

A Personal Hell:

don't ask,

don't tell

By

R.J. Hamilton

Copyright © 2012 by R.J. Hamilton

ISBN-13: 978-1470149598

ISBN-10: 1470149591

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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And the Hand of God

Because It Feels Good

&

Dissecting Sean Connor

I dedicate this book to all my military brothers and sisters who lost their jobs because of the DADT policy and to anyone looking for the courage to be whom they truly are without worry of shame or judgment.

PREFACE

They hid in the shadows. Towers fallen and a ship sunk was enough for us to get involved. Trillions of dollars spent and thousands of lives lost in an attempt to protect the American people from something they couldn't understand. Was there really any way of knowing where to look? Was there truly anything that could've been done? The government seemed to think so whether its people agreed, that's beside the point. We continued to spend. We continued to lose lives. We continued to stay afraid while trying to ignore the problems on our own soil. We tried. That's all I can say...we tried.

Thousands of Soldiers exposed to a disorder that was ignored through World War I, World War II, the Korean Conflict, Vietnam, and Desert Storm. Their problems went ignored. The government denied any exposure, though I've personally known several people with unexplained mental health problems. Until our conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq, did the government finally admit to the possibility of PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). Soldiers finally found ways to deal with their issues, not completely, but it helped a bit.

This book isn't simply about money and it isn't about our starving economy. It isn't about the wars of America's past. It is about a guy. A normal guy named Greg who comes from a small, rural community in the Midwest. He comes from a normal family and he's made a decision to join the United States Army living with a secret. His secret is one that he feels he must bear all on his own. To love, to live, to lose all alone simply because of a judgmental choice our society has made, he believes it is a curse. He's alone.

Though 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' has been eliminated, let's not forget about those who've suffered through it. Also realize, just because it's gone, doesn't mean things have really changed. Not that much.

April 2004

Blood drips gently down from the gunner's hatch of the vehicle, a Humvee. I hear it behind me as I look frantically out the windows, but it's like a dream. Everything is a blurry, hazy fog. The image behind me becomes invisible to my thoughts. Life is what matters right now, our lives. The shot rang out so quickly and unexpectedly just moments ago. So unsuspected that none of us has any idea what's just happened. We're always ready for things to happen, but it's been quiet for so long, we weren't ready. I leap from the up-armored truck. My thick, metal door swings open with a nerve-chilling screech from the pressure of weak hinges against massive bulk. I have my M16 at the ready as I scan anxiously while maintaining control of the barrel. There is a round in the chamber and I can't take any chances by endangering any of my men. We all look around quickly and methodically. I catch a glimpse of each of my Soldiers as they scan. I notice the barrels of their weapons as they move in the direction of their glances from my peripheral vision. I continue to look for the gunman.

The Iraqi buildings are caked with thick dust from the desert roads as it is pushed upward and settles within the small crevices on the structures' surfaces, exterior paint, which was once off-white is burnt sienna. The local populace watches as we search the area. They know what's just happened. They don't give a shit. They never give a shit. We're the enemy. We're the infidels. We're inferior to them according to their precious religious book. After a few minutes of dangerous thought, we realize there is no use. The gunman is gone. They never stick around. They are sneaky and take potshots whenever and wherever they can. The only ones who are willing to die for their God are the suicide bombers. They know what they're getting themselves into and think there's so much more to offer in the afterlife. That's not what their holy book says, but just like in the States, there are always fanatics. Every religion has them.

A sudden, loud shout from behind brings me back to reality. This is when I remember him. I gulp down my Adam's apple as my throat starts to tighten. I turn toward the vehicle I'd left only a couple of minutes ago. I see him. He is slumped over his gun atop the turret. A thick, red liquid drips down the side of the truck, coloring the desert tan with a severely contrasting fluid. It's no mystery as to what the liquid is. I immediately feel the tears rising up from my tear ducts. My mind leaves this reality, my natural defense mechanism in dealing with traumatic situations.

September 1993

First of all, let me introduce myself. My name is Gregory Morris, a senior in high school. I'm gay and figure I should just get that off my chest right away. I've never actually experienced anything in the area of homosexuality, but it doesn't change the fact that I am gay and I've known it since I was probably ten years old. I come from an average Christian family whose mom and dad are still together. My parents don't know my secret 'cause they'd probably kill me if they did. Kill me and then disown me. So, this is the secret I live with, my lonely curse.

I sit quietly on the sofa in my shitty apartment, eating a bowl of cereal as it sits on an old coffee table made from plywood. Right now my apartment is empty, but usually there are strange teenagers littering the carpet and randomly sleeping wherever they can. Some of them I know, some are friends of friends. I moved out of my parents' house way before I was ready. I have a job working fast food and continue to go to school. I wanted to live in the city and I wanted to party, so moving out of the house seemed like the best option, dumb teen. My priorities are clearly messed up and I know they are, but I push the facts to that secluded place in the back of one's mind where responsibility and maturity get lost. I'm young and immortal like everyone else. I'm not even 18. The milk drips down my lip while I slurp it from my spoon. Why does there always seem to be a hole there? I pick up the bowl and begin dumping the remains into my mouth, abandoning my spoon. The telephone rings and I nearly drop the bowl with the interruption of the enjoyable silence. I swallow what I nearly choked on and then I answer.

"Hello," I say.

"Mr. Morris?" A rough voice greets me on the other end. "I'm a Recruiter with the United States Army. Do plan on going to college?" The Recruiter has my attention. His voice is soothing and level, very convincing. I am smart and I do plan to go to college, but I definitely know there really aren't any options. No scholarships (I'd never even heard the word), no money (my family isn't exactly well-off). He has my attention and I think he knows it by my extended, pondering silence. "Greg, do you plan on going to college?"

"Yeah, I'd really like to," I snap away from my own thoughts. It's hard to keep things straight with a pounding, hangover headache.

"Well, the United States Army will give you a $25,000 bonus if you join right now," dollar signs flash before my eyes like in the cartoons. "We can't wait long though. We don't keep deals like this going for very long. As a matter of fact, next week is the cut-off," he lies but I don't know it. It takes a lot of years in the military before finally realizing the games they play in order to either keep you or get rid of you. All I can think about is the fact that I'll possibly get to kill someone and I'll even get to attend college afterward. The idea of serving my country puts me in awe. I hadn't even though of the military as an option. This Recruiter got lucky in having called the right teenager on the right day. I'm about to help him meet his monthly quota.

"What do I need to do?" I ask him. A certain level of excitement has built up in my voice. If he didn't know he had me before, he surely knows now.

"Can I come pick you up, hmmm...say...tomorrow around one o'clock?"

"Sounds good to me," I reply.

"Greg, since you're only 17, we're going to have to have your parents sign you up for the D.E.P. program which means you won't be shipping out to training until after graduation," he explains. Since I'd been living on my own, I hadn't really run a whole lot by my parents in the area of permission. The announcement of the wait kind of throws me for a loop as well, being a right now kind of guy. I'm a little on the spontaneous side. I hadn't thought about the fact that graduation was a requirement prior to joining and that was several months from now, dumb teenager. He eases my worries with a few reassuring words prior to ending our conversation. I hang up the telephone, pacing for a few minutes in order to get my thoughts straight about how I'm going to make the news delivery to my mother. She'll be the one who answers the phone, she always is. It takes me awhile to work up the nerve. Normally I wouldn't care, but I don't want them to say no 'cause then I'll have to wait that much longer before leaving. I pick up the receiver and dial the number.

"Hello," of course it's her.

"Hey, Mom," my voice is slightly shaky but not obviously nervous. Maybe she'll suspect a dry throat, "Is Dad home yet?"

"No, oh wait, he's pulling into the driveway now," there are pauses between her words as she answers. I can picture Dad's red Dodge Ram pulling in as she's announcing his arrival. "Why, what's up?" I never call to talk to both of them. She's got to suspect something, but this isn't the Mom and Dad I'm gay phone call. This is the Mom and Dad I'm joining the Army conversation instead. I'm not ready to be asking the question will you still love me no matter what after making the previously mentioned announcement. That one's going to have to wait until much later.

"Well, I got a call from an Army Recruiter today," she doesn't seem at all miffed by my words 'cause she doesn't even stop me. "And you know I'd really like to go to college," she doesn't interrupt there either, silence. "Well, you and Dad aren't exactly in any position to pay for it and my job doesn't pay that great."

"Greg, let me stop you right there," Finally she interrupts. Now I can breathe for a sec. You know your father and I will support you in whatever decisions you make." A feeling of relief washes over me, being so worried they'd say no. I feel like I want to jump up and down, but that wouldn't be very mature. A smile shoots across my face. "Although, I'm not totally happy about my only son going off to join the Army, I'm not going to try and stop you."

"Thanks, Mom. Can you tell Dad for me please, not right now, after we get off the phone? The guy is picking me up tomorrow and, since I'm not 18 yet, he needs you guys' permission."

"Whatever he needs, I'm sure your Dad will be proud. You're the first in the family to join the military. Did you know that?" Actually, I had no idea. I am kind of proud of myself for that fact. I smile a little more. "Okay, Mom, I love you. Talk to you later." I am ready to get off the telephone. My ear is sweaty from the conversation prior this one.

"Okay, love you too," she answers and then hangs up. I put the receiver on its cradle. A shiver of excitement flows through my body, still resisting the immature hopping like a little kid who just got a game console for his birthday, I shudder with resistance. Ah, what the hell. I almost yell at the top of my lungs as I jump, that much I manage to contain. Once I'm done jumping like a child, I plop down on the couch, a soothing exhale with time to think. Now I've got all of my friends to tell. I don't know how well received the news will be, but it's my life right? The first person I call is my best friend. He doesn't jump up and down, but he doesn't reject the news either.

Everything goes according to plan. The Recruiter picks me up outside my apartment building the following day, Saturday, and we make the trek out to my parents' house. They live a dozen miles outside of the city limits. For some reason, my mother likes the seclusion of the country. While I was growing up, the country life was a lonely one. I'd spend my days in the woods that surround the little hobby farm. I guess the only good thing about it is the fact that it's hard to get into any trouble when there's nobody around to get into trouble with. I saved that for the times I'd hang out with my best friend inside the city, sneaking out and doing things that kids our age shouldn't be doing but can't we help ourselves.

As I sit beside the Recruiter, I think about how impressed I am by his dress uniform. I haven't really been exposed to people in military uniforms. My city is barely large enough to be considered a city, but not quite small enough to be categorized as a town. There are no recruiting stations for any of the armed forces. He's assigned to one that's about an hour away. Numerous ribbons dance across the chest of his dark-green, partially polyester jacket. There are shiny, silver metals with achievements dangling like a rope ladder beneath each of them. I try not to show him how impressed I am and keep my eyes from venturing in his direction too many times. I'd noticed upon arrival how well he's built and how chiseled his features are. His cheekbones are like those of a Cherokee Indian, high and prominent. His skin is amazingly tanned as well, so much that it makes the hazel in his eyes pop. The attraction of the dress uniform is just icing on the cake. I had no idea at the time how presentation, especially when it comes to recruiting and the military, it is everything.

We pull into my parents' driveway. My father's truck is parked outside, around the backside of the house. It's only been a couple of weeks since I've been out here, but it never stops the little kid memories from flooding my brain. Trees, mostly birches, oaks, and pines, surround their house. The farm itself seems to be an oasis beyond tree line. The entire area is located in the middle of farmed land, so the vast population of greenery that shoots beyond waist height is on my parents' little hobby farm. This is also the time of year when all of the surrounding soil of the wheat, corn, and alfalfa fields is overturned. Several buildings are scattered around my parents' acre of civilized land, a barn, a garage, a tool shed, a pump house, a chicken coop, and my parents' house. Everything is well-maintained. There hasn't been any fresh paint on any of the buildings in decades, but it still looks good. The homestead is over 100 years old and has held-up fairly well for its age. I used to play in the upstairs haymow of the barn when I was younger. I would go for runs through the woods nearby, just beyond the yard, and pretend that I was a deer fleeing from a much bigger animal. I'd leap over the fallen trees with some much excitement, sprinting until I got to the swamp in the lowest area of the farm. The woods are most dense there, as are the birch trees. I would sit and peel their loose barn, building a little fire with some strike-anywhere matches I'd found in the kitchen drawer.

"You can just pull up right next to that truck," I instruct my chaperone as he pulls to the back of the house. He doesn't say anything, simply parks next to my Dad's pickup. He turns off the engine. I look out my window to see my Mom looking out at us from the kitchen window. The white house's trim is painted red. Beyond the reflection of the glass, I can clearly see her toothy grin. I feel a little bit more relieved in knowing how excited she actually appears to be. It's one thing to announce one's affirmation over the telephone. It's another to see it in person. Now I just need to see my father's reaction for myself. No sooner than the thought crosses my mind, my father comes out the front door to greet us. The Recruiter is already on my side of the government-leased automobile, standing just short of the sidewalk in the dirt driveway. His shoes glisten as they deflect the rays of the sun. I hadn't even realized he'd gotten out. I quickly exit myself. My father reaches out for a handshake like he's welcoming an old friend to his home. He pats the Recruiter on the right shoulder with his free hand. I don't remember the last time my Dad did that to me, a congratulatory shoulder pat. I notice the smile on his face, much like my mother's. My potential nerves are now reasonably calm. After their firm hands drop away from each other's obviously tight grip, my father approaches and grabs me. He pulls me in tight. We are almost the same in height and stature, nearing six feet tall, both with brown hair and hazel eyes. I'm a few pounds lighter than my Dad. My man muscles have yet to be developed. The embrace kind of shocks me, totally unexpected and out of character. My Dad's usually a man's man, burly and rough. My father's especially not much of a hugger.

"I'm really proud of you, Greg," he says in my ear. The hug feels good though, almost to the point of making me want to tear up. I breathe the sappy feeling away. I wouldn't want to embarrass myself in front of the Sergeant, or my father for that matter.

"Thanks, Dad," I tell him as he looks at me before heading back into the house. He leads the way inside. My mother offers the Recruiter some coffee and he accepts it graciously. He explains the Army ways to my parents and me as they stare at him contently. He makes sure to reiterate the deal about the college bonus many times. He asks us if we've got any more questions, which none of us do, and pulls the paperwork from a brown, green, and black camouflaged case. The shit is almost an inch thick! He plops it down in front of me, reading the pages to me with very little explanation as he thumbs through them. A few questions in and numerous initials later, he comes to a bullet-point that I find a little shocking but I pretend it doesn't offend me. I should've already known it was coming. It's not like Don't Ask, Don't Tell is some kind of secret.

"I'm not supposed to ask this anymore," he chuckles in the back of his throat, almost mockingly, "but you're not gay are you?" I am offended by the question, but I let it go. My future depends on this.

"No," I laugh in response to his question without even considering a positive reply. I hurry in initialing the remaining bullets on the page so the subject will change quickly. We get to the last page and the signatures are completed. "Dad, can you give me a lift back to town later?" I ask as the Sergeant completes his signature and places his paperwork back into the case. "I figure I'll stay out here for a little while if that's alright?"

"Well, yeah. I've got to go pick up some stuff anyway. I was going to go tomorrow, but I can do it today instead. That way I won't have to go after church," he seems excited that I'd even ask to stay longer. I blame it on the empty nest syndrome. The Recruiter stands up and we all follow suit. Our wooden chairs screech across the linoleum flooring as they move.

"Well, folks, it's been a pleasure," he shakes my Dad's hand again and then my mother's, mine last. "I'll be in touch. There's going to be some get-togethers for you and the other Recruits every month until it's time for you to ship out to Basic Training. I'll give you a call next week and let you know the details," he finishes the sentence as he walks out the front door. I watch out the kitchen window from the table as he leaves and can't help but wonder if I'd just made a mistake. The gay comment from earlier still swims in my mind, but I try to dismiss it in order to maintain positivity about the life-altering choice I've just made.

My parents and I sit down at the table and chitchat for a little while before Mom begins dinner. I assist her whenever she asks. I've always tried to help my mother when she needs it and in turn she's been there for me whenever I've needed support. I have wonderful parents. Although, there are some things better left unsaid, secrets meant to stay that way. Sometimes the secrets eat us alive and there's nothing we can do about it if we don't have the balls to face our fears. I'm one of those guys right now, without the balls to do it.

We eat an early dinner, I help Mom with the clean-up, and Dad and I go into town. He drops me off at my apartment building. I've heard more I'm-proud-of-yous than I care to hear again for a long time. I smile and wave as he pulls away from the curb. When I get to the second floor of the apartment building, I can hear the music already going within. I step inside to a room full of teens, as usual.

"Dude, where've you been?" my roommate Chris asks. He is such a thin guy that he looks like he's on crack, though I know for a fact he's not. Although, he does smoke pot quite a bit. He's only a year older than me, but acts as if he's five years younger. His hair is a dirty blonde and looks like he hasn't washed it in months, though I know he showered just this morning. He was nice enough to let me move in when I'd asked, though I know it was because he was behind on his rent and needed help. We get along well enough. I tell him what I've been up to all day. "Are you fucking serious?" he asks the question, but voices it loud enough for the entire city to hear. It almost makes me want to go directly back out the door I'd just come in. All the other occupants in our apartment building stop talking like I just announce the fact that I've got cancer or something. Most of them I don't know or have only seen a couple times prior to now. "You're joining the fucking Army? That's crazy," he says it with a smile on his face. His teeth are almost horse-like with a yellowish hue. I'm having a hard time reading his reaction. Is it negative or positive surprise? It's not like it really matters anyway, other than the fact that I'd end up back living with my parents, stuck in BFE. The slap on my back, probably leaving a deep red handprint, shows me it's a positive response. I laugh off the smack awkwardly as if it doesn't hurt at all though the flesh near my shoulder blade still stings. I can feel his hand like it is still there. I hear a bunch of wows and that's so cools from my surrounding audience. "That deserves a drink, man!" He goes to the kitchen, pouring everyone shots of something, I have no idea what. He comes back with a tray of assorted shot glasses filled with something brownish in color. There are fifteen in all, one for each of our houseguests and two for him and me. My roommate and I clank our shot glasses together and toss them back. I have no idea what I'm pounding down my throat but it's going down anyway. It burns immediately and I recognize the fluid the moment it hits my tongue, tequila, I despise the stuff. I quickly down the other shot before my brain gets an opportunity to respond with appalled rejection. It all happens so fast. The night feels like a blur. I don't know who is celebrating my decision more, me or my roommate. The last thing I remember is going to our shared room and locking the door behind me while the rest of them continue to party. His bed is located on the other side of the room while mine's to the immediate left of the door. I fall down onto my bed fully clothed and kick my shoes off with my toes. I groan a bit and shift for comfort. Sleep is my friend and I let it take over, not as if I have an overly-intoxicated choice in the matter.

May 1994

Weeks go by, some slow, some more quickly than I'd like them to. Graduation approaches and spring is halfway over. The cornfields are already sprouting and the baby birds have hatched. There isn't a day that goes by when I don't wonder about what's going to happen to me this July. The Recruiter and his Recruits have gotten together on several occasions over the last few months. I still don't know any of them by name, but it really doesn't matter anyway. All of us are from different areas of the state. I don't think any of us share a county, not that I've bothered to ask anyway. We see each other for a couple of hours and then go back to our lives, for now. The meetings are mainly just to keep an eye on us, to ensure we're still physically able to enlist the rest of the way. The paperwork we'd signed months prior was basically a promissory note saying that we'd be there on the day requested, as ordered, so the official papers can be completed. In the meantime, I'm living my life to its fullest without a care in the world. I make a conscious effort to push the thoughts of the enlistment from my mind and to live for the moment, for now.

I get together with my friends as often as I can outside of school. I know our days are numbered together. Not only am I joining the Army, but a lot of them are going off to college and moving away right after the summer is over. I won't be here through the entire summer. I'll be leaving in early July. The details are not clear up to this point. I'm joining the Army and that's all I know. Where am I going for Basic Training, no idea? Where will I end up after that, no idea again? I hate the unknown. I'm feeling just like every other teenager nearing graduation does I'm sure.

The big day finally comes and the butterflies are fluttering violently. I hate getting up on stage in front of big crowds. As they call my name and I walk across the stage, I try to keep my eyes on the Principle while ignoring the people in the audience. Big cheers come when I reach for my diploma. I think my parents invited everyone they know. I'm sure I turn fifty shades of red and I get off the stage as quickly as I can. I stare at the ground as I return to my seat. I notice most of my classmates do the same upon coming back to their seats. I don't feel as badly about my own actions and the butterflies seem to float away. The worst is over. Now it's time to party!

Everyone's parents have planned big get-togethers in honor and celebration of our graduations. I personally believe it's because we're that much closer to leaving the house, well my friends are anyway. I'm already out. My best friend and I drive from party to party, making sure not to consume any alcohol hidden from parents until we arrive at the one we're going to stay at for the rest of the night. We've convinced our parents that we don't want graduation parties right away. A person can't benefit from the celebration when they are all on the same day. They agree to wait until the following weekend and we'll have ours together. Our parents are good enough friends that they agree to that as well. Of the five graduation parties we attend, the most dangerous thing evident is an overload of sugar via the overly-frosted cakes. Everyone's in anticipation of Ryan's party. Ryan is one of the star football players who managed to obtain a scholarship to one of the big state universities. He's built and gorgeous. He also throws the best parties. The Homecoming party this last fall was one of the biggest, loudest, and awesome I attended throughout my entire high school career.

We wait for the sun to go down before heading out of town. Ryan lives a few miles from my parents but not close that they'd know about it. My best friend, Stephen, and I ride in his car. He drives. His vehicle is an old Renault his mother used to drive until getting a newer car. We don't care because it gets us where we want to go. We drive with the windows down. The summer breeze feels cool at 60 mph as it rushes in on me. The air travels violently up my short-sleeved shirt and across my chest. Luckily I packed a bag with a change of clothes. One never knows what will happen at a keg party, usually vomit is involved and sometimes it's not your own. I unbuckle, reach into the backseat, unzip the bag, and pull out my hoodie. I make the adjustments necessary to put on a coat while partway wearing a seatbelt and zip it up, much better. I open the glove box and pull out a pack of Marlboro Reds. I've been smoking since I was 14. I don't exactly remember what made me decide to start smoking, but I do. I think it's probably because it makes me feel independent. I can kill myself on my own accord. I can control smoking, for now. I close the glove box and dip down as far as I can beneath the overhang of the dashboard, cupping my hands over the end of the cigarette. I flick the flint on the lighter, nothing but sparks are produced.

"Dude, could you roll up your window for a sec?" I ask Stephen.

"If my mom smells smoke in my car, she'll kill me," he replies as he manually rolls up the window.

"Don't be such a baby. You're 18 and hopefully not going to be living with your mom for much longer," I answer him as I work my window up. The truth is, Stephen really doesn't have any aspirations. I don't remember a time when he's suggested anything for his life's future in the way of plans. He hasn't mentioned college, barely works, and doesn't seem to care about anything besides having fun. I light the lighter and the flame flickers immediately. I inhale. There's nothing like the first drag after not smoking for nearly a whole day. There'd been no time to sneak off and take a puff until now. I guess I don't really have room to talk about Stephen's mother finding out about the smoking. I don't even have the nerve to tell my parents that I do it. We quickly roll our windows back down as I sit back in my seat and enjoy the nicotine sensation. The stars twinkle brightly in the sky. The moon is full and an orange, almost reddish color. They say that means tomorrow's going to be a scorcher. I've never really paid that much attention. I help Stephen watch the road for deer. Whitetail deer are thick in this area and the highway has gone down to a narrow two-lane road. I carefully scan the long grass growing up beside the county highway. Usually a person can see their eyes twinkling through the blades before they come bounding up right in front of your car. Sometimes a person isn't that fortunate. So far, I've yet to be behind the wheel when a deer's been hit, but I have been a passenger. It's not a fun ordeal. It's funny, not literally, how much damage a thing with such tiny legs can do to a thing like a car. Too bad it's not the legs that smash into the windshield at 60 mph. The damn thing's body is densely packed with muscle.

We finally arrive at Ryan's house. Cars line the long, narrow driveway. Stephen and I end up parking what seems to be a mile away. We gather our things from the car, clothes, smokes, and alcohol, we're not coming all the way back, and we make our journey toward the bonfire. As we venture down the driveway, the fire screams loudly from the opposite side of the yard as it sends sparks into the air in the form of pops and crackles. It's a huge fire and so is the music, loud I mean. I notice both from at least a quarter of a mile away. There's nothing inhibiting the view besides a flat field of short grass. One advantage of living in the country is, as I said before, no neighbors. The roadway is dry, crusted mud. The summer has been dry so far and Ryan's driveway is on a down slope so it dries rather quickly. I watch my footing as I step, looking for darker shadows cast by the moonlight indicating rivets and holes, washout spots in the dirt from violent rain storms of the past. Multitudes of people are standing around the campfire. I see a mixture of hoodies of assorted colors and a lot of letterman's jackets as we approach. I'm sure most of the football team is here, it is Ryan's party after all.

Stephen and I near the fire and I immediately look for Ryan. We'd grown up together, the three of us. However, popularity is in Ryan's favor. It hasn't smiled upon Stephen and me quite as much as Ryan. Of course, the two of us aren't football players like he is. We do hold our own though. We're friends slash acquaintances with nearly everyone in the school, except for the student body members that we don't associate with. A few of the kids near the fire nod in acknowledgement. Most of them are already partaking in conversation in their little groups. Each has an alcoholic beverage of some kind in their hand. Most are large Dixie cups filled with keg beer, some are beer in bottles, some wine coolers, and others have harsher alcohol like Schnapps, swigging straight out of the bottle. High school kids will drink whatever they can get their hands on. Each of us has someone who'll buy booze for us. Some of us have the same buyer, but they're all the alike. They charge a shit-ton of money for something that's not even remotely close to the cost of the alcohol. They deliver the goods, but there's never any change. I guess beggars can't be choosers and they should get something out of the deal. I'm fairly certain a buyer could make a living off of high school kids as long as they don't get caught supplying.

"Hey, I'm going to check in the house for Ryan," I tell Stephen, "I don't want to carry this bag around all night."

"Here, you can take mine too," he replies as he hands me his bag before even asking. I take it from him as I give him a look of annoyance and then head toward the house. The home is a trailer house, strange for a popular jock's house huh? Ryan's either popular 'cause he's hot or because he talented, maybe a little of both. The old house that used to be on this property had burned down a few years ago, just before Ryan's dad decided to buy it. The mobile home isn't in too bad of shape, for a trailer house. I walk up the steps located beside the house and walk inside.

"Ryan," I call out. There doesn't seem to be anyone inside. I walk toward his bedroom through the living room and at the end of the hall. I knock on the hollow, thin door.

"Yeah," is the response from inside his room, "come in." I open the door. A girl, the captain of the cheerleading squad, her name is Tiffany, is walking toward me as I enter. "She was just leaving." Tiffany brushes passed me and out the door. She doesn't look happy. I hadn't even known that they were dating.

"Do you mind if I put our bags in here?" I ask without assumption, holding them up in both hands. I look into Ryan's beautiful, blue eyes for a moment as they look at me from beyond the tuft of blonde hair dangling over his forehead. He's wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt that is just tight enough to show off the results of working his chest in the gym. His shoulders are broad and well-defined just as I imagine his abs to be. I try not to stare at his as he looks at me.

"You can just throw them on the bed for now," he points to it. "I'm going to lock this door anyway when we go back out to the party."

"Not that it's any of my business," I start as I toss our bags onto the bed, "but what was that all about? She didn't look happy."

"Tiffany? She was trying to get some from me and I told her that I wasn't interested," he answers as he messes with the arms of his shirt. The sleeves are tight around his biceps as well, I notice. Tiffany's got a reputation, but it's not one for being a slut. It's for being a bitch. She's got a perfect complexion, tight body, and is popular. I find it curious that Ryan isn't interested. I let the thought go. "Let's get back out there," he announces as he pulls me by the shoulder. His grip holds my shoulder muscle like a football prepped for a pass, firm. I don't mind the contact as I follow him out the bedroom. He drops his hand and leads the way out the front door, neglecting to lock the bedroom as he'd said he would. I glance down quickly to sneak a peek at his butt as he walks away.

I notice Tiffany has rejoined her cheerleader friends near the fire with a strawberry wine cooler in her hand. She is gabbing and carrying on like nothing had just happened only moments ago in Ryan's bedroom, all with a smile on her face. Ryan goes over to his football buddies as I return to Stephen's side. He is talking to another kid. I know him from my homeroom class, but I don't really talk to him much. Stephen's got a beer in his hand so I retrieve one as well. I twist open the top and take a long swig. It's already started to get warm and isn't that tasty, but I down it anyway. I stare into the crackling fire as the logs pop. It sends more sparks into the heat above the flames. The scent of burning wood has always been a good one to me, especially pine. I space-out for a few minutes before Tiffany approaches me. I don't even notice her until she speaks.

"Hey, Greg," she begins what she'd call a conversation. A conversation with her is one that I'd rather not have.

"Hey," I reply as I continue to gaze into the fire. I glance beyond the flames in Ryan's direction for a second and think about his rejection of her.

"What did you and Ryan talk about when you went in there?" she asks in her most cute, innocent voice possible. I know better than her being innocent, let alone cute.

"Nothing, I just wanted to know where to put my bags is all," I try to shut her down and it seems to work.

"Okay," she responds and then returns to her girlfriends. That was easy enough. I'm kind of surprised how quickly she left. Thank God.

About a dozen more people show up. I don't care. I'm hammered by the time things really get going. I lost count of how many beers I drank after number twelve. All I can think about is that fact that this is our last time together. There's still the upcoming graduation party for Stephen and me, but this is the last real party without parents watching. I don't even remember the last time I was this wasted. I sit on a log near the fire, engage in sprinklings of conversation with various people, and hazily stare into the flames. It isn't until the sun's nearly ready to rise before people start leaving. Most of them go to their cars to crash for the night, in the driveway. Luckily, I made prior arrangements and it doesn't hurt that I am friends with the host. Stephen has been making out with a girl named Liz for the last couple of hours, which is funny considering the fact that he's had a girlfriend for a couple years now. They eventually walk down the driveway toward Stephen's car just like others have. I'm not sleeping in a car, but I do have to wait for Ryan's okay to go inside. The last couple of people finally leave before he beckons me to follow him to the house. I stumble my way to the steps and climb inside the door. We go to his room and I reach for my bag to grab some shorts and a t-shirt out. Things don't go quite the way I plan and I fall into the mattress from a lack of balance and coordination. I laugh into the comforter, muffling my snickering. I begin to push myself off but only achieve a rolling over onto my back. I feel the bed shake violently as Ryan plops down parallel to me. We stare up at the ceiling.

"Man, I'm so wasted right now," Ryan, announces. He rests one arm on his forehead and the other on his stomach.

"No shit, me too," it's obvious. "I just can't believe this is like the last time we're going to get to party like this." My speech is slurred, but his is too.

"Me either," he says. "I heard you're joining the Army?"

"Yeah, I leave in July."

"I haven't told anyone this yet, but I enlisted for the Marines. I leave in a week."

"No shit?" the news catches me off guard. I hadn't heard about anyone else joining the armed forces that I know. I turn toward him, just my head. The rest of my body remains flat, too heavy to move. "That's crazy. Why aren't you going to college? Don't you have a scholarship to play football?"

"Yeah," he glances to me, "but I'd rather get out of here. Travel a little and see other stuff. This town sucks." He props himself up on his side, head resting on his hand, elbow in the mattress. I do the same with a little effort.

"Dude, if I could go to school on a scholarship though, I don't know what I'd do," I am astounded by his choice. Suddenly the unexpected happens. Immediately after I say those words, he dives in to kiss me. Our lips meet and I don't know how to respond right away. I sit there for a second. It feels right. I am not appalled. I am not disgusted. I am not sickened. It feels right. I've known that I'm into men for a long time, but I hadn't actually had any physical contact with one. I hadn't known anyone else in town to be gay...until now. Maybe it's just the booze talking? Maybe he's just hot and bothered by the thing with Tiffany earlier? Maybe he knows what he's doing and he intentionally waited until now, knowing that we're both going away anyway and nobody will ever find out? I go with it and it feels wonderful. We grope each other and explore a little, but it doesn't take long for the sun to start cresting the horizon. I stumble for my shorts and t-shirt and dress for bed. I'm in no condition to leave and really don't want to anyway. Ryan locks the door and we go to sleep, waking shortly before noon. I awaken to Stephen pounding on the bedroom door. As I get dressed into my clothing from last night, I look at Ryan lying there, back to me, shoulders heaving with his breaths. I finish dressing, Stephen waiting outside in his car. I walk to Ryan's side of the bed, make sure he's asleep, and kiss him gently on the forehead. Even though we're friends, last night was something that had to happen. I leave with Stephen, closing the door behind me. That's the last time Ryan and I see each other. He doesn't call and I don't call him. The events of that evening are better left unspoken and Ryan goes off to be a Marine.

20 July 1994

July arrives. The time has finally come. It feels like it's been forever since I'd signed the paperwork while sitting at my parents' kitchen table, but it also feels as though the time has gone by too quickly. My recruiter comes to pick me up, having previously instructed me to pack a single bag with basic personal hygiene products and one change of clothing. I've still no idea what I'm in for. Stephen and I sat down one night and watched Hamburger Hill and it probably wasn't the right movie to watch before shipping off to Basic Training. It left a bad taste in my mouth and I'm nervous as all hell. The drive to the military entry processing station is about an hour away. I don't ask the Recruiter any questions and he doesn't say much to me either. His job is complete. He's got me in his car and under his control. He doesn't even wear his dress uniform anymore, coming in his green camouflage battle dress uniform.

When we arrive, I stay in a local hotel with the other Recruits who are soon to be shipping off to Basic. Some of them are future Marines, some Air Force, Navy, and, of course, Army. None of us really has much to say to each other. We get assigned rooms with strangers who are all in the same predicament. We are alone and away from our families and friends. None of us truly knows what's going to happen the next day. We all keep to our worries, our butterflies, and ourselves. Sleep is rough that night. It doesn't help that my randomly assigned roommate has the crazy eyes. You know the ones that always seem way too far open all the time. Visions of Ryan, Stephen, and my other friends visit my dreams, especially that night. I mentally revisit Stephen an my shenanigans from when we were younger as well. I awaken to the loud ringing of the telephone at 5 a.m., our wake-up call. I feel as though I haven't slept a wink, but my nervousness keeps me from paying much attention to being sleepy.

The military entry processing station, M.E.P.S., sends a van to the hotel to pick us up and it shuttles us the short distance across the city. I'd been to this city before, but never knew anything about the M.E.P.S., it's secluded on a lone side street. We all get out and file inside. We are instructed to have a seat in a small room. The room is set up like a school classroom, but much smaller than any classroom I've ever been in. There is a projector screen pulled down at the front of the room and a wooden podium on wheels in the left corner. I sit in the last desk against the left wall, closest the door. The first order of business for the morning is a breathalyzer test to ensure none of us has partaken in underage alcohol consumption the evening prior. One of the first guys blows hard into the plastic device. I pay special attention because, in my short years of drinking, I've yet to take a breathalyzer in my life, like it's that hard to do. He blows so hard that his face turns red, nearly purple. The female in uniform looks at the device, removes the plastic cylinder, and tosses it into a nearby trashcan. The female in uniform goes to the first person in my row. The girl in front of me takes her turn. She blows hard. I can hear the wind escaping her lips, pushing into the tube, forced out the sides of the seal. She stops. The military woman looks at the device and escorts the girl from the room with an expression of disappointment, but void of surprise. I guess they see a lot of this here. The woman returns without her. With nobody sitting between me and the removed girl, now it's my turn. I put my lips onto the tube and blow as hard as I can. Though I know I've had nothing to drink, I can't help but be nervous as though some evidence would remain from a couple days ago. I stop and she checks the gauge. I guess I'm in the clear because she removes the cylinder, drops it into the trash, puts another one on, and leaves the room for a bit. As we wait silently, there are a dozen other people in the room besides the woman and I know that we secretly wish we were still in bed. Its summertime and a teen shouldn't be out of bed right now unless they've been up all night partying and have yet to sleep. Finally, the woman in uniform returns to the room. She goes to the front of the room, stands behind the podium, and she begins her "briefing," which is what she calls it. I call it lecture, but whatever. She begins explaining a bunch of things regarding the processing of the day for us "Recruits."

Once she's done with her lecture, she has us stand up and follow her. She brings the guys to the doorway of one room and the girls disappear into another room. There is an open bathroom door to my left as I enter and a small, dark room with a countertop running the length to my front. A guy in uniform then explains what's going to happen next.

