MIKE.DELTA.GULF.

Future Soldier

When we walked into the room a small, Latino, private probably no more than eighteen bellowed out the room to attention. Rows of privates behind him stopped and made a left or right face towards the other side of the wall. The other lieutenants, Sergeant Jackson and myself walked on by towards the tank simulator rooms without realizing what was happening. Sergeant Jackson knew, and he was waiting on one of us but he kept snickering instead. They were scores of young men with heads shaven, eyes beaten, uniforms bleached by sweat and the dirt of Georgia. With their bodies erect they stood silent and we couldn’t tell the difference. A minute ago some of us were just like them. A few months ago, I was just like them. As we walked by without saying a word I stopped and looked at a group of privates in their position and told them to carry on. They picked up from where they left off as if nothing happened and without saying a word disappeared to the outside, where a man in a smokey bear hat began yelling at them. 
A few of us were joking how much a gold bar on our chest changes everything. We kept saying it was a nice change of pace. We kept saying it was weird. We kept saying it was weird. Sergeant Jackson spoke in his low and deep Harlem voice: “Hey gentleman, those are your future soldiers right there.” We all stopped talking. “One day, you might even be in charge of one of them. Their lives might be in your hands.” 
We nodded in silence and walked into the tank simulator’s, ready to play war. Some of us were just trying to forget. One day, Sergeant Jackson was going to be right. 

Momma, momma, can’t you see…

I spend my days walking the fields and listening to conversations without realizing the word fuck has been uttered more times than the word like. I could get used to this.

When I think of today, I think of Springtime in July

When she died it wasn’t graceful and quick, like a buck taking a bullet to the head. It was like throwing a trout out of the water and into the earth. You stand there while it trashes about and you do nothing. You watch. Watch as the light begins to fade, its eyes roll over and its mouth finally stops gasping. Choke. 
That’s what happened to my mother. At least I think so, I don’t remember too much about it except being a kid and sitting there, staring past the passenger windows. It was supposed to be a hot July day but the leaves of the trees down Princeton streets swayed like it was Spring time. The air conditioner was on blast as pops kept thinking it would stop her from flailing about as her head burned like a stove top. He held her hand, something I’d never seen him do, and said nothing as the street lights stayed green all the way to the hospital. When he opened her door for the nurses to pick her up, she fell face first onto the pavement before they could catch her. And like a trout she thrashed about. Flailed about. Even when the doctors in blue and white came running out. Even when the one doctor was trying to earn his daytime Emmy, pumping into her chest as he watched on so many shows prior to training, her mouth stayed open until finally, choke. 
When I think of May I think of July. When I think of July, I think of springtime in Princeton with the fish out of the water. She was cremated nearby. 

Range

I laid my back against the turret’s wall while keeping my right hand on the .50 cal.  My eyes faced north, straight into the Georgia darkness. I let my mind sink away from the eerie quiet of the wood line, waiting for the creep of radio silence to end and some kind of voice echo across the net. All I wanted was sleep but I had to wait. I had to wait for movement, fire, and an all clear. To stay awake I envisioned the thoughts of a young man away from home. Then I stopped. I realized, I had no home and shut those feelings down soon after. I played out scenes in my head of a past life that I dedicated myself to. Random sequences but no real connections. A thrilling life, and empty life. I thought, thought, thought. The endless thoughts of a bored soldier.
A buzz came through the headset, and then the word “Fuck,” followed by, “31Charlie give me your redcom status, over.”   

Four hundred and twenty days before, when they were all about to leave for Iraq, a friend of Kauzlarich’s had predicted what was going to happen. “You’re going to see a good man disintegrate before your eyes,” he said. 

From The Good Soldiers by David Finkel

CONTACT, TROOPS, 1’ O CLOCK, 900 METERS.

IDENTIFIED 900 METERS.

DRIVER MOVE UP.

FIRE.

ON THE WAY.

TARGET!

TARGET! TARGET! CEASE FIRE. DRIVER BACK UP.

