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Casual Duty Progress Report
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27,139 / 100,000 (27.1%) |
30 January 2008
27 January 2008
Casual Duty - Chapter 9 Dyke or Whore?
March 1981
Scottie’s Pub
Twin Lakes, WI
Bridie balanced on the edge of the stool with her toes hooked under the support bar, her thumb rubbing the callous on the inside of her ring finger. She watched as he rinsed the rag, squeezed out the excess water, folded it and wiped the top of bar. He’d move down a few feet, five strokes, rinse, repeat. The walnut surface gleamed. She took a deep breath. “Dad?”
“Congratulations, he tells me. Said he’s read in the papers about you.” Rinse, fold, wipe. “How’s that? I ask him? My daughter’s in the papers.”
“Dad, I tried to tell you. On Friday.” Bridie stared at the clock. The Snack Shack – Open til Midnight! Click. Flip: Larson Electric – Big Jobs/Small Jobs. “You wouldn’t listen when I…”
“Didn’t know… A dyke…my own daughter. Or a fuckin’ whore, is that it? Which one?” He flung the rag into the sink and slammed his fist against the bar. “’…cause I would like to know myself, for when they ask me. Which is it? A dyke or a whore?”
Tears welled in Bridie’s eyes, overflowed and leaked out. She refused to wipe them off, allowing them to drip off her chin and onto the bar. Her father thinks she’s a whore. She had no idea what the other one was, a dike? What the hell did that mean? She just wanted to get out of here. Out of the bar. Out of the stupid, small town. She just want to go to school, to get a real job. She sniffed. Great! Now her nose was running! She unglued a hand from underneath the bar and reached across for a couple of cocktail napkins to wipe the bar, and then one to blow her nose. Click. Flip: Stuck? Miller Towing - Up to 3 Tons!
“Your mother, may she rest in peace, your mother wouldnae’ have this talk. She’d have it across your back with the strap for this!” His voice broke. He held the bar with both hands, his head hanging down, his body rocking back and forth. “She…your mother…” He sobbed, then gave up.
…nineteen…twenty…Click. Flip: Koca’s Tool & Dye.
The bell over the front door jangled. Her father fumbled for his handkerchief and blew his nose. “What’s the good word, old friend?” he asked as he dropped a coaster on the bar in front of the new customer.
Bridie pushed back from the bar and walked back to the kitchen. The conversation was over. Conversation? There was no such thing as a conversation with him. It was always the same. He talked and she cried.
Well, after next week, she wouldn’t have to worry about what he thought. She’d be in Basic Training. Then he could just forget all about her and . . . and what, she wondered. What would he do when she left? She walked straight through the kitchen and out the back door without talking to anyone. She cut through the grass on her way to the beach, avoiding the early dinner customers strolling through the parking lot.
What difference did it make what he did after she left. She wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore. She wouldn’t have to get his coffee. She wouldn’t have to do his laundry. She wouldn’t have to work in the kitchen for free. She’d finally be out of this place. She sat down on the bench and wiped her nose again. So what would she do, she wondered. The brochures showed pictures of soldiers marching in formation. It was probably a lot like marching band. From what the recruiter said, it sounded like going to college, but with a lot of exercising. Running, push-ups and sit-ups. And shooting a rifle. Bridie wasn’t looking forward to shooting. She’d never seen a real gun, except for the ones the cops around town wore. And hand grenades. And camping. The recruiter said something about bivouac, that it was like camping. She’d never been camping, either. She hated bugs. And dirt. And being outside in the cold.
She leaned her head back, closed her eyes and wondered, what the hell have I done?
Scottie’s Pub
Twin Lakes, WI
Bridie balanced on the edge of the stool with her toes hooked under the support bar, her thumb rubbing the callous on the inside of her ring finger. She watched as he rinsed the rag, squeezed out the excess water, folded it and wiped the top of bar. He’d move down a few feet, five strokes, rinse, repeat. The walnut surface gleamed. She took a deep breath. “Dad?”
“Congratulations, he tells me. Said he’s read in the papers about you.” Rinse, fold, wipe. “How’s that? I ask him? My daughter’s in the papers.”
“Dad, I tried to tell you. On Friday.” Bridie stared at the clock. The Snack Shack – Open til Midnight! Click. Flip: Larson Electric – Big Jobs/Small Jobs. “You wouldn’t listen when I…”
“Didn’t know… A dyke…my own daughter. Or a fuckin’ whore, is that it? Which one?” He flung the rag into the sink and slammed his fist against the bar. “’…cause I would like to know myself, for when they ask me. Which is it? A dyke or a whore?”
Tears welled in Bridie’s eyes, overflowed and leaked out. She refused to wipe them off, allowing them to drip off her chin and onto the bar. Her father thinks she’s a whore. She had no idea what the other one was, a dike? What the hell did that mean? She just wanted to get out of here. Out of the bar. Out of the stupid, small town. She just want to go to school, to get a real job. She sniffed. Great! Now her nose was running! She unglued a hand from underneath the bar and reached across for a couple of cocktail napkins to wipe the bar, and then one to blow her nose. Click. Flip: Stuck? Miller Towing - Up to 3 Tons!
“Your mother, may she rest in peace, your mother wouldnae’ have this talk. She’d have it across your back with the strap for this!” His voice broke. He held the bar with both hands, his head hanging down, his body rocking back and forth. “She…your mother…” He sobbed, then gave up.
…nineteen…twenty…Click. Flip: Koca’s Tool & Dye.
The bell over the front door jangled. Her father fumbled for his handkerchief and blew his nose. “What’s the good word, old friend?” he asked as he dropped a coaster on the bar in front of the new customer.
Bridie pushed back from the bar and walked back to the kitchen. The conversation was over. Conversation? There was no such thing as a conversation with him. It was always the same. He talked and she cried.
Well, after next week, she wouldn’t have to worry about what he thought. She’d be in Basic Training. Then he could just forget all about her and . . . and what, she wondered. What would he do when she left? She walked straight through the kitchen and out the back door without talking to anyone. She cut through the grass on her way to the beach, avoiding the early dinner customers strolling through the parking lot.
What difference did it make what he did after she left. She wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore. She wouldn’t have to get his coffee. She wouldn’t have to do his laundry. She wouldn’t have to work in the kitchen for free. She’d finally be out of this place. She sat down on the bench and wiped her nose again. So what would she do, she wondered. The brochures showed pictures of soldiers marching in formation. It was probably a lot like marching band. From what the recruiter said, it sounded like going to college, but with a lot of exercising. Running, push-ups and sit-ups. And shooting a rifle. Bridie wasn’t looking forward to shooting. She’d never seen a real gun, except for the ones the cops around town wore. And hand grenades. And camping. The recruiter said something about bivouac, that it was like camping. She’d never been camping, either. She hated bugs. And dirt. And being outside in the cold.
She leaned her head back, closed her eyes and wondered, what the hell have I done?
Casual Duty - Chapter Eight - Such a Deal
Chapter 8
Range 7 – Rifle
Fort Huachuca, Arizona
“Private, come here,” the Lieutenant pointed to a spot just to the right of Colonel Richards. “Back a little bit. Let’s see how that looks.” She stepped back and framed the imaginary shot with her hands. “Uh, we’re gonna need a . . . We need. . . Stay put.” The Lieutenant trotted back toward the press vans and spoke with the crew, gesturing toward the Colonel and Bridie. A crewmember nodded and dragged over a black case for the Colonel to stand on, making him appear…um…more Colonely.
Bridie stood and stayed, as directed, hoping for a biscuit. Next to her, the diminutive Colonel tugged his uniform, straightening seams and his gigline. Then he squared his shoulders, and rotated his neck, all while mumbling the beginning of his speech. As he preened, Bridie debated mentioning the shaving cream spot on his ear. She watched the Lieutenant scramble around attempting to direct the news crew, who seemed more interested in watching the platoon on the rifle range than in setting up the interview with the post commander. She still wasn’t sure why they brought her out here, or what she was supposed to say. Corporal Donaldson had been dispatched to the Range Officer to procure a rifle for her to hold as a prop. He also managed to borrow two steel pots, one for her and one for the Colonel to wear, because helmets were mandatory safety equipment on the range.
“The important thing to emphasize here,” the Lieutenant pounded her fist into her cupped hand, “the most important thing, is that there was no danger to the post. No threat. This had nothing to do with Fort Huachuca. You just happened to be there and you used your military training to effect the rescue from inside the store. And keep your chin up, there. Tighten up that strap, Private.”
“I was shopping. The gunmen came in,” Bridie said.
“No, burst in,” the Lieutenant corrected.
“Burst in and one of them waved a gun.”
“Brandished a weapon.”
I’ll never remember this, Bridie thought. “I assessed the situation, administered first aid to the civilian victim, and planned the . . . “
Before Bridie could finish the thought, the Lieutenant cut her off with a wave and called for action. The crew turned on the lights, and the cameraman swung the heavy camera up to his shoulder.
By take seven, Bridie was no longer nervous. She wiped her sleeve across her face and shuffled her feet as the officers debated the semantics of the Colonel’s remarks. The reporter stood in the shade fanning herself with a copy of her script. Bridie could tell she was losing her patience with the whole charade.
“Alright. Let’s try that again,” the Lieutenant said. “Take it from the line…’steeped in the rich tradition’…Let’s do this, people.”
The reporter stepped back into the scene and called for lights. With the camera rolling, the Colonel began, “Steeped in the rich tradition and history of . . .”
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” the Range Officer screamed, waving his arms. “Safe and clear your weapons!
Startled, the Colonel stopped and all eyes turned to the activity on the range.
“Range left clear.”
“Range right clear.”
The safety sergeants cleared their zones and directed the soldiers to return to the administrative zone near the bleachers. The range personnel collected into a small group as the Officer dispatched the safety sergeants approximately 100 yards down range, past the paper silhouettes near the berm.
Bridie watched as the one of the sergeants stood up and turned away, retching.
Cactus Canteen
Fort Huachuca, Arizona
“Range activities at Fort Huachuca were unexpectedly suspended this afternoon when the partially decomposed body of a young Hispanic woman was discovered on a remote section of a rifle range during routine qualification exercises. Military authorities are attempting to determine the identity of the victim, but at this time, it does not appear that the woman was a soldier or family member stationed at the post. The cause of death is not readily apparent, but the investigation is continuing. In a statement released this afternoon by the Public Affairs Office, this unfortunate situation will not have any impact on the upcoming Desert Exercise scheduled for this summer. The Provost Marshal is working in cooperation with local civilian authorities in Cochise County to determine just how a civilian would gain access to the range, deep inside restricted area on the post.
Sources speculate if this incident may be connected to the bank robbery-turned hostage situation that occurred just outside the Main Gate at Fort Huachuca yesterday afternoon. If that is the case, then it is likely that the FBI might also become involved in the investigation. In other news tonight…”
The bartender reached up, turned the television set off and the juke box back on. Conversations in the bar resumed as soldiers speculated what might have happened to the young girl and how she managed to get herself all the way out to the rifle range. Illegal aliens from Mexico were common in the desert areas near the border towns of Nogales, or even Agua Prieta, but not around the post.
Bridie closed her eyes, trying to erase the memory of the afternoon’s ordeal. She had no idea who the poor woman might be, but hoped that she hadn’t suffered before she died. She sat across from Frank Roberts and his friend Roger Valentine, the pitcher of beer in the center of the table, nearly empty.
“So, what’d the old man do when they found her?” asked Roberts. “
“I don’t know for sure. The Lieutenant just sort of hustled the news people back into their vans. Then she and the Colonel went out to see what was going on. We thought somebody was shot, or an accident, maybe. Then they closed the range down, and the Colonel’s driver took us back to the gate. I didn’t even know what happened until I got back to the barracks after chow.
“I was in the Orderly Room with Simpson when the call came in. First thing he does is he gets on the phone with his wife, and he says to her, he says, ‘Now honey, I know we have reservations and all, but we got us a situation here. I’m gonna be a little late is all. I’ll get there. . . Honey? I know I promised. Now don’t go gettin’ yourself all worked up.’ I’m sitting there, and I got the Old Man on the other line and I’m telling him that the Platoon Sergeant is in conference with the local authorities.” Roberts drained his glass and set it down on the table. “Local authorities, my ass! I met his wife once, and that was enough to convince me not to get myself sideways with a woman!”
Val looked at Bridie. “Well, I think you were real brave, at the store, I mean. I don’t know what I would have done if I was there. I mean, if I had my rifle. . .” His voice trailed off and he dropped his gaze.
“Fuck your rifle! What do you think you’d do with a rifle inside the store? Tell the asshole to move back 25 yards so you can shoot him? You’d need a handgun, or a knife or something. I’da taken the gun and shot both of ‘em! They’re murderers. No negotiating. Just BAM! BAM! Say goodnight!” Roberts declared and blew a wisp of smoke from the end of his fingertip “gun” and re-holstered it.
Val hid his red face behind his glass and traced the condensation ring on the tabletop. “I’m just sayin’ is all. I mean if I--”
Loud cheering from across the room interrupted him. In the back of the room, near the pool tables, a group of men clapped and hollered as a young girl Bridie recognized from the barracks drained the contents of a shot glass and placed it upside down in a row of empties. Nancy something or other, she thought. Bridie watched as the girl giggled and fell over into the lap of the man next to her, with a little help from him, she thought. One of the men looked familiar, but from the angle it was hard for her to tell. He sat on the edge of the group, and all she could see was his reddish-blonde hair and his arm holding a mug of beer. He set his glass down and turned slightly. It was SSG Jackson, the guy she sat next to in the hallway at the Colonel’s office earlier. Someone in the group called for more tequila, causing resulting in another roar of cheers and table slamming.
“Snake-eaters. From Bragg. Here for three weeks for some kinda training back in the hills,” Roberts explained. “Show up, drink all the beer, steal all the women and disappear into the night. Like smoke, fuckin’ green beanies.” He drained his glass and slammed it on the table. “Beer. We need more beer!” He grabbed the empty pitcher and headed to the bar.
Bridie pushed her glass forward, still more than half full. “I think I’ve had enough. I’m pretty tired.”