"You're going to pee in this cup," he holds up a small plastic cup like the ones from a doctor's office used for specimen samples. "After you're done pissing, we are going to test the urine to see if you've been using any illegal substances. If you come up positive, this will be the end of your chances to enter the military, today anyway. You'll have to come back another day, probably in a month or so." Since it's early in the morning and I've already peed, it seems to take forever to get one ready. All of us take cup after cup of warm water from the water cooler provided, drinking them down. Finally the feeling to urinate comes. I go into the bathroom. One of the Soldiers, one I haven't seen yet, stands beside me. He instructs me to drop my pants and underwear down to my knees and pee in the cup while he stands next to me, staring at my junk. The spigot is running in a nearby sink, supposedly to assist in the action. It is one of the oddest times in my life. After what seems like forever, I finally do it. Relieved, I leave the room. Next, they check for colorblindness and then a doctor, some old man that seems like he's been here forever, makes us do strange movements, duck-walks, jumping jacks, and crabwalks, and then takes us one-by-one into an empty room to check out our naked, young bodies. His inspection is worse than the piss test. There's a turn your head and cough with an old, wrinkled hand cupping my sac and a bend over and spread your cheeks. I have no idea what the purpose of the bending over is, but it is strange. I've had plenty of physicals for school performed by my family pediatrician and they've been nothing like this.

After all the medical screening is complete, we go to lunch at a nearby, mediocre café. An elderly waitress hands me a piece of paper and tells me that the M.E.P.S. people eat for free if they chose something from the copied menu, otherwise it's on me. I don't have any money, so I settle for a hamburger basket with a side of fries and a soda. I eat quickly and return to the M.E.P.S. to wait some more. It takes like nine hours before I eventually get to sign the final paperwork with the Army processing people. They decide that I can be either an Army cook, generator mechanic, or an infantryman. I choose the one that gives me the option to kill people, of course. The idea of becoming infantry excites me, though I don't know why. Maybe the idea of being able to kill someone legally has my interests. It's not that I have a sadistic sense about me; I just think it would be an interesting job. I really don't even understand the job completely. I sign the papers anyway. Then I swear into the United States Army in front of an American flag and a military officer. No sooner do I get done with the oath, we're pushed onto a bus that's waiting for us right outside the doors. We're shipped off to the airport before even getting a chance to realize what's just happened. There are four people besides me. This is the first time I've ever flown and I love it. We get off the airplane in Atlanta, Georgia. We sit and wait again. A bus finally shows up and we're hurried onto it. I sleep on the way to Fort Benning. It takes a little over an hour. It's not long enough for me, wanting things to go by a little more slowly than they have.

We arrive in the middle of the night. It's been a really long day and it's after midnight. The Georgian humidity slaps me in the face the moment I step off the bus onto the asphalt. Though the sun has been down for a couple of hours, but the heat resumes. And then it happens all of a sudden. My feet haven't been on the Georgia pavement for even a minute before it begins. Their voices are like bellows. Three Drill Sergeants greet us at the Welcome Center, "Welcome Center" my ass! They yell at us to "form up" and we don't even know what that means. They bark more orders at us until we do what they want us to do, like they're herding cattle into a chute. Apparently "form up" means to stand in an organized line in a uniformed fashion, I won't forget that ever again. If for no other reason than to spare myself from getting hollered at loudly, blowing my eardrums. It's just like you see in the movies about Basic Training. The Drill Sergeants yell, and yell, and yell some more. You don't know up from down and you know you're wrong no matter what you say or do. There's no need for explanation or response besides saying, "yes, Drill Sergeant," as loudly as you can without being so obnoxious they believe you to be mocking them. No matter what you're screwed, so it really doesn't matter what you do. We stand there for a few minutes before being herded into the building behind us. The Drill Sergeants continue yelling as the bus drives off. You just have to know our driver is smiling as he pulls away, thinking those poor dumbasses don't even know what they've gotten themselves into. I'm beginning to agree with what I think he's thinking. What have I gotten myself into? It's too late now. We begin filing into the building, walking to the front of the room, and standing in front of our seats. We fill the chairs from front to back, not a seat left empty between any of us even though there are dozens yet occupied toward the back. A Drill Sergeant at the front of the chapel-like room begins shouting at a kid who decides to take his seat before getting permission. His voice matches his stature. He's a large black man who looks like he should be playing football rather than playing Army. None of us dare look back to see whose being yelled at. Apparently knowing the rule about laughter when someone else is getting his or her ass reamed, nobody moves or giggles at the less fortunate target. The Drill Sergeant returns to the front of the classroom and continues to inform us of the evening's upcoming events.

They take us into a room according to sex, males first. We're instructed to dump our bags on top of a table provided. The table's sectioned off so there is no possibility of the mixing of property, not even intentionally. The walls around the tops of the tables remind me of cubicles in an office. We dump the contents of our bags onto the table. We are told that if we have any alibis for contraband, now is the time to get rid of it without consequences. I'm not sure that I truly believe the without consequences part, but I don't have anything I'm not supposed to have anyway. The Drill Sergeants walk around the room, looking through everyone's things and telling us to put everything back into our bags as they are checked. We return to the classroom and wait. The rest of the night is like a blur. It seems to take hours before we get our bedding and are sent to a large bay full of bunk beds. The scene where we get our sheets and blankets is like those from prison movies where the inmates stand in line, sidestepping as the items are placed on top of their open arms. The stack gets larger and quickly uncomfortable, straining muscles against the weight. The bunk beds are so close together that I can barely walk between them without turning sideways. The mattresses are vinyl and thin. The wool blanket that we're supposed to use as a cover is appalling to the touch, especially with the Georgia heat seeping in through the windows located around the room. I'm so tired. I quickly make my bed, folding the flat sheet and tucking it beneath the thin, sticky mattress. I throw the wool blanket on top of the nasty sheets and I fall onto the bed. I am unconscious and don't remember anything until...

The pounding comes violently beating into my ears. It's worse than an obnoxious alarm clock. Banging continues as a bull horned voice booms loudly enough that it penetrates my skull like a screwdriver plunging inside over and over again. I jump out from beneath the bottom bunk, nearly slamming my pounding head into a metal bar hanging above me. I'd completely forgotten where I was and the reality comes crashing back into my brain. I manage to stop myself from hitting the beam with quick yet blurry reflexes, grabbing the bar with my hand. Sunlight isn't even coming into the barracks from outside yet. It's got to be 5 a.m., which means I only about two hours of sleep last night. This shit is going to drive me insane. Maybe that's the point? We're told to get dressed, conduct personal hygiene, and meet out in front of the building in five minutes. Holy shit, I think to myself as I rush to get ready, what have I gotten myself into? All of us run from place to place as we try to make it to the appointed destination within the time limit. None of us wants to see what will happen if we are late and I'd like to keep as low a profile as I possibly can. We run outside and form up as we'd been taught on the night prior.

The early morning Georgia humidity hits me like a thick fog. The water in the air feels as though it has invaded my lungs and it makes me feel droopy. I don't know how else to describe it, droopy. I feel like a wet blanket lying over a clothesline as the water pours from my surface, immediately sweating. I feel as though I'm beneath a blanket with my mouth gapping open as the flood consumes my insides, like I'm being water boarded. I gasp a little for air, gulping it in. Not only have I not run around with such urgency in my entire life, I have never dealt with weather quite like this. I do my best to shake off the effects of the atmosphere and fall in to formation along with all of the other Recruits. The yelling begins once again. This time it is not as shocking to my system. I stand in my position as stiff as a board with a straight face, without the slightest expression, tight-lipped. I listen intently as one of the Drill Sergeants continues to yell. It's not one of the same guys as the evening prior, but it is just as affective.

We all stand silent and still. Sweat beads start to form on my forehead and my ear suddenly begins to itch. I know better than to wipe or scratch. I remain still, sweat beads forming into droplets as they become larger. The smaller drops melt together on my forehead and as they gather they slide down my face. Most of the dampness is captured on and within my eyebrows, but some manages to avoid that area, flowing delicately from my temples to my cheeks and to my chin. I can feel the droplets balancing carefully on my jaw line. I deliver a quick shake with only my head after the Drill Sergeant paces to the other side of the formation, continuing his banter. I can't concentrate on him. I can barely hear what he's saying even though he's screaming the words. A few drips fall bravely to the ground from my jawbone cliff. I envision them splattering on the pavement like watermelons, liquid spewing everywhere in a miniature style. My eyes flutter rapidly from side to side involuntarily and my brain suddenly washes over with gray. My eyeballs roll back into my head and I can feel myself falling backward, but I can't stop it. Blackness overcomes me.

I awaken with a start, sitting up abruptly, my breathing sporadic. A gentle arm braces me at my bare chest and a hand goes to my back. Bright lights invade my retinas from the ceiling. All I can hear is my own breathing for those first couple of recently conscious seconds.

"Morris, lie back down," her gentle voice comes into my eardrums from beyond the haze. I listen and obey. Her hand slowly removes itself from my back as soon as it is close enough to the mattress, avoiding a sweaty sandwich of flesh. I relax and try to catch my breath. I look at my arm which has an I.V. sticking out of it. I glance in her direction. A girl with eyes that seem a little too large for her face, dark hair tightly bound in a bun, and a gently freckled nose, looks back at me. "You're dehydrated, I had to give you an I.V.," her words are quiet, but delivered with a certain level of authority, proving that she's in control. "You're lucky you didn't hit the parking lot out there." I don't have much to say. I feel stupid as hell as I remember a part of the briefing from the evening prior regarding drinking plenty of water. By the reaction time of the medical attention I'm getting I'm sure this isn't the first time this has happened, but it doesn't keep me from feeling like an idiot. "You just lie here for a while. You're going to have to take this whole bag before I let you leave. You might as well enjoy it while you can." I just keep my mouth shut and listen to her. I relax my neck against the thin pillow beneath my head and close my eyes.

She is definitely right about that being the last time I was going to be able to relax for a while. Not two hours after the incident, I am in the barbershop getting my hair buzzed off. I hadn't had much to begin with, but I'm not excited about its departure as the other Recruits wait for their turn. They all stare with wide eyes as the dull clipper scrapes across my scalp. It feels like some of the hairs are ripped from my flesh as the metal blade swipes rapidly over it. It only takes a few seconds and my hair is gone. I check quickly in the mirror as I walk out. I look like I'm heading to a concentration camp. I hurry out the door and I am immediately directed down a hallway to my left. The wall says MEDICAL in big, bold lettering. Several Recruits come out of the room holding their arms and rubbing their asses. This is a sign to me of what's to come. It doesn't take long before I'm in the door and an Army Medic is shoving a needle into my arm, cool liquid seeping into my flesh. Now would not be the time to have issues with needles. I watch, as a Recruit from across the room turns green. He's built like a brick shithouse and it surprises me as he nearly falls to the ground. I try not to laugh though the regular Army men and women working in the medical section do. One of the guys sits his big ass down in a chair as I watch his eyes roll and his flesh becoming ever greener. I realize what I probably looked like a few hours earlier when I'd had my parking lot episode. My barrage of shots is complete, or so I think, I'm told to go to the next station.

"Pull down your pants," is the next announcement. I'm not sure that I hear the order correctly right away. By my hesitation, the Medic realizes my deafness and repeats the order. I hesitatively do as I'm told and flash my ass cheeks for the world to see. There's no privacy curtain even though there are women around. I glance over my shoulder to see one of the largest needles I've ever seen in my life. I brace myself as I'm told to bend over and the lawn dart punches me in the right butt cheek. I can feel every ounce of the cold liquid as it pours into my butt muscle. "Pull 'em up and get out of here," he says rudely, "and don't forget to rub the area or you're going to swell like a son-of-a-bitch." I wonder what I've just been injected with as I put my cheeks away and walk out the door. I'm instructed to get into formation for chow. We stand in the shade of a large tree overlooking the corner of the parking lot together in silence. I spend a week in the Welcome Center before the fun finally begins.

27 July 1994

The afternoon of the movement to our units finally comes. Long days, though it has only been a week, it seems like an eternity. We all sit and think about our families, we are yelled at whenever there's a Drill Sergeant nearby, and we wonder if we've made the right choice again and again. Some people manage to weasel their way out of their commitment by faking illnesses, most of them being mental. I assume the Welcome Center is the initial place where the United States Army sends us to weed out the weakest enlistees, but that's only a guess.

We wait in formation with one full duffle bag at our feet, in perfect order, and one strapped to our backs. It isn't long before their sound comes. It's the sound of the cattle trucks, which is what the Drill Sergeants call them. It's nice knowing that we are now referred to as cattle, although it's not completely off mark from what I've noticed so far. They come rolling up the hill on a road that runs beside the Welcome Center's parking lot. The fronts look like a box truck, but the trailer being pulled is long with several narrow slits in the sides. The slits are tall enough to see into and out of, but narrow enough that a body can't mistakenly come out of them. Now I see the resemblance as they near. They almost look like the cattle trucks hauling livestock down a highway, pretty much anywhere in the United States. The two side doors open like those on a bus and we're instructed to move in quickly. We pick up our duffle from the ground and obey as we shove ourselves inside. There are steps inside and long benches to stand on. The benches were probably designed for sitting on like most benches are, but that is not what we've been instructed to do. We push ourselves in further. I move to the back and step upward onto one of the benches, tucking myself into a crowded corner. Some of the Recruits complain with grunts and groans as another shoves them into the walls with the duffle bag on their back. We are crammed in like sardines, green camouflaged fishes with two heavy ass bags. There is no airflow within the car when the doors close behind the last person. The truck begins to move, violently jerking as it lurches forward. There is no room to move so the jump doesn't do much to our stack of human bodies. There is a slight breeze. It's hot like the air from a hair dryer with a combination of stinky breath and body odor flowing through the air. A duffle bag hovers just below my chin as I stand on the bench, trying not to breathe too much. We all hang onto the interior bars, much like those on a subway train, as the vehicle jostles us against each other. The ride is nauseating and lasts about fifteen minutes before coming to an abrupt halt. Our stack leans toward me, crushing me against the front of the trailer, nearly knocking the wind out of me and breaking ribs. I can't stop myself from letting out a groan from the pressure of fifty Soldiers pushing against me.

Their screams are nowhere near comparable to those of the Drills in the Welcome Center. I can hear them through the cattle truck's trailer aluminum walls. The doors to the cattle truck open and the hollering hones in on us swiftly. They storm us like we're being preyed upon by something carnivorous, quick, and deadly. They call this the "shark attack" and it definitely feels like it. I feel like a minnow in a tank full of Great Whites. I try to keep my composure as they bombard my eardrums. They yell so much that spittle escapes their lips and spatters nastily against my cheek. I ignore it. The sweat will wash it off, I think to myself. We are steered to an area beneath an overhang, fortunately shaded, as if that matters with the level of humidity in the air. The entire building is made of cement and it looks like a prison. We fall into formation. I am shaking from exertion, fear, and the unknown, but I try to make it unnoticeable. The voices bounce off the gray, empty walls. The shade feels much better than the hot Georgia sun, but the sweat doesn't falter. I try to get lost inside my own brain without totally missing the words from the Drills. I just want it to be a little less loud. I make sure not to buckle my knees this time. I stand as still as possible while a waterfall of sweat makes its way down my back and into my ass crack.

After an hour of yelling and several "smokings," which is what they call push-ups around here, we're directed to our barracks. This will be our home for the next four months. The Drill Sergeants bark the order and we all run frantically up the cement stairwell. I'm lucky because I'm assigned to the bay on the second story so there isn't much distance to cover, considering there are four floors total. We pile into the large, cool room and fall behind a bunk. The Drills call them "bunks" which was apparently left in place from when they were actually bunk beds. Unlike most of the military Basic Training movies I've seen, this bay contains only single-story beds which, in my mind, seems a much better situation. I am one of the last to enter the room so I'm stuck with the first bed closest the door; so much for being able to maintain a low-profile of existence. I'll be the first person a Drill Sergeant sees the moment he enters the room.

We stand at the foot of our bunks awaiting further instructions. This scene is very much like those all-too-familiar showings from the movies. The Drill Sergeants pace the aisles between us as they continue to yell. I try to remain as motionless as possible without locking my knees again. The sweat soaks through my clothing and continues to dribble down my back. I listen intently as one of the Drills yells at the top of his lungs as if I don't want to miss anything important. It's more like I don't want to have the Drill up in my face, his voice blasting my ears. He explains what's going to happen in the next few minutes. Each one of our lockers is going to be arranged in perfect form, just like the diagram contained within our lockers.

After getting the order to start, I dump my duffle bags' contents out onto the floor in front of the wall locker. The wall locker is more like a large wardrobe. The front is a dark wood color, which is obviously just for decoration. The sides and back are a cream-colored metal. There is a large, metal locking mechanism on the front doors, with a hole in the middle for a padlock. The entire handle turns upward in order to open the doors. There are wire hangers to greet me as the doors swing open. They hang neatly on the right side of the locker on a metal pole, which runs its entire width. There is a shelf just above the pole and a three-drawer chest located on the left side at the bottom of the locker. The interior walls are a chocolate-brown, contrasting the cupboard's exterior. I pull the hangers out, place my clothes on them, and put them in their appropriate spots. I look at the diagram again, there's even a specific place for the diagram to be stored on the drawing. I put everything in its place exactly as the diagram suggests and then stand next to my locker, awaiting Drill Sergeant's approval. Other Recruits continue to scurry about. Some of them seem to be confused about the variances of their wall locker's location, some facing the front of the room while others are facing the back. I notice every other locker's three-drawer chest is located on the opposite side. One is on the right, the next on the left, and so on. Some of the Recruits try to compare their set-up with the guy behind him, making it even more confusing and wrong. At this point, we are all on our own. It is an individual responsibility to ensure your personal belongings are as they should be.

"What are you waiting for, Recruit?" a voice catches me off guard while lost in observation. "Make your bunk!" His eyes feel like they are drilling into my soul. They are dark, almost black, against his dark brown skin. Honestly, coming from where I do, this is one of few encounters with an African-American person. The white outer eyeball surrounding the black irises throws me off, intimidation. Or, it could be the Drill Sergeant's hat, brown-round, which nearly touches my forehead as I turn to his voice, that intimidates me more. I'm not exactly sure. All I know is I'm totally out of my element, feeling like I'm in shock, and I don't honestly know if I can even find my own ass right now. I rush over to my bunk, having completely spaced my bed after feeling proud of my wall locker accomplishment.

"What are you some kind of faggot?" I hear the words coming from a different Drill Sergeant halfway down the second aisle farthest the door. I glance over quickly as I grab my sheets from the floor. He's holding up a pair of underwear by his fingertips, dangling them like they're poisonous. The Recruit stares back at him with wide eyes, a fearful look in his eyes. His broad chest rises and falls rapidly, showing his feeling of embarrassment and fluster. The underwear is the thong kind and is all-too-revealing for someone who's coming to Basic Training. "I asked you a question, son!" The Drill continues to yell. I have an immediate feeling of compassion for the guy. Those words strike my heart, but I know I'm in the wrong place if I'm to let obscenities about my sexuality affect me. He looks so frightened. I try not to look at him. I divert my eyes to my bunk as I throw the off-white, flat sheet over a dingy, saggy mattress. Don't answer honestly I think to myself, you know that won't end well.

"No, Drill Sergeant!" he finally responds wholeheartedly.

"No what, son, it took you so long to answer that I forgot the question," he yells.

"No, Drill Sergeant, I'm not some kind of faggot," the Recruit shouts. The Drill Sergeant tosses the underwear into the Recruit's face, catching them as they roll from his chest in his hands. The Drill turns, walking away from him. He goes back to what he'd been doing prior to the inquisition. There is hushed scampering around the room. It's as though everyone has attempted to be quiet with their arrangements in order to hear the young man's response. I exhale with relief for him and glance back in his direction as I flatten the sheet with an open-palmed swipe. The young man notices that I'm watching. He has a similar likeness to Ryan, it's uncanny. Blonde roots poke from his scalp where there used to be hair and blue eyes. He winks at me and I look away with embarrassment. I get a flushed feeling of warmth that washes over me. I'm happy to know I'm not the only one like me here.

We all continue to fix our belongings as directed, but none of us gets it right on the first attempt. My wall locker passes the inspection but my bunk doesn't. The dark, green wool blanket and sheets are ripped from the mattress, the black Drill Sergeant throwing them to the floor.

"Try again," he says. We do this repeatedly. Things are pulled from lockers, beds are unmade, and items are tossed here and there. The process is exhausting. The sun begins to shine less and less through the windows and the Drills finally approve of our progression. One last group of instructions is barked, the lights turned out, a fireguard (night watch) rotation established, and we get into our beds. The next morning comes quicker than the one before had.

28 July 1994

Everything seems like a haze once again. The next morning begins with a recommencement of yelling and a warning to be downstairs in five minutes, that five minutes includes shaving and teeth brushing. Thirty guys sharing six sinks with just as many mirrors and twenty-five less toilets makes the feat seem an impossible one, but we manage to get downstairs within the allotted time.

Physical training is what they call it, PT for short. For me, not having conducted much of anything in the lines of exercise in my short lifespan, I know I will grow to hate this time of the day the most. Not only is it 4:30 a.m., but none of us have gotten shit for sleep in the last nine days. I will do just about anything for a cigarette right now. Even though I wasn't an avid smoker before, it would be a great stress reliever. I push the thought from my mind as the Drill Sergeants announce some of the first basic marching commands with a slight explanation, just enough to get us over to the PT area. With a fog in my brain, instructions seem wasted on me. I can barely comprehend anything they're saying. Their words seem well-rehearsed as they explain different marching and movements to us.

We march toward a seemingly empty field. There is nothing but the silhouette of what looks to be railroad ties towering above like a gigantic swing set. Thick ropes dangle down. We continue into the darkness and into a pit filled with sawdust and, later to be discovered, chiggers. We are instructed how to go about achieving the "extended rectangular formation" which means to spread out in an orderly fashion so there's enough room to not run into anyone while sweating your ass off. After that, we stretch out, "close the formation," and get into lines for a preliminary PT test. One by one we are given a two-minute, endurance test measuring our push-up and sit-up capabilities. Many of us struggle with the events as if we've never done anything physical in our lives. I notice the gay guy from yesterday. He does a shitload of push-ups and doesn't seem nearly as exhausted as the rest of us when the time limit is reached. I try not to stare, but can't help myself. His legs are exposed because we're wearing black Army shorts. His calves are thick and seem to be virtually hairless. He stands and brushes his hands on the front of his shorts, sculpted chest heaving only slightly, straining the fabric of his PT t-shirt. Sawdust flies and falls to the ground. I break myself away from his body. I don't want him to notice, nor do I want anyone else to, if they haven't already. It's my turn for push-ups and I feel like I've failed miserably. Lucky for all of us, there is no required number to reach, not until our fourteenth week of Basic. Considering the fact that I do worse on my sit-ups as I try to control my ass from releasing any trapped air, I'm fortunate this isn't a make-or-break situation. Lastly, we march over to a track that is located just down the hill from the PT pit. We're then told that we will be running two miles! I've barely managed one mile in high school gym class, now I'm going to be running two? We all get ready and wait for permission to go. We take off. I ignore everyone around me as I burst away as quickly as I can. I only get about a loop and a half around the track before feeling as though my heart is going to explode. The track is only a quarter-mile measurement per lap. I've got a long way to go. I slow down to a jog, nearly walking, and it takes me forever to finish. I'm one of the last to get done, embarrassing.

We're directed to the barrack's showers after marching back to them. Once again, we're given a short time limit, ten minutes this time though. The yelling of the Drill Sergeants begins again, this time while we wait in line for showers. We stand silently with towels around our waists and flip-flops on our feet. The Drills let each person know when their time is done and the next group goes in as the others come out. Some still have shampoo in their hair, I notice as I pass into a stall. I get under the water and immediately soap up. I notice him again, this time he's directly across from me in another stall. The fronts of the showers have no doors, only walls between each of the showerheads. His body is perfectly smooth and chiseled. His chest is well-defined. I catch myself staring again and turn away from him so I can finish rinsing before we're called out. Not to mention the fact that I will do everything within my power not to get an erection in a room full of naked guys. That would be a dead giveaway for sure! One thing I'd like to clear up though, seeing a naked man isn't an instant turn on. For some reason a lot of straight guys think that just because we're gay means that we're automatically attracted to all men, such foolish self-flattery. It's not like that at all. I've never come on to a straight man because I expect respect just as I'm sure they do. Don't get me wrong, there are a few straight men I wished were gay, but we can't have it all. Besides, most of those straight men that I wish were gay are your typical movie star types, perfect bodies, and faces. Unless you're like that, you've got nothing to worry about.

"Get out!" one of the Drill Sergeants yells, and we do. I dry off just inside the bathroom where I'd shaved and brushed my teeth a couple of hours ago, ensuring I'm out of the way. He passes by me, my ass facing toward him as I dry myself. He goes just a little beyond where I'm standing, shedding his towel also. He observes the cloth as it dries his skin and then he looks at me again, quickly smiling. I finish and leave the bathroom, the perfect image burning in my brain. I go to my locker, trying not to slip with my wet flip-flops sliding across the linoleum floor, to retrieve my uniform and boots, hurriedly getting dressed.

The remaining parts of the day and the week that follows consist of PT in the morning, chow, classes, chow, yelling, classes, trying to stay awake, chow, yelling, and bed. There is no rest for us and the nights seem like minutes rather than hours. Toward the end of the week, I'm assigned to the Fire Guard night watch during the 0100 hour time block. I walk the floor in order to keep my eyelids from falling. We are required to carry a red-lens flashlight as we wander around the bay, ensuring not to point the light in someone's eyes while they sleep. Our main purpose is suicide watch and to ensure that there's no one missing. I pace the floor methodically in silence, snoring being the only exception. A whisper breaks the quiet as I pass by his bunk.

"Hey," he keeps it to a level I barely hear. His head pokes from his covers right next to my hip. "I'm Joe by the way." We hadn't really had any opportunity to talk at all. The Drill Sergeants keep us pretty busy all the time.

"Hey," I smile at his introduction, his face only showing in broken shadows. "Mine's Greg." He smiles briefly and I do too. We can't stay in one place to long during Fire Guard either, one never knows when a Drill will come into the bay and God forbid anyone other than the Fire Guard is awake. I continue making my rounds until my relief comes at the top of the 2 o'clock hour. Joe's smile continues returning to my mind until I pass out in my bed. I don't even remember my head hitting the pillow before the usual screams wake me a couple hours later.

The weeks are long and drawn out. We ruck march for miles and miles in the early morning hours. That's where we pack a backpack full of random items and walk along the road in a scattered line on either side. The most important thing, the Drills tell us, is to maintain our distance between each other. In the case of a mortar attack from above or a landmine explosion below, we don't want to have the entire formation end up dead. We march for miles. The Georgia heat no longer bothers me as it did when I first arrived. It may be attributed to the forced water consumption, I'm not sure. On hot days or during physically strenuous activity, the Drill Sergeants will force us to drink a full one-quart canteen of water in order to force hydrate. We walk for miles on end. I am surprised at how easy it is to fall asleep while walking down the road. I know it's only momentary sleep, but it makes you feel better just for that brief time. You wouldn't understand the possibility unless you've been through it yourself. Believe me, it's possible. I try to space-out by staring off into the woods between short naps or staring at the ground as I stroll along. The burning of my heels and the balls of my feet really hurt, but I continue as is nothing is wrong. I wonder to myself what everyone is doing back home. Since leaving, I've been allowed to talk to my parents a couple of times. I've recently tried to avoid it because it makes me miss home that much more. Each time I hang up the telephone, the homesickness comes back for a couple of hours afterward. I wonder what my friends are up to now that I'm not around. I think about the freedoms that I used to have prior to coming here. I do whatever I can not to think about the pain in my back, legs, and feet. The metal frame of the rucksack digs into my kidneys. The kidney pad, as they call it, isn't situated well enough. It's my own fault and now I just have to deal with it.

This is one of our last ruck marches. We are going to stay overnight in the woods and play Army for a few days. The excitement of the fact that this hell is almost over seems to be enough to keep all of us motivated. We walk at least six to ten miles. The Drill Sergeants never allow us to know the way around Fort Benning, Georgia. We zig and zag on new roads each time we venture beyond our barracks area. We're all so tired that we don't even bother trying to familiarize ourselves with our surroundings. I think they do it intentionally so nobody will try to run away from this hell. We've only a couple of weeks to go. Finally, our path leads us off of the tar and into the wood line. The pine needles are brown and thickly line the forest floor. Our footsteps are virtually silent, aside from a random snapping of a twig beneath a clumsy foot.

The Drill Sergeants begin to break us out from our lines and place us systematically coupling us off into a large circle in the densely wooded area. We're told that this will be our Assembly Area. There are only a few of us remaining in the formation, including Joe and I. He walks ahead of me by only a few feet. I wish to myself that Joe and I get to be battle buddies for the FTX, field training exercise. Our original battle buddies had been placed on medical holdover due to physical injury. Everyone is paired off at the beginning of Basic Training with someone who's supposed to watch out for you and you him. My original battle buddy had fallen on the bayonet course and smashed his knee. Joe's got cut on razor wire while running through the nighttime obstacle course. The number of guys with us as the Drill pairs us off is now down to a final four. I find myself getting excited but don't show it, of course. Finally, the second to last pairing is the other guys, which leaves me and Joe. I can't wait to hang out with him. It's not often you find another gay guy to hang out with, though this isn't the best of circumstances, it's as good a time as any. The Drill Sergeant shows us where we're going to be setting up. It's about seventy-five meters away from the other pairs. Everything in the Army is metric by the way. That also takes time getting used to. I still don't know what fifty meters looks like for sure, I just think I do. It takes some getting used to. The Drill Sergeant walks away.

"It's about time," I whisper.

"Yeah, I thought we were never going to get here," Joe replies as he slides his rucksack off his back and allows it to fall to the ground, landing with a puff of air as it hits. I follow suit. I sit down on my bag and open one of the side pockets in order to retrieve some new socks. My feet are sweaty and it's common practice to change after a foot march in order to avoid foot rot.

"Don't get too comfortable," a deep voice sounds off from behind me. It's one of the Drills.

"Yes, Drill Sergeant, I'm changing my socks quick," I respond with respect, unable to stand in my current dress.

"Once you're done with that, you guys need to start digging your foxhole," he says as he walks away from our position. "One digs while the other stands guard."

"Yes, Drill Sergeant," we say in unison.

"Who wants to start digging first," I ask him politely as I finish lacing my boot and placing my socks back into the pouch.

"Doesn't matter to me, I can if you want?" he asks though it seems more like an offer. The weeks have his muscular stature even more cut than he'd been when we'd arrived months ago. He smiles at me and pulls his e-tool, a miniature-folding shovel, from its pouch. He measures out the hole with his M16 just as we'd been taught in the classroom a couple days prior and he begins to dig. I situate my bootlace, tucking the lace loops into the tops, and assume guarding the outer perimeter near our position. I lie down in the pine needles uncomfortably. While I watch in front of me, my mind continues to wander to the happenings behind. I picture his muscles flexing with each thrust of the shovel as he removes the dirt from the foxhole. This is probably one of the luckiest days of my life, grinning secretly. A sweat droplet makes its way down from beneath my Kevlar helmet and over my camouflaged face makeup. It finds its way to my lips. I carefully dab it off with my fingers. There is nothing to look at to my front, only the bases of tall pine trees. I wait patiently for my turn to dig. It seems to take Joe forever before finally getting tired enough to switch. I take the e-tool from him, ensuring finger and eye contact during the trade. It's almost like foreplay. It makes me wonder if the Drill Sergeants chose my battle buddy purposely.

I go to the foxhole. It's almost two feet deep already. Just a little bit more and we'll be done. Joe goes to my former position and faces outward with M16 in hand. He gets down into the prone position, on his stomach with elbows bracing his upper body, just as I was before him. The ground is soft and the sharp shovel digs with ease, aside from the fact that Joe's built and muscular, the softness of the earth didn't hurt much in the area of his progress. I'm less impressed with his accomplishment. I shovel scoop after scoop while wondering if he's thinking the same about me as I was him when I was over there. A pile of a combination of dirt and red Georgia clay continues to build until I'm finally done. I walk the interior of the foxhole, stomping the ground down firmly and evenly until I'm satisfied.

"I've got it done," I announce. Joe looks over his shoulder in my direction with his gleaming blue eyes. He pushes his Kevlar upward, showing his face more to me. The dark colors of the camouflage make his eyes that much more complimenting to his complexion.

"Good, you want to take my place? My elbows are killing me," he says as he shifts his bodyweight. I get out of the trench, brushing myself off and walk over to him.

"Sorry if I took too long," I notice the sun beginning to set. There hasn't been much noise around us besides the occasional passing of a Drill, making sure that we're doing as we're told.

"It wasn't that long," he smiles as he gets up from the ground. Pine needles cling to the front of his BDUs, battle dress uniform in the standard forest green camouflage. Without thinking, I reach over and brush the front of his jacket. His muscles are hard to the touch as I brush over his chest. I stop myself after a couple of swipes and pull my hand away.

"Sorry," I whisper stupidly. I feel like an ass who has overstepped his bounds.

"Hey, if I'd have minded I would've stopped you," he smiles at me. I hadn't noticed before, remarkably his smile is flawless. He finishes wiping himself off as he goes back to the foxhole. Embarrassed, I resume my position of perimeter guard. We don't say much after that. A few minutes later, a Drill passes by.

"Time to eat, get your MREs out, but you're to eat in shifts, Privates," he walks off to the next position. I realize this is the first time a Drill has referred to any of us as Privates. Until now, we've been Recruits. I feel a sense of accomplishment. We're almost done with this hell.

"Go ahead and eat since I'm already pulling guard, Joe," I tell him. He's already going for the MRE in his rucksack. He's probably starving. I hadn't even noticed how hungry I am until now. I ignore his dining as to avoid getting more famished.

"Your turn," he's done in less than five minutes. He places his hand on my shoulder. It startles me at first and then a warm feeling surges through my body. The feeling of another human being's touch, longing. I get out of his way as his hand drops away. He resumes guard and I go to my ruck for sustenance. I retrieve my omelet with ham MRE, sit on my ruck, and begin tearing open the package. The eggs are in a gelatinous form with bits of cat food-like ham dices buried within it. I don't care what it tastes like. It's been a long day and I wolf it down. The raspberry flavored applesauce, in another packet I reserve as my desert, tastes reasonably normal. It's like the cups of Del Monte applesauce Mom used to buy when I was younger. My meal is gone quickly and I pick up my canteen to wash down food that's hanging out in my throat. The water contained within the plastic container has an odd taste to it that took some time getting used to. I still don't enjoy it, but what choice do I have. I take a couple more gulps and recap the container. I shove my garbage into its original container and squeeze it into the outer pouch of my backpack opposite my nasty socks.

"Hey, you might as well get the poncho set up and, if you wouldn't mind, pull out my sleeping bag too?" Joe makes a request, which I'll gladly oblige. I begin by removing my poncho and securing it to four small saplings, arranged in an almost natural square. They are far enough apart for me to hook bungee cords through the poncho's loops and pull it tight enough to protect from any evening dew or rain. I grab each of our sleeping bags and roll them out, ensuring the ends are not left open in case of crawling insects, scorpion, or snakes.

The sun is gone, but the moon is full and shines brightly down through the thin pine trees. As the night breeze starts easing through the woods, I notice the distinct smell of pine. I inhale deeply. I go back to complete the final additions on our foxhole, camouflaging it in order to break our outline in case of enemy contact. Satisfied with the final touches, I approach Joe.

"Foxhole's done," I say while standing beside him.

"I might as well take first shift," he turns toward me on his side, looking upward. "I'm already down here anyway."

"Are you sure?" I'm slightly concerned by his willingness to volunteer. "You've been laying there most of the day."

"Yeah, it's only an hour anyway. I think I can handle it." The Drill Sergeants instructed us earlier that one person must be awake on perimeter guard at all times and, to make things fair, it's supposed to be one-hour intervals throughout the evening.

"Okay, well come get me when it's time," I tell him as I walk toward the sleeping area I just made.

"You're damn right I will," he responds with a quiet laugh. I take off my boots and slide into my bag. My eyes close right away and my mind calms. The sounds of crickets and tree frogs ring in my ears. They cause a strange dream. I am back at home, traipsing through a swamp. The water is cool to the touch and it comes up to my knees. The mud is squishy beneath the bottoms of my shoes, sloshing around inside them as well. I take a few steps and nearly fall over. Water splashes as I grab for a nearby growth of grass coming up in a thick chunk. It grows above the water like a grassy island. I pull my foot, trying to step forward with the assistance of the rooted plant. I can't move. I try the left foot, which is more forward. It doesn't budge either. I begin to panic. I feel a hard pressure against my chest and it starts to shake me. My eyes open.

