation's Sied Books program was founded in remembrance of his love for reading. Sied Books has gifted wounded warriors, deployed active duty military people, and their family members with more than 2400 free eBooks published by MilSpeak Books.

Warren Slesinger served two years in the U.S Army with the 2nd Armored Division in Germany as an officer, and was discharged in 1959. Following graduation from the Iowa Writers Workshop with an M.F.A. in 1961,Warren taught English part-time while working full-time in the publishing business as an editor, marketing manager or sales manager at the following university presses: Chicago, Oregon, Pennsylvania and South Carolina. Warren is the recipient of an Ingram Merrill grant (1971) and a South Carolina Poetry Fellowship grant (2003). His poetry has been published in the American Poetry Review, Antioch Review, Georgia Review, Iowa Review, Massachusetts Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, New Letters, North American Review, North Dakota Review, Northwest Review, Poetry East, Sewanee Review, South Carolina Review, Southern Humanities Review, and Texas Review. He has been a resident at the Yaddo and MacDowell colonies for writers and the Sitka Center for Study of the Arts and Ecology. At present, Warren teaches part-time at the University of South Carolina-Beaufort.

Robert D. Wilson is a 100% disabled Vietnam War Navy veteran. He lives in the Philippines. He is a retired educator and the author of several books of poetry. He is co-owner and co-founder of Simply Haiku.

PREVIOUS PUBLICATION

"Ourselves, Not War" first appeared in Short Story

"A Shaking Empty Place" first appeared in  MilSpeak Memo Post V7.SU.11

"Betrayal" by Dale Day first appeared in  MilSpeak Memo Post V7.SU.11

"Box of Light" by Warren Slesinger first appeared in Misspeak Memo Post V5.10-19-09

"Final Leg" by Mike J. Krentz first appeared in  MilSpeak Memo Post V7.WI.11

"Harry On the Back Docks" by Gentle Culpepper first appeared in  MilSpeak Memo Post V7.WI.11

"Scandal in Falonstown" by Patrick Cook first appeared in The MacGuffin, Fall 2008, Vol. XXV, No. 1

"The Duke's Black Bag" by Tom Sheehan was previously published his collection of short stories, Epic Cures (Press 53, 2005), and also appeared in Sandhill Review/2011 , and in  Best of Sand Hill Review/2012

ABOUT THE NEW SHORT FICTION SERIES

The New Short Fiction Series, Los Angeles' longest running Spoken Word series, is directed by actress Sally Shore. Since 1997, The New Short Fiction Series has paired live performance with the written word. The New Short Fiction Series is a member of the Pasadena Arts Council's EMERGE Fiscal Sponsorship Program.
ABOUT MILSPEAK BOOKS

MilSpeak Books is the nonprofit publishing division of MilSpeak Foundation. MB is dedicated to providing a venue for creative literary works written by military people. Your purchase of an MB title will go directly toward supporting MilSpeak Foundation programs. Visit the  MilSpeak Books Storefront for more titles written by military people.
About Sied Books

Sied Books, a free book giveaway to deployed military members, wounded warriors, disabled veterans and their families, is sponsored by MilSpeak Foundation in honor of F.P. Siedentopf, MGySgt USMC, Ret., a MilSpeak writer, co-founder of MilSpeak Memo, and a truly dedicated Marine. Deployed units or individuals from any service, wounded warriors, disabled veterans, and their family members can request free coupon codes for any book published by MilSpeak Books by contacting siedbooks@milspeak.org

Downloading books using the coupon codes requires initiating a Smashwords.com membership. This is free. Setting up a Smashowords.com membership requires creating and entering a username and password.

For a list of titles visit MilSpeak Books!

Contact: siedbooks@milspeak.org

THE DYING TIME

The sea breeze brings a bit of chill as the darkness settles in, or perhaps it's the chill of fear.

There's light from a drifting mortar flare, an omen that the Dying Time is near.

We've set our mines and crouch low in the bunkers under a star filled tropic sky.

Will Charlie lose, or will it be me who calls false tails now that the Dying Time draws nigh?

Each night the landscape flickers with the flares and our tracers slay the shadows.

Morning sweeps find no blood, but Charlie is out there somewhere, we know.

Mortar rounds found our camp in his early hit-and-run 'cause Charlie needs his sleep.

In his day job he cuts our hair or cleans our huts and those are jobs he means to keep.

In daylight war moves away from camps and Charlie hides in plain sight.

He relaxes until once again he starts the clock for the Dying Time at night.

Each night we suffer little deaths, each time a mortar strikes, each time a round is fired.

The Dying Time can kill you quick, but most die slow, worn out, and tired.

That was forty years ago and I left without a wound, but I left there twice as old.

I still feel the Dying Time in the night, at my shoulder dark and cold.

—F. P. Siedentopf