“Don’t go yet. It’s still early. I mean . . . we don’t have formation til eight o’clock tomorrow and . . .” Val broke off. He glanced up at Bridie, then away. “I just meant that, you know . . . just hang out a little while, is all. Maybe get some dinner. We’re going to Rosalie’s just outside the gate. Mexican food.”
Before she could reply, Roberts appeared with a fresh pitcher and refilled everyone’s glass.
“Let’s drink to our hero!” He raised his glass and Val followed.
“Come on, guys. It wasn’t like that. I just—“
“No, no, no! You can’t interrupt the toast.” Roberts tipped his glass in her direction and declared, “Delta Company’s bona fide hero!” He swallowed a large gulp of beer. “So what was it like? The press conference? What’d the Old Man say? You never told us.”
Bridie shook her head. “It was awful. I was so embarrassed. He kept going on about bravery, and heroism. I tried to tell them that it was Mrs. Bolling’s idea to throw the cans, but everyone’s got this idea, this . . . it’s almost like a script they’re reading about a movie, or something. It’s like I can’t make them understand it wasn’t like that. I can’t get anyone to listen to me.” She reached for her beer and took another sip.
“I don’t understand why everyone keeps saying that I’m . . . you know. I just did what I could. It wasn’t like what they said. The robbers, they were just boys really.
“What are you talking about? They had a gun and they shot the guard. They robbed the bank, didn’t they?” Roberts asked.
“Well, yeah, but . . . “
“But what? BAM! BAM! Just shoot the fuckers!”
“You know how you think about murderers, like Gacy, or even Richard Speck? It’s like they’re older guys and they’re just evil. These guys were just kids. I think they were as scared as we were. I don’t know how they got there.“
“Look it doesn’t matter how they got involved. They did it, didn’t they? They shot the guard at the bank. Kill ‘em! Right, Val?” Roberts slapped his friend on the back.
“Well, maybe if . . . you know, if there was some sort of a reason, like . . . a good reason for robbing the bank, like they needed the money to help someone? Like a good reason—“
Roberts slammed his hand down on the table. “And the guard? He had a reason for going to work that day, right? He had a family. Get real, man!” He shook his head and took another swig. “The guard is dead!”
“I just meant that they were like kids, sorta lost. . . like they didn’t understand what was happening,” Bridie said.
“Yeah, right. They didn’t understand that someone would stand up to them and defend the bank? Then they’re stupid, too!”
Val put his hand on Bridie’s arm. “They had a gun, and they took the money. I think you’re real brave for getting out of there alive.”
Bridie sighed and put her hands up. “Could we please just talk about something else? I’m tired of trying to explain it.”
Roberts looked over at Val. “How’s the snake huntin’ going? Looks like you got a good burn on your nose there.”
“That fuckin’ Line. It’s killin’ me. You’d think with no rain, how the weeds gonna grow? They get like three – four feet tall. And sharp. Everything in the damn desert sticks, bites, or scratches. And if it don’t,” he continued, “it stings. I hate this fuckin’ desert.” Val slammed his fist on the table. “I didn’t re-up just to die here in the desert cuttin’ weeds.”
“Well I ain’t calling’ your Mama to tell her you died of tumbleweed scratches, and complications brought on by stinkbug bites.”
“I gotta get a slot tomorrow,” Val said.
“You’ll get a slot and get sick like you did the last two times!” Roberts replied. “Val’s got himself a reputation. Every Friday Selection, he’s in line for Sick Call. He loses his slot.” He punch Val in the shoulder. “You gotta quit eatin’ those burritos on Thursdays, man.”
Roberts leaned over to Bridie. “You want me to hook you up with a permanent detail? After you finish in-processing, we’ll see who’s giving up their detail. I’ll hook you up.” He took another sip. “If you don’t get a detail, you’re back on the Line. Or worse. You could get stuck on QRF. That’s gotta be the worst.”
“Quick Reaction Force,” Val explained. Those guys are on like 30 minute alert. They don’t hafta stand formation, or take PT or nothing. Just wait for the call, then they jump in the truck and disappear. You know, like fighting fires, or looking for lost kids in the mountains. Whatever they need.”
“They don’t get to go off post, either. The call comes in, they’re gone. Sometimes they don’t come back for two, three days. They don’t get tents, or cots or nothing. Just sleep on the ground,” Roberts said.
“And C-Rations for chow,” Val added. “I can’t eat that shit.”
“So, getting back to the permanent detail. What are you talking about? She asked.
“It’s a job. Like punching out medical cards at the hospital, or working in Records, checking folks in at the dental clinic, answering phones in an office, working at the Rec Center…you know. Office stuff. What kind of stuff do you like to do?”
Bridie shrugged. “Anything’s gotta be better than the Line.”
Roberts smiled broadly and clinked his glass against hers. “Have I got a deal for you!”
Range 7 – Rifle
Fort Huachuca, Arizona
“Private, come here,” the Lieutenant pointed to a spot just to the right of Colonel Richards. “Back a little bit. Let’s see how that looks.” She stepped back and framed the imaginary shot with her hands. “Uh, we’re gonna need a . . . We need. . . Stay put.” The Lieutenant trotted back toward the press vans and spoke with the crew, gesturing toward the Colonel and Bridie. A crewmember nodded and dragged over a black case for the Colonel to stand on, making him appear…um…more Colonely.
Bridie stood and stayed, as directed, hoping for a biscuit. Next to her, the diminutive Colonel tugged his uniform, straightening seams and his gigline. Then he squared his shoulders, and rotated his neck, all while mumbling the beginning of his speech. As he preened, Bridie debated mentioning the shaving cream spot on his ear. She watched the Lieutenant scramble around attempting to direct the news crew, who seemed more interested in watching the platoon on the rifle range than in setting up the interview with the post commander. She still wasn’t sure why they brought her out here, or what she was supposed to say. Corporal Donaldson had been dispatched to the Range Officer to procure a rifle for her to hold as a prop. He also managed to borrow two steel pots, one for her and one for the Colonel to wear, because helmets were mandatory safety equipment on the range.
“The important thing to emphasize here,” the Lieutenant pounded her fist into her cupped hand, “the most important thing, is that there was no danger to the post. No threat. This had nothing to do with Fort Huachuca. You just happened to be there and you used your military training to effect the rescue from inside the store. And keep your chin up, there. Tighten up that strap, Private.”
“I was shopping. The gunmen came in,” Bridie said.
“No, burst in,” the Lieutenant corrected.
“Burst in and one of them waved a gun.”
“Brandished a weapon.”
I’ll never remember this, Bridie thought. “I assessed the situation, administered first aid to the civilian victim, and planned the . . . “
Before Bridie could finish the thought, the Lieutenant cut her off with a wave and called for action. The crew turned on the lights, and the cameraman swung the heavy camera up to his shoulder.
By take seven, Bridie was no longer nervous. She wiped her sleeve across her face and shuffled her feet as the officers debated the semantics of the Colonel’s remarks. The reporter stood in the shade fanning herself with a copy of her script. Bridie could tell she was losing her patience with the whole charade.
“Alright. Let’s try that again,” the Lieutenant said. “Take it from the line…’steeped in the rich tradition’…Let’s do this, people.”
The reporter stepped back into the scene and called for lights. With the camera rolling, the Colonel began, “Steeped in the rich tradition and history of . . .”
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” the Range Officer screamed, waving his arms. “Safe and clear your weapons!
Startled, the Colonel stopped and all eyes turned to the activity on the range.
“Range left clear.”
“Range right clear.”
The safety sergeants cleared their zones and directed the soldiers to return to the administrative zone near the bleachers. The range personnel collected into a small group as the Officer dispatched the safety sergeants approximately 100 yards down range, past the paper silhouettes near the berm.
Bridie watched as the one of the sergeants stood up and turned away, retching.
Cactus Canteen
Fort Huachuca, Arizona
“Range activities at Fort Huachuca were unexpectedly suspended this afternoon when the partially decomposed body of a young Hispanic woman was discovered on a remote section of a rifle range during routine qualification exercises. Military authorities are attempting to determine the identity of the victim, but at this time, it does not appear that the woman was a soldier or family member stationed at the post. The cause of death is not readily apparent, but the investigation is continuing. In a statement released this afternoon by the Public Affairs Office, this unfortunate situation will not have any impact on the upcoming Desert Exercise scheduled for this summer. The Provost Marshal is working in cooperation with local civilian authorities in Cochise County to determine just how a civilian would gain access to the range, deep inside restricted area on the post.
Sources speculate if this incident may be connected to the bank robbery-turned hostage situation that occurred just outside the Main Gate at Fort Huachuca yesterday afternoon. If that is the case, then it is likely that the FBI might also become involved in the investigation. In other news tonight…”
The bartender reached up, turned the television set off and the juke box back on. Conversations in the bar resumed as soldiers speculated what might have happened to the young girl and how she managed to get herself all the way out to the rifle range. Illegal aliens from Mexico were common in the desert areas near the border towns of Nogales, or even Agua Prieta, but not around the post.
Bridie closed her eyes, trying to erase the memory of the afternoon’s ordeal. She had no idea who the poor woman might be, but hoped that she hadn’t suffered before she died. She sat across from Frank Roberts and his friend Roger Valentine, the pitcher of beer in the center of the table, nearly empty.
“So, what’d the old man do when they found her?” asked Roberts. “
“I don’t know for sure. The Lieutenant just sort of hustled the news people back into their vans. Then she and the Colonel went out to see what was going on. We thought somebody was shot, or an accident, maybe. Then they closed the range down, and the Colonel’s driver took us back to the gate. I didn’t even know what happened until I got back to the barracks after chow.
“I was in the Orderly Room with Simpson when the call came in. First thing he does is he gets on the phone with his wife, and he says to her, he says, ‘Now honey, I know we have reservations and all, but we got us a situation here. I’m gonna be a little late is all. I’ll get there. . . Honey? I know I promised. Now don’t go gettin’ yourself all worked up.’ I’m sitting there, and I got the Old Man on the other line and I’m telling him that the Platoon Sergeant is in conference with the local authorities.” Roberts drained his glass and set it down on the table. “Local authorities, my ass! I met his wife once, and that was enough to convince me not to get myself sideways with a woman!”
Val looked at Bridie. “Well, I think you were real brave, at the store, I mean. I don’t know what I would have done if I was there. I mean, if I had my rifle. . .” His voice trailed off and he dropped his gaze.
“Fuck your rifle! What do you think you’d do with a rifle inside the store? Tell the asshole to move back 25 yards so you can shoot him? You’d need a handgun, or a knife or something. I’da taken the gun and shot both of ‘em! They’re murderers. No negotiating. Just BAM! BAM! Say goodnight!” Roberts declared and blew a wisp of smoke from the end of his fingertip “gun” and re-holstered it.
Val hid his red face behind his glass and traced the condensation ring on the tabletop. “I’m just sayin’ is all. I mean if I--”
Loud cheering from across the room interrupted him. In the back of the room, near the pool tables, a group of men clapped and hollered as a young girl Bridie recognized from the barracks drained the contents of a shot glass and placed it upside down in a row of empties. Nancy something or other, she thought. Bridie watched as the girl giggled and fell over into the lap of the man next to her, with a little help from him, she thought. One of the men looked familiar, but from the angle it was hard for her to tell. He sat on the edge of the group, and all she could see was his reddish-blonde hair and his arm holding a mug of beer. He set his glass down and turned slightly. It was SSG Jackson, the guy she sat next to in the hallway at the Colonel’s office earlier. Someone in the group called for more tequila, causing resulting in another roar of cheers and table slamming.
“Snake-eaters. From Bragg. Here for three weeks for some kinda training back in the hills,” Roberts explained. “Show up, drink all the beer, steal all the women and disappear into the night. Like smoke, fuckin’ green beanies.” He drained his glass and slammed it on the table. “Beer. We need more beer!” He grabbed the empty pitcher and headed to the bar.
Bridie pushed her glass forward, still more than half full. “I think I’ve had enough. I’m pretty tired.”
“Don’t go yet. It’s still early. I mean . . . we don’t have formation til eight o’clock tomorrow and . . .” Val broke off. He glanced up at Bridie, then away. “I just meant that, you know . . . just hang out a little while, is all. Maybe get some dinner. We’re going to Rosalie’s just outside the gate. Mexican food.”
Before she could reply, Roberts appeared with a fresh pitcher and refilled everyone’s glass.
“Let’s drink to our hero!” He raised his glass and Val followed.
“Come on, guys. It wasn’t like that. I just—“
“No, no, no! You can’t interrupt the toast.” Roberts tipped his glass in her direction and declared, “Delta Company’s bona fide hero!” He swallowed a large gulp of beer. “So what was it like? The press conference? What’d the Old Man say? You never told us.”
Bridie shook her head. “It was awful. I was so embarrassed. He kept going on about bravery, and heroism. I tried to tell them that it was Mrs. Bolling’s idea to throw the cans, but everyone’s got this idea, this . . . it’s almost like a script they’re reading about a movie, or something. It’s like I can’t make them understand it wasn’t like that. I can’t get anyone to listen to me.” She reached for her beer and took another sip.
“I don’t understand why everyone keeps saying that I’m . . . you know. I just did what I could. It wasn’t like what they said. The robbers, they were just boys really.
“What are you talking about? They had a gun and they shot the guard. They robbed the bank, didn’t they?” Roberts asked.
“Well, yeah, but . . . “
“But what? BAM! BAM! Just shoot the fuckers!”
“You know how you think about murderers, like Gacy, or even Richard Speck? It’s like they’re older guys and they’re just evil. These guys were just kids. I think they were as scared as we were. I don’t know how they got there.“
“Look it doesn’t matter how they got involved. They did it, didn’t they? They shot the guard at the bank. Kill ‘em! Right, Val?” Roberts slapped his friend on the back.
“Well, maybe if . . . you know, if there was some sort of a reason, like . . . a good reason for robbing the bank, like they needed the money to help someone? Like a good reason—“
Roberts slammed his hand down on the table. “And the guard? He had a reason for going to work that day, right? He had a family. Get real, man!” He shook his head and took another swig. “The guard is dead!”