"Greg, are you okay?" I see his face, so close to mine. The moonlight shadows his features but creates a twinkle in both of his eyes. I catch my breath and my heart slows from the frustration of the nightmare. The next thing that happens occurs without a thought or regard for anyone around us. I pull my hand free from my sleeping bag and reach around the back of his head, pulling him in close. My head lurches up toward him to meet his lips. I can't help myself. The frustration of the recent months, knowing of his presence and not being able to do anything about it, has gotten the better of me. He doesn't fight me, actually, his hand moves to my chest and rests there. He kisses me in return. It lasts only a few moments before the reality of what will happen if someone sees us hits me in the head. I run my hand from the back of his head and gently along the side of his cheek before breaking our physical contact. He stares at me for a moment and I intently look back at him. "I asked if you were okay," he states quietly. I notice the intense pounding has returned to my heart.

"Yeah," I answer, "I'm definitely okay." I keep my words hushed as well.

"It's your turn for guard," he says.

"Okay, I'll be over there in just a second," I slide my sleeping bag's zipper down. "I have to get my boots on quick." Joe's hand reaches over and turns my face back to his just as I'm slipping on my first boot. He gives me another short, but passionate kiss on the lips and then stands up.

"Okay," he smiles down at me and walks away. I finish lacing my boots while my heart is still racing beneath my ribcage. We fight through the two remaining nights and the following days, ignoring our wants; the want to explore each other and develop the relationship that's beginning to develop. We talk whenever we can, realizing that now's not the time to risk getting kicked out of boot camp because we're gay, "don't ask, don't tell," is what they say, which also means don't get caught.

The days of our FTX end and we pack everything up. Our foxholes and field sanitation trenches get refilled and covered. The Georgia rain beats down on us violently early in the morning. This is our last big day of proving ourselves to our Drill Sergeants. We've moved through the woods and attacked other platoons' assembly areas with our blank rounds blasting loudly through the tree lines. Though physically exhausting, someday I'll look back on this week and laugh about how much it sucked.

We stand in formation with our ponchos now draped over our bodies. They flow over our rucksacks in order to avoid further water saturation. The rucks are already beginning to feel heavier than they had an hour ago. The Drills finally announce that it's time to move out and we do so without hesitation. Today's march is nearly twenty miles in length and, after a long week lacking in sleep, it's going to take everything in my power to concentrate on not concentrating. It takes a mile or two before my mind finally gets into the groove of numb thoughtlessness. Though it's difficult, I even keep thoughts of Joe stifled. This is the final test and I will not fail. The rain finally stops at what I figure to be about the halfway point. The sun breaks free from the clouds and the humidity powers-up almost immediately. I can see the vapor rising from the asphalt ahead of me like a snaky smoke cloud. I begin wishing the rain hadn't ceased. I fight the thoughts from my head and reach back for the buttons on my canteen pouch, which attach to a utility belt clamped around my waist. It takes a moment for the button to pop free due to the fact that my fingers are swollen from the lack of blood circulation. It happens whenever I road march, but it goes away soon after I'm done. I finally get the other button and pull my canteen from its confines. It takes so much effort that I almost don't even want a drink anymore, but I know I need it so I twist the cap off. Purposely, I allow some of the lukewarm liquid to dribble down my chin and down the front of my t-shirt. It relieves the heat for a little while, cooling my chest. I put it away and fight to return to my brainless oasis.

"One more mile, men," a Drill Sergeant shouts loudly. I snap back to reality, thankfully the miles behind have disappeared. Excitement wells up inside me. The first guy in the formation picks up a light jog. His rucksack shuffles against his back. The Drill Sergeants don't yell at him or try to stop him. They know how excited we are at the accomplishment we're about to achieve. All of us begin to pick up our feet. We crest a gradual hill and, as I do, I see the top of our barracks. A feeling of joy rushes through me. A burst of energy surges. The end is finally in sight. It is the end of the ruck march, of my burning feet, of my sweaty ass cheeks, of the yelling, of the humidity, of everything! Our shuffles become more intense. A couple of the guys, regardless of the nearing end, can't help themselves and go back to a walk. One Drill leads the front of the formation in while another stays with the stragglers. I don't straggle. I run as quickly as I can. The barracks get closer and closer. My feet burn and I don't care. I keep going until I reach the place where we'd initially been introduced to the Drill Sergeants on that first day. Stepping onto the curb, I feel a blister bursting in my heel and I ignore it also. As soon as I get to the formation area, I drop my rucksack violently and fish out a canteen of water. My breathing is heavy. I look for Joe. He's not far away doing the same. I smile beyond my labored breaths. He sees me and secretly grins back. I go back to my canteen and down its entire contents quickly.

"Nobody is to sit down," a Drill announces, "If you sit, you'll probably cramp up. Walk it off," he paces between us. He doesn't look quite as exhausted as we do, but he looks as though he's had his share of exercise. "Great job, men, you may now call yourselves Soldiers!" The announcement feels wonderful. We are men and Soldiers both in the same day. The emotions stew inside my head. Considering the fact that I'm thoroughly exhausted and want nothing more than to take a shower, I feel on top of the world like I've done the most important thing in my life right now, today.

Joe wakes me in the middle of the night. The Drill Sergeants don't come around at night anymore and, since we're so close to graduation, they no longer require a Fire Guard because only a fool would try to kill themselves or run away at this point.

"Greg, come on," he shakes me softly.

"What's wrong?" I ask him as I'm roused from my sleep.

"Nothing, just come on," he says. He stands from his squat next to my face. He's wearing nothing but his PT shorts and flip flops. His muscles are amazing and I can't stop myself from thinking that whether he's shirtless or covered. I peel the wool blanket back, pull my flip-flops from beneath my bunk with my toes, and slip them on. He leads the way and I follow carefully behind, ensuring there are no eyes watching us as we pass. Each of the other Soldiers are breathing heavily or fully snoring as we go by them. Joe leads me to the fire escape door. Luckily, it's not automatically rigged to sound upon opening. I go in behind him and quietly close the door. The lights within the stairwell are dim and red. He suddenly reaches into his shorts. I have no idea what he's about to do, but I have my hopes. He then pulls his hand out from his crotch to reveal a pack of Newport cigarettes. My heart skips a beat. It's been forever since I've smoked, but I'd never stopped wanting one every once in a while.

"Would you like one?" he asks me, knowing his question is rhetorical.

"Hell yes I would," I reply in a whisper. He leads me down the remaining stairs to the first landing where there is a window slightly ajar. He places two cigarettes between his lips, reaches into a small hole by the window, pulls out a lighter, and lights them both. He replaces the lighter and hands me the smoke. I take a drag and nearly start coughing, but control myself. It is one thing to be caught having gay sex, it's another issue entirely if caught smoking. Many of the guys had already been caught with dip in the barracks and the Drills pretty much looked away as they threw it into the trash cans. I glance up toward the door to make sure it's clear. Realizing its safe, I dive into Joe, kissing him deeply while holding our cigarettes to the sides of our bodies. I push his body against the wall and our lips are on the attack. Our breathing is heavy and we know not to continue the activity for too long for obvious arousal reasons. Imagine if someone came walking through the fire escape door and we are both displaying raging hard-ons through our shorts, that wouldn't look good at all. We break free and make some minor adjustments to our manhood just in case. Nylon-lined shorts don't do a very good job in hiding what's beneath the thin material. We enjoy our cigarettes, give each other one last kiss, and go back to bed. This activity continues over the next couple of days and then Graduation Day is here.

We've spent a week getting ready for this day, the day we are officially Soldiers. We march to a parade field outfitted in our dress green uniforms, looking like my Recruiter did over a year ago when he picked me up to go to my parents' house. I lack most of the decorations across my chest that he had, but I am proud to have what I do. I earned the metals and ribbons through gallons of sweat and numerous sleep-deprived days and nights. We march proudly passed the bleachers where many ranking Army officials stand and salute us. We find our position on the field and stop. Our Drill Sergeants congratulate each and every one of us, there are a couple of speeches, and we march back to the barracks to retrieve our gear.

Private Joseph Green and I meet in the main common area for formation with all of our belongings.

"How are you getting to the airport?" I ask him.

"Well, since my mom didn't show, I guess I'll be taking a taxi," he replies.

"Mine didn't come either. My mom is afraid to fly and it's a long drive for a ceremony that lasts less than an hour," I say. "Since it may be the last time we see each other, would you like to share a fare?" We'd gotten our orders yesterday and they revealed that Joe is going to Fort Bragg, North Carolina and I'm going to Germany. The fortune of being assigned to Germany is exciting, but saying goodbye to Joe isn't.

"Let's do that," he answers simply. We gather our luggage and go to a taxicab. All of the local cabbies know when there's a graduation coming and are ready and waiting. We load our bags and hop inside. The ride is silent. I suspect we're thinking the same thing, regret toward our separation. We arrive in less than an hour, pay the cabbie, and go inside. Since we are taking a two-week leave prior to having to report to our duty stations, we have different planes to catch on different airlines. We stand a couple feet away while facing each other. I look into his eyes and he stares back at me. A lump forms in my throat.

"I'm going to miss you, Greg. Or should I call you Private Gregory Morris?" Joe says. I laugh a little through the bitterness of the situation. The lump gets bigger, but I swallow it down.

"I'm going to miss you too, Joe," I say. All I want to do right now is grab his gorgeous body and squeeze him as hard as I can. Other Soldiers wander around the airport all around us. I notice a mist forming in the bottom of his baby blue eyes. "Please don't, Joe. You're going to make me cry too. I've having a hard enough time as it is," I explain. I swallow hard and blink the wetness away.

"All this time, we haven't been able to show each other how much we care, and now we still can't," Joe speaks as quietly as he can so as not to bring unwanted attention. "I want to be able to hug, kiss, even to hold your hand, but I can't."

"I know...this sucks," I share his delivery with the same tact. "You have my parents' number and their address. Call and write whenever you can and I'll do the same." My tear ducts go on the attack again. "We'd better go."

"Yeah...we'd better and I will," he replies. A look of longing and want decorates his face. I wink at him and mouth the words I'll miss you as we each turn and go our separate ways with emptiness seeping into my heart. The regret of not being able to say a true goodbye slams me in the gut and lingers like a son-of-a-bitch. I turn back toward him. He's standing in line for check-in, staring at me. His fingers wave beneath his bag and a sad smile is displayed. I smile back and turn away. I can't look anymore. I walk down a hallway toward my airline's check-in counter.

With sadness and longing in my heart, I board the airplane. I take my seat as the tears begin to find their escape from my tear ducts. I fight through them, trying to fall asleep in order to get away from my feelings.

14 November 1994

I am jolted awake when the airplane hits the tar of the landing strip. The thoughts of Joe have taken a backseat inside my head. But, I'm excited to see my parents and friends once again for a short stint. I wait impatiently for the flight attendant to announce our ability to get off the plane. The moment she does I'm unbuckled and out of my seat. I slowly make my way down the aisle, waiting for the other passengers to retrieve their carry-ons from the overhead compartments. Finally, I emerge from the tube with wings and walk up the incline toward the gate. I notice them right away. My mother's gasp is audible as I step out into view. Stephen and a couple of my other friends are waiting with them. My mom runs up to me and gives me a hug. She squeezes hard but it has little effect on me. I hug her back shortly and then she steps back to look at me. I look down at her 5'4" frame.

"My god, Greg, you've gotten big," she isn't referring to my height. I've put on a lot of muscle since leaving, before I was a beanpole. Just then, my father walks up to shake my hand.

"I'm proud of you, son," a glimmer in his eye, "now you're a man." I laugh as he says those words.

"Yeah, I've heard that one before, Dad," recalling the Drill Sergeant's comment from a couple days prior. My friends approach and give me hugs, except Stephen. He's the only other person in this world who knows about my sexual orientation besides myself. He's never totally been comfortable with it. We don't really talk about it and he doesn't mention it to anyone else. He shakes my hand with a huge grin on his face.

"Well, let's get your bags and get out of here," my mom says, "We figured we'd go somewhere to eat before heading home if that's okay?" I agree and lead the way toward the baggage claim. The airport is tiny, only four gates total.

"I'm starving for some real food! That Basic Training shit was disgusting." For some reason I don't feel like editing my speech around my parents anymore, well maybe a little.

"By the looks of you, they must have been cooking something right," Stephen's longtime girlfriend Lisa says. They've been together nearly five years and I haven't known anyone our age to stay together for that long. I'm almost certain they'll get married eventually. I simply glance at her and grin as I'm walking down the terminal hallway. We get onto the downward escalator. I see my luggage on the roundabout before we get to the bottom of the stairs. My friends help with my bags, though I could've handled it myself. I wasn't going to argue with them. We exit the airport, decide on a meeting place for dinner, and head out.

Being back reminds me how much I've missed everyone. We laugh, I tell everyone about Basic, and we eat a delicious meal. I'd also forgotten how good food can be. Everything at Basic was bland and we had to eat in five to ten minutes. There was no enjoying anything, not like there was anything to enjoy. We finish and depart. My friends leave in one car and my parents and I in my dad's truck. Before going, we agree to meet up tomorrow night at Stephen's house.

We arrive at Mom and Dad's within the hour, we unload my stuff, chat for a little while, and I go to bed. My parents have kept my bedroom just as I had been before I'd moved out. They had no need for it anyway and I think, at least Mom, was always hoping I'd get discouraged living on my own and come back. I hang up my uniform carefully and zip it up in a wardrobe bag. I fall onto the bed. It's much softer than I remember. I doze off.

Joe stands in front of me near the window in the fire escape. He smiles wholly. We kiss between drags from our menthol cigarettes. The door suddenly flies open at the top of the stairs. I turn quickly toward the person. The Drill Sergeant who'd teased Joe about the thong underwear stands by the door.

"You are a couple of faggots!" his voice bellows and bounces off the cement surroundings. I look back toward Joe, he's not there. "Faggot," the Drill screams again. His face is red and his eyes are bloodshot. He steps down the stairs toward me. I am alone. I realize the cigarette is still in my hand. I quickly drop it and smash it beneath my booted foot. The blackness of the ash smears against the gray cement.

"Joe, where are you?" I call out. My voice has no power, it's almost a whisper. The Drill charges down toward me. His hands go up and they grab me at the shoulders. He slams my body against the wall beneath the window. My breath escapes my lungs with the impact. His mouth slams against mine for a violent kiss. Suddenly, I lurch up in my bed breathing heavily. Sweat drips from my forehead. I realize where I am. I catch my breath. However, I'm still alone and my heart is still empty.

As promised, I meet Stephen at his place. I park Dad's truck in front and walk up to the door. I knock and Stephen answers soon after.

"Hey," he greets me at the door in a t-shirt and blue jeans, "nobody else is coming. Lisa got called in to work."

"That's fine. We can hang out if you want?" I ask as I follow him inside, closing the door behind me. We go into the living room and he sits in a large leather recliner.

"Yeah, I was going to watch a movie and chill out if that's okay?" He begins flipping through channels on the television. I sit on the sofa, which shares a wall with the recliner.

"Fine with me, I've been doing nothing entertaining for the last four months. A night of relaxation is definitely welcome," I'm actually a little relieved that it's just us and a calm night will do my brain some good.

"So, anything interesting happen at Basic? I noticed yesterday that you looked like there was something on your mind but you weren't able to say it." Stephen knows me pretty well, coming from our many years of friendship I guess.

"Something did happen, but I'm sure you don't really want to know," I don't want to make him anymore uncomfortable about the subject than he already is.

"Dude," he mutes the television and looks at me seriously, "I know it's only been a few months, but things change. Since we're not in high school anymore, I don't have to care as much about what people think. Not that I really did too much before, but some things just didn't fit into the high school scene. I didn't want to be known as the guy with the gay friend. That'd probably have turned into me being gay just 'cause you and I are friends. That's not really what I was looking for then. Now I could give a shit less." I believe what he's telling me. The expression on his face is very convincing. I take a deep breath before my delivery. It feels like I'm coming out to him all over again, worrying about whether the news will be accepted or rejected. That was an interesting day by the way, coming out to Stephen. He's only known for a couple of years, but it was over coffee at one of our small, family-owned cafes. I don't know who was more embarrassed, him from my news, or me from his reaction. I said it to him in a whisper, "I just want to tell you that I'm gay," pausing for a moment to gauge his response, "'cause nobody else knows and I'm sick of dealing with this all alone." We were in the tenth grade then. I don't know why I decided to tell him. I guess I really did feel all alone and I didn't know how much longer I could take living with it by myself. So, I drug my best friend in with me.

"I met someone," I begin. "I know four months isn't much time to get to know anybody, but there was a connection none-the-less."

"You're right, four months isn't much time, but we know what we know right?" His eyes are fixed back on the TV but it's still muted and he's listening to me. I think it makes the conversation less awkward for both of us without any eye contact.

"Yeah, well, the thing is, I know we clicked. Now it hurts so bad knowing we may never see each other again."

"I totally get what you're saying." He fumbles with the television remote in his hand, flipping it over and over. "Why won't you see each other?"

"He got orders to Fort Bragg and I'm going to Germany. We're not exactly going to be close."

"Why not go see him while you're on leave?" Stephen asks.

"I can't do that to my parents. Who knows when I'm going to make it back from overseas? I've got to spend the little time that we have here now." He seems to understand and agrees with a passive nod. "I can't be selfish about this." Just as I finish my sentence, the telephone rings. Stephen gets up and answers. He hands the phone to me.

"Speak of the devil," he says. I have to admit that I am initially confused, thinking he's messing with me. I put the receiver against my ear.

"Hello?" I inquire. My heart is beating hard.

"Hey," it's his voice! I leap from the sofa, walk through the dining room, and into the kitchen.

"Oh my God, how are you?"

"I'm doing alright," his voice is masculine and comforting, not at all feminine in any way, "I called your place first, but your mom gave me this number."

"Yeah, I'm over at my best friend Stephen's place. We were just talking about you." Joe chuckles a little.

"Really, what did you say?" he asks.

"Well, we hadn't really gotten that far into the conversation actually. I just started explaining things," I feel myself blushing as we talk. Hearing him makes my body ache with longing to have him near me.

"Have you come out to your parents yet?" His question catches me off guard. We'd discussed the fact that he's out and I'm not during one of our late night excursions to the back stairwell over a Newport. His father left his mom and him while when he was young so it was 50% easier for him coming out to only one parent.

"No, I'm not ready yet. That's something I'd rather do with you," I'm being honest.

"That may not be for a long time, Greg. You know we've got at least a couple of years before we'll get to see each other again."

"I tell you what, whenever I take leave stateside, though I don't know when that'll be, I'll spend half with you and the other half with my family," I explain. "We'll make it a point to visit my parents together one of those times and I'll tell them then, with you by my side. Sound like a deal?"

"It does," he says. "Hey, my mom wants us to go to a movie together tonight and I don't know what else she has up her sleeve. I just want you to know that I miss you a lot and can't wait to see you again." I completely understand where he's coming from, I'd do the same thing with my mom.

"Okay, well, maybe we should just stick to writing for now and we'll call each other when we can." I'm feeling a little rejected but at the same time I understand the pain behind telephone conversations that can't lead to anything more than words. I want him by my side and I'm feeling the same from him. "Even though it's going to be hard, how about we wait for leave to be over, spend the time with our families, and contact each other once we get settled at our duty stations?"

"Okay, let me give you my mom's number so you can call when you get there. That way you guys can talk a little and she can give you my address."

"As much as I hate it that sounds like a plan," I stop for a moment. "Joe...I'm really going to miss you."

"I'm going to miss you too, Greg." The tears start creeping up and I choke them back down, "I already do miss you so much...it hurts." His voice cracks a bit toward the end of the sentence.

"Same here, Joe," I control my emotions. "We will talk again soon."

"Okay," he replies. There is a silent moment where we both want to say words that are too soon to be said, but, like I said, too soon.

"Okay," I say. "Have a fun with your mom."

"I'll try," he answers, "you too...bye"

"Bye," I reluctantly respond. I wait for a couple of seconds, long enough for him to hang up first. I can hear him still breathing on the other end of the line. I let out a small laugh. He does the same. We end the conversation on a lighter note as we both hang up at the same time. I wipe my face, going into the bathroom nearby, checking my face for signs of distress. I return to the living room where Stephen and I continue our conversation. I am relieved to know that I can finally confide in my best friend about anything now. We are growing up I guess.

It isn't long before the last day of my leave comes and I'm back at the airport saying goodbye. In case you can't tell by now, I hate goodbyes.

29 November 1994

Two connecting flights later, I'm over the Atlantic Ocean looking out my window. The plane's ascent just off the coast allows me to see the ocean, never having been. The whitecaps quickly become smaller and smaller as the airplane climbs toward the clouds. I continue to observe out my window as the whiteness of the clouds engulfs the aircraft. Then, as quickly as they'd come, we break through the cloud cover and level off just above them. They look like a warm, fluffy blanket below me. I notice the shadow of the craft as it changes shapes according to its distance from the height of the fluff. I pull the book Insomnia, I'd brought as company, from the seat pocket in front of me. The man seated in front of me decides to recline, making my knees uncomfortably stuck to the back of his seat. I shift in an attempt to get cozy and it works for a bit. Before I know it, my ass is asleep and so am I. The flight is around twelve hours before making our landing in Frankfurt, Germany.

I don't see many others who look like they're stepping off the plane from Basic Training like me. My hair is still short, like a butch buzz cut, but the top has gotten a bit longer. A person can usually recognize someone coming straight from Basic by their hair, possibly the scared look on their face as well, which I'm sure I have. As I step out of the tunnel from my gate, I notice an Army Liaison holding a sign for Soldiers to meet near the exiting hallway of the airport. I look around a bit while standing by the Sergeant with the sign. It doesn't feel like I'm in a different country. Other than women with brightly dyed, red hair, everything looks fairly Americanized. It is Frankfurt International Airport and maybe things will be different once I step outside.

The Sergeant indirectly lets me know that everyone's accounted for, saying it under his breath. There are only two other Soldiers besides me, another male and a female. Their eyes are wide and they seem overwhelmed by everything around them, the scared look I mentioned moments ago. We gather our things and walk out the front door. A van waits, idling near the exit. We pile our bags into the back and get inside. I observe my surroundings, things are quite a bit different from what I'm used to. The area seems factory riddled and very industrial. We're told that we may as well get comfortable, our destination being about an hour away. I slide my butt down the vinyl seat slightly. My ass has been planted for over half the day on airplanes and nothing is comfortable. I'm just getting the feeling back in my butt and have to sit again. I try to ignore the pain in my ass by watching out the window, admiring the new scenery. Smokestacks tower above the factories below, releasing clouds of white smoke into the atmosphere.

The thickness of industry doesn't last long, soon the landscape changes into something I'm much more familiar with, forests and countryside. The greenery is lush in the distance, rolling along the hills. The roads are narrow and the signs are definitely not what I'm used to. I take that back, everything besides the scenery is different. Passing cars are BMWs, Mercedes Benz, and Audis. I've never seen so many expensive cars in one place before. I'm in awe. Little do I know that damn near every vehicle in Germany is what we consider to be an expensive one in America, stupid small-town boy. I don't feel bad when I see that the two others are just as amazed as I am. They stare out the windows of the van with their mouths gapping. They could be brother and sister for all I know, resembling the twin Muppets from Muppet Babies. They both have thick glasses, standard Army issue referred to as BCGs, or Birth Control Glasses, because they're so damn ugly that nobody can get laid wearing them. I laugh under my breath and close my eyes, resting my head against the glass. My head rubs against the surface with each passing bump, sliding up and down on my temple's hairline, cleaning the driver's windows with my stubbly hair.

I awaken as we slow down at an Air Force Military Police controlled gate. The Sergeant tells us to get our IDs out. After passing them up, having them checked, and getting them back, I slide my ID back into my wallet. We pass through the checkpoint; large cement blockades pass our vehicle near the tires. I look up ahead to see that things are a little more Americanized. The signs are not in German anymore. We pull into a parking lot, stop, pull our bags out, and put them into a caged holding area. We are told to go inside a building located next to the holding area for a briefing, great, more briefings! Will this never end? I am nervous and excited at the same time. We go inside and wait for instructions allowing us to have a seat. A noncommissioned officer enters he lets out a semi-annoyed laugh and tells us to sit down. We do.

The briefing is short, telling us the rules about the area, where we need to go for this and that. He informs us of chow times and gives us other alternatives besides the chow hall. The number one rule seems to be no drinking. He stresses that several times throughout his block of instructions. We are told to go to the building across the parking lot for our bedding and room assignments and then to come back for our bags. Since the Muppet Babies seem lost, I lead the way and get my room first. Luckily, I am alone so far in what is usually a two-man room. I go up a flight of stairs and place the key in the lock. The door opens. There is a slight mustiness to the air but the room is fairly large. It's nothing fancy. There are two beds on either side of the room and an all-too-familiar-looking wall locker. I open the doors to confirm my recognition. I take a quick look around and leave for my things. It doesn't take long for me to return and get my stuff put away. Since I'll be leaving tomorrow afternoon, I don't get too comfortable with unpacking.

I go outside to the smoking area, sit down at a picnic table, and light up. The air is comfortable, not as sticky as I'd been dealing with over the previous months. It almost has a slight chill to it though it's just below seventy degrees. I attribute it to my acclimatization from Georgia. I enjoy the fresh air, sitting and thinking. Not pondering on anything in particular, just thinking, enjoying the quiet alone time. Some rowdy Soldiers come out of the building just behind me. I feel immediately annoyed by their obnoxious presence. I ignore them as they pass. They wander off, though I hear their voices long after they disappear from my sight. I go back into myself and light another smoke. The sun begins to set beyond the trees and buildings, its hue shines brightly over the tops for a little while, and before I realize it, the streetlamps flicker on. I notice my pack of cigarettes has dwindled tremendously. I stand up and go inside. Though it's only 9 p.m., I am ready for a hot shower and bed. I think I'm in shock. The fact that I'm so many miles away from anyone that I know is taking its toll on me.

There is a knock on my door before the sun begins to peek above the horizon, followed by a loud voice announcing that it's time to get up. As per the briefing yesterday at check-in, there are details, chores, to get finished before anything else is to begin today. I quickly brush my teeth, shave, get dressed, and place my belongings into my bags. I put my bags upon the bunk and join the few others in the hallway. The Muppet Babies are the two others I see, along with a couple that weren't in our van yesterday. I volunteer to grab a mop and to take care of the floors and hallway. It isn't long before everything is done and the Desk Sergeant has inspected and approved our cleanliness.

We are told to put our luggage back into the cage across the parking lot and to go to the chow hall for breakfast. Following that, we are to meet in the building like yesterday. Orders, which will contain our follow-on destinations and permanent duty station assignments, will be given out at that time. Anxiety sets in, but I push the emotion off. It is a combination of anticipation and stress. I'm not comfortable meeting new people, never have been. I should be taking this whole experience as an adventure but, aside from Basic Training, I haven't been exposed to so much newness in my life. As I said before, small town, same lifelong friendships, I've been sheltered.

I quickly eat breakfast while ignoring the whispers of the Muppet Babies from a table nearby. I can see them clearly as I eat and I notice random eye contact from the female cohort as he whispers into her ear. Considering the fact that I've spoken to no one since my arrival, they have nothing to talk about regarding me. I pretend I don't notice, another time, another place perhaps. I slam the last bit of coffee down my throat like a shot and I leave before they do, my plate's contents not completely consumed. Getting beyond the butterflies of the unknown is kind of working anyway, knowing that coffee and cigarettes aren't going to help, it doesn't stop me. I light up and walk across the parking lot as instructed earlier. The sun is poking up and the day is becoming more welcome. For some reason, surroundings don't feel as empty when the sun's up as opposed to the darkness of the night. Maybe it's the warmth that is emitted. Maybe it's the light itself, making things feel less void? I don't know.

I near the building and stick my cigarette butt into a can, which is placed strategically near a door. I walk inside and sit in the same room as the one from yesterday. Now it's a waiting game. Hurry up and wait is what they say. I've already learned that lesson all-too-well from my short time in the military. I know I'll never get used to it, but I have no choice. A Sergeant comes in after the Muppet Babies and a couple other Soldiers with families make their way into the room. He calls off our names to ensure we're there and tells us that his personnel are in the process of printing our orders and they will be done shortly. I change seats so I can watch CNN on a television mounted in a nearby corner, and to avoid the Twins as they continue to gawk randomly in my direction. I'm probably just being paranoid. Either way, it's extremely annoying.

My name is finally called after fifteen minutes or so. I jump up and go to a desk where a civilian woman hands me my orders, not before signing for them of course. I turn them toward me as I walk away and the next name is called. Baumholder, Germany is what they say. Well, now I know where I'm going, though I still have no idea where Baumholder is. I go back to my seat and wait for further instructions.

An hour or so later, the buses have arrived. I'm thankful to see the Muppet Babies loading their baggage into the undercarriage of one of the other buses. I wave at them in a taunting way like a smartass. I'm not trying to provoke anything, simply had enough of their shit talking and don't want to send them off without saying anything. The male twin immediately turns away as I wave, confirming the fact that there has been some trash said, in my mind anyway. I leave things as they are. I didn't want to be driving down the road pondering to myself damn it, Greg, why didn't you have the balls to say something to them? There are few things more annoying than what-ifs and why-nots. It sucks that I don't know what they were saying about me, but knowing that they know I thought they were is enough for me. I finish arranging my bags and get onto the bus.

One of the families from the welcome center building is already inside. They consist of a husband, wife, and three small children. The oldest one, a boy, has to be around five years old. The other two are a toddler, girl, and an infant, unsure. They have the littlest one dressed in the sexless green and its hair isn't long. I smile when I notice the husband watching me looking at his kids and I quickly go back to minding my own business. Only one other Soldier is on the bus besides us. He doesn't look up, already comfortably propped against the window with a travel pillow around his neck, eyes closed. The bus is a charter bus, unlike the usual school-type buses I'd often seen in the States. The seats are a plush, soft fabric, which is an assorted rainbow of colors. There are solid, maroon-colored curtains hanging in the huge windows. The curtain rod is thin and goes the entire length of the bus. There is an overhead bin with an open-face covered by netting that spans the area above our seats. I notice the seats have the same netting in the form of a pouch on the backs as I sit down. I then pull out my paperback copy of Insomnia and quickly find the place where I'd left off on the airplane, marked with a dog-eared fold. I begin to read as the bus pulls away from the curb.

An hour-and-a-half goes by, the baby fusses in the back, the oldest boy frolics quietly among the seats, the lone Soldier continues to sleep, and I read contently. I take random breaks to admire the lush greenery of the German landscape. There are more rolling, mountainous hills, which I imagine the Colorado Rockies to be like. I've never been to them either so I can't say for sure. The forests seem to go for miles and miles without interruption. It's the deepest green that I've ever seen and it's denser than I've ever experienced as well. I think about how much wildlife must be contained within those woods. I don't even know what kinds of animals they have living in the German woods. I've heard that they have an overabundance of wild boars, but that's about it. Our bus driver, who doesn't speak a lick of English by the way, continues to take us up and down the hills of the S-curved mountain roads. His speed is much faster than what I'm used to. I go back to my book, taking glances out the window as we travel. I don't want to miss anything, but this book is also keeping me enthralled.

After about three hours, I see the sign for Baumholder. The German village is something much different than I've ever seen in my short, shelter life. The houses are an assorted pastel coloring with arch-shaped, red clay bricks on their rooftops. They are layered like shingles toward the outside edges. Of all the things to be drawn to, this is the first thing that catches my eye. The cobblestone roadways look too small for our bus as it speeds along. Germans wander the sidewalks. Everything seems so serene and tranquil. The horror stories I'd heard about foreign countries all seem to be disillusioned, small town ignorance shining through yet again. Houses and apartment buildings, all with a similar form of shingling, decorate the hillside as our charter begins its ascent toward a Military Police controlled gate. I get my ID card ready, knowing what's to come. I slip Insomnia into my backpack and prepare for the stop. The doors of the bus open, an MP steps inside, and we all show our ID cards as he passes down the aisle. I notice his 9mm pistol, dangling from his belt, perfectly clean and snapped into its tight-fitting holster. I pay attention to his combat boots as he passes me to exit the bus, shining brilliantly. I have yet to be able to achieve a bright, black sheen on my boots. The Drill Sergeants said that comes with time, wear, and practice. We'd spend hours in Basic Training trying to make our boots glow, without absolute success. The bus door closes and we continue our ascent up the hill. That was another place Joe and I would spend time bullshitting. We round a bend in the road and everything seems to open up before my eyes. What seems to be hundreds of houses and buildings lying below the crest of the mountain, resting in a valley not far below. The valley is narrow and immediately begins to climb back upward beyond the main post structures. Various buildings are built on each level as the hill climbs. We turn gradually as we descend into the Army post. Excitement comes to my gut again. Our driver pulls into a parking lot, our last stop aboard the charter. We all get out.

"Guten tag," the driver says with a smile on his face, though I don't know what he just said. I smile and wave goodbye.

"Thanks," I reply. Apparently, my response is the proper one because he waves back. The doors beneath the bus open and my luggage is removed. A female Soldier greets us. Her name is Specialist Cunningham, according to her nametag.

"I need everyone to go in this door." She points to a door located just to her rear. "Your unit liaisons are waiting inside. Sergeant," speaking to the husband with the family, "your unit has a van waiting for you over there," she directs him toward it. Figuring she has nothing further to tell me, I grab my bags and go inside. An old, musty smell enters my nostrils upon entry. The building suffers from decades of usage without proper upkeep, but it seems to be serving its purpose and appears clean from the inside. There are probably some things age causes, like smells, that can't be cleaned away. The quite boy from the bus comes in shortly after me.

"Private Morris?" I hear the words approach me sneakily from behind. They'd come from the door I'd just entered. I turn toward them as if surprised and go to an immediate position of parade rest before knowing my addressor. Parade rest is the position a Soldier must stand in whenever being spoken to by anyone of higher rank. It means to place your hands behind, in the small of your back, with your palms facing outward. Your fingers are together with thumbs extended and the hands go together where the V forms. Along with this, feet are placed a shoulder's length apart. I immediately look at the rank on the Soldier's collar, a Sergeant, E5. My instinct to go to parade rest is warranted, since I'm only a Private, it will pretty much always be required.

"Yes, Sergeant," I reply. He laughs at me.

"Calm down," he can obviously see that my hands are shaky. It kind of came all of a sudden. "I know you just came from Basic, but I ain't no Drill Sergeant who's gonna be all up in your shit, son." He's got a bit of a southern drawl behind his words. It's not thick, but it is slightly noticeable. I can't relax even though he's just told me to.

"Yes, Dri...Sergeant," I catch myself nearly slipping with the Drill Sergeant as I'd been used to doing throughout Basic. Still rigid, he reaches for a handshake. This is something I'm definitely not used to. It takes me a moment to process and I finally return the pleasantry. Maybe this isn't going to be so bad after all.

"Name's Sergeant Parker," he explains nonchalantly, "there's supposed to be two of ya," just then, he sees the other guy from my bus. He undergoes the same process as he had with me. Apparently, Private Smith, as I just find out to be his name, went to Basic Training in the same company as I had. I thought he'd looked familiar, but didn't really pay it any attention for lack of conversation. "Well, Privates," Sergeant Parker says after introductions are finished, "let's get you up to the barracks and get you settled in. There ain't much going on considering it is Saturday." He starts leading the way out the door. "This way'll give you a couple a days to get your shit together and chill out."

We follow with our luggage in hand as he leads us to a Volkswagen van parked next to the building. The van with the Sergeant's family has already departed, I notice. We stack our bags neatly inside and get in. I go straight for the backseat, allowing Private Smith to sit in the front without conversation. The Sergeant backs out and drives us further onto the post. We pass several large buildings. They are all fairly boring in design, cream-colored paint edged with maroon around the windows to kind of match the shingling. The rain gutters are the same color and run along the full length of the building. They are rectangular and long, three stories high each. Everything is clean and the lawn is freshly cut in all directions. Sergeant Parker names the different important locations as we pass by them: the Post Exchange (PX), the Barbershop, Robin Hood (a sub shop), Popeye's Chicken, and Burger King. I get a little excited when I see the Burger King. That's something American that I can relate to. He drives us another few blocks before reaching our destination.

"Here we are. Charlie Company 3-15 Infantry," some of the jargon I recognize from Basic, the company names and things, they didn't really explain it much in Basic though. I just let it go. I'm sure I'll figure it out eventually. "Grab your shit 'n' we'll go downstairs. The Supply Sergeant has ever'thin' ready for ya'll." We do as we're told and follow him into the basement, I stand corrected, four floors.

We drop our bags in the hallway, which is about a hundred feet in length with doors on either side. To our immediate right, there is one open. It opens like a barn door. One of the kind that is designed to open either just the top half, just the bottom half, or both together as a door should. The Supply Sergeant throws a stack of things, blankets, sheets, and a pillow atop the shelf located on the bottom door half and hands me a piece of paper. I see that my name and all of my information is already typed on it.

"Sign this," the Supply Sergeant says. He's wearing civilian clothes so I have no idea how to address him.

"Yes, Sergeant," I take a guess. Even if I'm wrong it will be flattery so it really doesn't matter either way. I begin to sign.

