A Sober Moment
Every day is a gift with no receipt and no return. Life here was supposed to get better. Instead, it has cost me time and money in increasing measures. My frustration began to mount, metastasizing into a cancerous lump in the front of my brain.
It was too cold for PT. I struggled with the thought of shamming out. I could just sit in my truck, throw the seat back and sleep. It was a fleeting thought. I opted to run the airfield, instead.
I started off easy. My mind wandered to my myriad problems and my pace picked up. Sweat ran off in the cold morning air. I dodged fatbodies left and right. POG sergeants and specialists walking the route. Command Sergeants Major simply refused to budge off the path and pushed me into the road. My lungs burned.
After PT I sat in my truck for an hour, drinking coffee and staring at nothing.
I cleaned up for the morning meeting. Administrative bullshit. I wasted my own gas running battalion errands. A specialist handed me a form with a list of computer-based training modules that must be completed before a user is allowed access to a computer. I felt my face begin to twitch; my left cheek, below my eye.
“How the fuck am I supposed to do that?” I replied, as professional as I could manage.
“I dunno, sir . . . Just get it done.”
A Catch-22.
I wanted to strangle him with his own second chin. I shoved the paper into my pocket and strode out of the office. I felt that tell-tale throbbing in the side of my neck. I drove across post chasing down an open computer. Every library was full. Traffic was obnoxious.
Everyone changing lanes. Everyone turning left.
I pulled into the parking lot of the Education Center and killed the engine. My phone began to buzz.
“Hey, where are you? You have to meet with the Battalion Commander! How fast can you get back here!?”
“What? What the fuck for?” I groaned.
“I don’t know! But you have to get back here like now.”
“Nice of someone to tell me. Gimme ten minutes . . . “
I skidded to a halt on the battalion’s gravel lot and strode purposefully in zig-zags around the concrete walkway, avoiding the sprinklers and the Sergeant Major’s grass. Another lieutenant shouted from a window to run.
Three other LTs were lined up outside the Commander’s office and it dawned on me why we were there. We waited anxiously, like children called to the Principle. I remembered the feeling. Company commanders came and went and still we waited. Eventually the battalion commander appeared.
He was very concise.
“Alpha company,” he said, pointing, “Bravo company. Are you gentlemen ready to be platoon leaders?”
A shock ran up my spine. The hair on my neck stood on end. We all nodded in the affirmative.
“Congratulations, gentlemen. You’re going to combat.”
There was no rah-rah Ranger speech. No more frat boy bullshit. He shook our hands and smiled. My body tingled all over.
I headed for Company HQ half an hour before I needed to be there. On the way I ran into the captain I’ve been working for – the Underboss of Battalion Bitchwork.
“Congratulations,” he told me.
“Thank you, sir.” I replied.
“What’re you doing right now? Think you can give me a hand?”
“Sure . . . “
We marched across the street and into one of the barracks. We were met by a sergeant. He unlocked a storage closet and guided us to a wall locker. The captain opened it and began passing me items. A set of Class As in plastic. An ACH. Body armor.
I caught a look at the name on the helmet. A recently “outprocessed” soldier.
Suicide.
I carried the dead kid’s stuff.