“I just meant that they were like kids, sorta lost. . . like they didn’t understand what was happening,” Bridie said.
“Yeah, right. They didn’t understand that someone would stand up to them and defend the bank? Then they’re stupid, too!”
Val put his hand on Bridie’s arm. “They had a gun, and they took the money. I think you’re real brave for getting out of there alive.”
Bridie sighed and put her hands up. “Could we please just talk about something else? I’m tired of trying to explain it.”
Roberts looked over at Val. “How’s the snake huntin’ going? Looks like you got a good burn on your nose there.”
“That fuckin’ Line. It’s killin’ me. You’d think with no rain, how the weeds gonna grow? They get like three – four feet tall. And sharp. Everything in the damn desert sticks, bites, or scratches. And if it don’t,” he continued, “it stings. I hate this fuckin’ desert.” Val slammed his fist on the table. “I didn’t re-up just to die here in the desert cuttin’ weeds.”
“Well I ain’t calling’ your Mama to tell her you died of tumbleweed scratches, and complications brought on by stinkbug bites.”
“I gotta get a slot tomorrow,” Val said.
“You’ll get a slot and get sick like you did the last two times!” Roberts replied. “Val’s got himself a reputation. Every Friday Selection, he’s in line for Sick Call. He loses his slot.” He punch Val in the shoulder. “You gotta quit eatin’ those burritos on Thursdays, man.”
Roberts leaned over to Bridie. “You want me to hook you up with a permanent detail? After you finish in-processing, we’ll see who’s giving up their detail. I’ll hook you up.” He took another sip. “If you don’t get a detail, you’re back on the Line. Or worse. You could get stuck on QRF. That’s gotta be the worst.”
“Quick Reaction Force,” Val explained. Those guys are on like 30 minute alert. They don’t hafta stand formation, or take PT or nothing. Just wait for the call, then they jump in the truck and disappear. You know, like fighting fires, or looking for lost kids in the mountains. Whatever they need.”
“They don’t get to go off post, either. The call comes in, they’re gone. Sometimes they don’t come back for two, three days. They don’t get tents, or cots or nothing. Just sleep on the ground,” Roberts said.
“And C-Rations for chow,” Val added. “I can’t eat that shit.”
“So, getting back to the permanent detail. What are you talking about? She asked.
“It’s a job. Like punching out medical cards at the hospital, or working in Records, checking folks in at the dental clinic, answering phones in an office, working at the Rec Center…you know. Office stuff. What kind of stuff do you like to do?”
Bridie shrugged. “Anything’s gotta be better than the Line.”
Roberts smiled broadly and clinked his glass against hers. “Have I got a deal for you!”
26 January 2008
Inspiration to Write
The Intrepid Writer: Jax, I need your opinion on this scene.
Jax: Y-a-w-n.
TIW: Jax, I feel stuck. The story is going nowhere. I know where I want to be in three or four chapters. Bridie needs to be assigned to the Exercise Prep Detail, but...Jax? Are you even listening to me?
Jax tilts head in imitation of rapt attention, gives a slow, languorous blink.
TIW: Jax? This part where the Range Officer discovers the body and calls the cease fire, remember that part I read to you this morning? Well I was thinking that maybe Bridie could ...Jax?
Jax, left leg extended with his toes pointing to the North Star, begins grooming his nether regions.
TIW: It sucks, doesn't it? Pumpkin didn't like it any better when I tried it on him yesterday. DELETE. DELETE. DELETE...
~~~~~~~
Candle burning, wine glass at my elbow, AC/DC on the stereo with some vintage Foreigner waiting in the wings...and I got nothing. Okay, not nothing. I've captured about 1000 words today, some good, some...bleah... I need another 200-ish to finish this scene.
Eyes closed, deep breath in - pause, release...
Ohm....
Ohm...
Oh Seshat, wherefore art Thou, in my darkest hour?
Thoth...why have you forsaken me?
Open my eyes and take another sip.
The cursor still blinks its accusation: no-thing, no-thing, no-thing...
...Cuz I'm BACK in BLACK, yeah - huh - yeah - hu - uh!
Must . . .
keep . . .
slogging . . .
away . . .
... Fill my eyes
with that Double Vision...
la, la, la,
....Tonight's the night I'm gonna push it to the limit...
What's this?
Now you're messin' with a
Son of a Bitch...
Nazareth? On the oldies channel? I'm getting old just sitting here staring at a blinking cursor. Maybe some more Hair of the Dog?
and the slogging continues....
Jax: Y-a-w-n.
TIW: Jax, I feel stuck. The story is going nowhere. I know where I want to be in three or four chapters. Bridie needs to be assigned to the Exercise Prep Detail, but...Jax? Are you even listening to me?
Jax tilts head in imitation of rapt attention, gives a slow, languorous blink.
TIW: Jax? This part where the Range Officer discovers the body and calls the cease fire, remember that part I read to you this morning? Well I was thinking that maybe Bridie could ...Jax?
Jax, left leg extended with his toes pointing to the North Star, begins grooming his nether regions.
TIW: It sucks, doesn't it? Pumpkin didn't like it any better when I tried it on him yesterday. DELETE. DELETE. DELETE...
~~~~~~~
Candle burning, wine glass at my elbow, AC/DC on the stereo with some vintage Foreigner waiting in the wings...and I got nothing. Okay, not nothing. I've captured about 1000 words today, some good, some...bleah... I need another 200-ish to finish this scene.
Eyes closed, deep breath in - pause, release...
Ohm....
Ohm...
Oh Seshat, wherefore art Thou, in my darkest hour?
Thoth...why have you forsaken me?
Open my eyes and take another sip.
The cursor still blinks its accusation: no-thing, no-thing, no-thing...
...Cuz I'm BACK in BLACK, yeah - huh - yeah - hu - uh!
Must . . .
keep . . .
slogging . . .
away . . .
... Fill my eyes
with that Double Vision...
la, la, la,
....Tonight's the night I'm gonna push it to the limit...
What's this?
Now you're messin' with a
Son of a Bitch...
Nazareth? On the oldies channel? I'm getting old just sitting here staring at a blinking cursor. Maybe some more Hair of the Dog?
and the slogging continues....
23 January 2008
Exactly What I Need
Feeling down today, out of sorts, sticky. I wish I was doing something else, but I'm not really even doing anything right now. I should be working on my next chapter. Instead I'm surfing. I just surfed across an ad for an online article:
TOP 10 Internet Home Business Ideas You can Start and Run in Your Underwear
So I considered my underwear. Not just today's foundation garments, the entire contents of my underwear drawer. No wonder I'm feeling down -- I need new underwear! I actually have two drawers: one for bras, one for panties. Oh, and one for long underwear, too.
When I think about underwear, and I usually don't, I think about underwear with names: bikini, boxer, thong, boyleg, tap, teddy, camisole, chemise, corset, bloomer, petticoat, tanga brief. Maybe that's my problem My underwear doesn't have a name. It's just the regular kind. Not fancy. Not wildly colorful. Not complicated. Not itchy-scratchy. Not covered in rhinestones or diamonds.
If I had Victoria's Secret lingerie, I'd suddenly grow 3 inches taller and lose 50 lbs. My life would be ... well, I guess it'd be different somehow.
I'd eat exotic food.
I'd drive a tiny red sportscar from Italy.
I'd carry a designer dog in my designer bag.
I'd wear pointy shoes with high heels that hurt my feet.
I'd evade paparazzi.
I'd drink poufy drinks from glasses with long stems. On the veranda.
I'd comb my bangs from the other side.
I'd send my laundry out.
I'd blow kisses to my adoring fans.
I'd wave to all the little people from my balcony.
I'd fly First Class (or on my private jet).
I'd shop in posh shops on Fifth Avenue.
I'd read important books.
I'd render opinions.
I'd think deep thoughts.
I'd protest the mistreatment of the mistreated.
I'd initiate trends.
I'd tend my garden.
I'd expect doilies.
I'd take tennis lessons.
I'd hope for world peace.
I'd wear dangly sparklies.
I'd cultivate a throaty laugh.
I'd dab my tears with monogramed hankies.
I'd sleep on 1,000 threadcount linens (not sheets - linens).
I'd lunch. And sup.
I'd twirl my wine before sipping to ensure it demonstrated legs.
I'd beg off, instead of canceling.
I'd offer my regrets.
I'd assume airs.
I'd extend my condolences.
I'd decline.
I'd become inclined.
I'd speak with "h's" in the middle of my words, "Dah-ling."
I'd deliberate.
I'd dabble in the arts.
I'd condone actions.
I'd enter grandly on red carpet.
I'd wear gloves, and maybe hats.
I'd sit up straight, with my legs together and ankles crossed.
I'd retire to the next room.
I'd pick up my pen and write my next chapter.
Well, now I know exactly what I need.
TOP 10 Internet Home Business Ideas You can Start and Run in Your Underwear
So I considered my underwear. Not just today's foundation garments, the entire contents of my underwear drawer. No wonder I'm feeling down -- I need new underwear! I actually have two drawers: one for bras, one for panties. Oh, and one for long underwear, too.
When I think about underwear, and I usually don't, I think about underwear with names: bikini, boxer, thong, boyleg, tap, teddy, camisole, chemise, corset, bloomer, petticoat, tanga brief. Maybe that's my problem My underwear doesn't have a name. It's just the regular kind. Not fancy. Not wildly colorful. Not complicated. Not itchy-scratchy. Not covered in rhinestones or diamonds.
If I had Victoria's Secret lingerie, I'd suddenly grow 3 inches taller and lose 50 lbs. My life would be ... well, I guess it'd be different somehow.
I'd eat exotic food.
I'd drive a tiny red sportscar from Italy.
I'd carry a designer dog in my designer bag.
I'd wear pointy shoes with high heels that hurt my feet.
I'd evade paparazzi.
I'd drink poufy drinks from glasses with long stems. On the veranda.
I'd comb my bangs from the other side.
I'd send my laundry out.
I'd blow kisses to my adoring fans.
I'd wave to all the little people from my balcony.
I'd fly First Class (or on my private jet).
I'd shop in posh shops on Fifth Avenue.
I'd read important books.
I'd render opinions.
I'd think deep thoughts.
I'd protest the mistreatment of the mistreated.
I'd initiate trends.
I'd tend my garden.
I'd expect doilies.
I'd take tennis lessons.
I'd hope for world peace.
I'd wear dangly sparklies.
I'd cultivate a throaty laugh.
I'd dab my tears with monogramed hankies.
I'd sleep on 1,000 threadcount linens (not sheets - linens).
I'd lunch. And sup.
I'd twirl my wine before sipping to ensure it demonstrated legs.
I'd beg off, instead of canceling.
I'd offer my regrets.
I'd assume airs.
I'd extend my condolences.
I'd decline.
I'd become inclined.
I'd speak with "h's" in the middle of my words, "Dah-ling."
I'd deliberate.
I'd dabble in the arts.
I'd condone actions.
I'd enter grandly on red carpet.
I'd wear gloves, and maybe hats.
I'd sit up straight, with my legs together and ankles crossed.
I'd retire to the next room.
I'd pick up my pen and write my next chapter.
Well, now I know exactly what I need.
22 January 2008
Bouts, Fits, and Jags
I'm warning you right now, if you dismiss this post as yet other menopausal diatribe bemoaning the "natural" symptoms of diminished estrogen levels in my blood, I'll cry.
For several years (okay, maybe it's more like 25 or 30), I have shamefully tried to hide my ocular incontinence. (I thought I made up that term, but it already exists in Googleland.) I'm talking about spontaneous tears, emotional lability or crying for no apparent reason.
I handled this phenomenon the same way I usually handle any sort of problem in my over-intellectualized, over-compartmentalized and discombobulated life. I researched it. A guy named Tom Lutz wrote a book called, "Crying: The Natural and Cultural History of Tears." I read about the physiology of tears (lachrymology), the psychology of tears, the manipulation of tears, and the social dimension of our eye's natural lubricant. Go ahead and google "spontaneous tears" and you'll find more articles about episiotomies than you ever thought possible. Yeesch!
I cry when I'm under too much stress, as a pressure release.
I cry when I'm really angry.
I cry when I'm sad, or happy.
I cry when my legs hurt.
I cry when I'm just driving down the road and the sun is shining.
I cry when I think about my deceased parents, the soldiers stationed in Iraq and Afghanistan, the babies starving in Biafra, or mistakes I've made along the way.
I cry when I'm reading or watching TV or when I look at a photo of The Pieta.
I cry on Tuesdays and sometimes on Saturdays.
Sometimes I just pull a dark cloud over my head and weep. I don't seem to be able to wail, keen, moan or bawl. Snivel? I can do that one. I guess I can understand crying because I'm hurt or sad or mad, but those seemingly random Tuesday afternoon jags frustrate the hell out of me.
So where is the shame in crying? I guess I feel that tears signify a loss of control over my own emotions. As a child, I remember being punished for crying. As an adult, I've learned that tears are an expression of emotion, a moving of energy. By punishing that expression of emotion, I was taught to disconnect from the original feeling that created the emotion.
When I find myself about to cry, I immediately cut off any connection to what I'm feeling and struggle to hold back my tears. The harder I try to stop, the more I need to cry. Pressure builds up inside. I choke. It hurts. I mean, I hurt -- my muscles, my throat, my heart, my belly, even my breasts hurt. The painful feeling comes in waves and spirals through me, knocking me down inside. So what is my response? Squeeze my eyes tight and hold back the outward manifestation of that feeling -- the tears.
The feeling gets squelched, but it doesn't come out. I can imagine all those disconnected schnibbles crashing around inside me, knocking into my organs and pinching against my nerves. Or maybe they just sort of rise like helium balloons and bounce around my throat trying to get up to my brain.
Pat Torngren writes that the human mind protects itself. "Memories of pain and unmet needs are repressed or "gated", so we won't get overwhelmed and die. Once the danger is passed, the mind allows it to reconnect to the consciousness for healing."
This sounds hokey, but in reality it is similar to the way my body tries to heal itself by fighting infection or clotting blood. Maybe my mind is trying to allow some unexpressed feelings to come out and make room for something else. Like joy, perhaps? Torngren goes on to say that feelings of being stuck or sick may be our pysche's way of leading us to a healing point.