"It would be in your best interest to go down to the PX this weekend and get yourselves some civilian bed sheets and stuff," he says as he hands a different piece of paper to Smith. "After Basic Training, I'm sure you're done with this wool crap," he laughs. "Plus, it's easier for me to inventory the shit if it's sitting right here in my supply closet." We hand our signed paperwork back to him. He hands us each a key. "They're in 310," he says to Sergeant Parker, "could you show 'em up?"

"Will do," the Sergeant responds, "thanks, Dave." We grab all of our things and follow the Sergeant up the flights to our room. We pass one guy who just stares with a smirk on the way up the staircase, other than that the barracks seem abandoned. We get to the top of the stairs and ours is the first door near the stairwell across the hall to the left. I drop my things and place the key in the lock. It opens with ease. I move for Smith, grab my things, and go inside.

"Alright, here's the deal," he begins speaking before we can set our bags down and claim a bunk, "Don't be goin' downtown gettin' fucked up. It's your first weekend here 'n' if I get called by the MPs to come 'n' get ya I'm gonna be pissed." There is a serious look on his face, one more serious than I've seen thus far. "Keep your noses clean and all 'll be fine. PT formation's at 0530 Monday mornin'. I wun't suggest bein' late." He makes his way to the door. "Other than that, welcome to 3-15 Infantry, Privates." He shuts the door behind him.

There's a short hallway upon entry with two familiar looking wall lockers to the right, a small college refrigerator, a sink, and a bathroom to the left. Ahead there's a doorway, which opens to the main living area with a large lone window. As you walk inside about halfway and turn left there are two beds, one on the left against the bathroom wall, and one on the right against the outside wall. The room is bare other than the beds.

"Which one do you want?" Smith doesn't waste any time.

"It honestly doesn't matter, you pick," it really doesn't. He throws his bag on the bunk against the bathroom wall. I set mine onto the other one and plop down on the bed. It is fairly soft, almost too cushy. It feels good until the overwhelming, up until now ignored, feeling of having to pee hits me in the bladder. I jump up immediately and go into the bathroom. There is a small, square floor shower as soon as I enter on the right, a toilet in the middle, and a matching shower on the far side. On the opposite side are floor-to-ceiling cabinets. A door is located on the opposite side. Apparently we're sharing a restroom with the neighbors. I ensure that it's locked before relieving my bladder of the excess liquid. I exhale calmly as I stand there. Everything around me seems so sterile and clean. I flush and return to the room. Smith is lying on his bed staring at the ceiling with his squinty, brown eyes. He is running his fingers through his dark brown hair like it's a stress-relieving comb.

"You okay, man," I ask him as I go to dump out my bags. I can't wait to get things put away.

"Yeah, it's just weird," he says quietly.

"What's weird," I inquire.

"This whole thing, being so far away from everybody, you know what I mean," he replies shakily.

"Yeah, man, I totally understand," I honestly do, "Let's get our shit put away so we can go down to the PX and look around a little, huh?" I'll do anything to keep my mind away from depressing things and if helping Private Smith along the way is the best option, I'll take it. I don't want to think about Joe right now either, that's for sure. That'll drive me to the ground, knowing we are much further from each other now than we were before.

We get our belongings put into their prospective places, ensuring our wall lockers are organized like the ones had to be in Basic. We step out our door and walk down the stairs. The hallways still seem abandoned, though it isn't too late into the afternoon yet. Everyone was probably up all night partying, I think. We have a general idea as to where we're headed so we step out the front doors and cross the street. We have to travel downhill and then back up a little before getting to the PX area. We pass Burger King, a post theater, and Popeye's Chicken along the way. The roads are a bit confusing, nothing is in a straight line or blocked like in the States and the German Army, according to Schmitty, established this post during World War II. While we're walking, Smith tells me he'd rather be referred to as "Schmitty." I oblige and start calling him that. He's a surprising plethora of information for being such a quiet person on our bus ride here. He tells me that Elvis Presley was stationed on this post while he was in the active duty military. I don't know how true his facts are, but it doesn't really matter. It's nice to be talking with someone this far away from everyone.

It isn't long before we make it to the PX. I notice several Mercedes and BMW taxicabs passing us along the way. That would've been convenient. Oh well, the walking isn't hurting either. The parking lot to the PX isn't very large. The store and the lot cover an entire block, which is situated in a rounded area as if everything surrounding it was built later. Guessing by the age of the building, I'm sure that's not the case. We walk up the front and into the store. A PX arranged and stocked like most convenience stores in the United States. They sell clothing, toiletries, and all the basic needs a person would have in a country in which they're unfamiliar. It kind of has a Wal-Mart feel too it at a much smaller scale and with things that are name brand rather than cheap.

We wander around the store for a while, looking for things for our room. I find a small television, a bed set for my bunk, and some necessary toiletries. I also pick out some clothing. One of the Army's transportation companies had come while I was on leave to pick up what little personal items I had, but they won't be in Germany for at least a month, some things can't be gone without. I find a couple of pairs of blue jeans, socks, underwear, a pair of sneakers, and some t-shirts. I admit that my mind wandered a bit while looking through the underwear, going back to that day with Joe and the Drill. I moved on to another area quickly, hastily grabbing a package of boxer briefs.

With our carts stacked to the top, we go to check out, greeted by an older woman, probably in her 50s, with a thick German accent. Her wrinkles show years of smoking and her hair is that fake, loud red color I'd seen on many of the heads in Frankfurt.

"Hallo," she says, "Guten tag," I've heard this greeting before. Of course, I don't know how to respond.

"Hi," I say in return. She doesn't say anything more. Her smile says enough, thankfully. I pay, place my items back into my basket, and wait for Schmitty. Once again, surprisingly, he carries on a full conversation with her in her native tongue. He's soon finished and we walk away.

"Dude, seriously?" I ask him.

"What," he asks in return, "I have German grandparents."

"Shit, is there anything you don't know?" It's a rhetorical question. "How about figuring out how to get a cab then? That would be something useful you could do. I don't think they'd appreciate us pushing these carts all the way back to the barracks and I sure as hell am not carrying all this stuff."

"There's a pay phone right over there," he points across the parking lot. "But I don't think we'll need one. There's a taxi waiting." It turns out the cabs make several passes through the PX parking lot. Apparently, they're looking for dumbasses like us to pick up. We approach the cab, the driver gets out, and he opens the trunk. We load our stuff up and hop in. Schmitty greets the cabby in German and he drives toward our building. This guy drives crazier than the bus driver had. I find myself grabbing onto the side of my leather seat as though I'm going to fly out at any moment. It takes about three minutes before we arrive at the front door. Schmitty pulls out some paper Deutsch Marks and hands them to the man. He hops out, opens the trunk, we unload, and he drives away speedily to catch his next fare.

It takes a couple of quick trips up the stairs before we get all of our things inside from the sidewalk. I notice some music pumping from a couple of rooms on each floor as I go up the second time. Somebody else does live here apparently, I think. I make my way to my room and place the rest of my things on my bunk. Schmitty and I start rifling through our things. I get the television out of the box. It's only a 19" Samsung. According to the guy in the electronics department, it's the kind I need in order to watch TV in the barracks. The voltage here is 220 volts unless I wanted to buy an adapter and those aren't cheap. I figured why not buy a little TV for now? It's not like I'm going to need it later and I'm stuck here for two years anyway.

When things are nearly all in their places, there is a knock at the door. We look at each other as if motioning for the other one to get it. I decide to take this one and approach. There is no peephole to see who is out there. I turn the handle, swinging the door open.

"What's up man?" a rather tall, well-built guy with brown hair and green eyes greets me. He's looking down at me a little which makes him at least more than six feet tall.

"Um...hey," I respond. I don't know whether I should feel threatened or not at this point. He reaches out a hand to me.

"Name's Pouge," he says as we shake hands. "That's Pouge like Rouge from the X-men comics." He doesn't seem so bad. He invites himself in by walking passed me. I follow, standing in the entryway to the main living space. "I see you guys are settling in pretty well." There's a vague underlying English accent behind his words, but it's not distinguished. He introduces himself to Schmitty with the same weird X-men reference and then turns toward me and back to Schmitty as he speaks as if he's sharing his words with both of us. "Hey, a few of us guys are going out tonight and, well, we know what it's like being new around here. We'd like you to come along if you want?" I ponder Sergeant Parker's words from earlier today.

"Where are you guys going?" I ask before deciding.

"Sure," Schmitty says without thought.

"Cool, we're thinking the Rod 'n' Gun Club. It is a little country bar. I hate country music, but the beer's cheap and it's not far away," Pogue says.

"I'm only 19," I answer.

"Dude, you're in Germany now, bro. Age means nothing." He gets a smile on his face.

"Alright, I'm in," I agree.

"Good deal, meet out in front of the building around 2100 hours," he leaves the room with excitement. I'm not sure whether we've just stumbled into an initiation trap or if the guy is genuine in his asking. I guess we'll find out soon enough. 9 o'clock is only four hours from now.

"That was a little weird," I say as the door clicks loudly behind Pogue.

"I don't know," Schmitty says as he's straightening his bedspread. "I'd like to think he's welcoming us, considering everyone here's been in the same situation as we are now."

"I hope so," I reply as I go back to fixing my bunk and situating the television on a small shelf located on the wall opposite the beds. "We should probably go down to BK and get something to eat pretty soon then. I don't want to be puking my guts out on the first night in country. That would be embarrassing."

"Yeah," Schmitty agrees.

We go down the hill a crooked block or two to Burger King, picking up something fattening and ultra-greasy for dinner and bring it back to our room to eat before getting ready. It isn't long before 2100 hours arrives and we head down the stairs to the front door to the barracks. Two other guys besides Pogue are waiting as we come out.

"Hey, good to see you decided to come," Pogue greets us. "This is Josh," the guy is about five-and-a-half feet tall with spiked, dirty blonde hair and oddly iridescent, blue eyes, he's rather rat-like facially, "and this is Robby," he looks normal, greets us with a smile rather than a smirk. His hair is black and his eyes are a dark brown. We all shake hands. Josh seems to try to prove his manliness with his handshake while Josh shakes normally and with a smile. Neither of them says anything. "Our cab is on its way." Just as Pogue makes the announcement, a cream-colored Mercedes approaches with its light on and we get in. Four of us get into the back, it's surprisingly roomy. Pogue gets into the front seat and explains our destination, the Rod 'n' Gun Club. The driver shoots away from the curb. We arrive in well under five minutes.

As we get out I ask Pogue, "Damn, bro, do all cabbies in this country drive like bats out of hell?"

"You'll get used to it, man," as the lights pour onto us from the exterior of the building, I notice how nice he looks. The front of the barracks had been a little dark. We all get out, divvying up the fare. "Oh, by the way," Pogue says as he walks up the front steps, "be careful. Most of the chicks in here are married." Damn, he's straight. "Watch the wedding ring finger, it's a dead giveaway." He opens the door and we all follow him inside. The place is dark. Upon entry there this nothing but a hallway leading left and then to the right again. The room opens up to several tables lined up on the right and a dance floor placed near the front, to the left. A stage sits against the furthest wall with unused band equipment placed upon it. The lighting is oddly designed with different colored Chinese lanterns hang from the ceiling as if they're trying to recreate some sort of beach setting. Country music fills the air, along with cowboy boots, huge belt buckles, and flannel shirts. I feel totally out of place. We find an empty table and sit down.

"What's good here?" I ask Pogue.

"Not to sound like a bitch, but the Sex on the Beaches and Long Island Iced Teas are good," he replies. Maybe he's not so straight after all? We wait for the server to come over and I decide to get a Sex on the Beach for reason of recommendation. Sipping the liquid through a straw, it doesn't take long for the alcohol to find its way to my brain. Our conversation starts getting a little loud. At some point during the night, the random snide looks from Josh start to get on my nerves. He hasn't said much, but the off-the-wall comments and smirks start to get to me. I'm not the one who makes the first move though. With a lit cigarette in my hand, Josh smacks it from me. The butt goes flying across the room and nearly lands between a set of halter-topped boobs. He beckons me outside, apparently deciding that a fight with all these people around is a bad idea. I follow him. I'm not a badass or anything, but he apparently suffers from some sort of Napoleon Complex and I know I've done nothing to directly offend him. I'm just an easy target, the new guy. It only takes two hits before he falls to the ground and decides it's not worth it. I shake my hand a bit after he falls, resonating ache shake off. I agree with him about it not being worth it as I help him up from the ground. He buys me a no hard feelings drink and the rest of the evening is fine. Some guys are just like that.

I wake up the next afternoon with one hell of a hangover. By the groaning noises coming from the other side of the room, Schmitty's not feeling any better. The Sunday sunlight shines brightly in through our non-curtained window. I cover my face with my blankets and go back to sleep, trying to give the hangover time to fade. I slowly drift off. I float into a place that's all-too-familiar, seeing him standing there, smiling at me. He's lying on top of his bunk in the barracks. His gorgeous, near translucent, blue eyes stare up at me as I walk near his bed, pacing on Fire Guard. His smile almost glows in the dim lighting. His dimples cast deep within his cheeks. He looks so innocent and beautiful. I look around to ensure nobody else is awake and then I bend down to kiss him. Our lips touch softly, heat pours into my body.

A lone tear seeps from my eye and slides down the side of my face. I wake up and quickly wipe it away, a sniffle. I jump up, swinging my bare feet to the cool floor. My head soon follows as if I'd left it on my pillow for a moment. My brain slams back into my skull and begins to pound violently. I don't care, I need to talk to him, I think. As my eyeballs clear, I notice that Schmitty is still asleep on the other side of the room. I get up and go to the shower, grabbing my clothes as I pass the wall locker. I let the water pour down gently over my head, massaging my hair and scalp. I run the soap over my taunt muscles and allow it to rinse itself away as I scrub. I hate being alone. I hate being trapped inside myself. I have a secret that nobody can know about and I can't share with anyone. Does anyone have any idea what that's like? Does anyone understand what it's like to hide oneself from everyone else? Do they understand what it's like to live in fear of being myself? How can anyone possibly understand? I know one person who does understand, Joe. He's my only connection and I miss him. I need him. I finish in the shower, dry off, and quickly get dressed. I grab my key and walk out the door to my room. I don't know anyone in the barracks, I mean, I do but I don't know what rooms they live in. I continue out the front door and walk to the PX. It's the only place I know that may be able to help me.

I find the same German woman from yesterday and ask her a question, "Ma'am, how do I call back to the States?" It seems like a stupid question, but I don't know how. She acts as though this is a question she's been asked a million times before and reaches into the register. She tells me the card will be $20 and explains how to use it, showing me the instructions on the backside of the card. I thank her with a, "Danke," which I'd learned from Schmitty yesterday and leave the PX. I go to the payphone we'd seen in the parking lot on the day prior and dig through my wallet for Joe's mom's telephone number. After dialing, the numerous digits required for stateside access, the phone on the other end rings.

"Hello," a female voice answers on the other line.

"Hi, Mrs. Green," I say nervously, "this is Greg."

"Oh, hi, Greg," she says pleasantly, "Joe's not here. He shipped out a few days ago."

"I know, Mrs. Green, I was wondering if you had his address or phone number yet?" I ask.

"No, he told me he'd call as soon as he could," her Midwestern voice is so sweet and comforting. "I'm guessing he'll be calling in a couple days. Try back then, maybe toward the later part of the week."

"Okay," I'm a little disappointed but I understand at the same time, "thank you. I'll talk to you then."

"Take care and be careful," her kindness catches me a little off guard.

"Thanks," I say as she hangs up the telephone. I hang up the receiver and swallow deeply. The emptiness is still present, more so now than it had been before. I walk slowly back to the barracks, enjoying the fresh air and loosing myself in my thoughts. I walk in to Schmitty still asleep. I flick on the television, muted, and begin programming the stations. The day is quiet and depressing. I can't wait until tomorrow, I think with thick sarcasm.

31 November 1994

My head no longer pounds as I rise to the annoying alarm from the 220-volt clock I'd purchased at the PX on Saturday. I quickly hit the button to turn it off and get out of bed in order to be clean-shaven and to dress for PT. Nervousness has returned and it's unsettling. I hate PT, especially at 0530. The sun has yet to begin poking its rays over the horizon.

I stand in front of the mirror with the water running, my shoes, socks, and shorts already on.

"Man, this sucks," Schmitty says groggily as he stands in the doorway rubbing his eyes.

"I agree," I tell him while standing shirtless in front of the mirror. He walks back into the room. The springs from his mattress squeak. I'm sure he's sitting back on his bunk working out the night eye.

I secretly admire my shoulders flexing as the razor reaches my face and I swipe it downward, removing the stubble and shaving cream. I rinse the razor under the water and soon finish shaving. I go into the main room and begin putting on my shirt, tucking the bottom into the waistline of my shorts.

"It's all yours, man," I tell Schmitty who's actually still lying on his bed. He rolls from the mattress and walks like a zombie into the half-bath area to shave. Shaving is necessary on a daily basis while in the Army. The only time a person can get away with not shaving is on the weekend. I look out the back window to see people starting to get into formation, shadows with the dim backdrop of light behind them. I walk by Smith, "Better hurry up. They are starting to form up back there," I tell him as I exit the room.

"I'll be right out," I hear him answer as the door closes behind me. I walk down the side stairs at the end of the hall; they are closer than going out the front. They're like a permanent fire escape set of stairs mounted to the side of the building. I approach the formation, but I have no idea where, which platoon I'm supposed to fall in with. Luckily, Sergeant Parker waves me down.

"Mornin', Morris. Where's Smith?" he asks me. I immediately go to parade rest in front of him, which appears to be the right thing to do considering the fact that he doesn't object like he had on Saturday.

"He's on his way down, Sergeant," I answer.

"Good, you can fall in to the 2nd Squad," he tells me, "down at the end. We fall into formation highest ranking on the right and lowest at the end."

"Roger, Sergeant," I snap my heels together and go to where I'm told. The other guys from 2nd Platoon, 2nd Squad all gawk at me as I get into their formation like the new kid in high school. I try not to pay too much attention. My nerves are going to get the better of me. I can feel my stomach already pushing tiny convulsions. I breathe deeply and try to push the involuntary reflexes into hibernation. A few moments later, Schmitty approaches and Sergeant Parker has him fall into 3rd Squad. Nobody says anything to us until I see Pogue running across the lawn in our direction. He falls in a couple guys away, in my squad. I suddenly feel a slap on the back.

"What's up, man," Pogue says with a smile. I grin back awkwardly. His chest fills the front of his Army PT t-shirt, it's wide and impressive. His waist is narrow. His body is amazing. I go back to staring straight ahead as more and more guys join the formation. It isn't long before a shot, thick, muscular black man approaches. He is accompanied by a tall, gangly white guy with glasses. He's the 1st Sergeant and I later find out the geeky one is our Company Commander, a Captain, 1st Sergeant Meadows and Captain Bracket.

Accountability is taken and the PT session begins. As it turns out, this company only does 1st Sergeant-led PT and by the looks of him, that's not exciting for me. He starts by having all four of the Company's platoons join in one mass formation and then he has us get into the extended rectangular formation. We begin with basic calisthenics, jumping jacks, which are referred to as side-straddle-hops, and then we start to stretch.

My stomach hasn't calmed down in the slightest and the bouncing of the side-straddle-hops hasn't helped any. I find myself swallowing hard repeatedly. I bend over to touch my toes and that's when it happens. I can't hold it in anymore. I run through the formation, which, in itself is a big no-no, and head toward the grass behind the others. With my hands on my knees, I lose everything in my gut, pretty much bile, and nothing else. The smell hits my nostrils and I lose it again and again. I'm sure everyone's staring, but I don't care. My eyes tear up from the wrenching of my gut and then the feeling subsides just as quickly as it had come. I stand up and gather a bit of sleeve in my fingertips, wiping my eyes clear of moisture.

I turn back to the formation and find the proper way back to my former position. Surprisingly, nobody is staring. Apparently this happens often enough that it's no big deal.

"You gonna be alright, Private?" the 1st Sergeant addresses me from the front of the formation.

"Yes, 1st Sergeant," I reply forcefully to ensure he hears my voice and the motivation behind it. Motivation is a big deal in the Army, even if it is a form of false motivation. If someone sees that you don't care, that's a really big deal, in a negative way. It's kind of like that bucktoothed, tall guy from the infomercials who's always obnoxiously telling people how to succeed. I can't remember his name.

Before I know it, the 1st Sergeant tells us to go to the position of attention and to assemble to the right. This means to get back into our mass formation. Apparently, we're getting ready for a run. My premonition is confirmed when he posts road guards in front and to the rear of the formation. Their jobs are to block the intersections to ensure there is no danger of traffic interfering with our run or injury. Then we march to the road and up a hill, turn to the right at the crest, and off we go. My legs are killing me and my breathing is uncontrolled due to the high altitude. I feel like I'm dying, but I stay with the group. I've come a long way since that first day in Basic Training, something to be proud of. The ups and downs of the hills are inhumane and my head is pounding, my feet are burning, and my knees are screaming. We sing cadence in order to keep our steps in unison. I finally see the barracks ahead. The run is brutal and is probably about three miles long by the time we make it back to the parking lot. The 1st Sergeant extends us out again and we cool down with stretches. He doesn't seem nearly as exhausted as everyone else does. A few stragglers come running down the hill and join us just as we finish. I feel as though I've just accomplished something big. After being released, it's time for shower and breakfast.

"Good job, Morris," Sergeant Parker catches me with a pat on the back as I pass him. "Be back out here at 0900."

"Yes, Sergeant," I reply as I walk down the hill and go up the stairway next to the building, as I had earlier. My shirt is soaked with sweat and I remove it prior to entering my room. My dog tags stick to my chest as they flop back down from the confines of my sopped shirt. I open the door, immediately retrieving my towel and toiletries and go into the shower. I make sure not to take too long, knowing there are others who share the bathroom with us. Five minutes later, I'm getting my uniform and boots on. I brush my combat boots to ensure the best shine that I can. Schmitty lies on his bed.

"Dude, aren't you going to go eat?" I ask him.

"No way, man, I couldn't eat right now even if I wanted to," he replies, "1st Sergeant kicked my ass on that run."

"Suit yourself. I'm starving," I tell him as I leave the room. Pogue meets me in the hallway. His room is the next one to the right of us. Now I know whom I share a bathroom.

"What's up?" he asks rhetorically, "going to eat?"

"Yeah," I answer simply. We walk out the door toward the chow hall, which is located about two blocks down the road from our building.

"That was a pretty good ass kicking you gave Josh Saturday night," I am surprised by the comment.

"I hadn't really thought about it," I reply nonchalantly.

"Not too many people get the upper hand on him," he says.

"I didn't want to fight him. He wouldn't stop fucking with me," I answer.

"Yeah, he's like that. Good job anyway."

"Thanks, no hard feelings from him though right? I don't want to have to be watching my back every day." The smell of bacon and eggs wafts in the air and makes my mouth water.

"Naw, he's cool. You get the better of him once and he leaves it alone from then on. You may have to avoid going out with him though. He knows you can fight. He'll be looking for a buddy to watch his back so he can start shit with someone downtown."

"I'll be sure to remember that," I say as we enter the chow hall. We don't say much more after that. I'm too busy shoving food down my throat. I didn't eat anything yesterday and today I'm starving. The food here is much better than it was in Basic Training and the serving size is much bigger. I am soon stuffed and we're on our way back to the barracks. I look at my watch and notice there's time for a short power nap. We hurriedly get back and I lie down for about fifteen minutes. Next is 9 o'clock formation.

Sergeant Parker is waiting for Smith and me when we go out to the parking lot. He lets us know that the 1st Sergeant and Commander want to meet with us right after formation. Luckily, my stomach is so full, the butterflies return. I hope that there is no news about the fight Pogue reminded me of earlier.

Formation finishes and we go upstairs to meet our higher-ups. We wait outside the 1st Sergeant's office with our positions at parade rest. Its nerve-racking, the anticipation. He walks passed us slowly and questions us. We turn to face him. He is a short, black man and has to look up at both of us while he's talking. His eyes are beady and they seem to be trying to see directly into my soul. He asks things like where we went to Basic Training, who are Drills were, where we're from, the basic information. His southern accent is thick to the point that I don't know what he asked at times and have to respectfully request that he restate the question. It doesn't help that he mumbles when he talks. He's a religious man, he tells us. He wants to know what religions we practice. When I tell him I'm non-practicing, not to be a smartass, I simply believe and that's about it, I feel like he's going to punch me in the face in order to defend his god. I regret admitting it, but don't see the point in lying just to appease someone. After a few grueling minutes, he walks us across the hall to the Commander's office. He introduces us. The Commander jumps from his seat. We go to the rigid position of attention as he approaches. He immediately goes for handshakes and introduces himself as Captain Bracket. Something about his name, or maybe his tall gangly stature, makes me smile inside. I do nothing to get myself into trouble. I am respectful. Thankfully, the Commander is a gracious man, unlike the 1st Sergeant whose ass seems to be filled with a rather large stick. We're finally dismissed and Schmitty and I go back to the formation area to meet Sergeant Parker.

"How'd it go?" Sergeant Parker asks as he snuffs his cigarette butt out.

"It went fine, Sergeant," Smith answers as we near him.

"Good, well, now it's time to head down to the motor pool," the Sergeant says, "That's where we keep the Bradleys." A Bradley is kind of like a tank only smaller and much more maneuverable. It's a tracked vehicle with a gun mounted on it, which shoots three different calibers of munitions. We had a two-day class toward the end of Basic, not nearly enough to know much about them other than their look and basic functions. The motor pool is located up the hill and about five blocks to the right. I'm sure we ran passed it this morning, but then again, everything was kind of a haze this morning.

We approach the entrance, the sounds of loud diesel engines filling the air. There is thick, gray smoke lofting upward but it resonates low enough to make a person choke on it slightly as they inhale, which I do. The exhaust actually has a taste that sits on your tongue. Sergeant Parker doesn't seem to be affected by it at all. That must come with years of exposure. We walk beside the chain-link fence with barbed wire running all along the top. The Bradleys are parked in a perfect line, so perfect in fact that as we pass one of the lines it looks as though there's only one. There are at least forty in the motor pool.

"Are those all our company's?" I ask Sergeant Parker.

"Naw, we have four per platoon," he replies, "the rest are for the other cumpnies in the Battalion." Yes, he said cumpnies. We enter the motor pool. The parking lot is laid cobblestone like the downtown Baumholder streets I'd seen on our way onto post.

"Hey, guys!" Sergeant Parker yells, "2nd Platoon gather 'round." His voice reminds me of one of my Drill's. I am a little surprised to hear it coming from him. He'd been so mild mannered up until now, quiet almost. The platoon members jump from the five-foot-high Bradley fronts, come out from the dropped back ramps of the Bradleys, and approach from the aisles located in between the machines. I'd seen most of them in PT formation this morning, but I'm the new guy and remembering everyone will take a while. They only have to remember two names, Morris and Smith. He introduces the guys to us. Pogue, Josh Williams, and Robby Cole we know, the rest of the names are new to us. I try to soak it in but I'm not good with this whole situation, as I've said before. There are fifteen of them, all different shapes, and sizes. None of the guys really stick out in my head, besides Pogue, of course.

After the intro, we're told to get in there and help. We have no idea what we're doing, but there's only one way to learn. The other guys play innocent tricks on us like they do with all the newbies, or cherries, as we're now being called.

We are told to "test the shocks" of the 33 ½ ton vehicle by jumping up and down on top of it. I know this is bullshit, but I have to do as I'm told since everyone outranks me. The next thing one of them does is tells me to go get a box of T-R-E-E, but when it's said it sounds like this, "Go get a box of tee are double ee," which sounds nothing like TREE to a dumb Private. He tells me to go to the mechanics' bay to get it. I have a hell-of-a-time finding the mechanics' bay considering it's located almost all the way back at the barracks. I walk into the bay and approach the first person I see. Needless-to-say, he immediately laughs his ass off. I quickly leave, knowing that I've just been had. I can't wait for this week to be over with.

Shenanigans lessen as the end of the week nears. Before I know it, Friday is here and we're standing in the final formation of the week. The Commander and 1st Sergeant conduct their safety briefing, wear a condom, don't drink and drive, don't abuse your families, and don't kill yourself, an Army requirement for the weekends. Finally, the 1st Sergeant says "dismissed" and everyone takes off like it's the last day of school. I walk to my room and change my clothes. Schmitty changes by the time I get inside the room.

"Dude, what's your hurry?" I ask him.

"Some of us are going downtown," he says, "You want to come?" Honestly, I do, but I also have a telephone call to make. I guess it can wait until later, compensating for the six-hour time difference and everything. I realize I hadn't even thought of that when I'd called Joe's mom earlier in the week. It was afternoon anyway.

"Sure, I'd like to get outta here for a while," I tell him, "Just give me a couple a minutes to change."

"Ok, hurry though. Pogue wants to be out by 1700 and it's damn near that now."

"I'll hurry," I tell him as I quickly grab an outfit from my wall locker. I go to open the bathroom door.

"Hey, bro, give me a second," I can't believe what I see and I try not to allow my jaw to drop to the floor. Pogue is standing in front of the toilet with his dick in his hand. It's the first time I've seen him with his shirt off. His skin is bronze like he's been lying in a tanning booth, probably a natural skin tone. His chest perfectly shaped like a Calvin Klein model you see on a billboard underwear advertisement. His abdominal muscles are sculpted into a washboard six-pack. I can see the definition where the hip muscles glide their way down to the pelvic region. I contain a gasp. He totally caught me off guard. I quickly back out, apologizing though I'm not at all sorry for what I've just seen. The image sticks in my mind, amazing. He usually locks the door. Though this is the first time it has happened, hopefully it's not the last.

"Next time, how 'bout locking it?" I say as if I'm completely disgusted by what I'd just seen.

"Sorry, I had to piss really badly," he calls back to me through the door. His voice muffled by the solid, wooden door. I hear the toilet flush and the door reopens. His cute face peeks around it. "All yours," he says with a smile, deep dimples, and pearly whites.

"Thanks," I answer. I open the door the rest of the way as he's walking out the other door, pants unbuttoned, his metal, belt clasp flaps as it dangles at his hip. He closes the adjoining door that leads into his room as he exits. I exhale deeply and set my clothes down onto the closed toilet seat. It's protected with a navy blue, carpet-like toilet seat cover.

"Hurry up," he yells from inside his room, "I want to get out of here."

"I am, dick," I reply playfully, secretly flirting to see if he'll bite.

"Screw you, asshole," he says back with a laugh. I wish, I think as I slip my shirt over my head. I quickly pull my blue jeans up over my ass and button them. I leave the bathroom, head still swimming. I push my leather belt through the loops of my jeans and slip on my shoes.

"Are you ready?" I ask Schmitty.

"Yep," he steps into the doorway. I step to the mirror and spray myself with cologne, some of the name brand stuff I picked up at the PX. I check my hair and move toward the door.

"Me too," I tell Smith as we go out the door. Pogue walks out at the same time. I secretly hope I'm not blushing as I notice how good he looks, t-shirt tight across his chest and flowing freely downward, just barely over the waist of his jeans. It's situated such a way that, if he bends over in any way, bare back or sculpted abs will show brilliantly.

"Let's go, bitches," Pogue says as he locks his door. Schmitty fastens ours.

"Where are we going?" I ask as we walk down the stairwell to the front door.

"Downtown," he answers, "I figure, you guys are new and are turning into barracks rats," meaning we stay in our rooms all the time. The truth is, this week has been so exhausting that all I want to do is eat, veg out, and sleep. "It'll be nice to get some culture in ya."

"I need to stop by the ATM," I tell him, "I don't have any cash on me."

"That's cool. Just make sure you get Deutsch Marks. The locals will fuck you on exchange rates around here. At least if you have Marks, you know exactly how much to get back in Monopoly money," he laughs. We stand at the curb waiting for one of the crazy German cabbies to arrive.

"How long have you been in country?" I inquire.

"Ah, almost two years, my time is almost up," he answers, "I wish I could stay forever, but it's the Army way, right?" He isn't really asking us a question. He knows we don't know shit about the Army yet. I still can't place his accent, British maybe.

"Where are you from, man?" I decide just to spit it out.

"What do you mean?"

"You've got a little accent that comes through once-in-awhile. What is that?"

"Oh, I forget about it sometimes. My parents are Brits," clarity.

"That explains it," I say.

"Pay attention when I'm drunk, that Brit shit comes out full-force. I lived there for most of my childhood. We moved to the States when I was 12," I'm hanging on his words. Not only am I infatuated, I've never met an Englishman before.

"Cool," is the last word out of my mouth before the taxicab comes, racing around the corner about three blocks down the street. Pogue takes his usual position in the front seat. We speed off like we're in the Indy 500, the backs of our heads stuck to the seats' headrests.

We pull into a one-way arc in front of the bank the Soldiers use on post and we all get out to use the ATM. The cabby waits, but we go as fast as we can, the meter's running. Next stop downtown Baumholder. The taxi pulls off the road to the curb. The downtown area wasn't visible from the bus as we'd pulled through the village. German words pop out at me as I get out of the car Bäckerei, Kaufhaus, Blumenladen, Lebensmittelgeschäft, Spielwarenladen, and Tierhandlung, just to name a few. I'm sure I can guess what the words mean as I look into the shops, roughly anyway. Pogue leads us to the Kaufhaus. The words are in big, gold lettering above the door.

"If you guys want to get some cool clothes, well, cool by local standards anyway, this is the place for 'em," he says as he goes through the revolving door. I follow him inside with Schmitty close behind. Though this town isn't very big, I think both of us feel completely lost and fear losing Pogue as a tour guide. As I walk inside, the building opens up. The ceilings are high and there are escalators directly to the front. Clothing racks line the floor around the outside with mannequins with blank, silver metallic faces and bodies stand silently in their fashions. Their faces are empty, no eyes, noses, or mouth, a blank slate, eerie. Pogue goes directly to the escalators.

"The men's stuff is on the 2nd floor," he says over his shoulder to us. I watch as he steps on and allows one of his feet to go in front of the other. The back of his blue jeans stains tightly around his round, yet firm looking, ass. I step on right behind him admiring him from the back without being obvious about it, peering upward slightly. We get to the top and step off behind Pogue. He knows exactly where he's going, straight to the shirts. The fashions are quite different than they are in the States. They don't look like styles from the 70s, 80s, or 90s. There's Henley cut crews, some deep V-neck tees, some French cuts, and some regular American style ones as well. Pogue goes directly to the deep V-neck tees. I notice some fishnet shirts as well and some that are a see-through nylon. I pull one of the fishnet ones from the rack and show it to Pogue, laughing.

"This one's pretty cool," I say sarcastically. His eyes light up and he smiles.

"Ha, let me see that," he grabs it from me. Once again, I'm taking aback. Don't tell me he's going to try it on, I ask myself, hoping.

"I was just kidding, man," I respond, only half kidding.

"No way, bro, I'm going to try that shit on," I feel like my heart's going to explode in my chest. I know he could totally pull it off with his body. He goes to the dressing room. Within seconds, he's out modeling the shirt. The shirt leaves his body with nothing left for the imagination. His abs, his round Pecs, and his brown, quarter-sized nipples show. He smiles at me as he twirls, mocking a woman in a sundress. "What do you think, Greg?" he asks me. I laugh, though the chub in my pants says something other than it being humorous.

"Go change back, Pogue, seriously," I tell him as I look around the store to see if anyone is paying attention. I notice Schmitty off in the opposite corner, browsing the racks of more normal American threads. I don't really want him to change, but I also don't want to bust out of my jeans in front of him, a dead giveaway. He puts on a pouty face with his fat lower lip sticking out as he walks away. I hear him snicker. The door closes and I go back to the racks in order to hide my semi-hard on. He returns shortly and starts thumbing hangers again.

"You didn't like it?" he asks.

"That was pretty gay," I answer him with the only defense that I know, slandering all things homosexual in order to protect my own sexuality.

"It was also very funny though," he says without eye contact, "don't you think?"

"Yeah," I look at him, "it was funny." I know I'm blushing again; luckily he's not paying attention. Twice in one day I've seen this man's perfectly shaped body. If he had a clue what I was, I'm sure he probably wouldn't even be talking to me. Maybe he'd be kicking my ass instead. He's a good friend and that's all. I can keep my fantasies to myself.

April 2004

I continue scanning around. I think the sniper is long-gone but I don't know what else to do. A sudden shot is fired. Everything happens so fast. Then I remember the blood dripping down from the gunner's hatch behind me in my truck. Holy fuck is all I can think as I look at him slumped over the .50 caliber machine gun mounted on top of the Humvee's turret.