Blood and Marinara Sauce

“Eh sir, lemme tell you a story.” Specialist Garza said.
“Sure specialist,” I said, “shoot.”
In the pitch black, I saw a smile widen across his lips as he took a pinch of Copenhagen mint from one of the ammo pouches on his flick. “It’s kinda fucked up sir.” He said as he placed the dip in and continued his story. 
“8 months ago I was in Iraq and I was eating in the DFAC with the rest of my crew. It was around dinner time. Maybe late lunch. Well anyway, we were laughing and shooting the shit when this mortar came through and blew out a chunk of the wall to our right. Tables, plates, and some people went flying and everything just shook like a motherfucker. We were fine but I remember looking at this poor looking Fobbit right in the center of the place before the round fell and he was carrying a plate of spaghetti. When it came down through, that fucker’s tray went straight into the air as he fell on the ground and it dropped right on top of him. Fucking, he’s on the ground, kicking and screaming when all the dust settles. Our medic runs over to help him and I remember looking down at the guy and seeing all the marinara sauce and his blood all mixed in together. Shit, the medic had such a hard time trying to separate the blood from the sauce and although I didn’t do it at the time, when we all left for the night we all just started cracking up. You had to see it. It was pretty funny.” The specialist laughed and turned on the engine. 
I started laughing too. “Jesus Christ.” I said. 
“That’s fucked up Garza.” Sergeant Lim said waiting outside the Humvee. But he was laughing too and soon I was too.
“Eh, I know, I know. But hey come on sergeant, shit happens. Eh, you know what though,” and he tried to say something else but stopped when the tower called for our vehicle to move up. 
“Aight LT, man the .50 CAL.” SGT Lim said as he entered the vehicle and slammed the door shut. 
The admin radio buzzed as the Humvee rolled through the dirt road towards firing position 1. Specialist Garza spat in a Powerade bottle and SGT Lim informed me that I probably won’t see any of the targets tonight.
But I just kept laughing at the story. I thought about marinara and blood and confusing the two. I thought about it and laughed as I fired rounds into the night. He was right. I didn’t shoot shit. 

Pack your bags

I looked at my friend from hundreds of miles away and told him I was going to war. He looked back and asked where and when I told him about the mountain tops,  he didn’t look back at me. He stood there and looked at his phone, then me, then at his phone and said, “Okay.”

When I demanded something more he just looked back at me and stared. “It’s whatever man.” He said. 

Switch Lights and Emotional Issues.

He showed up to the apartment without any alcohol and the first thing he did was open my fridge and pulled out a beer. When he saw I only had IPA’s and Miller Light’s he muttered something more or less like “Where are all the Natty Light’s?” but because he’s from the Midwest I didn’t bother to ask, I didn’t want to fight him now, and I pretended that I didn’t hear him at all. We had planned the following an hour  before: pregame at my apartment with the Irish and Tennessee whiskey, then head downtown to find some resemblance of a Southern Belle. We stayed at my apartment for hours, each with a bottle in hand, and talked instead. I started working alongside him four weeks before but I knew nothing about him except his style of talking to girls and the burlesque picture of an ex on his iPhone. “She’ll come back to me one day,” he said when he flashed the tan Louisiana girl’s body at me. “She’ll be there when I get back.”
“That’s the thing about girls man. See guys. Guys are like on and off switches. One minute were thinking this and then something else the next. We don’t dwell on things. Chicks, man, think on feelings and the right moment and the right time.” He said.
“I get it.”
“With my ex for example I know she’ll be back. I would text her maybe once during this month. She’ll respond but I won’t keep the back and forth going for a while. Then a month or two will pass. Eventually I’ll text her back with something like: ‘I miss you,’ or ‘I want you,’ and she’ll eat that shit up and start sending me shit and breaking up with her current boyfriend, blah, blah. “
“But,”
“But what?”
“But do you really want her or is that just something you planned to say.”
“It’s a half and half.”