In other cultures, such as the Andaman Islanders, tears are seen as an expression of collective loss. They celebrate a reunion with a loved one with a ceremony or ritual wailing, called the "Welcome of Tears" to express the sadness from the time spent apart. In Greece, Italy, Eastern Europe, China and the Pacific Islands, ritual wailing is common. Crying can be seen as nourishment, tears as a gift. Students of women's mysteries believe in the beauty and sacredness of tears. For only $12.99, you can buy a CD of women wailing. Don't laugh, but I considered clicking on the link.
Somewhere in the middle of this post, I decided to try a new tactic. No more shame associated with crying. My tears may be a signal that I feel safe enough to open up and heal old wounds.
I suggest we all buy stock in Kleenex.
For several years (okay, maybe it's more like 25 or 30), I have shamefully tried to hide my ocular incontinence. (I thought I made up that term, but it already exists in Googleland.) I'm talking about spontaneous tears, emotional lability or crying for no apparent reason.
I handled this phenomenon the same way I usually handle any sort of problem in my over-intellectualized, over-compartmentalized and discombobulated life. I researched it. A guy named Tom Lutz wrote a book called, "Crying: The Natural and Cultural History of Tears." I read about the physiology of tears (lachrymology), the psychology of tears, the manipulation of tears, and the social dimension of our eye's natural lubricant. Go ahead and google "spontaneous tears" and you'll find more articles about episiotomies than you ever thought possible. Yeesch!
I cry when I'm under too much stress, as a pressure release.
I cry when I'm really angry.
I cry when I'm sad, or happy.
I cry when my legs hurt.
I cry when I'm just driving down the road and the sun is shining.
I cry when I think about my deceased parents, the soldiers stationed in Iraq and Afghanistan, the babies starving in Biafra, or mistakes I've made along the way.
I cry when I'm reading or watching TV or when I look at a photo of The Pieta.
I cry on Tuesdays and sometimes on Saturdays.
Sometimes I just pull a dark cloud over my head and weep. I don't seem to be able to wail, keen, moan or bawl. Snivel? I can do that one. I guess I can understand crying because I'm hurt or sad or mad, but those seemingly random Tuesday afternoon jags frustrate the hell out of me.
So where is the shame in crying? I guess I feel that tears signify a loss of control over my own emotions. As a child, I remember being punished for crying. As an adult, I've learned that tears are an expression of emotion, a moving of energy. By punishing that expression of emotion, I was taught to disconnect from the original feeling that created the emotion.
When I find myself about to cry, I immediately cut off any connection to what I'm feeling and struggle to hold back my tears. The harder I try to stop, the more I need to cry. Pressure builds up inside. I choke. It hurts. I mean, I hurt -- my muscles, my throat, my heart, my belly, even my breasts hurt. The painful feeling comes in waves and spirals through me, knocking me down inside. So what is my response? Squeeze my eyes tight and hold back the outward manifestation of that feeling -- the tears.
The feeling gets squelched, but it doesn't come out. I can imagine all those disconnected schnibbles crashing around inside me, knocking into my organs and pinching against my nerves. Or maybe they just sort of rise like helium balloons and bounce around my throat trying to get up to my brain.
Pat Torngren writes that the human mind protects itself. "Memories of pain and unmet needs are repressed or "gated", so we won't get overwhelmed and die. Once the danger is passed, the mind allows it to reconnect to the consciousness for healing."
This sounds hokey, but in reality it is similar to the way my body tries to heal itself by fighting infection or clotting blood. Maybe my mind is trying to allow some unexpressed feelings to come out and make room for something else. Like joy, perhaps? Torngren goes on to say that feelings of being stuck or sick may be our pysche's way of leading us to a healing point.
In other cultures, such as the Andaman Islanders, tears are seen as an expression of collective loss. They celebrate a reunion with a loved one with a ceremony or ritual wailing, called the "Welcome of Tears" to express the sadness from the time spent apart. In Greece, Italy, Eastern Europe, China and the Pacific Islands, ritual wailing is common. Crying can be seen as nourishment, tears as a gift. Students of women's mysteries believe in the beauty and sacredness of tears. For only $12.99, you can buy a CD of women wailing. Don't laugh, but I considered clicking on the link.
Somewhere in the middle of this post, I decided to try a new tactic. No more shame associated with crying. My tears may be a signal that I feel safe enough to open up and heal old wounds.
I suggest we all buy stock in Kleenex.
21 January 2008
Take Pennies
Some Dads say, "Drive carefully."
Some Dads say, "Love you."
My Dad always said, "Take pennies."
Dad hated getting pennies back as change from the store. Whenever we'd leave the restaurant on an errand, he'd yell "Take pennies." He wanted us to take pennies to the store to ensure we could pay the odd cents and not bring home any more pennies.
One of my childhood memories etched in stone: Mom picked up her purse and keys for a quick run to the SuperValue to buy milk. As she made her way around the end of the bar, Dad looked up from the glasses he was washing behind the bar and said, "Take pennies."
Mom froze in her tracks. It was one of those times when a kid peels back the veneer of childhood and gets a peek at the real world for just an instant. From across the room, I saw Mom turn around and walk behind the bar, hit the No Sale button to open the cash drawer, scoop out a handful of pennies, and slide the drawer shut.
I stood across the room watching, silently willing my Dad to look up and see what I knew was about to happen. Oblivious, he continued swishing that glass on the brush in the sink. Mom marched back around the end of the bar and toward the front door. Just three steps before she reached the door, she stopped and turned to face him. When he looked up at her, she flung the handful of pennies in his face yelling, "Here's your fuckin' pennies!"
After the door slammed shut, Dad turned to me and asked, "What the hell was that all about?"
Some Dads say, "Love you."
My Dad always said, "Take pennies."
Dad hated getting pennies back as change from the store. Whenever we'd leave the restaurant on an errand, he'd yell "Take pennies." He wanted us to take pennies to the store to ensure we could pay the odd cents and not bring home any more pennies.
One of my childhood memories etched in stone: Mom picked up her purse and keys for a quick run to the SuperValue to buy milk. As she made her way around the end of the bar, Dad looked up from the glasses he was washing behind the bar and said, "Take pennies."
Mom froze in her tracks. It was one of those times when a kid peels back the veneer of childhood and gets a peek at the real world for just an instant. From across the room, I saw Mom turn around and walk behind the bar, hit the No Sale button to open the cash drawer, scoop out a handful of pennies, and slide the drawer shut.
I stood across the room watching, silently willing my Dad to look up and see what I knew was about to happen. Oblivious, he continued swishing that glass on the brush in the sink. Mom marched back around the end of the bar and toward the front door. Just three steps before she reached the door, she stopped and turned to face him. When he looked up at her, she flung the handful of pennies in his face yelling, "Here's your fuckin' pennies!"
After the door slammed shut, Dad turned to me and asked, "What the hell was that all about?"
20 January 2008
Casual Duty - Chapter 7 - The Show That Never Ends
Colonel Richards’ Office
Fort Huachuca, Arizona
Sergeant Simpson turned into a gravel driveway and braked to a halt. Bridie followed him across the road into a wooden building marked with a large hand-painted sign: Colonel – Ernst M. Richards. The Installation Commander?
“Wait here.” Sergeant Simpson knocked once on the Colonel’s door and entered.
Bridie waited obediently just outside the door. When her eyes adjusted to the low light inside the building, she looked at the plaques decorating the wall. Soldier of the Month. Soldier of the Quarter. Soldier of the Year. The Civilian Employee of the Quarter looked like one of the lunchroom ladies from her high school. Framed prints on the opposite wall depicted scenes of old-fashioned soldiers battling Indians out west somewhere. She laughed to herself. Out west somewhere? She was the one who was out west somewhere! She read the caption, “B-Troop soldiers defend against Apache attack – Chiricahua Mountain Range." Other pictures showed Indian Scouts working with soldiers to defeat Geronimo.
A row of chairs lined the wall. Sergeant Simpson told her to wait, but he hadn’t given her permission to sit down. She paced, listening to the murmur of voices in the office. Why did the Installation Commander want to see her? Something to do with the incident yesterday most likely, or was it because she’d signed in late? That wasn’t her fault, but if she’d learned one thing in Basic, she learned that it didn’t matter who’s fault it was. No excuses. She glanced back at the chairs again. Well, he hadn’t said she couldn’t sit down. How long was she going to have to wait out here? If they were going to yell at her, just call her in there and get it over with already. She yawned and stretched.
After another length of the hallway, she gave up and perched on the edge of the seat closest to the Colonel’s door. She heard snatches of conversation from inside the office.
A deep voice rumbled. “ … possible repercussions… backlash … cancel the Exercise”
Another voice, it sounded like a woman, “…turn this around … opportunity … our advantage…”
Bridie leaned toward the door trying to listen to the conversation.
“Sergeant Simpson? What’s your take on all this?” That’s gotta be the Colonel, she thought leaning closer.
“This ain’t our fight, sir. A problem for the sheriff, downtown maybe. But it ain’t on your base, so it don’t affect the Exercise. You say the word, sir, and we’re good to go.”
The main door opened and the sudden blast of sunlight blinded her again. The door closed and she saw another soldier walk toward her. She jumped to her feet when she saw the stripes on his collar. Three up and one down. A staff sergeant, E-6.
“As you were.” He chuckled at her reaction as he took the seat next to her. He settled in, opened a folder and began sorting through a stack of papers.
Out of the corner of her eye, she examined the sergeant. His uniform sleeves were rolled up above his elbows exposing well-muscled forearms, thick wrists and strong, well-shaped hands. She noticed fine blond hairs and a light sprinkling of freckles across his arms. He smelled clean, like soap. She wondered how she smelled after spending all morning out in the sun chopping grass. He glanced in her direction as if he felt her scrutiny. She closed her eyes and shifted again. Oh shit, he caught me! Her face burned with shame.
She heard murmured voices inside the office and wondered again how much longer she’d have to wait. Her stomach growled. “Excuse me,” she said, wrapping her arms around her waist to muffle the noise.
The sergeant kept his head down, continuing to shuffle through his paperwork, smiling.
“Jackson?”
The sergeant stood up, closed his file, and entered the colonel’s office. “Here, sir.”
Bridie sighed and stretched. Maybe they’d forgotten about her. She glanced down the hallway and saw an open door. A latrine? Maybe if she could splash some water on her face and wash her hands, she’d wake up a little. A quick look back toward the office where they seemed to be fully engaged in their discussion, and she decided to risk it.
Bridie flipped the Male/Female sign over, closed the door, and leaned against it, enjoying a blessed minute alone. She turned on the water and pumped a few drops of Soap, Liquid – Pink, into her hand and worked it into a lather. Her nose wrinkled at the Scent, Floral – Rose. She wondered what kind of soap Sergeant Jackson used. He smelled delicious—clean but a little spicy. She rinsed her face, dried with a handful of rough brown Towels, Paper – C Fold, and made a huge mistake. She looked in the mirror. Her face was bright red from the sun and heat. Well, there was nothing she could do about that. Her hair was another story. Tendrils escaped and curled in all directions as the elaborate configuration of bobby pins and barrettes failed to maintain control. She wondered again how much time she had to rebuild, as she began to tug, releasing the mess of damp curls and frizz.
“Trayor!”
Bridie ran down the hall securing the last of the errant curls with a bobby pin as she knocked on the door.
“Enter.”
Colonel Richards sat behind a standard US Army metal desk covered in stacks of paper. So this is what a colonel looks like, she thought. He was a short man, a little on the skinny side. He wore thick glasses with black plastic frames, typically called BCs – slang for “birth control.” He’s not too bad, she thought. Not scary like a drill sergeant.
A female lieutenant paced in front of the window, her constant stream of chatter seemed to bounce off the Colonel, making him squint. Bridie caught only an occasional phrase as she struggled to remember the protocol for entering a room with officers and senior Sergeants. She stood just inside the door, unsure if she was to formally report to the Colonel, or just salute, or what. She was indoors, and unarmed, so she didn’t need to salute. As she debated with herself, the Colonel stood and put up his hand, cutting off the stream of words.
“Sergeant Jackson, go with Sergeant Simpson and draw whatever you think you’ll need. Report back in the morning. That’ll be all.” The Colonel dismissed the two sergeants and sat down. His feet didn’t quite touch the floor, she noticed.
He looked back up at the Lieutenant. “Get it set up for 1030. Meet the crew at the gate and bring them in.”
The lieutenant began, “What do you think, sir? Brown or Chaffe? If we go with Brown, we’ll have the cannon and the flagpole in the shot. I think –“
“Not Brown. I don’t want General Myers’ house in the background,” he interrupted. “He’ll try to take over and make it his show. This one’s all mine. It’ll have to be Chaffee.”
Bridie had no idea what they were talking about. She was more worried about whether she should sit or stand how to sit, or what they expected her to do. She let their words stream past her as she kept her eyes forward and held herself as close to the position of attention as she could. So far, no one had said a word to her. The front door of the building opened and blinding sunlight flashed across the room. A tall corporal strode into the room, hung a set of keys on a hook and placed a radio handset into the charging station before walking back to a desk in the corner.
“Simpson can get us some casuals for the background. Marching. Drill and Ceremonies stuff. We’ll get about 50 or so. That’ll make it look –“ the lieutenant sketched the shot in the air with her hands.
“Chaffe’s just been re-seeded, sir,” the driver interrupted. “They got it roped off.”
“I don’t want to do the damn press conference in my office. It’s too small, and it doesn’t give the impression I’m looking for.” He looked around his office, as if confirming his own declaration, and noticed Bridie still standing. “If we can’t use one of the parade fields, what’s that leave us?” Then pointing at an empty chair against the wall, “Sit.”
Bridie unlocked her knees, started toward the chair indicated, and paused to let the Lieutenant reach the epogee of her orbit and turn. When Bridie deemed it was safe to pass, she edged her way to the chair and tucked her boots underneath, out of the Lieutenant’s path.
“Bravo Company’s out on Seven til 1330,” the driver offered as he stirred powdered cream into his mug.