"Keep looking for that motherfucker!" I yell at my men as I run back to the truck. Oh my God, oh my God runs through my head. I toss my weapon over the center console to the driver's seat and shoot up into the vehicle. His legs are like rubber bands. There is no muscle tension whatsoever. I lower his body down into the truck. The pool of blood causes me to slip as I try to keep him from falling inside. His protective vest makes his body about thirty pounds heavier. I strain to ease him inside. The blood soaks into my uniform. I push the body harness away as his body comes down inside. Redness stains the entire front of his clothing, vest to boots. It's then that I first see his face. His eyes vacantly stare at me. His pupils are empty. "Someone fucking help me!" I yell for them, "Medic!" I scream as loudly as I can. His face is flush and as empty as his eyes. There is a hole a little smaller than the size of a dime just left of the center of his forehead. I lay him down inside completely. His legs are bent. I straighten them as best I can. His face stares blankly at the ceiling of the Humvee.

"Holy shit," a voice comes from behind me. I back away as the Medic shoves himself inside. I stumble backward. My heart stops in my chest. A lump swells in my throat. I can feel the tears welling up inside me. No fucking way! No fucking way! Dear God no, he can't be...

November 1995

The months pass at the unit. Schmitty and I are fitting in pretty well, but we still keep a relatively low profile, hanging out mainly with Pogue. My calls to Joe have gone ignored so I give up. I still have no idea how to get in touch with him and my heart is broken. I can't explain to Smith why I was sniffing my tears away in my bed every night for nearly a week. I told him some bullshit about my grandparents not doing so well. He let it go. My heart isn't completely whole yet and I know there will always be a place for Joe in it. I've pushed his face to the back of my mind where, every once-in-awhile, it pokes out to say hello. Meanwhile, I try to contain my sexually charged emotions toward Pogue. It turns out that he's been extended for a year in Germany, lucky for me. He's a sweet guy. We've sat around watching movies late at night. The entire time I find myself wishing I can touch him, not knowing if it's even an option, but not wanting to press my luck. Maybe its lust, I really don't know. I can't think of anyone more perfect to be lusting after that's for sure.

Our unit has come down on orders to go to Bosnia. The President of the United States came to visit us a couple of weeks ago. He came to give us his blessings. The entire First Family was with him. It was probably one of the coolest experiences I've ever had, to meet a President. The Bosnia, Serbian, and Croatian peoples have been at war for thousands of years. It is our government's belief that it's our time to step in and help those who cannot help themselves. I can't say that I disagree. I'm nervous though. If I were to say that I'm not, I'd be lying. Having only been as far east as Germany, this is going to be an experience.

I've been made Bradley Driver for my Platoon Leader. There is an amazing feeling that goes along with the rumble of a 33 ½-ton vehicle with a gigantically powerful Dodge engine contained within the aluminum alloy armament. The vibrations take some getting used to but it's amazing to be in charge of that much metal.

We depart to Grafenwoehr, Germany, our training area. Graff, as most call it, is where we do our crew gunnery exercises in order to be qualified for deployment. After two weeks there, we move to Hohenfels, Germany. Hohenfels is where we get to play war games. It's like a huge laser-tag arena. Aside from the many sleepless nights, lack of showers, and crappy food, it's fun.

Not long after returning to Baumholder, we'll be departing for Bosnia-Herzegovina, the former Yugoslavia. Schmitty, Pogue, and I decide to go for one last night out. I've become fairly familiar with the area over the half year of being here. We decide to go down to the Metropol, a German club not far from the front gate. The club is actually close enough that if you have to you can walk back to the barracks, though it's not an enjoyable walk. I've been hammered enough a couple of times that Schmitty and I have made the trek up and down the hills. We'd spent all of our money on alcohol and no cab driver will transport for free so our feet had to carry us, stumbling home before the sun came up.

The village is pretty at night. All of the buildings are so close together that it hardly seems necessary for streetlamps as the lights pour onto the streets through windows. The square is busily bustling with German sprechen from the locals as they wander across the cobblestone strasse. I've only learned a few German words, mostly how to order a drink really. Pogue, Schmitty, and I cross from where the cabby drops us off and walk over to the Metropol. The nice thing about the Metro is that most Soldiers don't come here anymore. It's a bit of added peace and an avoidance of brawls. We walk around to the side entrance. A beefy, German bouncer wearing a black t-shirt that's way too tight across his huge Pecs stops us to check our IDs. He's definitely intimidating enough with his bulging biceps flexing across his huge chest, stretching the shirt sleeves to their maximum capacity. Maybe he's the reason none of the other Soldiers come here.

I let the other two go ahead of me while holding the door open. The cigarette smoke wafts outward into the night atmosphere. The mixture of body odor, perfume, and cigarette smoke is a little nauseating. Luckily, the smoke covers the body odor smell, seemingly more so than the perfume does. The club is dark and techno music resonates loudly within. We catch random stares as we enter. Soldiers stereotypically mean trouble to the locals and they don't really like us around. Usually, they just ignore us after the initial glance. We find a seat off to the side of the dance floor. I notice a couple of American girls watching us from the opposite side of the club. They are three average-looking women, one is a blonde-haired person, and the others are brown-haired women. Their clothing is all-too revealing, short skirts, and low-cut tops. I made out with a girl once in the eighth grade, but once was enough for me to know it didn't feel right. I look away. Schmitty volunteers to get the first round, shots of vodka with a slice of lime. I notice Pogue glancing in the women's direction, but it's quick and it almost seems unintentional. I see one of them smiling from my peripheral vision. Schmitty returns with the shots and a Guinness each in which to chase them.

"Prost," Pogue says loudly as he lifts his shot glass, "here's to our last night out in German for a while." We follow suit. We simultaneously bring our glasses down, lime slices between our fingers, and allow the bottoms to hit the table with a clack before bringing them to our mouths. The liquid is immediately soothing with an underlying burn as it hits my throat. We each bring the limes to our lips and wash the alcohol away with the sour citrus. The Guinness shortly follows. Like they say, liquor before beer, you're in the clear, right? It hasn't failed me yet.

The thick, frothy liquid deliciously flows down my throat. Everyone thinks German beer is served warm, not from what I've experienced. Then again, Baumholder is rather Americanized.

I hear the clip clops of their high heels skipping across the dance floor as they approach us. I look toward them with a feeling of dread in my heart. The blonde one starts the conversation as they get closer.

"Hey, guys," she says while directing her words at Schmitty. She bats her thick mascara, spider webbed eyelashes. "How 'bout a drink," she asks. I immediately find myself annoyed by her presumptuousness. I look at Smith to see his eyes lighting up. Neither of us has had sex in a long time. These are things spoken in the barracks between roommates while there's nothing else to talk about. I always find myself inventing stories about this one chick and that one chick though there's never been any chick.

"Sure," he answers almost too eagerly, "what can I get the three of you?" He gets up from his stool as he speaks. They tell him what they want as if they're placing an order with a barmaid. He leaves to retrieve their beverages. The women go over to the next table and pull the empty stools over to ours. They place themselves strategically between Pogue and me. I feel a bit of queasiness in my gut. Exactly how am I going to play this one off without seeming like a faggot?

"Hey," the chubbier of the two brunettes says to me as she places her hand on my thigh, "I'm Megan. What's your name?" These women have obviously done this several times before. I pretend that her hand isn't touching me.

"I'm Greg," I answer without a smile or pleasantry.

"Nice to meet you, Greg," she bats her eyes at me. Little does she know, this isn't working for me in the slightest, I need a momentary escape.

"Excuse me a sec," I say quickly. "I need to go to the restroom." I look at Pogue who doesn't seem too excited either. He's usually a smiley person who shows off his pearly whites whenever he gets the chance. He's not even looking at her, appearing uncomfortable. I get up and walk to the bathroom, which is located down a hallway along the bar. The lights get dimmer and dimmer as I walk to the beat up old door that says Herren on it. I swing it open and go to the closest urinal, tucked away in a corner. It takes a moment before my body cooperates and the urine starts flowing. The urinals hang freely from the wall, no privacy stalls between. I hear the door opening and footsteps sounding next to me. I glance over, Pogue's standing there. He assumes a position at the urinal right next to me even though there is another beyond that one.

"Dude, those chicks are crazy and just looking for a free drink," he says as piss starts streaming into the porcelain with an echoing spray.

"No shit," I respond as I put my dick back into my pants, flush the urinal, turn toward the sink, and take a few strides before I'm in front of it. I look at Pogue from the mirror. I can tell from the back that he's shaking it off, adjusting, and zipping up. His flushes, I turn on the water and direct my sights to my own hands. I get them wet and go for the soap. Pogue dips his hands in. I can feel him staring at me from the reflection of the mirror, sensing his eyes on me.

"What's your deal anyway," he asks me.

"What do you mean my deal," I inquire as I lather the soap on my hands.

"I'm not stupid, man," Pogue says softly.

"Who ever said you were?"

"I can tell you know," he answers.

"You can tell I know what?" I ask him. I feel as though I already know what the answer is going to be, scaring me slightly.

"I see the way you look at me," he responds, his eyes directed to me now rather than the mirror as we share a sink.

"I don't know what you're talking about." My stomach is going crazy. I feel like I'm going to puke. I continue to avoid eye contact while running my hands under the water, rinsing the suds away, watching the water swirling downward. One of his hands gently goes toward mine. I can't tell if he's serious or seriously fucking with me. He likes to joke around often.

"I think you do know what I'm talking about, Greg," he says. His hand cups mine in his beneath the water. I can feel myself start to shake. I don't know what to do. If he's making a pass at me, I don't want to push him away, but if he's fucking with me, I don't want him to find out the truth either. "Look at me," he whispers after a moment of hand contact. I debate questions quickly in my mind. What do I do? Do I look? Do I run? Oh my god, I think as I turn my face in his direction and look into his eyes awkwardly. Their greenish hue is mesmerizing with a yellow sprinkling, almost gold, around their edges. His lips are pout and perfect. He smiles that wonderful smile I've grown so accustomed to. The grin is only slight and it's just long enough for him to slowly go for my lips. Our lips touch and everything I've come to think of as reality comes crashing down. The fact that a gorgeous man like Pogue is actually kissing me makes my brain swim. The straight friend I'd thought I had to hide my homosexuality from is truly kissing me. The water continues to rush over our hands. The door suddenly swings open and we break away as if nothing happened.

"What the hell, guys?" Schmitty enters the room and goes straight to a urinal, takes it out, and starts to pee. Pogue and I look at each other in the mirror. I'm blushing and he seems nervous at the fact that we'd almost just got caught, eyes rolling awkwardly like he's looking for a place to run to. "It's been like five minutes. I thought you were taking a shit or something." Schmitty continues to talk like he's on cloud nine and his words are rushed.

"Sorry, man," Pogue responds first, "we just got to bullshitting about stuff." The urinal flushes. I go to dry my hands on a paper towel from a wall dispenser. Smith assumes my position at the sink after I'd moved out of the way.

"We were just on our way out," I explain. Pogue comes over and grabs a paper towel as well. I toss mine into the trashcan and he does also. We stand by the door waiting for Schmitty to finish. My brain is still swimming as though I'm dreaming this whole thing.

"Well, let's go then." His arms go to our shoulders as he leads us out the door. "Those lovely ladies are waiting for us."

"Yeah," I say sarcastically and without the slightest emotion.

"Lovely," Pogue adds with the same excitement as me. He looks behind Smith's left shoulder toward me, smiling big. We're in the clear. My gut relaxes now that the shit just got scared out of me. The girls are sitting where they were when we left. The brunettes wave from across the dance floor. We take our seats. As the one places her hand back on my thigh, I can't help thinking about what had just happened in the bathroom. From his random looks, I don't think Pogue can either. Just for a while, for Schmitty's sake, I think to myself, grin and bear it for the time being.

After a couple of uncomfortable hours, two of the women leave us, searching for someone that's more into them. The girl with Schmitty decides to stay. The argument between the three is brief, but blonde wins evidently, as the two walk toward another table. The club has gotten busy and drinks are everywhere. I'm feeling a bit buzzed, borderline drunk. She hangs on Smith flirtatiously. He's sold on her hook, line, and sinker. Pogue and I share glances and conversation from across the table. Eventually, Schmitty catches my ear with a whisper, asking if I'd be willing to find a place to crash tonight. He wants her to come back to the barracks with him. Evidently, she doesn't have a place of her own, probably married with her husband deployed. Shit like this happens all the time in the military. I will gladly find a place to crash tonight.

"Pogue has an extra bed," I tell Smith in his ear and shoot a sneaky wink to Pogue from across the table. He smiles at me. "Let's go then," I say. We all get up, each stumbling a bit. We exit the club and find the nearest taxi stand, directly across the street. We get in an awaiting cab, announce our destination, and the cabby speeds off as they always do. Being a drunk in a German cab isn't an easy exploit. The tight, fast turns and speeding, the jostling of the bumps are not easy on the stomach when accompanied by intoxicated dizziness either.

Before long, we are entering the barracks. Smith and Blondie go straight for his bed without turning on any lights. I go into the bathroom for a much-needed piss. Pogue has already beaten me to it. He stands there, bracing his muscular frame with his right hand on the wall directly to his front. This time I don't run away like a scared little girl. I watch him without shame and he stands with the same stature, confident, as he ought to be. He doesn't even bother to zip up as he lets his boxer's elastic snap back into place. He leaves without closing his adjoining room door. I take my turn at the toilet, lock the door behind me, and quickly go in to join him. As I enter the room, he's already in his bed. He pulls back the covers and I strip down to my own boxers. I crawl in with him. He immediately crawls on top of me and we meet at the waist. We kiss for a long-awaited eternity. He pulls away while running his fingers through the high-and-tight tuft of hair atop my head. He looks into my eyes.

"What the 'ell took you so long?" He asks quietly. The English accent flows through a bit due to slight intoxication. The moonlight flows into the room through the sheer curtains hanging down from the curtain rod. A bump from Schmitty's bed on the other side of the wall knocks against the divider, stopping our conversation for a few seconds.

"I don't honestly know," I answer.

"Remember our first trip downtown?" He whispers. "I figured my wearing that god awful shirt would've put you over the edge enough."

"Ha, ha, ha," I sarcastically. "It did, but how was I supposed to know you were using it as a way to pick me up?"

"Well, I just figured..." he stops as though he doesn't know what else to say.

"Besides, you can never be too careful. We are in the Army after all," I finish.

"I'm glad things finally worked themselves out," Pogue says.

"Can I ask you a question though?" I shoot him a request.

"Sure," he says, "I'm pretty much naked and also a little vulnerable at the moment." He snickers as he looks down between our bodies, down to where he's lying between my legs.

"What's your first name?"

"Dean," he responds.

"Ok, Dean," I say before kissing him deeply once again. All the emotions that have been waiting so long to come out finally get their chance. As the moon pours in on our bodies, we explore each other. Neither of us is very experienced, but everything seems perfect. We fall asleep in each other's arms, Pogue's muscular arm beneath my neck and my head on his perfectly sculpted, hairless chest. It is the best night's sleep I've had in my entire life.

January 1996

My unit spends the week getting the last minute things ready. Our orders have been pushed back a couple of days due to something out of our control, much further above our heads in the chain of command than any of us are aware. I spend a lot of time over in Pogue's room, but we're careful not to make things too obvious. I go back to my own room most nights to sleep, breathing heavily as I try to drift off to sleep, knowing that that beautiful man is just on the other side of the wall. It seems a love might be blossoming and I think he's feeling the same way from how he looks at me.

The day finally comes when it's time for us to leave Baumholder. There isn't a huge send-off like a parade or anything. We simply meet at the company with all of our bags, which are packed to our Platoon Sergeant and Platoon Leader's specifications. We have a formation and move down to the railhead. The railhead is where there is a train with mainly flatbeds attached to it. We'd spent all day Friday loading our Bradleys onto the train. Our platoon, 2nd Platoon, somehow gained the detail of rail heading all of the Companies vehicles and we are also in charge of securing the train all the way into Hungary. This is going to be an adventure.

Our platoon boards the train. It only has three or four passenger cars for us, located nearest the engine. The train is long and everyone is rowdy. I'm personally feeling a bit nervous. We don't exactly know what we're getting into and the President wasn't very clear either. All that we know is that there is a country full of people being taken advantage of by others and we're going to step in to ensure peace and fairness. Prior to this, I had barely any knowledge of the country formerly referred to as Yugoslavia. There's nothing like jumping into a culture with both feet, something you'd think I'd be used to by now.

The train leaves the staging area before the sun starts to come up. We've all found our seats in the passenger cabins. There are four Soldiers to a booth with the Platoon Sergeant and Platoon Leader sharing one nearest the driver's compartment. I end up stuck with three others whom I don't usually converse with, so I try sleeping as often as possible. When I'm not able to sleep, I read. The tracks are bumpy beneath us as it travels along the countryside. I look out the window, having no idea where we are. Vineyards line the hillsides running along the train tracks. The sun is high and beaming. The lushness of the grapevines is eye catching. In the States, railroad tracks generally run close to a highway or interstate. In Europe, from what I've seen so far, this isn't the case. There are no cars or people anywhere. A country home pops into view from between the trees here and there, otherwise, it seems rather desolate.

Finally, we come to a stop, which means it's time for someone to pull security around the train. It takes half of the Platoon to accomplish securing the entire length of the train. We get out and get our M16s ready just in case some nonmilitary member of society tries anything funny. It seems pointless considering the lack of people, but one can never be too careful. I find Pogue and we pair up at the stairs after getting off.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," I respond.
"How's it going in your car?"

"It's boring as shit."

"Yeah, mine too." We continue to walk along the tracks with our weapons at the low-ready. I scan the area. There are two-man groups roving in front of and behind us. They are quite a ways away. Though I know it's risky, I take a chance. Once I find a break between train flatbeds, the Bradley tracks ride close to the edges and fill the bed almost completely on either side, I push Pogue in and kiss him hard. It's just a quick one, but I couldn't wait any longer. He smiles at me after we break away, wiping our mouths quickly. We walk back out to the edge of the cars and continue along the route.

"You're kind of crazy," Pogue says with an amused laughter.

"Well, Dean, sometimes when you feel the need to do something, you just have to do it. Besides, those other guys are far enough away that they can barely see us."

"Greg," he says.

"Yeah," I answer while nearly tripping over a rock beneath my combat boot.

"I love you," he responds. My heart skips a beat. I wasn't sure how long it'd be before one of us would say the words. He kicks a rock with the tip of his boot.

"I love you too, Dean," I reply shyly and with honesty. He was the first person to greet me in country with friendliness. Our late-night talks have been wonderful and he's made me feel so much better about myself. He makes me wish I could go with him to see my parents and so I can finally come out. He's worth it and I know that he'd be supportive no matter what their response will be. We don't say anything else. We enjoy the moment of unspoken words as we walk to the end of the train and around the other side. Once we finally make it back to the train entry doors, we smile at each other without anyone noticing. I settle back into my car with happiness in my heart and longing in my brain. I lose myself in my book, concentrating is hard.

We make several stops on our way to Hungary. The first one is the only time I manage to pair-up with Dean, which is disappointing. After a couple of days, we arrive in Hungary. It's the middle of the night and we have to unload all of the vehicles. The next step is a road trip, also known as a road march. The mechanized folk, ones with tanks and Bradley's, refer to road marching the same as a foot march. I like these ones much better than the ones that cause blisters and achy muscles.

I jump into the driver's seat of my assigned Bradley, my Platoon Leader's, also known as a LT or Lieutenant. The hatch is solid and sits on a locking mechanism that opens above my head. I fire it up by pushing in the throttle in the neutral position. The engine growls at first, but soon becomes smooth. I try to ignore the fact that the track of the vehicle pokes over the edge of the bed by about an inch on either side. One false move and this 33 ½-ton vehicle could come crashing to the earth with me bouncing around inside, if I don't get trapped beneath it and it crushes my bones first. I take it slow as my Bradley gunner guides me with his flashlight. Ten flatbeds later, my tank is easing down a ramp at the end. Relief sets in as the metal tracks touch solid ground. I pull off with the other members of my Platoon, dropping the ramp and everyone gets inside. There is room for eight dismounts in the back, plus my LT, my gunner, and me. I have the best seat in the house, alone in a tunnel toward the front left of the Bradley. My LT and gunner share the turret while the dismounts get bench seats in the back. My gunner gives me the vocal command over the VOX headset located inside my crew helmet, I raise the ramp, and off we go. 3rd Squad leads the way. We're third in the line-up.

We drive from Hungary all the way into Bosnia. I have no idea how far it is. I do know that the early morning air is cold, chilling me to the bone. I crank up the heater. The only problem with my seat when driving with the hatch open, it pushes all the heat to the back, lucky dismounts. The air cuts through my gloves and shoots down into the top of my gortex jacket. My fingers are numb and I have to pee. The cold only makes things worse. I have snot dripping from my nose. I quickly wipe my nose with the back of one of my gloved hands and place it back on the yoke-shaped steering wheel.

The sun starts warming the mountainous air as it gets higher in the sky. I realize we've made it into the country we're coming to save when men, women, and children of all ages start gathering in groups beside the road. They wave enthusiastically, welcoming us. Many of the older people are missing most of their teeth, noticing this when they smile. It gives me a feeling of welcome, but it also has me worried that it's a false greeting. We'd been told stories before leaving Germany. Bosnia-Herzegovina is one of the worst land mined areas in the world and they have some of the best snipers as well. At this point, I don't know what to think. I wave back nervously while maneuvering the large vehicle down the narrow, rundown roads. The asphalt is cracked and has been in obvious need of repair for probably decades. My vehicle is designed for terrain like this and it isn't affected, though it is probably tearing up the roadwork more than it already is. A wretched smell resonates in the air. It's what I imagine to be the odor of rotting flesh, but I don't know for sure. Garbage litters the countryside and old vehicles in much need of repair sputter passed our vehicle formation. Our crewmembers continue to communicate over the radio, warning each other of passing traffic and possible hazards to avoid.

We near a river. I look ahead. The water is wide and the other side seems miles away. The rush is intense. The Army Corps of Engineers have laid out a floating metal bridge. The first thing that comes to my mind is can that shit even hold us up? We are in an extremely heavy tank after all. All we can do is trust that the calculations were good ones. My LT guides me onto the metal bridge, ensuring that I'm centered enough to avoid any possible issues. I'm sure we're all thinking the same thing, hoping we haven't come all this way only to drown in a polluted, raging river. I watch as the rampant rapids sweep beneath the floating bridge. A speedboat pushes against the rush of the river on the opposing side, engine racing in order to keep the bridge aligned. After about fifteen minutes, the test is over and we're back on dry land. I calm myself down as I drive back onto the cracked asphalt. More civilians greet us on the other side, waving continues.

Eventually, we're skirting the river from the road, maybe it's a different one than the one we'd just crossed, I don't know. The skeletons of cars and trucks lie in the bottom of the river. Their windowless tops poke up just above the doors, collecting trash as it floats by. White plastic hangs on as if it's trying not to drown or be swept away. It flaps in the river like curtains hanging from a rod with the wind from an open window pushing it. I wonder to myself how many people's lives have been lost in this war over the centuries. A random civilian, mostly elderly women, walk toward us along the roadway beside our tanks.

My LT tells me that we're nearing our destination. We pull into a valley surrounded by mountains, the natural rocks jutting upward high above us. The clearing at the bottom is probably a half a mile long by a half a mile in width. A lonely house sits on one of the hillsides. I'm directed to pull my vehicle in toward the house. A huge chunk of mountain sticks up in the direction of my 3 o'clock. The mud is thick as I pull my Bradley toward the house on the hillside. It rolls groggily forward but makes it in. I don't find it necessary to step on the brake pedal in order to stop, the muck doing it for me. Considering the fact that it was so cold earlier in the day, I'm surprised by the mud. The hill turns green with thick grass to our front. The house seems out of place compared to the rest I've seen on our way here. It reminds me a little of one of the scenes from The Sound of Music. I can envision Julie Andrews twirling in the grass in front of me. The thought makes me laugh a little even though my bladder hurts along with my ass.

My LT hops out from his hatch in the turret. He's a tall, gangly guy with glasses, much like my Company Commander. Too bad, he's not as pleasant to work with as my CO. He's a dumbass who doesn't know anything, straight from the Citadel and stupid as shit. I'm sure he's book smart, but that's all he's got going for himself. My gunner and I talk shit about him all the time behind his back and the rest of the platoon members despise him also, even our Platoon Sergeant. My LT stumbles down the front of the Bradley, nearly tripping over a bolt head, which fastens the metal into place. He catches himself and hops off of the front. The clearing from the front is only about two feet from the ground, but it's enough for him to sink up to his knees in mud. The barrel of his M16 goes in with his legs. I cringe inside as I see the mess. I'm glad I'm not the one responsible for cleaning his weapon. I try not to laugh, but can't help it. I hide my face near the yoke, just behind the control panel inside my hatch, telling my gunner what's just happened through the headset. He eventually gets unstuck, looking like he crapped on himself. My gunner and I talk about him, laughing as he slinks away.

We keep an eye on the terrain to our front to ensure there's no enemy threat. I reach for an empty water bottle I've got sitting near my seat on the shelf. I adjust myself so I can pee, relief. I look up to see that the only threat nearby is a little boy, probably about an 8-year-old, walking down the hillside from the house. I quickly finish and tuck the bottle back into the corner, tightening the lid down securely beforehand. He has a handkerchief in his hand. I immediately go on the defense. He approaches with smiles and waves, showing he's not a threat. He greets me in his language. I have no idea what he's saying, but as he peels back the cloth, I understand. Steam rises from the lepinja, Bosnian pita bread, within. It looks delicious. He offers it to me and I take it while communicating nonverbally, foolishly saying thank you in English as if he'll understand. One thing the Army has taught me since being in Germany; most countries find it insulting when you deny their generosity by saying no. Since we've just decided to make this our new neighborhood, it would be rude to upset the welcoming host. I take a piece of the bread and put it into my mouth. It's delicious! I thank the boy in English again. He goes to the other vehicles with his peace offering. I eat contently. My gunner comes down for a taste and then goes back to his hatch. It isn't long before the LT returns. He informs us that we may be moving and that we'll be sleeping on our track until we know for sure.

The days are long and drawn out. The nights are freezing cold. We spend our days driving the mountainous terrain. It turns out that much of the Bosnian countryside hasn't been mapped and that becomes our job. The roads are treacherous and glazed with ice. Tree cover keeps the freeze from thawing during the daylight hours. The Bradley tracks have a rubber padding that keeps the metal from tearing up the surfaces that it touches. Rubber and ice don't mix. If you've ever gone inner tubing down a snowy slope, you know what I'm talking about.

We climb up the narrow road. There is nothing keeping us from falling off the sides and plummeting to our deaths. The turns are hairpin. The acceleration and steering of a Bradley is tricky, even to those who've been trained properly. If a driver turns too hard without accelerating quickly enough, the engine will die. If he doesn't turn hard enough and accelerates too fast, the track will shoot forward abruptly. We reach the first turn. I crank on the yoke and push in on the accelerator pedal simultaneously. The vehicle moves slowly. The track spins on both sides, but it goes nowhere. I give it more gas, steering sharply. I can feel the Bradley going backward. I know there's nothing behind us but cliff. I push harder and faster as the track spins. It eventually grips and we move forward. This mini-freak-out happens every time and all I can think about is falling hundreds of feet to the ground. I never get used to it and then it's over. We stop traveling in the mountains and start sticking to the roads instead. I guess the higher-ups got what they needed.

Back at our little camp in the valley, our tents are up and we're living inside them on cots. The living conditions are shitty, but it's just the way it is. We're back to pulling nighttime Fire Guard, which is something I hadn't done since Basic Training. It gives Pogue and me an opportunity to talk every once in a while. I miss sleeping with him in his bed, watching movies, staying up late talking, and going downtown for a gyro when the craving arises. The most we manage now is a quick peck in the darkness, ensuring nobody is around to see it happening. Soldiers have night vision goggles, so that makes it even more difficult.

There has yet to be showers installed or running water of any kind. The Brown & Root Company of civilian contractors recently moved in and they are working on it. It's been almost two months since any of us has had anything besides a baby wipe bath. We burn shit in barrels placed beneath toilet seats like outhouses. You would think this is a disgusting thing to do when it's actually not that bad. We take a 5-gallon container of gasoline, pouring it into the combination of feces and urine and light it on fire with a torch. Once the flames start, the shit turns into ash quickly and the smell isn't what one would think. I'm lucky to be a LT's driver and don't get stuck with the task very often 'cause we've got more important things to do.

Once the showers finally start to work, it's one of the best feelings I've ever felt. I stand under the water for as long as I can while running the bar of soap over my body. The two-month grim slithers its way down the drain. I feel so much better. It's only about a week longer before the tents come down and small, six-man trailers are established. They are equipped with bunks, much better than the canvas cots we've been sleeping on for a little over two months. Regrettably, Pogue and I don't share a room. I probably don't want to be able to see him all the time without being able to act on it anyway. We meet at the chow hall, recently built as well, as often as we can.

Five uneventful months into the deployment, we're sitting at a table by ourselves. Pogue looks at me with a look of regret. I can feel it.

"I just came down on orders," he starts.

"Orders for what," I ask.

"Orders to go home," he adds, "Remember when they extended me?"

"Yeah," I answer.

"Well, considering the fact that there's nothing going on here quite like they expected, they said I could go," he finishes. My heart breaks again. After Joe, I know there's no chance I'll ever see him again.

"When do you leave," I choke on my own tears.

"The LT said next week," his voice is quivering.

"Well, get excited. At least you get to get the fuck out of here," I say. Even though my emotions are swelling, I can't think negatively about it. I've known this was coming. I just wasn't thinking it'd be this soon.

"Don't be upset," Dean says.

"I'm not going to say that I'm not upset, but there's nothing I can do about it." His knee touches mine beneath the vinyl-covered table. A hand reaches underneath after a quick glance around the room. Mine goes under also. He squeezes it firmly. I know what he's saying without using words. He's telling me he's sorry. He doesn't have to, knowing good things never last in my favor, I don't ever expect too much in life. It chokes me up even more with my hand in his. I pull myself away from him before tears start falling and I pick up my milk carton, swallowing tears behind the liquid. He smiles at me with a glistening in his eyes as well.

"Don't," I say as I place the carton back on the table. He and I both blink rapidly. "Let's not talk about this anymore. I want to stay happy for the next week."

"Okay," he replies. His hand squeezes my knee and then falls away. We go back to our meals. We are silent. I keep myself from thinking about his leaving. I'll cross that bridge when it comes. Right now, he's still here.

The end of the week comes all-too-quickly. We say our secret goodbyes in the darkness of the night while we talk for hours before his departure. I smoke too many cigarettes from the stress, making my lungs hurt. We kiss one last time behind my trailer before the sun comes up. I have to go out on mission this morning and Dean is gone before I get back. I cry myself to sleep in silence that night. I'll miss him forever, but he's lucky to be out of the Army. Now he can be free. I'm alone once again. I hate this place. His face haunts my dreams as I sleep for nearly a week. I just can't take it anymore.

August 1996

"Hey, Greg," my Mom says, "how are things going there? It's been so long since we've talked." The telephones aren't that great in Bosnia. The Army has communication links set up through satellites and there's a delay that takes some time getting used to.

"I'm fine, Mom," I tell her. It's a lie.

"Really, you don't sound like you're fine," she replies.

"Naw, I'm just really tired," I lie again, "We've been going nonstop it seems like." I try to concentrate on my Mom's voice over the other ones nearby chattering on other phone lines. The phone center is located in an Army tent. There's only a separation of thin plywood, forming a cubical-like barrier between us, the noises of loud vehicle engines outside doesn't help either.

"Are you eating alright? Are you getting along with everyone," typical Mom questions.

"Yeah, Mom, everything's fine," I try to say it with more enthusiasm this time to get her off my back. If she only knew what's running through my mind right now at this moment. I can't shake the depression. I can't talk to anyone about it. I can't be myself. I'm at a loss.

"Okay," she responds, "I just worry about you is all."

"I know," I say. I hear Dad in the background tell him that I love him, which she does. The words make my Adam's apple swell. I can feel the tears working their way up and out but I don't allow it. I swallow hard and, after several concealed attempts, it works to keep the tears away. After a few more minutes of conversation, I tell Mom I love her and that it's time for me to go. We are all on a time limit and, though I'm shorting myself by a few minutes, I'm done talking anyway. Feelings of guilt become thicker as the conversation continues for what I'm about to do. She tells me how much she loves me too and we hang up the telephones.

I push in the chair I'd been sitting in and it screeches across the wood floor just like the ones in our kitchen at home. The sound tears through the air. I silently apologize to one of the Soldiers when he gives me a weird look due to the unintentionally rude interruption of his phone conversation. I walk through the vinyl flaps and out of the tent. The moon is high in the sky, just beyond the mountain peak we've come to refer to as the witch's tit because it juts into the air and is usually crested with snow like a bra covering. Soldiers say the stupidest things. The night air is comfortable with a slight coolness.

I walk toward a block-shaped silhouette located just far enough away from the main sleeping area, a bunker reinforced with sandbags. We'd spent several hours filling and stacking the sandbags in the months prior. The rectangular entryway is dark in front of me. I walk inside. There is a stale, dank humidity looming in the air from the day's heat and wet sand. I feel around, ensuring not to run into any of the many wooden 4x4 braces running upward in support of the heavy ceiling. I remember the layout from its construction and it isn't hard maneuvering. Though, the pitch-blackness leaves me blind. I find a plywood interior wall and slide down onto my ass. The floor is dirt and damp, moisture leaking into my uniform almost instantly, soaking the fabric to my underwear. I reach into my left cargo pocket, pulling out a small bottle of water. I locate the cold pills located in my left pocket as well. I feel the surface of the pills and start popping them free from the confines of their foil and plastic container. I pluck them all loose and hold them in my hand, twelve double-doses in all. About a month ago, the Army had a small PX built on the camp and that's where I got the pills. Too bad the only thing they sell is cold medicine Tears dribble slightly down my face. I figure, if I take enough of them I can at least fall asleep forever. Someone will find me eventually. Either a mortar attack or the stench of rotting flesh will draw them in. I pop the pills into my mouth, only getting a few more than half of them at first, and quickly open the bottle of water. I go for the remaining ones in my hand, tossing them to the back of my throat. Swallowing is difficult, but I manage to choke them all down. Now I wait.

The moisture soaks my ass completely and seeps toward my testicles, down the undersides of my thighs. I think of Joe and how much love I have for him. I can't even picture his face clearly anymore, seeming like a lifetime ago since we'd seen each other. My mind floats to Dean and his beautifully perfect smile, glistening white teeth all in a glorious line. How his dimples are deeply inset, adorably complimenting to his grin. I imagine looking into his glimmering green eyes, jade hue surrounding that black, soulful center with the sprinklings of gold. I hear his voice as he looks at me and then I hear his laugh. I miss him so much. The tears, which were once trickling, are now flowing. My head begins to cloud after about a half-an-hour. A grayish, fogginess looms within my brain. Nothing seems to make sense and my images of love fade without my being able to control them. In the darkness, my eyes flutter as I fall asleep thinking nothing at all.

I can't tell if I'd actually passed out or if I'd only imagined it. I get up with a wrenching in my gut and I stumble with dizziness. I stumble forward, catching one of the center beams with my hand. Nothing is clear. The pain is uncanny as my stomach pushes against my abdominal muscles. The taste of the pills comes up, a little at first, and then it flows like a waterfall. The medication burns my throat and assaults my tongue as it leaves my body. The liquid splashes onto the hard earth. I feel bits of the sickness as it slaps against my boots. I heave over and over again, nearly convulsing like I'm having a seizure. My hands leave the pole and go down to my knees while everything projects from my body. My head continues to swim and, though it's pitch black, I see stars. They aren't the ones that sit in the night sky; they are the ones from pain and dizziness. I stumble backward and fall onto my ass, rolling to my back and then onto my side just in case things aren't finished, which they aren't. I heave again and again. My guts are pouring from my mouth. It hurts so badly. Then it stops. I scoot back enough, without leaving my side against the bare ground, to be away from my bile and curl up into the fetal position. I hold myself for a long time, closing my eyes and realizing it isn't my time. I wait until I am comfortably able to move without trouble before standing up fully.

I feel my way back to the entryway and enter the world with a moonlit night sky. The stars twinkle down on my hazy head. Everything's still cloudy, but at least I've got my coordination back. I look down at my clothes, which are now covered in black dirt all along my right side. My boots are splattered with an orange-colored vomit. I slowly walk toward my sleeping trailer, noticing that all of the lights are out. I look at my watch, which says 0345. I'd gone into the bunker around 2100 hours, almost eight hours later. I sneakily open the door to the trailer. Everyone's snoring inside, luckily. I ease the door closed and head for my bunk. I remove all my clothes, slip them into my laundry bag, and retie the bag to the end of my bunk's metal frame. I hide my combat boots under my bed until I can clean them off. It isn't until I creep into my bed that I once again notice the rancidity in my mouth. From beneath my covers, I reach for my personal hygiene bag under the bed, retrieve a tube of toothpaste, and squeeze some onto my finger. This'll have to do for now, I think as I suck the minty cream from my index finger. I put everything away and close my eyes. With my brain still swimming, I think about how lucky I am. I don't really want to die. I'm stronger than that. I can handle this. I drift off in order to allow the poison's remaining effects to fade.

