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Do I tell him how I feel? Do I speak my mind, and if I do, will it offend him? Do I really care if I offend him? Nope, can’t say that I do. He left me, remember? Plus, it’s not like we’ll ever be friends again, especially after the way we he tucked tail and ran. It’s likely that he won’t even respond.
I situate the pen on the top line of the paper and decide to go for broke. I mean, seriously, what do I have to lose?
Not a damn thing.
“Warrior” – Evans Blue
THE MORNINGS HERE ARE WHEN I’m most at ease. The sun scrapes the horizon, teasing the leaves of palm trees with flickers of life. The air is at first cool and light before making way for the broil of midday, and I do my best to enjoy every bit of it. I find that the eastern boundary of our small compound, which is no larger than an elementary school campus, is the best place for catching the sharp, early morning rays. I patiently wait here for them to breach the massive walls, our only defense against a harsh reality on the other side.
I slept like shit last night thinking of Jax—or Sergeant David Jackson, as the etche
d stone now reads.
My thoughts have strayed as of late, reaching deep, dark places they’re not meant to go. To him … to our first deployment in Afghanistan, which was cake compared to this.
Jax was like a big brother to me there, taking me under his wing. We grew close fighting an enemy that came with tenacity. But at least we knew who we were fighting because they’d bring the fight to our fucking doorstep. It wasn’t like this bullshit here, bombs buried around every turn.
I vividly remember watching the planes barrel into the Twin Towers. It stuck with me, and serving my country was always something I thought about. So after years of dicking around and a failed attempt at community college, I joined the Army pissing vinegar and ready for a fight.
The notification that I’d be shipping right out to meet an infantry unit in mid-deployment was of no concern to me, and Afghanistan was exactly what I’d hoped it would be. We spent many a long night after a mission was complete talking under the bright desert stars, keeping each other’s hopes up with stories of college, girls and beer. Discussions so vivid, you could almost taste the hops.
But this deployment … this is so much different. I didn’t sign up for Iraq. I didn’t even really agree with it. Hell, I even had ‘Fuck Bush’ written in white window paint on the back of my mom’s ’95 Dodge Stratus in high school. That shit was on there for like two years. Mind you, that was mostly because pissing off Tennessee rednecks gave me a hard-on. I never really belonged there.
As a soldier, I took my doubts about Iraq in stride, but with explosions every other day and the enemy camouflaged so thoroughly within the public, it’s made for hard time served. With each passing day, these thoughts have become more frequent, pulling at my attention, taking me to places I know I shouldn’t be going but can’t seem to help. They burrow into my brain and have their way with me.
I think of what stage of decomposition Jax would be in as visions of blood seeping through the material of his uniform flash through my head.
God, please save me from these thoughts.
It’s been three months to the day since Jax was shot. With his head resting in my lap as we waited for the med chopper to arrive, his chest bled out from where the sniper’s bullet sat, warm and still. Before taking his last breath, he reached his trembling hand into a pocket and pulled out a letter. His fluttering eyes demanded I take it. I knew all too well what was in that letter, and whether I wanted to or not, I pulled the letter from his hand just before it slumped lifelessly to his side. Every day I ache for him, and with that pain comes the insomnia.
I’m perched on a concrete jersey barrier, sipping black coffee as thick as tar while my squad preps the Humvees for a mission. I let the rumble of the engines soothe me as the sun finally starts to bathe my face in warmth. Throwing my head back, I breathe in slow and deep, the wind whipping my face as I wait for the caffeine to do its job. I take a long sip of coffee, letting it rest in my mouth for a moment before drinking it all down.
This spot, this sunlight, this coffee — it’s my release. I often wonder when it will no longer be enough. My eyes are tightly closed, and I feel a single tear roll down my cheek. I quickly wipe it away. Not here. Not now.
My thoughts are interrupted by my driver, Private Blake Thomas, shouting from one of our four Humvees idling a hundred feet away. I shift my focus and catch sight of one of my other soldiers, Specialist Jace Elkins, as he thrusts a boot into Thomas’s ass each time he attempts to pull the dipstick from the receptacle. I pull a tin of chewing tobacco from my pocket and pack a pungent wad behind my lip. I cup my other hand to my mouth and yell, “Elkins! Don’t you have some fucking radio frequencies to be dialing into?” I pocket my tin as Elkins swings around and snaps to attention. Thomas chuckles and resumes his duties undisturbed.
“Hooah, Sergeant, I already did it,” Elkins calls back.
“You got ice in the cooler?”
“Roger, Sarge.” Elkins is more confident now, borderline cocky, and it’s unfortunate for him because his memory’s for shit. It’s not his fault … or maybe it is. He’s young, and by his own account he smoked more weed in high school than Cheech and fucking Chong. When I stand before him, he has to tilt his eyes up to meet mine. I get pleasure out of this every time.
“Elkins.” I plant a smirk on my face.
“Yeah, Sarge?” I wait a moment and let him sweat.
“Did you fuel up this morning?” I ask, though I know the answer already. His eyes widen immediately, mouth gaping open.
“Fuck!” he shouts as he races to the driver’s seat and throws himself in. Thomas caps the oil terminal as Elkins opens the window then sticks his head out of it. “Come the fuck on, T! Lieutenant Dixon is gonna tear into my fucking ass, man.”
“I’m coming, man. Fuck, it’s not my fault you forgot.” Thomas slams the hood, lifts it, then slams it again and continues leisurely toward the passenger side of the vehicle. He opens the door and carefully climbs in, putting his seatbelt on as slowly as possible. “What about Navas? He’s still gotta get the gun up.”
“We’ll worry about that later, man!” Elkins yells as he tears from the dirt lot. Thomas is wearing a devilish grin you could spot a mile away as the Humvee races to the fuel point.
I give them shit for it, but really, I love their nonsense. I wonder, at times, if it’s helped keep Thomas alive even. He hasn’t been dealing with the deployment well, but Elkins can always bring a smile to his face. And for the rest of us … well, it’s a little piece of youth in an otherwise very adult world.
They are the halls of junior high. They are scout meetings and tee ball practice.