“Tactical. That’s the look we want for you. Let me call Range Control, and I’ll get clearance for a three-vehicle convoy.” The lieutenant whipped back around and made another note on her pad. Her dishwater blonde hair swung as she turned just brushing the top of her collar. It reminded Bridie of that popular figure skater who’d taken the gold medal at the Olympics a few years ago.
The officers continued to hammer out a plan, for whatever it was they were planning and Bridie waited uncomfortably in the chair. She shifted her weight and recrossed her feet under the chair. After a moment, she realized that this might look too informal, and tried to get her feet straightened out. S he was stuck. Every move she made resulted in a loud protest from the vinyl seat. The driver shot her a warning glance. With a good tug, she disentangled her feet and planted them firmly on the floor. Still they didn’t talk to her. What was she supposed to do? Aside from ordering her in here and telling her to sit, they ignored her. Just sit still and keep your mouth shut and your ears open, she commanded herself.
The strange conversation continued to buzz. Sunlight warmed her back and neck, relaxing her muscles. Bridie eased back into the chair and took a deep breath. Her thoughts drifted to Mrs. Bolling and her granddaughter’s birthday party. White Asparagus.
“Don’t nobody move.”
Bridie leapt to her feet with a gasp and looked around frantically for the gun. They stood at the door, looking at her.
“Traynor, you coming?” the Colonel asked as he put on his hat. “Let’s get a move on.”
The driver stood next to the open rear door of the Colonel’s OD green sedan. Bridie jogged down the steps to catch up as the Lieutenant swung into the front seat and pulled the door shut. Bridie raced through her list of bullets on military protocol regarding entering vehicles with officers and senior enlisted personnel. The senior officer sits in the right rear seat, and the next most senior sits in the rear on the left. The junior person sits in the front, next to the driver. But with the Lieutenant clearly outranking her, a Private, sitting in the front, where was she supposed to sit? She stopped. The Colonel and the driver looked at her. The driver motioned his head almost imperceptibly, toward the back seat. She started toward the car and stopped again. Should she walk in front of the Colonel, or –“
“Just get in the damn car, Private Traynor,” said Colonel Richards.
She climbed in and slid across the seat. At the first sharp corner the Colonel leaned into her. Bridie flinched and pulled herself up as straight as she could. He’d kept talking to the Lieutenant, as if he hadn’t noticed he’d landed across her. As if she wasn’t even there, she thought. She smelled his cologne. Sort of like her Dad used to wear when he got dressed up for a special occasion. She sneaked a glance in his direction again without moving her head. His hair was cut short, high and tight, she thought. A dab of white shaving cream stuck to the back of his ear. Flecks of dried starch spotted his tailored fatigues which were bloused into perfect circles a few inches from his jump boots. How does he get his pant legs to stick out like that, she wondered.
Through the windshield, Bridie had her first glimpse of the main post area of Fort Huachuca. It had been too dark when she arrived last night to see much of the area. All the buildings she could see were painted the same color of light brown. The same color as the dust that covered everything. No grass here, just dirt and a thin layer of what looked like straw or hay. She saw a few trees in the distance, near the mountains that seemed to rise up from the back of the buildings. It’s like the moon.
Bridie’s head swirled. She felt faint from lack of sleep and hunger, maybe even a little shock. She clutched the armrest with both hands to keep from sliding into the Colonel as the driver turned off the dirt road and pulled to a stop in front of a sign announcing “Range 7 – Rifle.”
What were they doing at the rifle range? She didn’t have a rifle assigned to her. The driver shut off the engine, hopped out and ran around the back of the sedan to open the door for the commander. Before Bridie could open the door next to her, the driver offered his hand through the open door across the car. She untangled her boots and slid across, allowing him to help her crawl out.
A group of men got of the vans that followed them, and began unloading boxes of equipment. She watched as the Lieutenant took control, directing the men and the Colonel into position for the impromptu press conference. She still wasn’t sure why she was there.
“Welcome back my friends, to the show that never ends.”
Bridie turned. “Pardon me?’
“The press. It’s like a carnival,” the driver, Corporal Donaldson, said.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why am I here?”
“If you don’t know, you better figure it out quick. Here they come for you,” he said.
Fort Huachuca, Arizona
Sergeant Simpson turned into a gravel driveway and braked to a halt. Bridie followed him across the road into a wooden building marked with a large hand-painted sign: Colonel – Ernst M. Richards. The Installation Commander?
“Wait here.” Sergeant Simpson knocked once on the Colonel’s door and entered.
Bridie waited obediently just outside the door. When her eyes adjusted to the low light inside the building, she looked at the plaques decorating the wall. Soldier of the Month. Soldier of the Quarter. Soldier of the Year. The Civilian Employee of the Quarter looked like one of the lunchroom ladies from her high school. Framed prints on the opposite wall depicted scenes of old-fashioned soldiers battling Indians out west somewhere. She laughed to herself. Out west somewhere? She was the one who was out west somewhere! She read the caption, “B-Troop soldiers defend against Apache attack – Chiricahua Mountain Range." Other pictures showed Indian Scouts working with soldiers to defeat Geronimo.
A row of chairs lined the wall. Sergeant Simpson told her to wait, but he hadn’t given her permission to sit down. She paced, listening to the murmur of voices in the office. Why did the Installation Commander want to see her? Something to do with the incident yesterday most likely, or was it because she’d signed in late? That wasn’t her fault, but if she’d learned one thing in Basic, she learned that it didn’t matter who’s fault it was. No excuses. She glanced back at the chairs again. Well, he hadn’t said she couldn’t sit down. How long was she going to have to wait out here? If they were going to yell at her, just call her in there and get it over with already. She yawned and stretched.
After another length of the hallway, she gave up and perched on the edge of the seat closest to the Colonel’s door. She heard snatches of conversation from inside the office.
A deep voice rumbled. “ … possible repercussions… backlash … cancel the Exercise”
Another voice, it sounded like a woman, “…turn this around … opportunity … our advantage…”
Bridie leaned toward the door trying to listen to the conversation.
“Sergeant Simpson? What’s your take on all this?” That’s gotta be the Colonel, she thought leaning closer.
“This ain’t our fight, sir. A problem for the sheriff, downtown maybe. But it ain’t on your base, so it don’t affect the Exercise. You say the word, sir, and we’re good to go.”
The main door opened and the sudden blast of sunlight blinded her again. The door closed and she saw another soldier walk toward her. She jumped to her feet when she saw the stripes on his collar. Three up and one down. A staff sergeant, E-6.
“As you were.” He chuckled at her reaction as he took the seat next to her. He settled in, opened a folder and began sorting through a stack of papers.
Out of the corner of her eye, she examined the sergeant. His uniform sleeves were rolled up above his elbows exposing well-muscled forearms, thick wrists and strong, well-shaped hands. She noticed fine blond hairs and a light sprinkling of freckles across his arms. He smelled clean, like soap. She wondered how she smelled after spending all morning out in the sun chopping grass. He glanced in her direction as if he felt her scrutiny. She closed her eyes and shifted again. Oh shit, he caught me! Her face burned with shame.
She heard murmured voices inside the office and wondered again how much longer she’d have to wait. Her stomach growled. “Excuse me,” she said, wrapping her arms around her waist to muffle the noise.
The sergeant kept his head down, continuing to shuffle through his paperwork, smiling.
“Jackson?”
The sergeant stood up, closed his file, and entered the colonel’s office. “Here, sir.”
Bridie sighed and stretched. Maybe they’d forgotten about her. She glanced down the hallway and saw an open door. A latrine? Maybe if she could splash some water on her face and wash her hands, she’d wake up a little. A quick look back toward the office where they seemed to be fully engaged in their discussion, and she decided to risk it.
Bridie flipped the Male/Female sign over, closed the door, and leaned against it, enjoying a blessed minute alone. She turned on the water and pumped a few drops of Soap, Liquid – Pink, into her hand and worked it into a lather. Her nose wrinkled at the Scent, Floral – Rose. She wondered what kind of soap Sergeant Jackson used. He smelled delicious—clean but a little spicy. She rinsed her face, dried with a handful of rough brown Towels, Paper – C Fold, and made a huge mistake. She looked in the mirror. Her face was bright red from the sun and heat. Well, there was nothing she could do about that. Her hair was another story. Tendrils escaped and curled in all directions as the elaborate configuration of bobby pins and barrettes failed to maintain control. She wondered again how much time she had to rebuild, as she began to tug, releasing the mess of damp curls and frizz.
“Trayor!”
Bridie ran down the hall securing the last of the errant curls with a bobby pin as she knocked on the door.
“Enter.”
Colonel Richards sat behind a standard US Army metal desk covered in stacks of paper. So this is what a colonel looks like, she thought. He was a short man, a little on the skinny side. He wore thick glasses with black plastic frames, typically called BCs – slang for “birth control.” He’s not too bad, she thought. Not scary like a drill sergeant.
A female lieutenant paced in front of the window, her constant stream of chatter seemed to bounce off the Colonel, making him squint. Bridie caught only an occasional phrase as she struggled to remember the protocol for entering a room with officers and senior Sergeants. She stood just inside the door, unsure if she was to formally report to the Colonel, or just salute, or what. She was indoors, and unarmed, so she didn’t need to salute. As she debated with herself, the Colonel stood and put up his hand, cutting off the stream of words.
“Sergeant Jackson, go with Sergeant Simpson and draw whatever you think you’ll need. Report back in the morning. That’ll be all.” The Colonel dismissed the two sergeants and sat down. His feet didn’t quite touch the floor, she noticed.
He looked back up at the Lieutenant. “Get it set up for 1030. Meet the crew at the gate and bring them in.”
The lieutenant began, “What do you think, sir? Brown or Chaffe? If we go with Brown, we’ll have the cannon and the flagpole in the shot. I think –“
“Not Brown. I don’t want General Myers’ house in the background,” he interrupted. “He’ll try to take over and make it his show. This one’s all mine. It’ll have to be Chaffee.”
Bridie had no idea what they were talking about. She was more worried about whether she should sit or stand how to sit, or what they expected her to do. She let their words stream past her as she kept her eyes forward and held herself as close to the position of attention as she could. So far, no one had said a word to her. The front door of the building opened and blinding sunlight flashed across the room. A tall corporal strode into the room, hung a set of keys on a hook and placed a radio handset into the charging station before walking back to a desk in the corner.
“Simpson can get us some casuals for the background. Marching. Drill and Ceremonies stuff. We’ll get about 50 or so. That’ll make it look –“ the lieutenant sketched the shot in the air with her hands.
“Chaffe’s just been re-seeded, sir,” the driver interrupted. “They got it roped off.”
“I don’t want to do the damn press conference in my office. It’s too small, and it doesn’t give the impression I’m looking for.” He looked around his office, as if confirming his own declaration, and noticed Bridie still standing. “If we can’t use one of the parade fields, what’s that leave us?” Then pointing at an empty chair against the wall, “Sit.”
Bridie unlocked her knees, started toward the chair indicated, and paused to let the Lieutenant reach the epogee of her orbit and turn. When Bridie deemed it was safe to pass, she edged her way to the chair and tucked her boots underneath, out of the Lieutenant’s path.
“Bravo Company’s out on Seven til 1330,” the driver offered as he stirred powdered cream into his mug.
“Tactical. That’s the look we want for you. Let me call Range Control, and I’ll get clearance for a three-vehicle convoy.” The lieutenant whipped back around and made another note on her pad. Her dishwater blonde hair swung as she turned just brushing the top of her collar. It reminded Bridie of that popular figure skater who’d taken the gold medal at the Olympics a few years ago.
The officers continued to hammer out a plan, for whatever it was they were planning and Bridie waited uncomfortably in the chair. She shifted her weight and recrossed her feet under the chair. After a moment, she realized that this might look too informal, and tried to get her feet straightened out. S he was stuck. Every move she made resulted in a loud protest from the vinyl seat. The driver shot her a warning glance. With a good tug, she disentangled her feet and planted them firmly on the floor. Still they didn’t talk to her. What was she supposed to do? Aside from ordering her in here and telling her to sit, they ignored her. Just sit still and keep your mouth shut and your ears open, she commanded herself.
The strange conversation continued to buzz. Sunlight warmed her back and neck, relaxing her muscles. Bridie eased back into the chair and took a deep breath. Her thoughts drifted to Mrs. Bolling and her granddaughter’s birthday party. White Asparagus.
“Don’t nobody move.”
Bridie leapt to her feet with a gasp and looked around frantically for the gun. They stood at the door, looking at her.
“Traynor, you coming?” the Colonel asked as he put on his hat. “Let’s get a move on.”
The driver stood next to the open rear door of the Colonel’s OD green sedan. Bridie jogged down the steps to catch up as the Lieutenant swung into the front seat and pulled the door shut. Bridie raced through her list of bullets on military protocol regarding entering vehicles with officers and senior enlisted personnel. The senior officer sits in the right rear seat, and the next most senior sits in the rear on the left. The junior person sits in the front, next to the driver. But with the Lieutenant clearly outranking her, a Private, sitting in the front, where was she supposed to sit? She stopped. The Colonel and the driver looked at her. The driver motioned his head almost imperceptibly, toward the back seat. She started toward the car and stopped again. Should she walk in front of the Colonel, or –“
“Just get in the damn car, Private Traynor,” said Colonel Richards.
She climbed in and slid across the seat. At the first sharp corner the Colonel leaned into her. Bridie flinched and pulled herself up as straight as she could. He’d kept talking to the Lieutenant, as if he hadn’t noticed he’d landed across her. As if she wasn’t even there, she thought. She smelled his cologne. Sort of like her Dad used to wear when he got dressed up for a special occasion. She sneaked a glance in his direction again without moving her head. His hair was cut short, high and tight, she thought. A dab of white shaving cream stuck to the back of his ear. Flecks of dried starch spotted his tailored fatigues which were bloused into perfect circles a few inches from his jump boots. How does he get his pant legs to stick out like that, she wondered.