December 1997

The months pass and, with my secret attempted suicide successfully concealed, I am promoted to Specialist rank before we finally leave Bosnia and return to Germany. Specialist Morris is much better than Private or Private First Class Morris. My heart still aches, but it's time to move on. My near-death experience has put a lot of things into perspective. Maybe the fact that we nearly lost men due to the explosion of a landmine helped with the seriousness of life as well, I'm not exactly sure which it was, maybe a little of both? The deployment is uneventful other than those two things.

My Platoon isn't stuck riding the train back to Germany. We leave all of our equipment and the Bradleys for the incoming units. They are now foster children, handed from one set of parents to another. I'd been pretty attached to my Bradley and I'll miss her, but that's like everything else in my life. We lose what we care about and it's completely beyond our control.

We travel by bus to Hungary, the same exact route we'd traveled here in our Bradleys when we'd come. This time though, we don't have to cross a floating pontoon of a bridge. They've fixed the original bridge and the crossing is spectacular. The water is far below us as we pass from the tip of one gigantic hill to another. The forests here are just as thick as they are in Germany, I hadn't noticed on the last pass. It's beautiful and completely possible that I'm thinking this way because Bosnia's soon going to be in our rearview mirror.

We arrive in Hungary and are assigned tents. It isn't much different from what it was when we'd first moved to Bosnia from Germany, though a lot cleaner. Small pebbles, much like a rock bed, surround the entire tent city area in order to keep the mud out. I put my bags under my cot and catch up with Schmitty. He was promoted at the same time as I was. We haven't really chatted much since being away from our barracks room, now's time for catch-up. We walk to the chow hall and talk about how relieved we both are to finally be going back after the 14-month deployment. I think about how different things are going to be without my next door neighbor and tour guide. I shrug the thought away as we walk along the noisy rocks. We enter the chow hall, get our food, and sit down to eat. The food here is ten times better than that stuff downrange. I scarf it down as if I haven't eaten in years and chase the meatloaf with a slice of rich chocolate cake, adding a soda follow-up to the menu. Life is normalizing again, sort of.

Our Platoon Sergeant tells us that we are allowed to change into civvies, or civilian clothes, which each of us had packed just in case of an emergency leave situation. Soldiers aren't allowed to fly in uniform overseas for hijacking reasons. Everyone gets excited, dumping their duffle bags onto their cots in order to fish out the real clothes. I finally find mine after a long ordeal of rifling. The entire outfit is crumpled and wrinkly amongst the cold weather gear and extra things I hadn't touched during the deployment. I hold them up with disgust, a crooked frown on my face. I then realize that it doesn't matter because I've been wearing the same shit for over a year. I quickly remove my BDUs and slip on my jeans. Oh, my god they feel so good! It's hard to describe the difference in feel when a person goes from wearing the same old uniform day in and day out to denim. It makes you feel like an entirely new person, next the shirt. I feel alive! I slip on my old PT sneakers, the only thing that's not changed with my clothing.

The sun is gone and there are plenty of clouds in the sky. The moon illuminates behind the gray, barely noticeable. Schmitty and I walk out of the tent toward the beer concession tent, a celebratory location for a successful tour. There is already a large number of Soldiers all over the place, all with the same idea in mind, drinking. We make our way toward the "bartender" who isn't really a bartender at all he's some Army guy behind a bar. We're informed that we're only allowed two beers but, by the look of the crowd, there's a way around it. People aren't entirely drunk, but they are definitely over two beers. He hands us our beers and we walk back through the rowdy crowd. We stand by ourselves, Pogue no longer around to be our link. A kid I recognize, but don't entirely know, approaches and says hello to Smith. We make small talk while downing our bottles of diluted happiness. We go back for number two, number three, number four, and number five. Their system is obviously flawed. After being without alcohol for so long, my system is flawed as well. I feel the effects of the booze going straight to my brain. The next thing I know, I'm alone, no Schmitty. I stumble through the rocks toward my tent. They all look the same and I suddenly have to piss like a racehorse. I check in all directions through blurred vision to ensure nobody else is around and urinate beside a tent, hoping secretly there's nobody within who'll come out and stop me. It seems like forever before the stream actually stops. I trip backward awkwardly but I don't fall, just double and triple steps to the rear. I regain my footing and make the remaining way toward my tent, stepping through the inside flaps. It's dark and I'm fuzzy, seeing is difficult. I come to what I think to be my cot and stand there for a moment. A large black guy is snoring where I think my head should be. I remain for a long time, gawking at this guy, thinking should I wake him up? My brain might be fucked up, but it's not that fucked up. I turn and exit the same way I'd come in, obviously this isn't my tent. In my drunken state, it probably takes me damn near an hour before I finally find my tent. I stupidly stumble to my cot, ensuring my initials are on the bags beneath it, stripping off my clothes, and lying down, comatose.

The morning comes all-too-quickly, but its homecoming day and I don't give too much of a shit that my head's pounding. We gather our things, sweep the tent out, and head for the location of our flight manifest. After four hours, we're finally on the airplane, waiting to arrive back in Germany. I sleep the flight and hangover away.

The wheels hit the ground with a thump and I jolt awake with a fright. I have no idea what I was dreaming about but it must have been pretty shitty in order to awaken like that. I catch my breath, hoping nobody noticed my freak-out. We've landed in Kaiserslautern Air Base which isn't far from Baumholder. It takes nearly an hour before everything is organized and we're on the autobahn in a bus, somewhat similar to the one I'd initially rode in from Frankfurt, minus the smell of piss wafting from the onboard restroom. I ignore the stench and doze off, passing the travel time as quickly as possible.

By the time we get to Baumholder, my hangover has completely disappeared. I see the crest beyond the MP gate onto the post and it feels like I'm home, though still missing something. We get to our barracks and everything feels like a blur, everything so new though old. We get our keys from the Supply Sergeant and walk into our rooms. I think being in the same room as I was before makes things even worse, trying to keep Pogue away from my mind. I see all of me and Schmitty's boxes on the floor and I immediately break into mine as if they're Christmas presents, pushing Dean's memory away. All of my clothing, dishes, and odds-n-ends seem like new. I get everything put away as quickly as I can. I've been living out of bags for over a year and now it's time to live again. Schmitty and I go to the bars whenever we can and I blow all of my money on alcohol, trying to numb the pain in my heart. My living doesn't last long, a few months later I've come down on orders to go back stateside. I'm soon on an airplane again, flying back over the Atlantic to United States. Georgia, here I come again, first stop Mom and Dad's place for two weeks of well-deserved leave.

May 1998

My parents' home looks exactly as it did when I left. We drive up into the driveway and I half-expect things to have changed, maybe the color of the house, a building missing, something. All of the trees are accounted for, as are all of the buildings. I basically snuck home, not telling anyone aside from my parents that I'm coming. The airport greeting isn't as overwhelming as it was the first time. My mom and dad both hugged me hard and we drove directly here.

"I just want to relax," is what I tell them.

"Don't you want to see your friends," she asks. "Stephen isn't doing much besides working."

"Maybe," I answer simply while staring out the pick-up window at the yard and house. I'm so tired and worn out, unwilling to do anything hectic right now. Maybe I'll change my mind later, but not right now. The worst part is that I have stories to tell my friends, but I don't really care. I don't really even feel like talking. I just want peace.

"Well, I'll make your favorite for dinner," Mom says as Dad puts the truck into park. I know it's too late in the day for roast, carrots, and potatoes, so this obviously means homemade pizza.

"Sounds good, Mom," I answer as our doors open and we get out. Dad unbuckles them first and then grabs my two duffel bags from the back of the truck. "I can get those, Dad," I tell him.

"I'm not so old that I can't carry a couple of bags, son," he says as he walks toward the front door, a bag strap hanging from each hand. He even looks as though he's straining, but I'm not going to argue with him.

"Well, at least let me get the door then," I grab the screen door as Mom puts the key in the lock and swings the main door open for him. He grunts his way inside, the doorway is too narrow for the two duffle bags and the width of his body at the same time. He steps in sideways, sidestepping. He finally makes it into the kitchen and drops them onto the floor.

"I may not be too old to carry them, but I am too old to bring them up to your room," he laughs, tiny droplets of sweat beading on his forehead. I attempt a laugh too, but all I can muster is a smile.

"I'm going to bring these up and lie down for an hour or so if that's okay," I ask them rhetorically, respectfully.

"That's fine, Greg," Mom replies, "Dinner will be ready by six."

"Okay," I tell her while gathering up my bags and heading for the stairs. The old wood creeks as I step on each stair. It feels good to be home. I open my bedroom door and everything is the same, just as before. I let the bags fall to the floor, approach the bed, and let my body flop onto the mattress. I don't even remember passing out before a voice rouses me from the hall.

"You going to sleep all night," my mom asks. I open my eyes groggily. "The pizza's been done for about a half-an-hour."

"Sorry," I answer her with a sleepy frog in my throat, "I'll be right down." She leaves as I sit up, her shadow falling away from the floor of the hall to the downstairs. I yawn, thinking I could've actually slept all night. I go down the stairs, passing the living room. My dad is watching television, sports as usual. Mom is waiting for me in the kitchen, plate already made with two slices of pepperoni pizza for me. I pull the chair out with the usual screech and sit down.

"Do you want a soda or milk," she asks as she goes for the refrigerator.

"Soda would be nice," I reply as I scoot the chair closer to the front of the plate. "Thanks, Mom." She sets the soda down in front of me and resumes her usual place at the table, directly across from me.

"So, what's going on with you, Greg?"

"What do you mean," I ask her as I take a bite. The sweetness of the dough igniting my sleeping taste buds.

"There's just something that doesn't seem right," she answers. "You barely call us and you just don't seem like you're okay."

"Honestly, it's depressing to call home when you're so far away, Mom," I answer with food in my mouth, tucking the pizza in my cheek and talking from the opposite side.

"I can understand that, but it doesn't explain why you're so depressed," she says.

"It's nothing, Mom. I'll be fine. I'm tired..."

"Yeah, you're tired, I've heard that before. Honestly, Greg, when are you going to talk to me? I mean, when are you going to actually talk?" She's frustrated.

"We're talking right now." I don't help her annoyance.

"When you're ready," she stands up without raising her voice loud enough for Dad to hear, "you let me know. You can get your own drink," grabbing the unopened soda can from in front of me. She leaves the room in a huff. If she actually knew what I've wanted to tell her for years, she'd shit herself and then hate me for it. There was a time when I wanted to come out to my parents. There was a person who'd had me convinced that I should. That time and person are gone now and I've given up on exposing my secret to them, this is something I have to live with. It's my disease and I'll die from its ailments. I finish my pizza, thank Mom as I pass the living room, and go back to bed. Guilt is all that I have, oh, and loneliness.

The sun pours in through my bedroom window and shocks my eyes the next morning. I haven't slept that well in a long time, not one I can remember anyway, passing out doesn't count. The other time with Dean doesn't either, that was in the past. I sit up slowly with a yawn and a stretch my bare, defined chest. My biceps flex as I bring my arms back in, I admire them. I've changed so much since joining the Army, physically anyway. I barely recognize myself sometimes and it feels good, being a stranger to oneself. I plop my feet to the floor, throw on some shorts and a shirt, and go downstairs. The living room is empty, but there's commotion in the kitchen. Mom's doing the dishes.

"If you want something, you can make it yourself," she tells me without even looking in my direction. She works frivolously with a scrubby on a sheet pan beneath the suds of the dishwater.

"Good morning," I answer her as I go to the fridge, ignoring her anger. I check the fridge. I grab the milk, deciding on a bowl of cereal, the plainer the better. Corn flakes will be perfect. I sit down at the same place as last night and begin working on my cereal. Mom's always been pretty, thinking as I look at her between bites. Her hair is black, seldom down, often in a clip or something, keeping it secured to her head. She never really wears much for make-up or really nice clothes. She's a simple woman with natural beauty. Slender-framed with a smile to die for, wishing I had her smile. I've got Dad's which isn't bad, but hers is better. She dries the dishes with a towel, avoiding eye contact with me.

"You know, I'm not going to be here forever," I say to her. "I've only got a couple weeks."

"I'm well-aware of that fact, Gregory," she replies. "My request isn't that hard to satisfy."

"Mom, there's nothing to talk about. I'm different is all," I try to explain without giving the real truth. "The Army changes a guy."

"You know what," she stops drying her dishes, standing with her hand on one hip and the dishtowel in the other. "I'm going to just leave it at that for now. You're right, you're not here long and I don't want to ruin it. However, Greg, please know that you can talk to me when you're ready? Please make me that promise at least?" She's completely serious and I can tell by the near-tears in her eyes. I feel sorry that I can't tell her, I wish I could.

"I promise," I answer, getting up from my chair and giving her a long hug. The slate is now wiped clean for the moment and we can enjoy my leave without the stressful pushing for secret telling.

I stay at home for three days before finally deciding to meet Stephen in town. I take my dad's pick-up the twelve miles to his house, getting out and knocking on the door. Things don't change much when you're gone, less than expected. The same rows of perennials line the front of the house in their yellows, purples, and reds. The white paint of the home is still faded and in much need of retouching as always, the black trim around the windows is as well. I knock on the black metal, front door and immediately hear pitter-patters within. The door opens and Lisa, who looks worn-out, greets me. Her curly, reddish-blonde hair is frizzy and there are light circles beneath her non-make-upped eyes. She looks at me coldly as if she could give a shit less about the fact that I haven't been here in about two years.

"Stephen's not here right now," she says without emotion. Her words are monotone and lifeless. Little nail-polished hands reach around from behind her left leg, followed by a tiny face. It's a little girl who looks exactly like her mother, hair puffy. I look back at Lisa with a look of confusion.

"Stephen's," I ask.

"Yeah, Greg, you know, if you'd call once-in-awhile maybe you'd know these things," she replies with annoyance. "His phone number's been the same since he was 4 years old for Christ's sake." I look back down at the little girl. She has her father's eyes, noticing their light-blue hue.

"Sorry, I've been a little preoccupied," I say graciously, looking for forgiveness, not sure I'll get it. "Hey, there," I bend down to the toddler's level, "I'm Greg." I try to touch her fingers but she shyly runs back into the house. I stand back up, a little disappointed.

"Her name's Ella," Lisa tells me. Her facial expressions have lightened slightly, possibly due to my showing of kindness toward her little girl.

"How old is she?"

"Almost three," she answers. The math doesn't really add up in my head, but that's none of my business I guess.

"Cool," I respond, "can you tell me when Stephen'll be back?"

"He's at work. Probably in a couple hours if he doesn't stop at the bar on the way home," her face becomes cold again. "Greg, I know I'm a bitch, but I really need you to talk to him. He's drinking all the time and everything's falling apart here."

"I can do that," I know how Stephen was in the past and I also know that I'm usually the only one who's ever been able to make him come to an epiphany with anything.

"If he doesn't come home, which he probably won't, he'll be at the Shoreline," she adds.

"Okay, Lisa," I respond as I walk back to my dad's truck.

"Greg," she yells at me. I turn to her, seeing tears in her eyes already, "thanks." I wave her off as if it's no big deal, which it really isn't. Stephen's been there for me all my life and now it's my turn.

I drive to the Shoreline to wait for him outside in the truck. I don't want to be inside waiting because that seems like too much of an ambush. I sit and smoke cigarette after cigarette. The sun sets slowly over the lake just beyond the building. The rays ripple across the water's surface as the waves flow gently. Soon the effects of the sun's rays against the water are gone. I look at my watch, nearing 9 o'clock. Just as I go to turn the key in the ignition, Stephen pulls up in his mom's old car, just like old times. I wait for him to get out and go inside before entering the bar.

I open the bar door and cigarette smoke floods into my lungs. I know I'm a smoker, but there's something about a mixture of random cigarette types that never settles right. The smoke is so thick that it actually stings my eyes. I strain to see him at first and then I manage to after a few seconds. He's sitting alone at the end of the bar, drink already in hand. There's a sizeable amount of people in here, considering it's a weekday. Most of them are men, wearing flannel shirts and blue jeans, blue-collar workers. I walk over to Stephen and tap him on the shoulder. He spins around and leaps from his barstool, grabbing me with both arms. I think this is the first time we've ever embraced in our entire lives. He catches me off guard and it takes a moment for me to reciprocate the hug while he's lifting my entire weight off the floor. We break away, him dropping me gently, and he starts talking.

"I didn't know you were in town," he says. Things are a little awkward for me, recalling the words Lisa used when I appeared on her doorstep.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, things are a little crazy for me right now," I apologize without too much detail.

"Sit down, let's have a drink," Stephen exclaims as he resumes his seat and motions for me to take the one next to him. I don't know why, but things seem so different. Though the physical things, my parents' house, Stephen's house, our town, haven't changed, people definitely have. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the one who's changed while everyone and everything else is still the same. I don't know the answer. "What'll you have?"

"Just a Guinness will be fine," I answer him.

"I don't know if we have those fancy German beers around here, man." He addresses the bartender by name and the next thing I know, a Guinness is delivered upon the coaster sitting in front of me. "Cheers," Stephen adds while holding up his double-shot glass with a light-brown liquid inside, two ice cubes floating in a circular motion along the glasses interior as he lifts it up. I stop myself from the habitual prost I'd grown accustomed to in Germany. Instead I oblige with a ting of our glass containers and I take a swig.

"I noticed you've got a kid," I don't ease into the conversation.

"Yep, Lisa was pregnant before you even left," he says without looking in my direction. He's staring at the television set over the bar, sports.

"That's kind of cool," I say.

"Not really," Stephen adds bluntly.

"Why not," I ask him. He stops gawking at the TV and turns to me. "Greg, what the fuck have you been up to?"

"What are you talking about?"

"It's been almost three years since I've heard from you, three god damn years," he keeps his voice at a harsh whisper even though I don't think anyone else is paying attention, if they'd even hear over the television sets. His eyes are red and sad. I know I've hurt him. "Now you come walking in here like you never even left. Let me tell you something, asshole. You did leave. You left me here to rot." He turns back to the TV. I don't know what to say right away, taking another swig of my beer to allow a moment of thought. I know I've been gone and I know things are different. I'm not the only difference. Life didn't stop without me. Everyone kept living, or trying to at least. The exterior of everything is deceptive. I take a breath.

"Stephen, I didn't fucking leave you. I joined the Army. I made a choice that you didn't and that's not my fault," I'm sorry, but I'm also angry.

"I made a mistake," Stephen says with tears in his eyes. I can see them building and glistening the television's images. "Did you even wonder why I didn't come with you? You know I would do anything to get the hell away from this tiny, shitty town."

"Well...I...."

"I couldn't come, Greg. I'd already knocked her up."

"Shit happens, man. There's nothing you can do about it now. Man-up and take responsibility instead of coming to a bar to drink away your sorrows," I understand his pain, but he's right, he's the reason why he's in the mess that he's in. "You've got that beautiful little girl at home waiting for you." He turns to me again.

"You want to know the worst part, man? I'm not even sure that she's mine."

"Oh, believe me, she's yours," I say, remembering those eyes, just like his. He wipes his eyes with his fingertips.

"Let's you and me just sit here for a little bit, catch up."

"We can do that," I agree. He turns back to the television set, looking upward, hand wrapped around his frosty glass.

"You're lucky, bro," he says.

"Oh really, why's that," I inquire.

"Fags can't have butt babies," he laughs. I don't take offense to his comment. He's my friend and I know he doesn't mean anything hurtful by it. I join him in laughter. "I love ya, man, missed ya tons though." I look up at the TV too, even though I could care less about what's on it.

"I love you too, man." We sit for a couple of hours and part with the agreement that we'll all get together for dinner later in the week, which we do. Stephen and Lisa are going to take some work, but I'm sure they'll make it.

The two weeks are soon gone and it's time to fly to Georgia. I'm on the airplane with butterflies fluttering like crazy. I hate the constantly new.

June 1998

The all-too-familiar look of the Atlanta Airport greets me as I walk over to baggage claim to get my things. I quickly retrieve my gear and approach a rental car kiosk near the doors. I rent a car, head out, and toss my things into the trunk. I made sure to fly in a couple of days early so I can look around prior to having to report. Though I'm only 21 years old, I'm fairly mature for my age; I'd like to think so anyway. I've done my homework and found the quickest route to Fort Stewart. Atlanta traffic isn't something that I'm used to, but I feel like I'm back in Germany by the speed, flying down I75. It's going to be about a four hour drive and I look forward to the alone time. Traffic thins out as I get off the interstate and onto the next road. The intensity of the drive begins to ease. I admire the high tops of the pine trees surrounding the highway. The forests are thick and I can't see much beyond the road itself into the wood line. When I was here for Basic, I didn't really care about the landscape, but I'm going to be here for a while. The heat is just as I remember it being. I avoid it by turning the rental's AC to full blast. Though I'm not supposed to, I chain smoke in the car so the AC has to fight against the incoming blow dryer wind. The fighting of the temperatures feels good.

I take my final turn onto the back road leading to Fort Stewart, two lanes. The trees are thicker than I've ever seen them, luckily it's daytime. Suddenly, as I come around a sharp turn, an armadillo is slowly waddling its way across the highway. It takes me too long to realize it's there and I hit it. The wheels feel like they've been driven up through the wheel wells and into my ass. It scares the shit out of me, looking in my rearview mirror only to see the motionless animal flipped onto its back in the middle of the road. My heart palpates violently in my chest after skipping the beat once on impact. That is my first encounter with that up-armored animal and I'm hoping it's my last. I slow down just in case any unsuspecting wildlife tries to cross my path again. It takes about a half-an-hour to reach the back gate of Stewart and I'm happy to have finally made it here.

There isn't a MP manned gate to greet me like there was in Germany. The road goes right onto the post. I drive slowly passed housing which looks like a combination of quadruple apartments and duplexes in boring yellows and greens. The pine trees continue to liter the landscape, randomly shooting up like watchtowers high in the sky. The pines in Georgia are interesting, there are no branches growing out low enough to climb up. Most of them start coming out at least thirty feet from the ground. I pass the PX and the Commissary on the left, a little Shoppette on the right, which is like a gas station. I then notice a sign for the Guest House and take an immediate left turn via the sign's arrow. I see the PX and Commissary closer as I pass them, still on the left side, and another Shoppette on the right, different than the other, it contains a Class Six as well. A Class Six is where you buy booze. The Army's prices for alcohol are surprisingly cheap, more so than those liquor stores off post. Keep us Soldiers drunk and numb. I see another sign leading me to the backside of the PX and then I see the Guest House building. It's like a hotel for Soldiers, but only those on orders are allowed to stay in one. The building is brick, edged with cement molding and there doesn't seem to be too many cars in the parking lot as I pull in.

I get out and go inside, not greeted by a rude black woman at the check-in counter. She doesn't look up or say anything to me as the door's customer approaching warning bell dings. I walk up to her and the first thing I notice are the wispy black hairs randomly growing from her chin. She's wearing a low-cut shirt, showing off her chest, which matches her chin. I try not to stare, though I end up being the one to greet her rather than her me.

"I need a room," I start.

"Do you have a copy of your orders?" she doesn't even glance at me. What the hell is she looking at? I ask myself. I can't see over the counter to see what's beneath the shelf above it. I pull my orders from my bag and place them on the counter. She makes me wait a few seconds before finally looking at them. "ID card?" she requests without any pleasantries. I pull it from my wallet, remembering that the photo was taken during Basic Training and I have no hair. She types something on the computer, returns my ID, and says, "The room's going to be $32 a night which must be paid in advance."

"No problem," I tell her as I place $40 on the counter. She gives me my change, receipt, and room key. Before picking up my things I ask, "Do you guys have maps of post here somewhere?" She flops a poorly photocopied piece of paper onto the counter. "Thanks," is the last thing I say before walking out the door, sarcastically said.

I walk up to the top floor of the two-story building to find my room. The walkway is located on the exterior with a metal railing to protect against falling which only goes about three feet up. The cast iron rods are in laden the cement molding. My room is on the opposite end of where I'd parked. I place my key in the lock and turn it, heat blasting from inside. I throw my bags onto the floor and quickly go to the floor AC unit, cranking it to full cool. The air comes out musty but soon cools off. I flop down on the bed with an exhale, relief. I lie there for a few minutes and then decide to look through the yellow pages for a good delivery place. I settle on Chinese food and wait for the delivery person to arrive. He shows up much quicker than I'd expected and I give him a decent tip for the hurried efforts. As I sit down to eat, I think about what I'd like to do tonight. I haven't ever been to a guy bar and Savannah is not that far away. Hinesville, the adjoining town, has nothing to offer by the looks of the phonebook and, besides, it's too close to post. I can't take any chances, but now I'm on my own for the next couple of days. I eat, shower, get dressed, and head out the door, stopping at the Shoppette for a map of Savannah. I figure I can stop and ask someone once I get into the city.

The front side of the post is a little more impressive. There's actually stuff to look at, though Hinesville's many pawnshops, strip clubs, and fast food places aren't what I have in mind. I take a left turn after driving the short main street, watching for signs directing me to Savannah. It's only about a 30-45 minute drive before I start into the city. Streetlamps light up the old colonial homes, impressive, as I'd seen once on television. I stop at a gas station and ask about clubs, looking like a true tourist. The man is pleasant and tells me where to go. I get back into my rental and drive accordingly, admiring the scenery along the way.

It isn't long before I arrive at a club called Club One, the best gay bar in Savannah, according to the cashier at the station. A large blue canopy with the club's name hangs above the entrance, not an obvious alternative club. I'm relieved to see that it's not all in-your-face with gayness, considering the fact that I'm trying to stay a little incognito. I lock my car doors and walk toward the entrance, heart beating hard in my chest, nervousness.

I open the door and walk into darkness, flaps covering the next layer of the entrance. I shuffle through, flashing lights of all colors flicker throughout the room. Men and women line the barstools and booths located by the outer walls. A dance floor organized in the middle of the floor gathers most of the lights. Techno music penetrates the air and the bass pounds into my eardrums. Some of the men are shirtless, or should I say boys, they are comprised of mostly skinny guys. Twinks are what they are called in the gay community. I've gathered most of my gay knowledge from any magazine or book I can hide from the people around me, so it's limited. Most of the gay men in the club are a mix of races, an assortment of colors like the lighting overhead. I look around some more, avoiding eye contact. Some of the bodies are amazing, intermingled amongst the skinny boys.

I go up to the bar and order my favorite beer, knowing that I have to drive I'll limit it to one or two. A muscle bound bartender who could pass for a bouncer instead, hands me the bottle of Guinness. I thank him, tip him, and find a booth in a lonely corner. I realize how overdressed I am, wearing blue jeans, but also a button-down solid-colored shirt with loafers. Most of these guys either are shirtless or are wearing something flamboyant, much like Pogue's department store shirt. I take a couple of consecutive sips as I allow my eyes to wander. Surprisingly, there are many high-and-tights in here. This fact makes me a little more nervous because I don't know who might be in my new unit and I don't want anyone knowing.

A flaming, Hispanic queen boy with virtually no body approaches me unexpectedly. His hair is cut short enough, but I can't really tell if he's military or not. He walks like a woman, which is a turn-off in itself. He invites himself down for a seat across the table from me. I hug my beer with both hands.

"Hey, honey, you're new around here huh?" he starts without any prompting.

"Yeah," I answer awkwardly.

"Well, you're going to absolutely love it here." He can't be more than 18 years old. His eyebrows are perfectly sculpted like he'd just had them done earlier in the day. "What's your name? Mine's Jose." He holds out a hand for shaking, leading with his fingers in a downward position as if he's expecting me to kiss the back of it.

"Greg," I tell him while we shake. I manage to get only his fingers, making the shake all that much more awkward.

"Well, Greg, I could tell from all the way over there that you're new so I figured I'd come over and help you feel more comfortable. I know how it is to be all by oneself. You're military huh?" He sure does talk a lot. My head is spinning from the speed of his words.

"Ummm, yeah," I answer shortly.

"It's no secret, honey, that's something anyone from around here can tell at first glance," he says, "Don't worry though. There are a lot of Army boys in here and they've got just as much to lose as you do. They won't say a word. Don't ask, don't tell, bitches." He kisses the tips of his three innermost fingers and touches his cheek. I have no idea what the gesture means and I'm sure my facial expression gives it away. "I'm just saying, don't worry, sweetie." He starts getting up. "It was nice to meet you, Greg. I've got a show to do. Don't be too shy to tip the ladies." Once again, I have no idea what he's referring to. Just as Jose sashays away, the lights dim and everyone clears the dance floor. The music changes to Madonna's Like a Prayer and suddenly a spotlight pops on from the ceiling. A woman wearing a tight, black leotard with cone boobs to match stands beneath the light. Her face is downward while the music builds. As she looks up, I can see her lips moving to Madonna's voice. It's just then I realize that this is my first drag show! There's a Diana Ross after Madonna and a Cher after her. The queens are greatly entertaining and extremely flamboyant, but it's all in good fun and highly enjoyable. Cher works my booth at one point, dressed as the real Cher did in her Turn Back Time video. She even has the lip curl down as if she's been practicing it in the mirror for years. Between acts, an MC tells gay jokes, making fun of all of the patrons, all in good fun. I can't keep a straight face, smiling from ear to ear. A couple of hours later, the show is over and the dancing resumes. The atmosphere is a lot lighter, maybe it's just me. I feel ten times better than I had when I'd first come in here. I see Jose swishing his was back to my booth.

"So, did you like the show, honey?" he asks.

"Yeah, it was great," I tell him.

"Did we just pop your drag show cherry?"

"Actually, yes, this was my first."

"Oh, you poor, poor boy, what did you think of Cher?"

"She was probably my favorite," I answer Jose.

"Good, she'll be happy to hear that," he says with a gigantic smile on his face, making me realize.

"Cher was you?"

"Damn straight," he says with a snap and crossing of his legs. "I know how to work that shit." I laugh at his gesture and comment.

"You do a really good Cher, Jose," I compliment him. "I had no idea it was you."

"Like I said, honey, I know how to work that shit. It's nice to see that you know more than one-word answers by the way." It's his turn to laugh at me. "Let me get you a drink. That piss-water you've been sipping on since you got here's got to be warm as hell by now." Before I can say anything, he's going to the bar. He comes back with another Guinness. He was right about my beer being warm. I push the nearly empty bottle off to the side and take a swig from the new one, cold and refreshing.

"Thanks," I tell him.

"No problem. I made enough tonight to be alright. I think I can buy the cherry a drink," he replies. "So, what's on the agenda for tonight?" I ponder for a moment. Even though he's really talented in drag, I'm still not attracted to him.

"I think I'm going to drive back to post and hit the sack, jetlag is kind of setting in," I lie in order to avoid hurting his feelings.

"Oh, okay, well you come back next week. We have drag shows once a week. I'd love to see you again, sugar." He takes the rejection, making me feel awful at the same time for accepting the beer, though I didn't really have time to reject the offer. I finish my beverage, squeeze passed the couples, and find my way out. The air has cooled considerably since going inside, not quite as humid and a little more tolerable. I get in and drive off, making my way back to the Guest House a little after 1 a.m. I fall asleep quickly.

April 2004

The Iraqi dust shatters my tear-filled eyeballs as the wetness flows down my face. Every bump echoes through my legs, into my balls, and up into my stomach. His bloody boots sway back and forth next to me. There is no resistance. There are no sounds. I see those empty eyes looking into my soul as I'd pulled his limp body down from the hatch, haunting. The radio banter attempts to drown out my thoughts as we speed along the battered asphalt back toward our camp. The pain inside me is unbearable. It hurts to breathe. It pains me to watch the road. All I can think about are those bloody boots waving at me. The boots attached to the legs, to the torso, to the heart that I loved and that loved me back. My tears continue to flow without care for what my driver thinks, or either of my passengers for that matter. His smile flashes in my brain and is quickly replaced by a bloody face with a bullet hole in its head. Those empty eyes staring back at me, making me scream. I'll never see what used to lurk behind them. Everything is gone, including my mind. How the fuck could this happen to me? How could God let this happen to me again?!

June 1998

I investigate Fort Stewart and Hinesville a little in my rental car I've procured for the week before having to report to the In Processing Center the next day. I spend the week going through records and updating paperwork with the Center, nothing like the one in Fort Benning was for Basic Training. I have much more freedom and it's nothing like Germany either. Stateside posts do things completely different. I'd half expected to be in my new unit on the same day. Finally, Friday arrives and my sponsor picks me up. He's a Specialist like me and, also like me he doesn't have much to say. He introduces himself and I get into his car, mine has regrettably been returned to Hertz.

I realize upon approach that my new unit is one I've passed several times while making my loops around the Fort. The companies are dressed in a line like a ranch home. A sidewalk runs along the front of the entire one-level building and a smaller walk shows each entrance. We pass Headquarters Company, Alpha Company, Bravo Company, and go into the door of Charlie Company, also known as Charlie Rock. The main entrance is small. Beyond the door is a larger room with a conference table in the center and four small offices on either side of the room. There is a hallway straight ahead, but all I can see are cages with equipment stacked up the sides.

"The Company is out in the field right now, but they'll be back tomorrow," my sponsor tells me. "Be here for PT in the morning. We form up out back. I'll show you where on the way to the barracks."

"Alright," I reply. He grabs a key from a key box and leads me back outside the company door. We continue down the sidewalk toward buildings that are three stories high. They are constructed of a dark brown brick and seem to have limited windows, almost prisonlike. He informs me that PT formation will be between the barracks and the company building on an asphalt basketball court as we pass it. We enter the barracks, a stairwell leading upward. We go to the second floor just as my bags are getting heavy. We enter a hallway on the second floor through another door, blocking the hall from the stairs. He turns to the immediate left and walks across the hall. We arrive at my new room, he opens the door, and hands me the key. "Welcome home," he says, "0630 PT formation, be ten minutes early." He walks back through the doorway and down the stairwell, door slamming behind him with an echo that bounces around inside the hollowness of the stairwell.

I walk inside and shut the door behind me, feeling the coolness of the room. The setup is much like that of my room in Germany, small half-bath and fridge, wall lockers, and a room just big enough for bunk beds inside the main room. My roommate has everything already set up. He has a large entertainment center with stackable stereo and a big television set. A game console sits below the TV on a small nook of a shelf next to a video player. Posters of half-naked women displaying expensive cars hang on the walls. Great, I think to myself as I set my duffle bags on the floor, their metal buckles make no sound as they hit the area-rugged floor. The bottom bunk has nothing on it, I notice. Assuming it's mine, I lie down on it. I have until tomorrow to get comfortable, ensuring I don't invade my new roommate's space, I put things away conservatively.

The next morning comes quickly, butterflies flapping wildly inside me. PT with a new unit is never fun because there is always an expectation to excel. If you're shitty at PT, you're automatically a piece of shit. Today is the most important day I'll have for at least a couple of years. I smoke before going to formation because it calms me. I arrive ten minutes prior to the ten minutes early my sponsor had prescribed yesterday and nobody is here yet. I stand alone on the tar, feeling the humidity as it starts to build in the air, preparing for a hot day. After a few minutes, someone approaches in the darkness, the reflective Army words on the black PT shorts announces their coming. It turns out to be my sponsor.

"What's up," is how he starts the conversation, if you want to call it that.

"Not much," I answer him with just as much oomph. That's all that we say to each other as others start arriving. There are only ten of us since the rest of the unit is in the field. The problem with the PT uniform is that one never knows how to address someone's rank. There are no names or ranks on any of the articles of clothing. A thick white guy with BCGs stands in front of the formation, he was the last to arrive, and takes charge. We go through the usual motions, extension, stretches, calisthenics, and then falling back in. This is a dead giveaway that we're going on a run, luckily, it's my best event. I've come a long way since Basic and I'm damn proud of that fact, a virtual PT stud. We start out slow and loose a couple of the guys almost right away, they walk. By the looks of them, it's a wonder they haven't been kicked out for being overweight yet. The Army is very stringent about weight; at least they were in Germany. 1st Sergeant Meadows was very persistent upon how his Soldiers looked. I quickly gain my rhythm as we jog along, ignoring cadence. It's one of the quietest runs I've ever been on, aside from the heavy breathing and chatting between the guy in charge of the formation and another couple. I focus on the task at hand, running comfortably even though the humidity is causing flashbacks. I keep going and before I know it we're back at the basketball court doing some cool down push-ups. We break for breakfast after my sponsor points out the direction of the chow hall. I go back to my room, shower, and change, ensuring my uniform and boots are topnotch for when the unit comes in.

They arrive around 1400 hours. We've been waiting in the common area near the front door. The first in are the 1st Sergeant and the Commander. I respectfully jump up from my seat. They don't say anything as they pass, but I notice the Commander's resemblance to Captain America is striking. He's wide and muscular, looking like a person you don't want to piss off. His face is dirty with camouflage and dust, a rucksack draped by one shoulder strap off his back and a small flight bag dangles from his huge hand. He opens his office door, right next to the conference table, and walks inside. I hear his rucksack hitting the thinly carpeted floor as he drops it. The 1st Sergeant is tall and lean, looking like he doesn't have an ounce of fat on his body. His bony arm extends beyond the sleeve of his BDUs as he carries his rucksack by the handle and enters his office as well. They are much different than my leadership in Baumholder. Neither of them looks in my direction before walking into their offices.

"Specialist Morris," I hear from the 1st Sergeant's office in a powerful voice, making me jump a little.

"Yes, 1st Sergeant," I reply as I walk urgently to his open doorway.

"Come on in," he says. I do as I'm told, standing in front of his desk at the position of parade rest, facing him.

"Welcome to Charlie Rock," he's busy fumbling with his bag while talking to me.

"Thank you, 1st Sergeant," I say nervously. He finishes with his rucksack and sits back in the black office chair behind his desk.

"How's your PT score, Specialist Morris?" I knew that question was coming sooner or later.

"I usually make the upper-extended scale, 1st Sergeant," I answer him. "I'm not as good in my sit-ups as I'd like to be though."

"Impressive," he says with a serious look on his face. The dirty smear of Georgia grime combined with the faded green, brown, and black camouflage makes his serious look almost comical. His bright, white teeth showing behind the mess is what's throwing me off. "The platoons are going to be cleaning weapons before they can get off work. We were only out for three days, so they shouldn't be too dirty. You'll be in Headquarters Platoon. I'll take you back over to meet your Platoon Sergeant in just a second." At the end of the sentence, there's a knock on the doorframe next to me. I see a man who can't be more than 5'4" standing there. His dark brown hair is nearly gone, just a short, buzzed crest around the outside of his head remains. His thick mustache is probably compensation for the lack of head hair.

"1st Sergeant," he talks in a low tone, "we've got the vehicles unloaded. I'm going to get them back down to the motor pool. Headquarters will just clean their weapons down there. I'll let you know when we're finished."

"Alright, you just saved me a trip. Sergeant First Class Nolan, this is Specialist Morris," 1st Sergeant Littleton informs him. "He'll be going to Headquarters Platoon. I need a new Humvee driver."

"Okay," Sergeant First Class Nolan replies with a question behind the word. The look on his face is one of inquiry as well.

"Johnson's pissing me off," apparently, his current driver, "I think it's time he goes back down to a line platoon. He doesn't like being up here in HQ anyway."

"Alright, 1st Sergeant," Sergeant Nolan says, as if he's got a choice anyway. "Well, Morris, you might as well get going now then. Come on." We leave the 1st Sergeant's office, walking down the back hallway passed Soldiers sitting on the ground with pieces of their M16s sitting near them. Some scrub with rags, others with cotton swabs. All of them have faces like the Commander and the 1st Sergeant's, dirty. They engage in several conversations at once, but the chatter lulls as I come in. I try not to look at them for too long, knowing they are staring at the newest kid on the block as I pass by. I glance at the cages as I walk toward the back door, supplies stacked high in several different types of boxes inside them. The sun shines in brightly from outside as we exit the building. There are several other Soldiers cleaning their weapons on the back dock of the building as well, the same thing happens in response to my presence.

"Get in the back," Sergeant Nolan tells me. "Since you don't have your license and there are only two seats in front, you get the back."

"Roger, Sergeant," I tell him as I pull the vinyl flap toward me and slip in beneath it. There are long, wood lattice-like bench seats on both sides of the vehicle's back end. I sit down as the vehicle takes off with a start, nearly falling sideways on my seat. I grab onto the metal support frame covered by vinyl located at the ceiling of the truck so I don't fall and embarrass myself. The Humvee's engine rumbles loudly, even from the back it's noticeable. I can't see out, but figure the motor pool must not be too far away. We slow down and turn left almost immediately after we'd taken the right from the parking lot at the back of the company. The truck putters along, backs up, and the engine turns off.

"Come on, Morris," I hear Sergeant Nolan say loudly. I hadn't dared move yet due to the initial take-off, not wanting to be on my face. I peel back the flap and leap to the ground. I hadn't expected the cement to be so far from my feet, almost like jumping from the front of a Bradley, stinging the bottoms of my booted feet for a few seconds. I walk it off, following Sergeant Nolan and the driver toward some guys who are sitting under a metal overhang. As we get closer, I notice they are all cleaning their weapons like the Soldiers back at the company. "Grab something and get cleaning," my Platoon Sergeant says. There are only five others besides me and the driver I'd come here with. They are all pretty buff save a scrawny, nerdy looking guy with thick BCGs sitting by himself. I decide to go over to him and assist since the others seem to be helping each other already. The driver sits down with the bunch, grabbing a butt stock and a toothbrush.

"Hey, how's it going," I ask the nerdy guy whose nametag says Johnson on it. He scrunches his nose at me as he looks up.

"Fine," he answers. I reach down, scooping up a piece of the M16 and then find a place a foot or so away against the wall he's leaning on. "You must be the new guy." He says it as though they've been expecting me for a long time and everyone already knows who I am.

"Yeah," I reply, "I'm Morris," I tell him. Johnson is also a Specialist, from what I'd seen of the others, two are Private First Classes and the others are Specialists as well. As a matter of fact, Sergeant Nolan is the only noncommissioned officer down in the motor pool which is strange when comparing things to Germany. There were always NCOs with the Joes, the Privates, in the motor pool, whether they were doing anything aside from bullshitting around, that's a different story.

"So, where you from, Morris," Johnson asks without even looking up from what he's doing, working feverishly on a tarnish barrel.

"North Dakota," I tell him.

"It's kinda shitty up there isn't it? I mean, with the snow and stuff?" He's right, but I deny it.

"It's not that bad. You get used to it." I scrub on my piece of weapon, finalizing touches.

"Yeah, I'm from Cali, it's really nice there all the time," he brags.

"I've heard that, never been though," I answer.

"You'll get your chance. The unit's getting ready to go to the National Training Center in about a month, that's in California, desert, but still Cali," he shocks me with his words, but I pretend I'm not too surprised.

"Why are we going there?" I've heard that units only go to NTC in preparation for deployments.

"We're going to Bosnia," he replies.

"No shit, I just got back from there a few months ago," I tell him.

"Well, I guess you're going again," he laughs, hopefully not mocking my misfortune. I stop talking and so does Johnson, concentrating on the weapon's parts.

More introductions happen as the day goes by. Headquarters Platoon goes back to the company area and we wait for formation, releasing us for a 4-day weekend, holiday Friday means and extra day off tied in. How fortunate for me, only having been here a few days and already getting a long weekend to relax. I guess it'll give me a chance to meet people. Close to 1800 hours, the formation and safety briefing that goes along with it occurs. The formation is lengthy, many congrats to ones who performed well on the field exercise. Finally, the words fall out are said and we do, heading for the barracks as quickly as they can. Others stride quickly to their cars in the parking lots located behind the barracks and to the front of the company strip building. I walk like it doesn't really matter, which it really doesn't. I'm in no hurry to get anywhere in particular.

I stop for a few minutes to smoke before stepping into the doorway to the barracks. I walk up the stairwell, music already thumping through the walls. I open the door to my floor, go to unlock my room, and walk inside. I hear shuffling around inside, completely forgetting I've yet to meet my new roommate. I walk into the room, seeing nothing but a skinny brown guy wearing nothing but BDU bottoms with his back to me.

"Hey," I announce my arrival. He turns toward me and I'm shocked at what I see. It's Jose!

"Hey," he says to me with battering eyelashes.

"What the fuck? You're my roommate?" My mind is totally blown. "I didn't even know you were in the Army."

"Surprise, surprise," he says in a normal, non-feminine voice, actually it is pretty masculine. I don't know what to think. Should I worry about having a roommate like him? Is he going to give me away? Worse yet, is he going to hit on me? I've no idea what's coming. He turns back to what he was doing, placing clothes into a bag. "Just so you know I don't hang out here on the weekends."

I laugh, "Okay."

"Feel free to use any of my stuff though. The movies are down below the television, but we have cable, which I expect half for by the way." He looks at me seriously for a second over his shoulder. "There's also a computer in that hutch over there." He points to the opposite corner of the room where there's a tall cabinet with large doors on it, almost resembling a wardrobe.

"Alright, thanks," I reply, "where do you go on the weekends, I mean, besides Club One of course?"

"I have friends in Savannah, people like us. I can't hang out in this testosterone-driven shithole when I don't have to."

I look up at the posters on the wall, "Speaking of testosterone-driven, what's up with these posters?" I step back to the one behind me, modeling the model on the car with my hands.

"Hey, a guy's got to cover up being a fag however they can. We are in the United States Army you know? Don't ask don't fucking tell." He finishes packing, quickly dressing, and starts for the door. "It's nice seeing you again. Good to have a homo roommate too for a change." He places his free hand on my chest and looks me in the eyes. "Don't worry, our secret is safe." He turns to the door. "Have a good one."

"You too," I say as the door closes behind Jose. I exhale and relax. I have to admit, I was a little worried but he pulls off butch pretty well. He'd have to in order to still be around. I plop my ass down on the bottom bunk with the remote in my hand and flip on the television, channel surfing for something good to watch. I lie down on my bed, having not even gotten undressed, and fall asleep in front of the television's flicker. I definitely need to get a car tomorrow, are the last thoughts I recall before passing out way too early in the evening.

I wake up before the sun's even up, fully rested and anxious to get my day going. I've saved enough for a good down payment on a car and I'd like to get one. Like Jose, I can't be stuck in the barracks all weekend. I look at my watch, realizing I'm still in my uniform as a button digs into my wrist. It's only 5 a.m. but, by the time I shower and get some comfortable clothing on, the chow hall should be open. Then maybe I'll jump on the computer and do some web surfing to pass the time. I'm sure a car dealership won't be open until at least 9 or 10 a.m. on a Friday.

With 10 o'clock just around the corner and plenty of porn viewed to last me a week or two, I go down to the pay phone located just outside the building. Everything is quiet in the halls, usually doesn't start to liven up until late in the barracks. I go to the phones and look in a booth for a taxi number, which are usually stuck somewhere, free advertising that works. I make the call and the cabby is there within a few minutes. I notice how American cab drivers are nowhere near the racecar drivers that the German ones are as he takes me off post. We arrive at a Ford dealership, I pay him, and I get out. I wander the lot for a bit before the attack by a car salesperson. Respectably, he wears a suit and tie. The suit is black, white shirt, and a flashy red tie, almost glowing.

"Is there anything that I can help you with," he asks without any sign of southern drawl in his accent. By the look of his haircut, he hasn't been out of the military very long.

"Yeah, I'm looking for something cheap and reliable," I tell him.

"We've got plenty of those. All of our cars are backed with a two-year warranty, but we rarely need to fix them. We've got nothing but quality here." He's a bullshitter, typical dealer.

"I want something with good gas mileage, probably compact or standard sized. Nothing fancy, but it needs to look good." I honestly know nothing about cars, hoping to not be too obvious about that fact.

"Follow me, I think I know what you'd like," he says as he leads me over to a royal blue Mazda Protégé. The car is actually really nice and I fall in love with it right away. I manage to talk him down a couple thousand dollars after giving him my down payment. I get the insurance from a place nearby and, by the time I get back, all of the paperwork is ready. I sign and drive it off the lot with a huge-ass smile across my face. It's the first car I've ever purchased by myself and I think I've done a pretty good job.

I pull into the barracks parking lot, pondering what I'm going to do for the rest of the evening. The dealership stole most of my day. I decide, though I'd rather be tooling around in my new car, I'll relax and watch movies or television.

I go to Club One on Saturday night so I can partake in another drag show. Club One is the only place that I feel like I can be myself, escaping from the Army life of faking who Gregory Morris really is. Sometimes I feel like I'm trapped in the bottom of a dark well, all dried up. The sides are slick and slimy with the dampness of humidity built up due to lack of sun exposure. A faint light comes in from above, but it seems so far away and impossible to access. Club One took me out of the well last Saturday, hopefully it will happen again.

I go inside to the same scene as before, get my beer, and sit in the same booth. I think I see him before he sees me, Jose. He leaps with excitement at the sight of me. I just smile at him. It's amazing to see how different he is here compared to the macho man in the barracks two days ago.

"Hey, honey. It's nice to see that you could make it again," he says flamboyantly.

"Don't do that, man," I tell him.

"Do what," he asks seriously, his chin resting on the back of his hand, the other holding his wrist, elbow on the table.

"Don't call me sweetie and honey and all those gay pet names. We're roommates in the Army," I don't mean to be cruel, but it puts me off and makes me feel awkward, especially knowing that we live together. I also want to ensure there's no confusion regarding our friendship. He looks like he gets a little sad by my comment, put off. His lower lip comes out, almost mockingly.

"Sorry, man," his voice becomes deep and manly, more mocking, "would it be better if I talked to you like this?" I laugh a little.

"Naw just quit with all the flowery names. I don't like them. That's all I'm asking," I reply.

"Fair enough," he replies. "So, are you here to watch the show or to find a man...or maybe both?"

"Just for the show, Jose, I've pretty much given up on men for the time being."

"Oh, why would that be pry tell?" He bats his eyelashes again. I still can't get over the night and day personality in this guy.

"I have my reasons."

"Well, I'm up first tonight, so I need to go get my sexy ass ready," he says as he gets up from the booth and walks off. "Later," he adds in that mocking man voice as he sashays away. I can't honestly say that I've sworn off men, I'm just not ready to be hurt again. That comment also lets Jose know that I'm not interested, hopefully.

The show ends up being just as good, if not better than the last time. Cher doesn't pay me too much attention, which is a relief. Once the show's over, I finish my second beer and head out to my car. I arrive at the barracks without incident and go to sleep. The rest of the weekend is uneventful. I keep to myself, getting my laundry done and my uniform prepped for the beginning of the week. As I'm ironing the final arm on my BDU top, the door opens. Jose comes inside, avoiding eye contact.

"Hey, man, how's it going?" I ask him.

"Pretty good," he answers while grabbing stuff from his weekend bag. He walks passed me, still avoiding.

"Dude, what's going on?" inquiring while he's placing stuff accordingly on the shelf in front of the mirror. I hear the clink of bottles. He steps out and shows me. His face is swollen above the left cheekbone. He has a cut lower lip and a slightly blackened eye. I immediately stop what I'm doing and go to him. "What the fuck happened to you?"

"After the show on Saturday night," tears start to form in his eyes, "these two fucking guys jumped me on the way to my car." I don't know if it's my place or not, but I hug him because I know he must need it. With his chin on my shoulder, he continues to explain, "They said, 'you fucking faggot bitch' as they kicked me over and over again. I didn't even see them come at me. I just hit the ground and they started yelling at me and kicking the shit out of me." His words start to get inhibited by the thickening mucus in his mouth, sniffling. "'Die you fucking drag queen faggot mother fucker,' they just kept saying it over and over. Luckily I have friends who came out and chased them the fuck off. They probably would've killed me, Greg."

"I'm sorry, man, I'm so, so sorry," I really do feel bad for the guy. I picture myself being in that same situation, hoping, due to my size, that I'd be able to put up a better fight than that, but one never knows. They picked the scrawny Hispanic kid to kick the shit out of. I push him to the front of me, "Jose, go jump into the shower and calm down. Try to let this thing go. It's probably too late, but I'll get some ice crushed up for the bruises alright?"

"Alright, thanks, sweet...I mean, thanks, man," he sniffles again but chuckles right afterward. I gather whatever I can to help Jose while he's in the shower, the bruising is worse than I'd thought. His ribs, upper thigh, back, and chest have marks on them. We relax, watching movies and television for the remainder of the evening. As the weeks prior to NTC go by, Jose and I become good friends, nothing more. We confide in each other in ways I'd never done before, not with someone who I wasn't sexually interested in anyway.

The day when we arrive in California finally comes. The desert is actually a lot more beautiful than I expected that it would be. Though it's hot, it's nothing like the Georgia heat. It's dry and not quite as shocking to the system. Joshua trees randomly grow amongst the cacti as the bus brings us all the way onto Fort Irwin. The highway cracked beyond repair, much like the one in Bosnia; only this one eroded from the sand rather than time. Crows fly overhead, scavenging for food. Bits of mountains shoot up from the ground in the distance, breaking up the flat horizon of the desert landscape. We get onto the post, head for our campsite area, and get everything set up. We place our canvas tents in a rock bedded area specifically laid out for Troops to sleep. After everything is done, we go to the railhead to get our trucks, which is located about a half-an-hour away. There's about a week of time before we actually head into the Mojave Desert to train. We conduct a weeklong war simulation with laser tag equipment mounted to our bodies, equipment, and our trucks. It's actually pretty fun.

We're making a night move to a different location. The 1st Sergeant is sitting next to me in our Humvee, both with night vision goggles on. Everything seems to be going smoothly until the dust from one of the vehicles in front of us kicks up a cloud that's thick. The night vision goggles don't see through the dust very well. I try to follow the infrared taillights, but before I know what's happening, we're falling sideways. I freak out as the truck begins to slide into a wadi, an eroded, dry riverbed with steep sides. The vehicle starts to tip onto its side in my direction. The 1st Sergeant yells while trying to not fall into me. I hold the wheel tightly. We stop at about a 65-degree slant, just short of a full tip. The wheels on the passenger side are up in the air and my door will not open, I'm nearly kissing the ground. My heart beats like a locomotive as the truck settles. I'm trying not to move because I have no idea what kind of hole we're in. The dust starts to fall and 1st Sergeant tells me to turn on the white lights. A wall is directly in front of us, without a slope, just a wall of dirt. It takes about an hour before the mechanics manage to get our Humvee pulled out, lesson learned. Other than the wadi incident, NTC ends quickly, much more than I'd expected. Soon we're back at Georgia with about a month remaining before we're off to Bosnia.

I'm sitting in our Platoon office talking to one of the other Specialists when they come, guys in civilian clothing carrying a manila folder. They walk straight into the 1st Sergeant's office, closing the door. They come out after a few minutes. The 1st Sergeant comes to his doorway with his arms crossed, looking disappointed. Lunchtime comes and I go to my barracks room. Jose is packing up his stuff.

"Dude, what the fuck is going on?" I can see that he has tears in his eyes.

"They found out," he answers, sobbing.

"Are you serious?" I'm desperate. "Do they know about me?"

"No, they found my MySpace page somehow. I don't know how they saw it, but they did," he starts crying harder. "This is fucked, man, fucked. Where am I supposed to go? My parents hate me. I've got nowhere to go!" He becomes hysterical. I go in and hug him again, just like when he'd gotten gay bashed.

"It'll be alright, Jose. Don't do anything stupid," there's a knock at the door. I hear it opening.

"Specialist Martinez, we've got to go," a man's voice entering the room. I break from Jose and go toward the voice, seeing two men with MP armbands on their uniforms. I don't know what else I can say. Jose goes to them. They don't handcuff him or anything like that, they just leave. Jose looks back at me with a mournful expression on his face. As soon as the door closes, I begin to cry. How can the Army do that to someone? How can they just cut your life from you like that? I then vow to stay away from anything remotely associated with homosexuality from now on. I don't feel like eating and lunch is almost over. I wash my face, leave the barracks, and go back to the company area. The 1st Sergeant calls me into his office as soon as I enter the company.

"Close the door, Morris," he says, I do.

"Do you know that Specialist Martinez is leaving the company?"

"Yes, 1st Sergeant, I do."

"Do you know why Martinez is leaving?"

"No, 1st Sergeant, I don't," I lie to save myself.

"Martinez is leaving because he's a faggot." His words tear at me, considering the things we've been through in such a short time as his driver. I can't believe the hateful words that are coming out of his mouth. "The United States Army will not tolerate homosexuality in its ranks. It breaks down camaraderie and kills friendships." I stiffen my lip in order to avoid becoming upset. "That fag dresses like a woman and posts it on the internet, parading it around for the whole world to see. I just wanted you to know what was going on, Morris. You can go now," he dismisses me and I leave as quickly as I can. I'm freaking out inside. It's like he knows and isn't saying anything, waiting for me to crack. It's like he's putting me on a guilt trip of hurtful words, or warning me of his hate. I go into the bathroom to check my face, ensuring I've not given him any potential signs of gayness. Everything is fine, aside from the fact that I'm one of the most hated creatures around, whether they know I am or not. The government movers come for Jose's belongings within the week. I'm alone once again.

August 1999

We gear-up and go to Bosnia. The deployment is much less eventful than it was my first time around. The houses are much less decrepit than they were before. Actually, it seems to be country that's progressing tremendously by the United States presence. There aren't any bullet holes in the houses, trenches in the hillsides, or caches of weapons hidden everywhere. There are satellite dishes on nearly every home. Throughout the deployment, we conduct multiple presence patrols and I spend most of my time in the gym, building myself up in order to forget about the fact that I'm alone. One day, while out, I notice a father with his baby, not more than three years old in his arms. He assists the baby's fingers into a flipping off gesture as we pass by, too young for him to do it himself. Just when you think you're assisting with progress, you're sadly mistaken. Before I know it, the deployment is over and we're back in the United States.

I get my Sergeant, E5, rank shortly after we return, having proved myself as a leader while deployed. I attend Primary Leadership Development Course at Fort Stewart near the end of the month.

I leave the United States Army for a couple of years shortly after getting promoted. I'd been sitting on my reenlistment decision, knowing I wouldn't get the rank if I tell them I'm not staying in. Something inside me said that leaving is the best option after seeing what had happened with Jose. The only problem is, when you get back home again, you see that there's nothing there for you anymore. It feels like a trap and I'm not willing to fall back into the small town life. I've changed and it just isn't for me. I decide to talk to another Recruiter and, after going through the process all over again, the lies, the breathalyzer, the piss test, and the paperwork, I return to Fort Stewart, reluctant but willingly. After a little more than two years, I'm back in Georgia and things are uneventful for months. We train often, rotating back to the National Training Center annually, which is something that is ongoing throughout the military. Everything seems to be quiet, and then it happens.

One day, as a couple of us are sitting in the conference room area, waiting to return to the motor pool, it happens. The new 1st Sergeant likes to watch CNN, tending not to capture anyone's attention for long. None of us can believe what we're seeing. A few hundred miles up the coast from Georgia, one of the Twin Towers is smoking in New York City. I've never been to the Big Apple, but that doesn't keep me from staring at the television in awe with my mouth gapping. It's almost like it's not real. How can it be real? Who would want to hurt innocent Americans? The second airplane comes while we're staring at the TV, then the report at the Pentagon, and then from the field in Pennsylvania. It all seems like a dream, a bad personal dream. Fort Stewart, along with every other military post worldwide, goes on high alert. We now guard what was once open entry to the fort. We pull 8-hour shifts with weapons locked and loaded. All of America has changed, trusting no one. We Infantrymen do this until the MPs can establish enough to take over forever.

A short time later, I come down on orders to go back to Germany. I argue with my chain of command because they want me to stay to deploy to Kuwait with them in possible preparation for Iraq. I'd rather go back to Germany, hopefully avoiding a deployment. A month later, I'm back on leave and two weeks after that I'm on an airplane in route to Frankfurt again. Security in the American airports is brutal now, I notice. Don't the people working the security gates realize that I'm one of the good guys? They search my bags more than anyone else is it seems. They might as well have strip searched me on my way to my gate.

When I step off the plane, I take a deep breath in order to regain the smell that I remembered from three years ago. Memories come flooding back into my mind as if I'd just left on a short vacation. Everything smells the same. I walk outside and repeat the previously mentioned action. Even the smoky industrious atmosphere of Frankfurt brings back a good feeling. Some of my best times happened in Germany, even though they are over. There is something about the Army while stationed within the continental United States; it's just not the same as the way things are run here in Germany. I light up a cigarette, some habits don't go away as easily as we'd like them to, and take a deep drag, menthol filling my lungs. It's been about twelve hours since I've smoked. It's always that first one that settles so beautifully in the lungs. I'm in no hurry to get anywhere. The last time I was here, I was a Private, now I'm an NCO and there's a certain level of freedom that comes with it. They say, "Rank has its privileges," which is true, though I'm only an E5. I feel so much more grown up now also, like I've experienced so much more life. I'm smiling inside, barely nervous about going to a new unit this time. Just as I finish my last puff, a taxi pulls up to the curb. Good old German cab drivers! I hop in and tell him where I'm going, back to the in processing center like last time.

I watch out the window as he speeds along, old buildings zipping by. Having been around for centuries, the country doesn't change very quickly. I enjoy the architecture, the sky, and the other cars passing by. I missed Germany and am happy now to be back. I stay the night and get on a bus to Vilseck, Germany the next day, late morning, located in old Bavaria, the east side of Germany. The countryside is even more breathtaking than it had been on my way to Baumholder once we leave the autobahn. The forests are more lush and vibrant. The towns have more of an old-world look to them, still having the reddish clay shingling though. It takes about three hours before we finally get there. The post is kind of laid out like Baumholder but, rather than coming over a hill and down into the post, we approach into a valley. Houses line both sides of the road, scaffold along the hills on either side. It's nowhere near as mountainous either, more hilly than anything. The PX and Commissary sit directly off the road to the left in a large parking lot. A large park sits at the bottom of the hill on the right side. A track runs around it with what appears to be a school just up the hill a little.

The driver takes a right turn in front of the Krystal Inn, a guesthouse for incoming personnel. I get off the bus, grab my bags, and go to find the check-in desk. The lobby is small but clean with dark wood trim, which is highly polished. Unlike at Fort Stewart, one of the two young American ladies at the front desk greets me with a smile. I show her my ID and a copy of my orders. She grabs a cardkey and hands it to me, following with directions as to how to go about getting to my room. I walk out a door opposite the one I'd entered and across the street. The building is much like a barracks, rectangular with three levels. It's pastel yellow in color with white trim around the windows. I swipe my card to get inside, go up a few steps, and walk into the hallway. My room is at the end of the hall on the left, first floor. I swipe again and go inside, no other occupants. There's the usual setup, a small fridge, two beds, an ironing board with iron, two wall lockers, and a small entertainment center including television. Jetlagged, I shower and go to bed, thinking about the fact that I can't wait for my car to arrive. The transportation department told me it would be about a month before it would come. I fall asleep quickly, tuft of hair atop my head still damp.

I report to my Battalion the following afternoon as my orders state. The building is large and mazelike with multiple entrances, difficulty finding the staff duty desk. When I finally do, a lone Private who immediately goes to parade rest when I enter greets me.

"Afternoon, Sergeant," he says to me. It rather catches me off-guard, not having been an NCO for that long.

"At ease," I tell him, meaning to relax. I'm not an uptight NCO looking for respect because of my rank whenever I can. I want people to respect me for me, not due to what my collar says. "I'm supposed to report to the staff duty desk?"

"Yes, Sergeant, Sergeant First Class Lamb is around here somewhere," he respectfully nudges passed me to look out the door and down into the hallway. "I don't know where he's at right now, Sergeant," as he comes back inside the small room with a tiny desk, lone telephone on top and a binder with a running log for recording the events of the shift.

"That's fine," I tell him, "if you see him before I do, tell him I'm outside."

"Roger, Sergeant," he affirms as I walk out the nearest door and light up a cigarette. Now the nerves are starting to set in. I observe the area, a long building across the parking lot that I'm standing next to. It looks like another barracks, much like my hotel barracks building at the Krystal Inn but a lot bigger, taller, and longer. I smoke three cigarettes before seeing him get out of his car and walk toward me.

"Sergeant Lamb," I notice his nametag. He's a big guy, kind of overweight and a couple of inches taller than I am.

"Yes," he says with a slight German accent.

"I'm Sergeant Morris. I'm supposed to report to the staff duty desk but they told me to wait for you?"

"Hey, yeah, we've been having issues with losing in processing personnel. I think all of the Iraq talk is spooking people. Desert Storm's still freaking people out," he explains as we walk toward the door. "They eventually come back, after a couple of days of being AWOL, sometimes with the MPs, other times on their own. It's frustrating though." He holds the door open for me, motioning an after you. "There's the S-1 shop," he points down the hall to the left. "Take your orders and check-in there. You're staying at the Krystal Inn right?"

"Roger, Sergeant," I answer.

"All I really have for you today is to finish the checklist the S-1 shop will give you for in processing personnel. We have PT at 0630, be early."

"Yes, Sergeant," I tell him as he walks away, seemingly flustered or hurried. My in processing takes me through all of the S shops, which are for personnel management, intelligence data collection and security clearances, training and qualifications, and supply. I'm finished by 1700 hours, walking back to my room. I stop by the front desk after strolling the five blocks back, "Where's a good place to eat?" I ask the clerk.

"We have a little restaurant located directly behind the building," she tells me, "or you can go over to the PX food court, or Burger King." Apparently, there's a BK on every post in Germany. "They're all fairly close."

"Thanks," I tell her as I smile and walk back to my room to change. I eat at the restaurant, German food, schnitzel which is really good, and go back to my room for the night, watching AFN, the Armed Forces Network. The United States military has a handful of television stations that they run American programming on so we don't have to translate while watching. All of the most popular shows, primetime, are on the channels with a variety of genres. I find Charmed and decide to stick with that, surfing is just not the same when there are only five stations to flip through. I lie back on my pillow, ensuring my alarm is set just in case.

Luckily I'd set my alarm because I don't remember falling asleep. Dora the Explorer is singing her theme song as the alarm clock begins to buzz annoyingly next to me. I hurriedly get up, get dressed, and get out the door for PT. I run to the parking lot of the Battalion, seeing a few guys already waiting. I stand nearby without introducing myself right away. A guy with short black hair approaches me first, telling me his name and offering me his hand. I'm glad there are people in this world who are much less standoffish than I am or I'd never know anyone. I'm reclusive enough as it is, antisocial though I don't mean to be.

"I'm Sergeant Harris," he tells me as we shake hands.

"Sergeant Morris," I reply as our hands drop away from each other.

"Cool, how ya likin' it so far?"

"It's actually a lot smaller than I'd expected."

"Yeah, the best thing to do around here on the weekends is to head over to Amberg or Nuremberg. Amberg is only about a half-hour from here, Nuremberg's over an hour. There's lots of shit to do at either one. Nuremberg's got a zoo that's pretty cool."

"Cool, I'll have to check it out once I get my car," I tell him.

"Yeah, and your European driver's license," he adds.

"What do you mean?" I didn't have a car the last time I was in country so I had no idea.

"You'll take your test in about a week. You need one in order to get your car outta shipping anyway."

"Damn, Harris, you had me scared there for a sec. I thought I was going to be stuck on post the whole time." I laugh a little. Sergeant Lamb approaches and everyone, about twenty people, falls into formation. He takes accountability and we all break off into squads for PT. The altitude has an effect on my running like in Baumholder, but it's not quite as extreme, being in much better shape than I'd been then helps. Afterward I run back to my room, not before finding out where the chow hall is from Harris, and take a shower. I go to eat. Having German cooks in the chow hall was something I hadn't realized I'd missed. The food is really good, no runny scrambled eggs or burnt bacon. 0900 comes. We don't form up this time. Sergeant Lamb informs me of where to go today and for the next three days until it's time to go to my assigned unit. I easily pass the written driving test, which is all that's required for the European license.

I am assigned to the unit directly across the street from the Battalion, Charlie Company again. I meet the 1st Sergeant and the Commander as soon as I arrive, just like every time prior. Things have changed a lot now that I'm an NCO, it's amazing. No more handholding or babysitting, it's my turn to do that. There is a buzz around the unit about Iraq, but nobody knows for sure what's going to happen. I hear some of the Soldiers talking, mostly the married ones who are worried about leaving their families for an undisclosed period.

I am assigned to the 2nd Platoon again, no idea how that happened. I meet my Platoon Sergeant who happens to be a Staff Sergeant, looking to be a Sergeant First Class soon. He's just waiting for the promotion points to drop. He's a thick, short black guy with a humorous demeanor, Sergeant Wilson. He tells me to at ease the moment I go to parade rest out of respect for him. He looks like he's in his late thirties, jokingly mocking himself when we meet regarding how old he was before he got his sergeant E5 stripes. I try not to laugh because I'm not sure whether he's trying to feel me out or if this is actually the way he is. He assigns me to Sergeant Burns' squad.

Though Sergeant Burns is also an E5, he still outranks me with time in, eight years. He might be a career E5, meaning that he may be the type who rides out his military career until retirement at the rank of Sergeant. He's a large guy with a little bit of a beer gut that pokes out, not badly enough to strain the buttons on his BDUs, but noticeable. Sergeant Burns makes me a team leader for his squad, 2nd Squad. I meet the rest of the squad at final formation, Private Berg, a skinny, nerdy looking guy with BCGs, Private First Class Kelly, another skinny white dude with a huge smile, and Specialist Hammond, a well-built guy with black hair that's well beyond regulation standards. I greet them all as we huddle for a quick safety brief and then they are released. They jog back into the building; the barracks and company area are located in the same building. The smaller end is for company functions while the Soldiers live on the three-story other side. Sergeant Burns brings me back inside the building.

"Morris, are you still staying over at the Krystal Inn?"

"Yeah," though he has more time in than I do, we're still of the same rank so I don't have to address him as Sergeant.

"Get with the supply sergeant before he goes, room's in the back there," he points down the hallway to a split door with the top half open. "Our NCO billets are the next building over from the Krystal Inn's single rooms. The move won't be hard and you'll have the whole weekend to do it. Have a good one," he finishes and walks out the door to his car, which happens to be a red BMW, highly shined. I go back and sign for a key. The supply sergeant hands me a hand receipt to sign for the contents of the room, but he says I can return it on Monday. Usually when you sign for something you have to do it at that moment, another benefit of being an NCO I guess.

I walk to the barracks to check out my new room first. It looks exactly the same as the room in the Krystal Inn, filled with furnishings for one guy. This is my first time being without a roommate. I think I'm going to like being an NCO. I go back to the hotel and check out of my room, grabbing my bags and lugging them down the sidewalk. After putting everything away just the way I like it, I head down to the PX. I need to pick up some things to make it look like it's my own. I purchase another television (my other one is too small and my paycheck can handle it now), a bed set, more personal hygiene products, clothing that I just can't resist purchasing, a worldwide telephone card, and some new PT shoes. I push a full shopping cart into the food court and pick up a 12" sub sandwich from Robin Hood and go outside to find a cab. As always, there's one close to the front doors. I get back to my new room and get everything put my new items away accordingly. I go down the hall to use a telephone that's sitting on a desk near the entrance. I scrape the gray stripping from the back of the card and read the directions, dialing as I go.

"Hello," Mom answers the telephone.

"Hey, Mom, I'm here and fine," I tell her after a week of being in country. I didn't want to call until knowing everything was alright. "They made me a team leader." I'm excited.

"That's good," she says. I can tell she has no idea what that means.

"It means that I'm actually in charge of other guys now," I explain.

"Oh, well that is good. I knew you'd be fine, honey. You're really doing a great thing for yourself you know?"

"I know, Mom. There is some bad news though." She's silent.

"Remember what we talked about while I was home, about maybe having to go to Iraq?"

"Yeah," she replies softly.

"Well, nothing's for sure yet, but it might happen soon," I try to deliver the blow easily but there's really no way of doing that when you're speaking with your mother.

She's silent for a few seconds, "You know that you're in our prayers, Greg. God will watch over you, I just know he will."

"I know, Mom. I just wanted to let you know that I'm doing alright. I want to save my minutes. I'll let you know if I hear anything else."

"You know, Greg, it might be a good idea to get a computer. Dad just bought me one. It's got the internet and everything. That way you could send me letters instead of calling all the time. It'd probably be cheaper."

"I'll think about it, Mom." Though I've wanted to purchase a PC, I don't think it's a good idea until I get back if we end up going. There's no reason to buy a $2000 piece of equipment that's just going to sit in storage. "I love you guys, tell Dad for me."

"We love you too, Greg. Take care of yourself and be careful." I hang up the telephone first because I know that she never will if I don't. I go back to my room to enjoy my new stuff and to program the television for AFN. German TVs are like American radios, they scan for signal. Once I get that done, I crash for the night.

February 2003

After that first weekend, my unit starts training hard just in case we come down for the deployment. All of our squads and mechanized crews get their qualifications from the ranges in Grafenwoehr, our backyard. I manage to move my dismount team successfully, which is surprising due to my lack of experience. Our entire squad executes things perfectly and we become a tight little group, aside from Sergeant Burns who can't seem to keep his temper under control. He's like a spoiled little kids sometimes and it pisses us all off. We've gotten into it a few times, away from the Soldiers, of course. A couple of months pass before we finally get the order to move to Ramstein, Germany. It's what we've all expect and feared at the same time, but it's our job, to protect our country.