Through the windshield, Bridie had her first glimpse of the main post area of Fort Huachuca. It had been too dark when she arrived last night to see much of the area. All the buildings she could see were painted the same color of light brown. The same color as the dust that covered everything. No grass here, just dirt and a thin layer of what looked like straw or hay. She saw a few trees in the distance, near the mountains that seemed to rise up from the back of the buildings. It’s like the moon.
Bridie’s head swirled. She felt faint from lack of sleep and hunger, maybe even a little shock. She clutched the armrest with both hands to keep from sliding into the Colonel as the driver turned off the dirt road and pulled to a stop in front of a sign announcing “Range 7 – Rifle.”
What were they doing at the rifle range? She didn’t have a rifle assigned to her. The driver shut off the engine, hopped out and ran around the back of the sedan to open the door for the commander. Before Bridie could open the door next to her, the driver offered his hand through the open door across the car. She untangled her boots and slid across, allowing him to help her crawl out.
A group of men got of the vans that followed them, and began unloading boxes of equipment. She watched as the Lieutenant took control, directing the men and the Colonel into position for the impromptu press conference. She still wasn’t sure why she was there.
“Welcome back my friends, to the show that never ends.”
Bridie turned. “Pardon me?’
“The press. It’s like a carnival,” the driver, Corporal Donaldson, said.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why am I here?”
“If you don’t know, you better figure it out quick. Here they come for you,” he said.
06 January 2008
CASUAL DUTY - Chapter Six - The Line
May 1981
Fort Huachuca, Arizona
Old Hospital Grounds
“No, no! Not like that! You gonna cut off you damn foot, you keep on like that.” He backed away, holding up his hands up. “That there’s a scythe, not a sickle.”
Bridie stopped mid-swing and squinted up at the next soldier in line. The glare of the sun burning through the thin atmosphere stung her eyes. She dropped her arm, holding the tool at her side, out of range. “What?”
He tossed his sickle on the ground and stepped closer, taking the implement. He turned the blade down and wrapped his hands around the grips. “Lay it down. The blade, see? Like this, and pull. Just give it a little tug is all. Cuts real good.” He handed it back with a shy smile and turned back to retrieve his own blade.
Bridie thanked him. She tried to copy his graceful movements, but her blade kept getting tangled in the tall grasses. She stood up and stretched, rotating her shoulder to work out the kinks. The sun burned across her shoulders and the back of her neck. She wiped her face with her sleeve, surprised to see it was dry. She felt like she was sweating, but there was nothing there. Most of the others had their uniform blouses off, working in their T-shirts. Some of the men had even taken them off and draped them over their heads like the pictures she’d seen of people who live in the desert. She noticed that the girls who were working mostly kept their shirts on, but a couple of them who were sitting in the shade of the old hospital, sat with their sleeves rolled up, sunbathing like they were at the beach.
She continued to hack away. A flock of grasshoppers, disturbed by Bridie’s blade, launched a hasty counterattack, flying in every direction. She batted them away from her face with a shudder. What else was hiding in this sea of grass? Snakes? Locusts? Another yank and the tool slipped out of her hands. She sighed and surrendered, throwing her hands in the air. “This is hopeless!”
“Slow down, girl. You got too much fight in you,” he said. “Just keep it moving, slow and easy like, in a straight line. Ain’t in no hurry. We gonna be out here til lunchtime anyways. No sense in working yourself up like that.”
“Well, how are we going to finish, if we don’t hurry? There must be miles of this grass.” She pointed out toward the road where the detail bus had delivered them this morning. “How are nine people supposed to get all this grass cut? And what about rakes? We’re gonna have to . . .’ She stopped when she heard his laugh.
“What?” she demanded. “What’s so funny?”
“Done? Girl, ain’t no such thing as “done.” He shook his head. “You on the line.”
“The line?”
He nodded. “That’s what we call it, out here. Cuttin’ grass or bush. Haulin’ rock. Weeds. Paint. Whatever. If you don’t have permanent detail, and Top don’t have nothin’ specific for you, it’s the line.”
“But I’m supposed to start class, 96B School. I’m going to be an Intelligence Analyst. My orders—“
“You and everybody else. They only got so many slots, and there’s, well you saw how many there was at formation this morning.” He took off his utility cap and wiped his brow. “Look girl, what we doin’ here, it don’t matter none to no one. We just here on the line. The bus come back at lunchtime, take us to chow. Then we come back out, maybe here. Maybe somewheres else, ‘til the bus come. Then we go back and it’s PT. Then chow. Next day starts again.” He shook out his cap before putting in back on. “It ain’t that bad. Nobody around to bother you. If it look like we’re busy when the sergeant drive by, he leave us alone.”
“But . . “ she started to renew her complaint. What was the use complaining to him? He was stuck right here with her.
“You keep on complaining, keep fighting, it only feel worse, you know. You in the Army now. Get used to it. It’s too hot. All the time. Or too cold. You’re gonna be tired. Hungry. Feet hurt. Suck it up and soldier on is all’s you can do.”
“I guess. Be all you can be, right?” she added with a laugh. “Join the Army. Travel to exotic lands. Meet new people.”
“ . . . and cut the grass,” he finished with a smile.
Bridie reached over and offered her hand. “I’m Bridie Traynor.”
“Charlie Wilkins. From Waycross, Georgia.” He shook her hand.
“I’m from Wisconsin. A small town just over the border from Illinois.” She added, “ Twin Lakes.”
His gaze shifted to just over her shoulder. “Here come Top now.” He stepped away and went back to work swinging the blade.
Bridie turned and saw a cloud of dust spreading just beyond the edge of bushes at the road. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the soldiers who had been sunbathing jump up and start cutting grass with gusto. She bent back over her scythe and dragged the blade as she watched the truck drive slowly past the detail and continue down the round around the bend without stopping. If it was the Sergeant Simpson, he wasn’t after anyone out at this site.
The sun continued to blaze without mercy. Bridie’s stomach rumbled. The can of Coke and the package of cookies from the vending machine she’d eaten for breakfast on her way to formation were a distant memory. She wondered how much longer until the bus returned to take them to the mess hall. She had another reason to want to get back to the barracks. There didn’t seem to be a latrine anywhere in sight. Throughout the morning she’d seen some of the men disappear around the back side of the hospital building, and then return a few minutes later. Maybe there was a latrine in there? She yawned and continued to hack, working into an awkward rhythm, her attention drifting. Last night after she’d finished in-processing, found her duffle bag and moved into her temporary room in the barracks, it was almost 0400 in the morning. First formation was at 0500 for PT. Not enough time to shower and sleep, so she’d opted for the shower. No one else was up at that hour, so she enjoyed a few minutes of privacy and all the hot water she wanted. Maybe she should have skimped a little in favor of a quick nap.
“Nobody move.” The barrel of the gun loomed in her face. Bridie flinched and swung her scythe up in defense. She froze. The glare of the sun blinded her. The sounds of other soldiers’ voices drifted past. A dream, she thought and shook off the memory. Had anyone seen her? The memory seemed so real. She wondered about Mrs. Bolling, if she was still in the hospital. What had happened to the gunmen? Another head shake. She needed to pee, but she had no idea where the latrines were.
She looked around for Charlie, but he had worked his way over toward the treeline in the other direction. She decided she couldn’t wait any longer. She’d go check for herself. Taking her scythe with her, she made her way around the side of the building. Nothing but the back of the hospital with the remains of some old concrete steps. She picked her way through bits of broken glass, beer cans, fast food wrappers. She smelled urine and other more pungent odors and guessed that everyone else just did their business wherever they wanted to. Ugh! She hated peeing while standing up. If she hurried, maybe no one would come around the corner and see her.
She found a spot in the corner behind the old steps and decided that was her best chance for privacy. As she zipped up her pants and fastened her belt, she heard a rustle from somewhere under the building.
Snake!
Without turning to look, she stood up to run but lost her balance and fell back against the side of the building. She threw her hands behind her to push herself off the wall and stuck her hand into a sticky spider web. Her feet skidded in the loose gravel and slid out from under her. She landed in a heap banging her head against the unforgiving steps. Where was the snake? She scrambled to her feet, crouched down keeping away from the spider shaken from its web. She turned to retrieve her hat from where it had fallen under the building and looked directly into a pair of eyes not two feet from her face.
Bridie froze. Her heart hammered in her chest. She held her breath, unable to move or even blink. Across from her, the eyes blinked slowly. It was a turtle, a giant turtle under the building. The turtle blinked again and retracted its head slightly and backed away into the darkness.
Bridie’s heart rate slowed. She gasped. Just a turtle. No, wait. It couldn’t be a turtle. They lived in water. This must be one of those desert tortoises Sergeant Simpson mentioned last night. Don’t touch ‘em, he said. Well, she hadn’t touched it. She shook her head, then remembered the snake. She glanced under the building and didn’t see anything else except an old blanket, an empty water jug and more trash. The rustling sound she’d heard must have been the tortoise. See? No snake. She tried to convince herself as she wiped the sticky web from her fingers.
She pushed up, brushed most of dirt off her uniform and attempted to reassemble her dignity. She looked around to see if anyone had seen her fall, and was relieved to see that no one was in sight. Bridie picked up her scythe and picked her way through the grass back to the work area as though nothing had happened. A few dirty smears on the knees of her trousers were the only signs of her fall.
Back at work with shaking hands, she continued to hack, tangling grass with her blade, clearing it, and then tangling it again. The running dialogue in her head continued. No snake. There was no snake. It was just a tortoise. Tortoises don’t bite. You’re fine. Just hang on until the bus comes.
The soldiers near her renewed their efforts at their tasks. She looked up to find the cause and saw the dust cloud signaling the arrival of another vehicle. Maybe it’s the bus, she thought.
“Ain’t lunch time yet,” she heard someone declare. “Can’t be the bus.”
She saw the jeep swing around the bend and slow down near the edge of the field where the detail worked. Everyone stopped and watched as the jeep skidded to a halt and the driver’s door open. A pair of spit-shined jump boots emerged, followed by bloused fatigue trousers, and the webbed utility belt signifying a member of the training cadre. Murmurs broke out amongst the soldiers. Bridie squinted in the sun to see the cause of the disruption.
“Private Traynor!”
Bridie recoiled and considered dropping into the grass to hide. Sergeant Simpson. She looked for somewhere to run, but it was futile. Nowhere to hide, either.
“Traynor,” he repeated. “Get your ass over here!”
She turned and made her way down the hill toward him with her scythe.
“Leave it,” he barked. “Get in.” He swung himself into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
Bridie dropped the tool at the base of a tree and climbed into the passenger seat, fumbling her seat belt. He gunned the engine, spitting gravel in all directions and spun back toward the road. He worked his way through the gears and drove back toward the main post area.
“Colonel wants to see you, most ricky tick,” he said. “Like I got nothing better to do than chauffeur you around.”
Bridie stiffened, but said nothing. The Colonel? Which Colonel? She didn’t know anything about officers, except that they were to be avoided at all costs. Sergeant Simpson didn’t elaborate, so she just sat quietly. At least she was off the line. For a while anyway.
Fort Huachuca, Arizona
Old Hospital Grounds
“No, no! Not like that! You gonna cut off you damn foot, you keep on like that.” He backed away, holding up his hands up. “That there’s a scythe, not a sickle.”
Bridie stopped mid-swing and squinted up at the next soldier in line. The glare of the sun burning through the thin atmosphere stung her eyes. She dropped her arm, holding the tool at her side, out of range. “What?”
He tossed his sickle on the ground and stepped closer, taking the implement. He turned the blade down and wrapped his hands around the grips. “Lay it down. The blade, see? Like this, and pull. Just give it a little tug is all. Cuts real good.” He handed it back with a shy smile and turned back to retrieve his own blade.
Bridie thanked him. She tried to copy his graceful movements, but her blade kept getting tangled in the tall grasses. She stood up and stretched, rotating her shoulder to work out the kinks. The sun burned across her shoulders and the back of her neck. She wiped her face with her sleeve, surprised to see it was dry. She felt like she was sweating, but there was nothing there. Most of the others had their uniform blouses off, working in their T-shirts. Some of the men had even taken them off and draped them over their heads like the pictures she’d seen of people who live in the desert. She noticed that the girls who were working mostly kept their shirts on, but a couple of them who were sitting in the shade of the old hospital, sat with their sleeves rolled up, sunbathing like they were at the beach.
She continued to hack away. A flock of grasshoppers, disturbed by Bridie’s blade, launched a hasty counterattack, flying in every direction. She batted them away from her face with a shudder. What else was hiding in this sea of grass? Snakes? Locusts? Another yank and the tool slipped out of her hands. She sighed and surrendered, throwing her hands in the air. “This is hopeless!”
“Slow down, girl. You got too much fight in you,” he said. “Just keep it moving, slow and easy like, in a straight line. Ain’t in no hurry. We gonna be out here til lunchtime anyways. No sense in working yourself up like that.”
“Well, how are we going to finish, if we don’t hurry? There must be miles of this grass.” She pointed out toward the road where the detail bus had delivered them this morning. “How are nine people supposed to get all this grass cut? And what about rakes? We’re gonna have to . . .’ She stopped when she heard his laugh.
“What?” she demanded. “What’s so funny?”
“Done? Girl, ain’t no such thing as “done.” He shook his head. “You on the line.”
“The line?”
He nodded. “That’s what we call it, out here. Cuttin’ grass or bush. Haulin’ rock. Weeds. Paint. Whatever. If you don’t have permanent detail, and Top don’t have nothin’ specific for you, it’s the line.”
“But I’m supposed to start class, 96B School. I’m going to be an Intelligence Analyst. My orders—“
“You and everybody else. They only got so many slots, and there’s, well you saw how many there was at formation this morning.” He took off his utility cap and wiped his brow. “Look girl, what we doin’ here, it don’t matter none to no one. We just here on the line. The bus come back at lunchtime, take us to chow. Then we come back out, maybe here. Maybe somewheres else, ‘til the bus come. Then we go back and it’s PT. Then chow. Next day starts again.” He shook out his cap before putting in back on. “It ain’t that bad. Nobody around to bother you. If it look like we’re busy when the sergeant drive by, he leave us alone.”
“But . . “ she started to renew her complaint. What was the use complaining to him? He was stuck right here with her.