Ramstein is a place that specializes in moving heavy equipment and military personnel. We arrive and load all of our stuff into these large hangers. There are hundreds of cots. They're lined up perfectly throughout the bay with a separation for the area the female Soldiers will be sleeping. They have pool tables, ping pong tables, board games, televisions, books, and pretty much anything a Soldier would need to keep their minds occupied in preparation for a deployment. We march to and from the chow hall, which is located about a mile away. We get our new desert uniforms and boots, which hurt like hell in the first few days of wearing, blistering feet. We train more in the area of MOUT, which are military operations on urban training. There are instructors who know how to set up our teams and squads in order to successfully approach and clear a building. We'd done some of the training in Graf, but nowhere near this extensive. Our days in Ramstein seem like the longest days ever. Our leadership keeps us occupied every waking moment of the day in order to take our minds off depressing things like, for the married Soldiers. They leave their families behind to fend for themselves for an indefinite length of time.

We watch movies and television during the night hours. The day finally comes when the President of the United States announces the fact that we are going into Iraq. Mixed emotions flow through the hangar as CNN airs the broadcast. I am nervous and excited, honestly not knowing how to respond. No matter how any of us feels about it, we're going. We immediately start packing up our things to get ready for the move to the C130s.

The maneuver happens at night, loading everything onto pallets. Our tanks, Bradleys, and Humvees, all strapped down and ready to go. The engines blast our eardrums as we pass to the back of the plane. We pile inside, sitting on the outside walls of the aircraft. We leave in staggered chalks, squads at a time, sometimes platoon-sized elements. We take to the air quickly; a C130 is a powerful machine, the weight of the heavy up-armored vehicles is massive, in the tons. The chains securing the vehicles have a metallic clinking is menacing. It creates an ambiance of sorts, almost like the chains jingled by a make-believe ghost from stories like Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol or from the movie Scrooged with Bill Murray, which was a spoof, I know. The sound carries over the dim red interior lights randomly flickering throughout the airplane.

I try to close my eyes but I'm too pumped for what's to come. Eventually I think I do doze off because the pilot suddenly makes a downward maneuver that nearly lifts me off my seat. If it wasn't for my seatbelt, I know I'd be up in the air. It freaks me out a bit and, by the shadowed but noticeable looks from my guys I'm not the only one. Private First Class Kelly has a gleaming smile on his face, easily recognizable. He's the joker in my team, always something funny to say in order to lighten the mood. Specialist Hammond has become my reliable assistant whenever it's needed. Being the new kid on the block, Hammond helped me to fit in with the guys, developing a trust and respect that I hadn't expected. The C130 continues to make it's decent, almost too rapidly. These planes are made to conduct combat maneuvers that a civilian jumbo jet can't. They can stop on a dime and can take off with very little runway.

I barely feel the wheels hit the ground before the back ramp is dropping into the dark outside terrain. We flip the NVGs down over our eyes on Sergeant Burns' command and stand up. We get out of the way so the mounted members can get their vehicles off the C130 as quickly as possible. We are now officially in enemy territory. I lead my guys out the back and go beyond the engines to stay clear of danger. The ground is soft and kind of mushy beneath my new desert boots. I see an infrared flashlight to my front, directing us to its location. I go to it as someone hollers at me, "Over there!" He points toward a group of tents nearby. The Army's Special Forces landed in this valley about a week prior to our arrival in order to ensure that it's safe and clear. They have an observation post established in a mountain valley in the northern portion of the country. I lead my men to the tents as directed while the vehicles come rolling out behind us, engines roaring. Considering the loudness of the airplane and the vehicles, I'm sure we're not surprising anyone. I guess speed is our advantage, but location is theirs. There are lights on inside the medium-sized tents, which flash the outside as soon as I open the flap. The light blinds my eyes through the night vision goggles. I quickly flip them away from my face, vision spotty. There are bare floors inside, plywood lying here and there. Boot prints mark the surfaces of all of the wooden flooring. After about an hour, we're told to bed down by Burns.

Later that night, huge gusts of wind begin flying through the valley, the mountains acting as a wind tunnel. The tent falls, slamming one of the thick wooden support beams into Kelly. I hear a moan from the other side.

"Kelly, you alright," I yell to him.

"Yeah, I'm cool, just had a big ass tree hit me in the face, but I'm good," he laughs in pain. Burns and I find our way beneath the tent cover to the outside and get over to him within a couple of minutes. The wind fights against us and the mud seems to be thinner than it had been a couple of hours ago. I reach in, pulling Kelly out, still in his sleeping bag. I check him for bleeding, he's fine. We struggle to get the tent back up again, but it's no use. We spend the rest of the night using the tent as a blanket to protect against the strong gusts of air.

Finally, the wind stops, and the sun pours in on us, over the horizon from the edge of the valley. We're all tired, but glad to be unscathed, other than Kelly. We get the tent set up and eat our MRE breakfasts we'd packed in our rucks before departing Ramstein. After finishing, we get together as a platoon. Sergeant Wilson informs us that we'll be road marching on our M113s to the south. The adrenaline begins to pump, the unknown. Later that afternoon, we're riding in the 113 with our weapons outward, bodies sticking out the top of the vehicle at chest level. The mountain range running in the background is breathtaking and overgrown with vegetation. When I'd first heard about coming to Iraq, I pictured vast, empty desert land with high sand dunes and camels running around everywhere. The houses match what I'd expected though, made from clay, plain in presentation. The windows are not paned or covered in any way. Women and children watch as we pass. The women wear burkas, fully covered from head to toe in a silk-looking piece of black fabric, eyes peeking out. Children run around beside the narrow roadway, begging for handouts. We had been told prior to leaving that we aren't allowed to give them anything. A little boy catches my eye. He's got red hair, which is interesting considering the fact that this is a country filled with brown people with black hair and brown eyes. I don't think it is a recessive gene, maybe a product of Desert Storm Army Special Forces. The people look tired and worn, much like the weathering of their homes. Children run barefoot over the tiny pebbles beside the road as if their feet are callused and numb. I can see the pain in the eyes of the Kurdish women as they hide behind their veils, sadness. I trust that we bring the Kurdish people some hope.

About two hours later, the landscapes leveling off into more of what I'd expected, and we drive next to a large open area to our right. There is nothing but some old buildings, barracks, and triangular bunkers poking out of the ground. There is still some vegetation, not as much as there was further north. Palm trees are scattered over the land, I notice, as we get closer. There is a gate already set up, which we pull into, swerving around huge square cement barriers with our tracked vehicles. More Special Forces personnel greet us as we pass, weapons at the high ready just in case.

The place we end up is an old Iraqi Army airfield. Most of their troops have given up and abandoned the area for the U.S. occupation of their country. We take a sharp right turn onto an airstrip and start driving to the north again, within the perimeter of the airfield. We pass multiple buildings before getting to the northernmost limits of the airbase. Our leadership figures out where we're going to get everything set up and we begin the process. We still don't know how long we're going to be here, one thing the United States Pentagon neglected to tell us. We toss our bags into a stack on the ground and grab the GP Medium, which is a vent like the ones we had in Bosnia. The heat is nearly unbearable, shirts sticking to chests and backs as the sweat pours down bodies. After being to the Mojave Desert, one would think that this wouldn't have much of an effect on me, wrong. Nobody wants to make the call to shed some of our equipment, so we're forced to wear our full DCUs (desert camouflage uniforms), our Kevlar helmets, and our flack vests, which are the ones designed to protect us from bullets, covering only the upper body. Sweat stains begin to form in my uniform as we struggle with getting the tent set up on asphalt. The tents are designed to be in grass. If I remember hearing correctly, they were made in the Vietnam Era. Finally, we get the wooden middle poles in place and the sides secured to the outside poles. We all stop for a moment, telling my men to drink some water before one of them passes out. Kelly, though he seems to be sweating worse than the rest of us, is joking about something stupid, as usual. I notice the armpits of my uniform chaffing the underside of my arm as I sit, sipping on my canteen of German water.

Things are relatively quiet for the first week of us being in country. Then the mortar attacks begin. There is no system to the assaults and there isn't any damage. Most of the rounds land far to the south of our location, in the open airfield. We've gotten most of the perimeter secured with concertina razor wire and sandbags. Hour after hour is spent filling the bags in order to develop a safe area just in case the mortar attacks actually do become more successfully aimed.

Local children pester us daily. I guess I don't really mean "pester," but they don't ever seem to go away and the language barrier is really hard to overcome. I feel like a monkey at times, one that does sign language because words said aren't understood anyway. I've never used my nonverbal skills so much in my lifetime, or been so utterly frustrated at times. The kids ask for money for cigarettes, which I'm nearly out of, and food. They charge us three American dollars for a carton, which is a tremendously good deal. I can't figure out if our being here is seen as a great moneymaking opportunity or if we're actually wanted. Nevertheless, we all go with it. It's nice being able to get other food besides MREs in our guts. The bring gyros on pita bread with some kind of browned meat that looks like sausage without the spiciness. The portions are huge and delicious, wrapped in tinfoil. They also bring us lamb and chicken with fresh veggies sometimes. Soon the Army Engineers place cement dividers that are 15' tall all around the perimeter, ending our transactions.

We conduct presence patrols, much like in Bosnia. The only difference here is the threat to a person's life. Snipers, suicide bombers, general gunmen, and IEDs show just how unhappy the local factions are with our being here. So far my unit is fortunate and without incident, aside from random rocket attacks. Just when we've gotten things established, it's announced that we're moving further south. This time most of us are going by air. The move happens under the cover of the night in order to avoid potential attacks.

The arid heat from the helicopter's propeller pushes against my face violently. If not for the protection of the goggles on my face, I think I'd be picking sand boogers from my eyes for weeks to come. My rucksack rests uncomfortably on my lap, crushing my ball sack against my thigh. I shift to ease the pain as my legs begin to tingle from my feet to my knees. It subsides, but only momentarily. As I glance across the way, over the duffle bags stacked in between, I notice the other Soldiers. They all have worried looks on their faces. For some, I think, this is their first helicopter ride. I'd only done it before in training while in Germany the first time. We'd conducted sling load training, which involves getting in and out numerous times.

The butterflies of anticipation and the wonderment of unknown bounce around inside my head and stomach. As I glance around at the helicopter's other passengers, I know I'm not the only one feeling this way. My eyesight vibrates as I strain to focus on their faces. Their eyes are hidden behind dusty goggles as well, but I can see through the thin plastic a bit. I lose myself in thought, my eyes close, impossible to sleep on a Chinook with all of this noise. Not to mention, the crushing of my groin and the uncomfortable metal frame digging into my quadriceps.

We begin to make our decent. As the vehicle turns toward our destination, I can see the ground below from the gunner's door, the only lights are those from the city below. We fly beyond them across a long, empty field. The darkness invades my sights. Tiny, green lights affixed to the choppers interior walls are the only things allowing me to see. Our new base's ground illumination suddenly begins to invade the helicopter's belly, flooding inside. There are floodlights everywhere on the ground below.

Dust begins to fly in from the ground as the propellers push it upward. Bits of the debris flies into my mouth, though it's closed, it still finds its way inside. My teeth instantly feel grimy with sand and grit from the Iraqi earth. I try to seal them together more firmly. I didn't think I'd need a cravat over my face for the flight, I think to myself. When there is a dusty situation involved, I'd normally have a cravat over my mouth and nose, something I've learned since arriving here and conducting presence patrols. It makes me look like a bandit. The one from the Skoal dip can always pops into my head. The humorous thought is quickly interrupted by a loud voice.

"Grab your rucksack and two duffle bags! I don't care if they're your bags or not! Get the shit and get out! This bird has to be back in the air in less than 2 minutes!" The 1st Sergeant yells as loudly as he possibly can as he competes with the bird. We immediately obey as if we are robots.

I stand, my legs feel like rubber as the blood rushes back into them. There is no time for recuperation. I grab a shoulder strap on my rucksack and swing it onto my back. I wait for the Soldiers in front of me to get theirs in place and then they each grab the two duffle bags. Colorful thoughts of what 1st Sergeant will say if we don't get our asses in gear running through my head over and over as I wait impatiently for my men to get off.

Finally, though it was only a few seconds, it feels like an eternity, the line is in motion. I grab two straps attached to the bags and make my way to the ramp at the rear of the helicopter. The weight of my body armor, along with all of my pouches full of ammunition, and the M16 slung over my shoulder, makes it nearly impossible to move quickly. I am quick, but careful not to lose my footing as I travel down the smooth, metal ramp and out onto the gravel. I keep my head low though I'm fairly certain the propellers are much too high to make contact with my Kevlar-laden head. My goggles cloud over even more with a combination of perspiration and the humidity. I strain against my load so I can run a finger across their plastic front. I shakily succeed and continue toward the others with my load of baggage. They skirt alongside a shoddy looking trailer located near the landing zone. There is a narrow path between a wall of sandbags and the building. I squeeze in behind them and struggle with the bags in the process. The heat starts to build inside my helmet. Sweat begins to flow from my hairline onto my forehead and, just when I begin to get the hang of maneuvering, the path it opens to a parking lot.

We set the duffle bags neatly into a pile. The ends are marked with the last four of our social security numbers and our initials for easier identification. Some of the guys manage to get their actual bags before ending up in the randomly stacked pile. Others start their search in the dark. It takes a few minutes before everyone is ready, ensuring my team has their bags. We gather in a formation as 1st Sergeant makes an announcement. We're going to tent city for the night. I'm really not excited about the news, considering the mortar attacks we'd experienced further north. I can't imagine it is any better here in the south, closer to Baghdad. Luckily, our time in tent city is minimal and there are no mortar attacks while there. We are soon issued more suitable attire, ACU uniforms, which are more useful in the urban environment. We also receive new rucksacks, Kevlar helmets, ballistic vests, and boots. It's almost like Christmas to be honest.

The booms come loudly and I jump from my bed in the old Iraqi soldier barracks that the United States Army has claimed for its own, just like in the north only this base wasn't a former airbase. Sometimes the mortar attacks are quickly followed by Howitzer guns firing in retaliation and counter-fire, placed nearby. I don't know which I'd rather hear, the mortars or our own guns returning fire.

We begin working the area more frequently, finding out that I was right about this area being much worse than it was in Kurdish country. During one of the first Iraqi election times, we are sent out to assume a stay in a building which was once occupied by another American unit assigned somewhere within the city. They had abandoned it a couple of weeks prior, we don't know why. I guess the Army just didn't need the building anymore. The entire place is gutted of all fixtures. Anything the local populace can put to use in their homes has been stolen.

As my team and I wander around the building investigating and looking for our room, there is an explosion that rocks the entire place. Luckily, I'm still in my gear. We all go on high alert and run for the stairs leading to the rooftop. The sky is clear, but it is nighttime and the illumination is obstructed by some abandoned buildings nearby. A .50 caliber machine gun is blasting away from the M113 positioned below next to the building. An M240B is firing like crazy from the bunker on the rooftop. We run to the edges of the roof and our weapons point in the direction of the 240's tracer rounds. I ask the gunner for a situation report. All he knows is that a rocket propelled grenade slammed against the side of the building and he immediately began to fire in the direction of origin. We quickly run back downstairs and secure our night vision, affix it to our Kevlar's, and set out to find the attacker. Much to our dismay, our hearts beating like kettle drums in our chests, we search every nearby building, stumble over several piles of brick, and trip into many holes, but our invader has eluded us. What an interesting evening.

About halfway through the deployment, the Battalion starts doing promotion boards and I attend, along with Specialist Hammond. I sponsor him and I am going before the board in order to get my Staff Sergeant promotional status. Boards downrange are so much easier, not worrying about how the dress uniform looks, the perfection of the ribbons, or having to polish boots. We brush off our boots, ensure we wear the cleanest uniform we own, and study our asses off. The day is nerve racking, but Hammond and I both pass our boards, which means promotion for both of us within sixty days.

While I'm awaiting promotion, it turns out 2nd Platoon has no need for any E6s, Staff Sergeants, so I am scooped up by the Headquarters Company in my Battalion. I say goodbye to my men, thank them for all of their hard work, and tell them to stay safe. Specialist Hammond, soon to be Sergeant Hammond, takes my place as team leader. They're in good hands. We both get promoted forty-five days after the board.

Mid-February 2004

We continue to have incoming personnel arriving at the base throughout the deployment. The helipad that we'd arrived at a couple of months ago is where they land. The Battalion tasks out its personnel to provide people to go down to the pad and get the new additions to the units. It's my night to go. I just finished with the gym, in which I've been spending whatever time I can. I've finally gotten bigger than I've ever been with the least amount of body fat than I've ever managed, working out alone. I really don't know many people in the Battalion, being fairly new. Most of my job consists of answering radios and going out with some of the Headquarters elements on special patrols in the Humvees. I get out of the shower when I hear the bird coming in, hurrying back to my room to drop my personal hygiene bag and to grab my weapon and headgear. We are no longer required to wear all of our equipment around the base due to heightened protection surrounding the perimeter. The helipad isn't very far from the barracks, so it doesn't take me very long to get to.

No sooner do I pass the trailer where Soldiers do their flight manifests, the one we'd squeezed between months prior, does the helicopter take back off. The dust clocks me in the face, sprinkling my M16 with a nice layer of Iraqi soil. I turn away from the dirt cloud, but small granules still manage to find their way into my eyes.

"Staff Sergeant Morris," a male voice asks.

"Yeah," I reply, possibly disrespectfully, I don't know whose addressing me due to clogged eyes.

"There's one on this flight for the Battalion," he says.

"Really, only one person," I reply while scrubbing my eyes with the backs of my hands, probably making things worse. "That hardly seems worth a flight."

"There were more, but he's the only one for us," he tells me. My eyes start clearing up, misting over with tears. I look up and continue to blink the sediment away. As they clear, I begin to see the Soldier standing a few feet behind the Soldier addressing me, just the outline. "He's all yours," he says as he walks around the corner and away from us. I blink more rapidly, droplets falling from the corners, wiping them off my face with my fingers. I clear up more as I blink, trying to see who I'm about to talk to and then I am able to see. I don't know if I want to see the person who's forming before my eyes. A sudden rage fills my mind as if it was just yesterday he'd gone.

"What the fuck are you doing here," I yell at him. His goggles sit atop his Kevlar, blue eyes standing out like never before against the dirt marking where the eye protection once sat.

"Don't, Greg," he says as he takes a step in my direction, his muscular arms holding duffle bags in each of their hands. He looks just as he had years ago, older and more mature, but just as gorgeous as he'd been then.

"I asked you a goddamn question, you piece of shit," I yell at him again, having no concern who can hear me. I'm overcome with emotions, tearing up again, this time not due to dust. His bags hit the ground, puffing dust a little from beneath them as they fall. He glances around quickly as he approaches and then he falls into me, shoving me against a wall of sandbags behind me. His mouth engulfs mine, quieting my words with his lips. I struggle as I push against him, but my time in the gym is apparently nowhere near the time he's spent there. Heat from his touch causes me to relax. My anger slightly subsides, having been so long since I've loved or been touched. Our kiss only lasts a few moments for the fear of getting caught. He backs away from me, looking into my eyes.

"Greg, I'm sorry," he tells me, losing my mind in baby-blue eyes momentarily.

"I called your mom," I start to say as he interrupts.

"I know, she told me," he explains. "I couldn't do it. I couldn't be with you and not with you."

"That's bullshit and you know it." My words are calmer.

"How would that have worked, Greg? How long has it been," he asks, making complete sense as I try to get beyond my selfish feelings about the situation of so long ago. He's right though, I couldn't even talk to my parents for so long because I wasn't able to deal with the separation.

"Do you have any idea what you've done to me," I ask him. "You broke me down, Joe, do you know that?"

"I'm sorry," he says. "There really isn't anything else I can say. I'm just as surprised as you are, but it's definitely a pleasant shock. I really missed you." He touches my cheek with his dirty right hand, wiping a tear away before it reaches my jawline.

"Let's get you over to the barracks," I tell him, grabbing one of his duffle bags while he picks up the other. I wipe any remaining moisture from my face and we walk toward the Battalion barracks/office building where I live. Thoughts of anger and excitement have a tug-of-war in my brain, excitement victorious by the time we enter the building.

Sergeant, E5, Joe Green is given a room in the Battalion building and is assigned as my gunner. I can't believe my luck when I'm told the news. The only issue now, controlling myself enough to avoid exposure.

Joe and I walk to the small PX the Army has established, not far from the Battalion. One of the advantages of being a member of the command group is that they are usually centrally located. Upper echelons don't like having to walk very far for anything.

"Why haven't you been promoted to Staff Sergeant yet," I ask him as we stroll along.

"I got mixed up in drugs shortly after Basic Training," he says, kicking up dust and tiny pebbles with the tip of his combat boot. "I had a really hard time, Greg, whether you believe it or not. I missed you so much."

"Yeah, I pretty much became a drunk," I tell him. The sun beats down on us from high above, sweat catching in the brim of my hat. A group of Soldiers walks by, heading in the opposite direction. He waits for them to pass before talking again.

"I almost had a mental breakdown while on leave. My mom couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. I eventually told her. Oh, did you ever come out to your parents? I've been wondering that for a long time."

"No, if I remember right, I said I'd do it with you on leave."

"Well, if I remember right, I told you that it may be awhile and you should do it anyway, with or without me." I laugh at him under my breath. We approach the PX and go inside for a few unnecessary things. We go to the gym later in the day and every day thereafter for at least two hours. I have a hard time looking at Joe while he's lifting the weights without getting excited. I want to jump on top of him and rip off his clothes right in front of everyone. Working out is like an aphrodisiac for us. We wait until we get back to the barracks and he is quick to find his way to my room sneakily. We lie together for hours, talking about the past and holding each other. I've got a television in my room, so we also watch movies, sometimes falling asleep in my bed. I realize how much I'd missed him and he shows how much he's missed me. We spend every possible minute together that we can. After a couple of weeks, we finally get to a point of sweet comfort ability. One night, while one of my many Iraqi pirated DVDs is playing, Joe's lying on my chest, listening to my heartbeat. We're talking between good movie moments. He stops chatting for a bit and there's an odd silence. I feel his Adam's apple as he swallows deeply before speaking.

"Greg," he starts quietly as if he's telling me a secret. "I love you." My heart begins to beat hard against my chest. "I've wanted to say that for so long. I wanted to say it on that day in the Atlanta airport. That's why I didn't stay in touch with you. It hurt too much being away, knowing that I wanted nothing more than for us to be together." I feel wetness drip onto my chest. He's crying but I can't see his face. His tears cause me to cry as well. "I couldn't stand it, so I shut you out. I couldn't handle it and I'm sorry." I run my fingers through his blonde hair, trying to settle him down. "I love you, Greg."

"I understand, Joe," I kiss the top of his head. "It's alright. I love you too." I've been waiting so long to say those words to him. We all have our own way of dealing with things. I tried to forget and so did he. We stop talking and go back to the movie. I feel suddenly worried. I'm finally happy again, but good things never last very long, especially for me.

My truck along with two others, provide security for the Battalion's Executive Officer, Major Billings' Humvee. We travel in four-truck formations, his being the third in the line-up. Major Billings works a lot of the projects with the local populace, water, waste, electricity, schools, and things the Iraqi government has a hand in. Most of our time is spent driving around the city, sitting in the hot afternoon sun while he, his personal security force, and his Iraqi translator go into buildings to speak with government officials. They talk to them about the workings of things, trying to change the Middle Eastern ways of doing stuff into something more modernized, Americanized. Sometimes it takes minutes, sometimes hours, it depends on the day. Joe scans atop the Humvee while the remaining men pull exterior security.

Today is no different than any other day, driving down the decaying asphalt overcome with sand and dirt, in the lead vehicle. Women dressed in black burkas beat their rugs from the top of their roofs. The brownish dust clouds and falls away from the materials as they are bashed with a racket-like stick. Their hands are weathered and callused from years of running their households while the men go out to do other things. They look sad, like they are the walking dead, decaying daily. The Iraqi children run in dirt fields without shoes, kicking a partially inflated soccer ball from one end to the other. Their goals are without netting, only the metal frame remains, but it serves its purpose. Some of the kids have shoes, some run with sandals, and others in their bare feet. Their clothing is stained and usually too small for their bodies. This is a sad, depressing country. If the heat doesn't kill you, poverty will. The people age so quickly, 20-year-olds looking like they're 60.

My driver neglects to miss a pothole in the middle of the road. I hear Joe grunt from above. The gunner's hatch has padding, but it's nowhere near comfortable and hitting bumps causes a person's ribs to rub against metal. Hitting something hard enough has made guys lose teeth or cut their faces. His boot comes up to my driver's shoulder, giving him a gentle shove, reminding him to be careful. It's just after the bump when I hear it, Joe's boot supporting his body upon the center console once again. The shot is loud enough for my eardrums to ring, possibly intensified by the buildings around us. The blood begins dripping almost immediately behind me, but it doesn't register. We stop our trucks and hide behind our up-armored vehicles' open doors. We hadn't had to react to anything like this before and I've never heard anything this close out in sector. I scan the area, knowing this is what I'd joined the Army for in the first place. Though now, at this time in my life, I'm not so sure.

"Find that fucker," I yell at them, not knowing if what I'm doing is even the right thing to do. We continue to look frantically, minutes seeming like hours. I then begin to feel as though we've lost him. I turn toward my truck. Suddenly, a few shots are fired by one of my men, to my left, my driver. "Where the fuck is he," I ask him as I spin back around. He points to the upper-level of a mosque just to our front left. I see the man stand up as my driver's bullet hits nearby, chunking a piece of the structure upon impact, powdering him with the material. I step away from my Humvee and run in the direction of the mosque, weapon at my cheek. He tries to run along the round walkway toward the door. I find him in my sites and pull the trigger when he's struck by my bullet, catching him in the shoulder blade behind his heart. His body flops against the railing at the backside of the building, then plummeting to the earth four stories below, at least. I turn toward my truck when I finally notice Joe slumped over his .50 caliber machine gun mounted to the top of the truck. My heart pounds out of my chest, more so than it already is. I run back to the Humvee, throwing my M16 inside onto the driver's seat. I snake into the truck and grab Joe's legs. Blood drips down from above, adding to the pool already on the middle console. I kneel in my lover's blood and it soaks into my ACU pants, making a huge spot. I try to lift his muscular body away from the gun, grabbing at his waist, red liquid dripping onto my face. I don't fucking care! "Someone help me!" I holler as loudly as I can while straining to get the huge body from the gunner's hatch. He comes downward, lowering his mass as easily as I can. Tears fill my eyes, clouding my vision. It's then that I see his face. His brilliant blue eyes stare blankly into my soul. A bullet hole a little smaller than a dime, opening his skull, just to the left of center. No, no, no, no, I think, not knowing if I'm being vocal or actually simply thinking the words. Everything is a blur beyond Joe's empty face. I lie him down onto the console, boots extending beyond the radio mount in the center over to my seat. I shift into the rear passenger seat with my hand on his chest. I grab his hand, squeezing, hoping, and praying for something in response. The Medic comes from behind me and pulls me from inside the truck, saying words that I can't hear. I stumble onto the ground, nearly tripping over my own feet. My eyes flood over and everything becomes a blurry vision as I drop to my knees in the cold Iraq earth, wet pant leg caked with dirt, covering Joe's bloodstain. I cradle my own face in my hands as the tears flow freely from my eyes. Oh my God! Blood, dirt, and tears combining in the palms of my hands, nothing good lasts long for me, especially love.

April 2004

Night terrors consume my soul, starting that very night. I scream uncontrollably in my sleep and I wake up in a pool of my own sweat. Joe's soulless blue eyes stare back at me every time I close mine.

We have a memorial service for him a few days after the incident. His blood-spattered boots sit on a pedestal with an M16 sticking up from the base. His dog tags dangle from the weapon directly over the bloody boots. Someone had tried to scrub them by the way they look, but there is still residual spotting. His picture sits next to a plaque with a short saying on it. My tears make it impossible to read the inscription on the metal plate. I have a hard time controlling myself, but everyone should understand. No knowing that we were lovers, but simply because I was the first one to him when he died. I was the one to fish him down from the gunner's hatch. I was the one to see his blank stare as it looked back at me. I sit down in one of the front seats and wait for the service to begin.

"Sergeant Hammond," the 1st Sergeant from my old company calls out. His voice rings out inside the chapel walls, bouncing and echoing from within like a foghorn in search of the shore.

"Here, 1st Sergeant," Hammond answers.

"Specialist Kelly," he calls out again.

"Here, 1st Sergeant," Kelly replies without delay.

"Sergeant Green," 1st Sergeant yells.

No answer.

"Sergeant Green," he hollers again, resonating.

No answer. There is a pause. My Adam's apple grows even larger in my throat while the tears continue to flow down my face, using my sleeve to dab them, trying not to wail.

"Sergeant Joseph Green," he beckons one last time.

No answer. An even longer pause follows.

The sounds of bagpipes playing Amazing Grace begins and I can no longer control myself. I get up from my seat and quickly exit the chapel, finding the nearest bunker to tuck away into. The wailing begins.

"Staff Sergeant Morris," I hear a voice beyond my tears, but I can't answer. I can't speak. "Sergeant Morris," the voice comes again, searching for my whereabouts. I stop, take a deep breath, and exit the bunker. Hammond stands outside, looking for me. I pass him quickly, avoiding eye contact. I notice him trying to follow me.

"I'll be fine, Hammond, just let me be please," I put a hand up, signifying to stop. He doesn't follow me. I go to my barracks room and lie on my bed, crying like a baby into my pillow. I cry myself to dreaded sleep.

His blood flows like a waterfall from the hatch above me. It falls onto my hair, face, and chest, coating me in thick, red fluid. I look up at him, beyond the waterfall flowing onto my face. He looks down at me, bullet hole in his forehead gushing violently like a hose. His eyes are threatening and evil.

"This is your fault, you son-of-a-bitch," he says in a haunting tone. I shoot up in my bed with a loud scream, waking someone in the next room.

"Staff Sergeant Morris," a knock at my door, "Are you alright?" He continues to pound until I answer. I'm drenched in my own sweat, white boxer shorts nearly transparent with moisture even though the AC in my room is keeping it cool.

"Yeah," I yell at him. "I'm fine! Mind your own goddamn business!" I am in a rage that I can't control. Joe's face is burned into my mind.

"Are you sure, Sergeant, because you don't look so good?" He's trying my patience.

"I said I'm fucking fine alright! Go the fuck away!" I yell at him. Other doors open down the hallway as my voice carries through it. Suddenly, his face changes before my eyes, turning into Joe's face, his beautiful face with a lone bullet wound. I don't know what's going on. I stare into Joe's face, his eyes. They glare back at me. This is your fucking fault, you fucking faggot! I hear the words, but the mouth doesn't move. I can't believe my ears as the anger flows through me. As if the guilt isn't enough, the fact that Joe was there with me. I make a fist and swing without warning. My hard knuckles smash the nose of the person at my door. As his pained voice rings out, I know it isn't Joe but I continue to swing, using all of the muscle I've acquired over the years to beat the shit out of him. I hit him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. Next, the oblique area gets a taste of my fist just before his body crumples to the floor. I follow him down to the tile, punching and swearing at him, rage flowing outward through my fists. A body jumps on me from behind, pulling me free from my victim. I continue to swing at the air as another Soldier grabs one of my arms. They restrain my arms to the rear while another uses zip cuffs on my wrists from one of his kits for capturing prisoners of war. They shove me into a nearby wall, all breathing heavily. I can feel my hot breath against my face as it bounces off the cement. I start fighting again and they push me onto the ground hard. I hear something crack, but I don't give a shit.

"Get someone now," I hear one of the guys yell, kneeling in the center of my back. Footfalls tapper off as they travel down the hallway, slamming a door. I continue to struggle without making any progress. I close my eyes while the pain shoots through my body from my ribs. Why the fuck did you have to die, I ask myself silently as I breathe heavily against the cool floor.

May 2004

I am shipped from Iraq to Landstuhl Medical Facility in Germany to be treated for broken ribs and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The doctors and I have several sessions regarding what had happened on that day. Sadly, I'm not able to tell them the real reason for my emotional attachment to Joe. They prescribe drugs for sleeping and depression. After a few weeks, I'm finally allowed to use the telephone and there's something I need to do.

I close the booth to the private room where the telephone is attached to the wall with a small table in front of it. I sit down in the booth, wearing a hospital gown, adjusting it so my package doesn't get crushed on the hard stool. The numbers for dialing back to the States are located on the wall next to me. I follow the instructions as I push the corresponding numbers. After a couple of seconds, the telephone on the other end rings. She'll answer, she always does.

"Hello," her voice is so sweet and welcoming. It's angelic to my ears, tearing up at the sound of it.

"Hi, Mom," I reply immediately, even with the lump in my throat. I can't believe I'm about to do what I'm about to do. "Is Dad home," I ask her.

"Hi, Greg, yeah he's here," she answers.

"Could you have him get on the other line please?"

"Sure, one second," she yells for him to pick up the phone in the living room. I hear a click when he comes on.

"Hello," he says. His voice is also soothing to my ears. I miss them so much I can't stand it at times.

"Hi, Dad," I reply.

"Hey there, Greg, how's it going?"

"Dad, Mom...just let me talk for a second. I've got something important to tell you guys."

"Ok," she says.

"Ok," he does also.

"Mom, remember when I was home on leave a few years ago and you couldn't figure out what was wrong with me? You got pissed when I wouldn't tell you?"

"Yeah," she answers.

"Well...I'm ready to tell you now," my saliva gets thicker and my tongue becomes swollen. I swallow hard. "Mom, Dad, I'm gay," the words just flow out of my mouth. I promised Joe I'd tell my parents and, since we'll never be on leave together now, I'm doing it alone.

"Are you serious..." my mother starts to reply, but I interrupt.

"Don't hate me..." tears begin to flow more freely. "The last thing..."

"Greg," she starts in again, interrupting me this time. "I was going to say 'are you serious that it's taken you this long to say this to us,'" her words confuse me. Knowing them like I thought I had. "You've been living with this your whole life. Why didn't you say something," she asks.

"Yeah, Greg, I mean, what the heck, man," my father speaks with a compassionate tone. Tears flood my cheeks while my parents and I discuss my sexuality. They both agree that it will take a bit of time to get used to, but they will love me no matter what. I'm still their son, Gregory Morris.

About a month after I was admitted to Landstuhl, I'm told I'm healthy enough to be discharged back to my unit. My Battalion redeployed from Iraq a couple of weeks ago. They send someone to pick me up from the company and, as I exit the hospital, I see Sergeant Hammond waiting by the government van. He smiles at me with a huge grin on his face when he sees me come out.

"Hey, how ya feeling," he asks while grabbing the small bag from my hand and patting me on the back.

"Much better now actually," I reply as we go to the van. He sets my bag on the backseat as I get in and we drive off. It takes nearly four hours to get back, dropping me off at my barracks building. I walk inside to nothing but a bed and the clothing within my bag. I don't care because there's something very important I have to do tomorrow. I brush my teeth, enjoying the silence, taking my meds, and I lie down, staring up at the ceiling with a smile on my face.

I get up the next morning, ensuring my uniform is perfect, and I walk to the Company. I open the door, take a deep breath, and walk inside. Everyone is staring at me as they stand in sit in the hallway, some cleaning weapons while others just chat. All of them are either really skinny or really buff from the deployment. Either way, they've all changed. Most of them have lost their innocence, others their friends. Everyone sacrifices and I've given up too much for too long. It's time for me to be me. I smile at them as I walk by with my head held high, my chest bulging, and my heart secretly pounding. I go to the 1st Sergeant's office and knock on the door.

"Come in," he answers. I open the door and then close it behind. I go to the front of his desk, standing at parade rest, stiff and strong in stature. He looks up at me from his paperwork. "Staff Sergeant Morris, how can I help you?"

"1st Sergeant, I'm gay," I blurt the words out, making direct eye contact with my 1st Sergeant so he understands just how serious I am. My parents have accepted me, Stephen accepted me a long time ago. The only one who hasn't accepted me is me, until now.

"Staff Sergeant Morris, are you sure you want to do this?" He asks me the question, but we both know that there's no going back now. The words have already been said. I am sure that I want to do this. I want to do this for Joe and for me. I can't live this lie any longer. I can't be considered a lesser man because of what I am. I'm done destroying my own sanity on a daily basis. This is something that's long overdue. I stand in front of his desk at the position of parade rest with my head held high. A lonely tear rolls down my cheek, but it isn't a tear of sadness. It's a tear of happiness, marking the day when I become a man.

"1st Sergeant, I'm gay," I say the words again.

The end

About the Author

R.J. Hamilton is originally from Minnesota. He resided in his hometown until joining the United States Army as an Infantryman. During his Army career he served 2 tours in the Balkans and another 2 in Iraq in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. He ended his military career after 12 years of service to his country in 2009.

R.J. tries to show the imagery of his life experiences through his writing in order to enhance knowledge and to entertain.

R.J. is the author of Self Convictions, Self Consciousness, Self Conclusions, Self Consequences, And the Hand of God, Dissecting Sean Connor & Because It Feels Good.