“You keep on complaining, keep fighting, it only feel worse, you know. You in the Army now. Get used to it. It’s too hot. All the time. Or too cold. You’re gonna be tired. Hungry. Feet hurt. Suck it up and soldier on is all’s you can do.”
“I guess. Be all you can be, right?” she added with a laugh. “Join the Army. Travel to exotic lands. Meet new people.”
“ . . . and cut the grass,” he finished with a smile.
Bridie reached over and offered her hand. “I’m Bridie Traynor.”
“Charlie Wilkins. From Waycross, Georgia.” He shook her hand.
“I’m from Wisconsin. A small town just over the border from Illinois.” She added, “ Twin Lakes.”
His gaze shifted to just over her shoulder. “Here come Top now.” He stepped away and went back to work swinging the blade.
Bridie turned and saw a cloud of dust spreading just beyond the edge of bushes at the road. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the soldiers who had been sunbathing jump up and start cutting grass with gusto. She bent back over her scythe and dragged the blade as she watched the truck drive slowly past the detail and continue down the round around the bend without stopping. If it was the Sergeant Simpson, he wasn’t after anyone out at this site.
The sun continued to blaze without mercy. Bridie’s stomach rumbled. The can of Coke and the package of cookies from the vending machine she’d eaten for breakfast on her way to formation were a distant memory. She wondered how much longer until the bus returned to take them to the mess hall. She had another reason to want to get back to the barracks. There didn’t seem to be a latrine anywhere in sight. Throughout the morning she’d seen some of the men disappear around the back side of the hospital building, and then return a few minutes later. Maybe there was a latrine in there? She yawned and continued to hack, working into an awkward rhythm, her attention drifting. Last night after she’d finished in-processing, found her duffle bag and moved into her temporary room in the barracks, it was almost 0400 in the morning. First formation was at 0500 for PT. Not enough time to shower and sleep, so she’d opted for the shower. No one else was up at that hour, so she enjoyed a few minutes of privacy and all the hot water she wanted. Maybe she should have skimped a little in favor of a quick nap.
“Nobody move.” The barrel of the gun loomed in her face. Bridie flinched and swung her scythe up in defense. She froze. The glare of the sun blinded her. The sounds of other soldiers’ voices drifted past. A dream, she thought and shook off the memory. Had anyone seen her? The memory seemed so real. She wondered about Mrs. Bolling, if she was still in the hospital. What had happened to the gunmen? Another head shake. She needed to pee, but she had no idea where the latrines were.
She looked around for Charlie, but he had worked his way over toward the treeline in the other direction. She decided she couldn’t wait any longer. She’d go check for herself. Taking her scythe with her, she made her way around the side of the building. Nothing but the back of the hospital with the remains of some old concrete steps. She picked her way through bits of broken glass, beer cans, fast food wrappers. She smelled urine and other more pungent odors and guessed that everyone else just did their business wherever they wanted to. Ugh! She hated peeing while standing up. If she hurried, maybe no one would come around the corner and see her.
She found a spot in the corner behind the old steps and decided that was her best chance for privacy. As she zipped up her pants and fastened her belt, she heard a rustle from somewhere under the building.
Snake!
Without turning to look, she stood up to run but lost her balance and fell back against the side of the building. She threw her hands behind her to push herself off the wall and stuck her hand into a sticky spider web. Her feet skidded in the loose gravel and slid out from under her. She landed in a heap banging her head against the unforgiving steps. Where was the snake? She scrambled to her feet, crouched down keeping away from the spider shaken from its web. She turned to retrieve her hat from where it had fallen under the building and looked directly into a pair of eyes not two feet from her face.
Bridie froze. Her heart hammered in her chest. She held her breath, unable to move or even blink. Across from her, the eyes blinked slowly. It was a turtle, a giant turtle under the building. The turtle blinked again and retracted its head slightly and backed away into the darkness.
Bridie’s heart rate slowed. She gasped. Just a turtle. No, wait. It couldn’t be a turtle. They lived in water. This must be one of those desert tortoises Sergeant Simpson mentioned last night. Don’t touch ‘em, he said. Well, she hadn’t touched it. She shook her head, then remembered the snake. She glanced under the building and didn’t see anything else except an old blanket, an empty water jug and more trash. The rustling sound she’d heard must have been the tortoise. See? No snake. She tried to convince herself as she wiped the sticky web from her fingers.
She pushed up, brushed most of dirt off her uniform and attempted to reassemble her dignity. She looked around to see if anyone had seen her fall, and was relieved to see that no one was in sight. Bridie picked up her scythe and picked her way through the grass back to the work area as though nothing had happened. A few dirty smears on the knees of her trousers were the only signs of her fall.
Back at work with shaking hands, she continued to hack, tangling grass with her blade, clearing it, and then tangling it again. The running dialogue in her head continued. No snake. There was no snake. It was just a tortoise. Tortoises don’t bite. You’re fine. Just hang on until the bus comes.
The soldiers near her renewed their efforts at their tasks. She looked up to find the cause and saw the dust cloud signaling the arrival of another vehicle. Maybe it’s the bus, she thought.
“Ain’t lunch time yet,” she heard someone declare. “Can’t be the bus.”
She saw the jeep swing around the bend and slow down near the edge of the field where the detail worked. Everyone stopped and watched as the jeep skidded to a halt and the driver’s door open. A pair of spit-shined jump boots emerged, followed by bloused fatigue trousers, and the webbed utility belt signifying a member of the training cadre. Murmurs broke out amongst the soldiers. Bridie squinted in the sun to see the cause of the disruption.
“Private Traynor!”
Bridie recoiled and considered dropping into the grass to hide. Sergeant Simpson. She looked for somewhere to run, but it was futile. Nowhere to hide, either.
“Traynor,” he repeated. “Get your ass over here!”
She turned and made her way down the hill toward him with her scythe.
“Leave it,” he barked. “Get in.” He swung himself into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
Bridie dropped the tool at the base of a tree and climbed into the passenger seat, fumbling her seat belt. He gunned the engine, spitting gravel in all directions and spun back toward the road. He worked his way through the gears and drove back toward the main post area.
“Colonel wants to see you, most ricky tick,” he said. “Like I got nothing better to do than chauffeur you around.”
Bridie stiffened, but said nothing. The Colonel? Which Colonel? She didn’t know anything about officers, except that they were to be avoided at all costs. Sergeant Simpson didn’t elaborate, so she just sat quietly. At least she was off the line. For a while anyway.
01 January 2008
CASUAL DUTY - Chapter Five - My Bonnie
Chapter 5
Twin Lakes, WI, March 1981
Scottie’s Pub (Upstairs)
I hope I still remember the combination. Bridie climbed the stairs to the apartment she shared with her father above the pub, clutching the $100 bill. It’s almost 1:30. He should be downstairs with the cash drawer by now. She paused at the top of the stairs when she saw his bedroom door was open. “Dad?”
No response. She pushed his door open and saw the unmade bed. A sour smell of stale liquor, sweat, and cigarette smoke made her nose wrinkle. She set down a cup of coffee on the nightstand. Pushing aside a small mountain of dirty clothes with her foot, she stepped over a pair of shoes, and made her way to closet where the safe was mounted on the wall.
“Oh bring back, bring back, bring back my bonnie to me.” The sound of her father’s voice trickled down the hallway.
Well, at least he’s awake. Bridie slid the closet door open and took a step inside, reaching up for the combination dial. Her foot bumped against something, and before she could bend down to see what she’d hit, she heard the sound of glass tinkling and a bottle rolling on the closet floor. She dropped to the floor to catch it and knocked two more into each other, setting off a chain reaction of bottles crashing and rolling across the room, under the bed and out into the living room. Empty bottles?
“Bridie?” The door at the bottom of the stairs slammed and Bridie heard the heavy tread of Maisie coming up the stairs. “I’m coming up now, alrighty hon?” Maisie came twice a week to clean the pub. Once a month, she cleaned the upstairs apartment. She bustled in carrying a load of clean sheets.
“John’s saying he’s had six already today. Can you believe that? It’s only the start of March and six launches in a morning. Summer’s gonna be a good one. Busy.”
Bridie knelt frozen on the floor surrounded by the spread of dusty liquor bottles looking for a place to hide. Maisie dumped the sheets on the end of the dresser, fumbled for a corner of the bedcovers and yanked them to the floor. She stripped off the sheets and added them to the pile. “John says that the fishing derby for the airline people, you know, Braniff? John says…”
“…The winds have blown over the ocean. The winds have blown over the sea…”
“Oh jus’ listen to himself, will ya hon? He must be feeling good today, singing.” Maisie dumped the pillows from their cases and tossed them back on the bed.
Bridie stood up, holding an empty vodka bottle in her hand as Maisie scooped up the dirty linens and breezed past her out to the living room.
“…he says that they might have almost 150 this year. After the derby, we’re gonna go see my sister, the one who lives in Michigan…”
The bathroom door opened and Bridie stared as her father stumbled along the hallway heading toward them, wearing only a pair of dingy jockey shorts with an overstretched elastic waistband.
“Oh bring back, bring back, bring back my bonnie to me…” he sang to himself as he made his way down the hall. At the top of the stairs, he ran out of hallway. He stopped, lurched across to the opposite wall and shuffled around the corner, banking off the edge of the china hutch, and staggered across to his bedroom door, collapsing onto the bare mattress.
“.., she’s the one with the two sets of twins. Anyways, we’ll be driving this time, instead of flying. Oh, and John says with the fishing so good this spring, we’ll like to have to hire a boy. Maybe the Rszonka boy. You know him, hon? The one that runs around with the waitress, Wendy?”
…seventeen, eighteen…Bridie needed to breathe, but couldn’t force herself to move.
“What you doing with that money, hon? You need some change? John’s got change in the Bait Shop.” Maisie squeezed Bridie’s hand as she slipped the bill into her apron pocket. “Be right back. John’s got change. You’ll see.” She scooped up the pile of linen and bounded down the steps, slamming the door behind her. nineteen…twenty...click…flip. “…bring back my Mommie to me.”
Twin Lakes, WI, March 1981
Scottie’s Pub (Upstairs)
I hope I still remember the combination. Bridie climbed the stairs to the apartment she shared with her father above the pub, clutching the $100 bill. It’s almost 1:30. He should be downstairs with the cash drawer by now. She paused at the top of the stairs when she saw his bedroom door was open. “Dad?”
No response. She pushed his door open and saw the unmade bed. A sour smell of stale liquor, sweat, and cigarette smoke made her nose wrinkle. She set down a cup of coffee on the nightstand. Pushing aside a small mountain of dirty clothes with her foot, she stepped over a pair of shoes, and made her way to closet where the safe was mounted on the wall.
“Oh bring back, bring back, bring back my bonnie to me.” The sound of her father’s voice trickled down the hallway.
Well, at least he’s awake. Bridie slid the closet door open and took a step inside, reaching up for the combination dial. Her foot bumped against something, and before she could bend down to see what she’d hit, she heard the sound of glass tinkling and a bottle rolling on the closet floor. She dropped to the floor to catch it and knocked two more into each other, setting off a chain reaction of bottles crashing and rolling across the room, under the bed and out into the living room. Empty bottles?
“Bridie?” The door at the bottom of the stairs slammed and Bridie heard the heavy tread of Maisie coming up the stairs. “I’m coming up now, alrighty hon?” Maisie came twice a week to clean the pub. Once a month, she cleaned the upstairs apartment. She bustled in carrying a load of clean sheets.
“John’s saying he’s had six already today. Can you believe that? It’s only the start of March and six launches in a morning. Summer’s gonna be a good one. Busy.”
Bridie knelt frozen on the floor surrounded by the spread of dusty liquor bottles looking for a place to hide. Maisie dumped the sheets on the end of the dresser, fumbled for a corner of the bedcovers and yanked them to the floor. She stripped off the sheets and added them to the pile. “John says that the fishing derby for the airline people, you know, Braniff? John says…”
“…The winds have blown over the ocean. The winds have blown over the sea…”
“Oh jus’ listen to himself, will ya hon? He must be feeling good today, singing.” Maisie dumped the pillows from their cases and tossed them back on the bed.
Bridie stood up, holding an empty vodka bottle in her hand as Maisie scooped up the dirty linens and breezed past her out to the living room.
“…he says that they might have almost 150 this year. After the derby, we’re gonna go see my sister, the one who lives in Michigan…”
The bathroom door opened and Bridie stared as her father stumbled along the hallway heading toward them, wearing only a pair of dingy jockey shorts with an overstretched elastic waistband.
“Oh bring back, bring back, bring back my bonnie to me…” he sang to himself as he made his way down the hall. At the top of the stairs, he ran out of hallway. He stopped, lurched across to the opposite wall and shuffled around the corner, banking off the edge of the china hutch, and staggered across to his bedroom door, collapsing onto the bare mattress.
“.., she’s the one with the two sets of twins. Anyways, we’ll be driving this time, instead of flying. Oh, and John says with the fishing so good this spring, we’ll like to have to hire a boy. Maybe the Rszonka boy. You know him, hon? The one that runs around with the waitress, Wendy?”
…seventeen, eighteen…Bridie needed to breathe, but couldn’t force herself to move.
“What you doing with that money, hon? You need some change? John’s got change in the Bait Shop.” Maisie squeezed Bridie’s hand as she slipped the bill into her apron pocket. “Be right back. John’s got change. You’ll see.” She scooped up the pile of linen and bounded down the steps, slamming the door behind her. nineteen…twenty...click…flip. “…bring back my Mommie to me.”
CASUAL DUTY - Chapter Four - Reporting In
May 4, 1981
Riley Barracks
Fort Huachuca, Arizona
“Private Traynor reporting, sir.” Bridie held her salute, right hand rigid, tip of her middle finger just touching her eyebrow, eyes straight ahead, focused but not seeing anything in the glare cast by the security light mounted above the door to Building 51005, Riley Barracks. Moths swarmed with their wings abuzz, attacking the light. Squadrons of birds darted, dove and escaped with a load of bugs, a reverse bombing run. Crickets sang hidden in the juniper bushes outlining the sidewalk and at the base of a large statue that remind her of the stone lions guarding Brookfield Zoo. She resisted the temptation to flinch when a stray moth struck, or duck to avoid the crazy birds. What kind of birds fly at night, she wondered. The dry night air baked the layers of sweat and grime into an itchy crust that covered her body. The thermometer on the wall outside the MP station told her it was 93 degrees.
Two men sat on the edge of the planter box shadowed by the lion statue. It looked like a lion, but different. Maybe it was Egyptian, or . . . Bridie blinked to clear her vision and gave up trying to think. Beyond hungry, bone-tired and achy, she stood fast. A shower. Clean bed. Lasagna with . . .
“Roberts, you gotta watch?”
“Yes, Sergeant Simpson.”
“Would you be so kind, Specialist Roberts, as to tell me what time it is?”
At the edge of the glare, Bridie saw one of the men check his wrist with a grand sweep of his arm. “Ah, twenty three forty seven hours, Sergeant Simpson.”
“Twenty three forty seven? Why, that’s almost midnight, innit Roberts?”
“It surely is.”
“You see that soldier standing here in my yard, disgracing the uniform of those who served with distinction and honor? What’d you suppose this soldier is doing in my yard at twenty three forty seven hours on this fine Sunday night, Roberts?”
“I’d say the soldier was reporting in, Sergeant.”
“Reportin’ in to a nonexistent officer? You see any officers loiterin’ around here?”
Roberts turned his head looking for nonexistent officers. “No, Sergeant. I do not.”
Bridie felt her blood retreat from the surface of her skin in an attempt to hide behind her internal organs. She held her salute. Was she supposed to drop her salute, and then re-salute this sergeant, or should she just stand still and let the punishing blast wash over her? Her brain struggle to form a corrective strategy, but before she developed any conclusions, her tingling fingers decided she should drop her hand and try again. What difference did it make anyway? Once a sergeant got riled up, they just had to unload. Besides, this was no different than the drill sergeants in Basic. And she knew the secret to surviving a first class ass chewing. Settle into a comfortable stance, unlock her knees, hold perfectly still, and zone out with a neutral expression. And no crying -- ever.
She dropped her arm and gave it a quick shake to force a little blood back into her fingers and resumed her stance. With a deep breath, she executed another snappy salute. “Private Traynor reporting, Sergeant Simpson.”
The sergeant boosted himself off the edge of the planter, hitched up his pants, and removed a toothpick from the corner of his mouth, flicking it into the junipers. He halted in position with his gleaming jump boots merely inches from her scuffed low quarters, the top of his headgear an inch below her nose. Just like Sergeant Trump, a little guy. He walks like his boots pinch, she thought as he circled around behind her, scrutinizing her appearance, cataloguing her list of sins against AR 670-1. Without warning, he snapped to attention and tossed off a precision salute worthy of a Marine Guard. As he dropped his arm, he rocked back slightly on his heels.
Too tired to flinch, Bridie covered her reaction by stretching herself just a smidge taller and dropping her arm.
“Twenty three forty seven hours. Sure am glad you could arrange your busy press schedule to drop by and take care of the formalities of signing into our unit, soldier. If that’s what you are.”
His stale coffee and cigarette breath bounced off her chin as she exhaled through her nose in an attempt to redirect its path. Another trick from Basic. Do not react she thought. He didn’t ask a direct question, so don’t respond. She risked taking a quick breath through her clenched teeth.
“You gotta copy of your orders?”
“My orders were in my bag, on the bus,” she started. She hadn’t sent her luggage since early afternoon when she left it behind on the bus at the Quick Mart. “I don’t know where—“
“Excuses! Do I look like a fuckin’ bellhop to you? You want me to find your luggage for you?” His eyes bugged underneath his bushy eyebrows, and his mustache crawled across his upper lip like a giant black caterpillar when he yelled. “I asked you a question, soldier. Do you or do you not have a copy of your orders?”
Bridie blinked and mentally formed her face into a steel mask, willing the droplets of his saliva to bounce off and land back on his face. “No, Sergeant. I just . . .” Stop floundering! Just shut up and take whatever he’s got and get it over with. The sooner he’s done, the sooner you can get to bed.
“Roberts?” He held out his hand behind him without looking.
“Here you go,” Specialist Roberts said, winking at Bridie as he handed the Sergeant a clipboard. He stepped back a few feet and adopted a casual “at ease” posture.
Sergeant Simpson unbuttoned his breast pocket, extracted a pair of reading glasses and perched them on the tip of his nose. He read, “You are directed to report for duty to the Welcome Station at Riley Barracks, Building 51005, at Fort Huachuca, Arizona no later than 2400 hours on 4 May 1981.” Pausing, he raised his glance over his shoulder. “Time, Roberts?”
“Twenty three fifty eight hours,” Roberts replied without looking at his watch. He wiggled his eyebrows imitating the Sergeant’s overly dramatic expressions.
“You’re late.” Sergeant Simpson declared.
“Well, technically speaking, she’s. . .” Roberts began.
“Haven’t I told you when you begin your argument with ‘technically’ you better pack up your kit and withdraw from the fight? You know you already lost if that’s your argument, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Roberts nodded, rolling his eyes.
Bridie wondered, not for the first time today, if any of this was real or if she’d wake up tomorrow in her bunk back at Fort Leonard Wood facing a 15-mile forced march.
“Overlooking for just a moment, your flagrant disregard for your reporting time and the fact that I missed my anniversary dinner with my wife in anticipation of your grand arrival. . . “ He paused and dropped his gaze to her uniform. “. . . and your obvious disdain for the requirements of Army Regulation 670-1, Wear and Appearance of Army Uniforms and Insignia, I am required to read the following statement per Fort Huachuca Policy. ‘Welcome to Fort Huachuca, home of the historic Buffalo Soldier. You are assigned to the United States Army Intelligence Center and School (USAICS), Delta Company, in anticipation of your eventual selection for advanced training as an Intelligence Analyst. It is my . . . ‘ Roberts, what’s this here word?” He held out the clipboard and pointed.
“Fervent, Sergeant. FUR-vent. It means burning or glowing, as in -–“
“Shut up. “ Directing his attention back to the letter, “’fervent hope that you will find your assignment to USAICS personally rewarding and professionally challenging.” He pronounced the acronym as a single word ‘You-SAYks’. “At Delta company. . .”
Bridie settled in, unlocked her knees and let the jargon drift past her and dissipate into the night air. She gave up any hope of dinner and considered the possibility of finding a cookie.
“. . . make the most of your assignment by. . . “
A long blink. She fought to reopen her eyes and mentally scratched the saliva drying on her face.
“. . . an environment that is welcoming and encouraging . . .”
Doo-dah, doo-dah, she sang to herself. OK, forget the cookie, maybe just a sip of water? Focus! What is he going on about now? She waited for the key phrase that usually signaled the big finish “it is incumbent upon you. . . “
“. . . training that is demanding and rigorous . . “
He’s gearing up for a second wind. Doesn’t he want to go home to his wife? He wasn’t making that up about his anniversary, was he? Who’d marry that troll? Another long blink.
“. . . and to ensure compliance with AR 600-9 Army Weight Control Program.“ He stopped and looked her up and down again. “That gonna be a problem for you, Traynor?”
Bridie shriveled. Her constant struggle. In Basic, she’d dropped maybe 15 pounds, but she’d never be called thin. Don’t let it get to you, she thought, rubbing her thumb along the seam of her uniform trousers. “No, Sergeant!” Dear God, please let me pass the weigh-in, she prayed.
“Un-huh.” He thumbed down the page to find his spot and resumed reading about the Commander’s Open Door Policy. “. . . it is incumbent upon you to bring the matter to the attention of the Chain of Command.”
Thank you, God. Blink.
“’I hope you will make the most of your time during your assignment here by exploring the richness and majesty of the surrounding area, steeped in the history of . . .’”
Bridie’s eyes slammed shut, squeezing back her frustration and losing her battle to maintain focus. She swayed from her strict posture. What was that? He’d stopped reading. She opened her eyes.
“You may consider yourself welcomed.”
Shit! What did he say? Had she fallen asleep? “Thank you, Sergeant?” she offered.
“Uh, Sergeant Simpson? The supplement?” Roberts stepped forward and took the clipboard. He sorted through the pages. “Here it is.”
“Ah, yes. ‘Supplemental Attachment 1 to Fort Huachuca Welcome Letter. Distribution: All personnel upon reporting for duty will initial they have received this supplemental briefing. On 17 June 1981, Fort Huachuca will host the annual desert training exercise on the western range. All personnel not specifically assigned to an active training slot will be attached to the Casual Platoon to support preparations for the exercise. Specific duties will be assigned as required. Effective immediately, all leaves, except those categorized as emergency leave, are hereby canceled until the conclusion of the Exercise and its attendant clean up activities. Anticipated personnel release date: 17 August 1981. . .”
Bridie drifted again with the singsong delivery.
“. . . desert tortoise training. . .”
She blinked slowly, her eyes resisting reopening. What was that about a porpoise?
“. . .You have been trained. Sign here,” he said and clicked his black government pen, thrusting the clipboard and official form at her. His ragged fingernails looked chewed as he pointed to the acknowledgement line.
Training Certificate? “Service member acknowledges. . .” What was this? “What training?” she asked.
Sergeant Simpson turned to look over his shoulder. “Roberts? Desert Tortoise Training?”
“Don’t touch ‘em.”
“Any questions?” Sergeant Simpson tapped the form.
She scrawled her name in the vicinity of the signature block.
He grabbed the clipboard and slipped the pen in his pocket with his glasses, and buttoned the flap. “PT formation at 0500. Selection at 0700. Chow, if you got time before Selection. If that don’t interfere with your busy press schedule, that is.” He snapped into position. “Atten-shun!”
Bridie and Specialist Roberts snapped.
“Roberts, get this sorry excuse for a soldier outta my yard, so I can go home and begin the process of apologizing to my wife.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Dismissed!”
Riley Barracks
Fort Huachuca, Arizona
“Private Traynor reporting, sir.” Bridie held her salute, right hand rigid, tip of her middle finger just touching her eyebrow, eyes straight ahead, focused but not seeing anything in the glare cast by the security light mounted above the door to Building 51005, Riley Barracks. Moths swarmed with their wings abuzz, attacking the light. Squadrons of birds darted, dove and escaped with a load of bugs, a reverse bombing run. Crickets sang hidden in the juniper bushes outlining the sidewalk and at the base of a large statue that remind her of the stone lions guarding Brookfield Zoo. She resisted the temptation to flinch when a stray moth struck, or duck to avoid the crazy birds. What kind of birds fly at night, she wondered. The dry night air baked the layers of sweat and grime into an itchy crust that covered her body. The thermometer on the wall outside the MP station told her it was 93 degrees.
Two men sat on the edge of the planter box shadowed by the lion statue. It looked like a lion, but different. Maybe it was Egyptian, or . . . Bridie blinked to clear her vision and gave up trying to think. Beyond hungry, bone-tired and achy, she stood fast. A shower. Clean bed. Lasagna with . . .
“Roberts, you gotta watch?”
“Yes, Sergeant Simpson.”
“Would you be so kind, Specialist Roberts, as to tell me what time it is?”
At the edge of the glare, Bridie saw one of the men check his wrist with a grand sweep of his arm. “Ah, twenty three forty seven hours, Sergeant Simpson.”
“Twenty three forty seven? Why, that’s almost midnight, innit Roberts?”
“It surely is.”
“You see that soldier standing here in my yard, disgracing the uniform of those who served with distinction and honor? What’d you suppose this soldier is doing in my yard at twenty three forty seven hours on this fine Sunday night, Roberts?”
“I’d say the soldier was reporting in, Sergeant.”
“Reportin’ in to a nonexistent officer? You see any officers loiterin’ around here?”
Roberts turned his head looking for nonexistent officers. “No, Sergeant. I do not.”
Bridie felt her blood retreat from the surface of her skin in an attempt to hide behind her internal organs. She held her salute. Was she supposed to drop her salute, and then re-salute this sergeant, or should she just stand still and let the punishing blast wash over her? Her brain struggle to form a corrective strategy, but before she developed any conclusions, her tingling fingers decided she should drop her hand and try again. What difference did it make anyway? Once a sergeant got riled up, they just had to unload. Besides, this was no different than the drill sergeants in Basic. And she knew the secret to surviving a first class ass chewing. Settle into a comfortable stance, unlock her knees, hold perfectly still, and zone out with a neutral expression. And no crying -- ever.
She dropped her arm and gave it a quick shake to force a little blood back into her fingers and resumed her stance. With a deep breath, she executed another snappy salute. “Private Traynor reporting, Sergeant Simpson.”
The sergeant boosted himself off the edge of the planter, hitched up his pants, and removed a toothpick from the corner of his mouth, flicking it into the junipers. He halted in position with his gleaming jump boots merely inches from her scuffed low quarters, the top of his headgear an inch below her nose. Just like Sergeant Trump, a little guy. He walks like his boots pinch, she thought as he circled around behind her, scrutinizing her appearance, cataloguing her list of sins against AR 670-1. Without warning, he snapped to attention and tossed off a precision salute worthy of a Marine Guard. As he dropped his arm, he rocked back slightly on his heels.
Too tired to flinch, Bridie covered her reaction by stretching herself just a smidge taller and dropping her arm.
“Twenty three forty seven hours. Sure am glad you could arrange your busy press schedule to drop by and take care of the formalities of signing into our unit, soldier. If that’s what you are.”
His stale coffee and cigarette breath bounced off her chin as she exhaled through her nose in an attempt to redirect its path. Another trick from Basic. Do not react she thought. He didn’t ask a direct question, so don’t respond. She risked taking a quick breath through her clenched teeth.
“You gotta copy of your orders?”
“My orders were in my bag, on the bus,” she started. She hadn’t sent her luggage since early afternoon when she left it behind on the bus at the Quick Mart. “I don’t know where—“
“Excuses! Do I look like a fuckin’ bellhop to you? You want me to find your luggage for you?” His eyes bugged underneath his bushy eyebrows, and his mustache crawled across his upper lip like a giant black caterpillar when he yelled. “I asked you a question, soldier. Do you or do you not have a copy of your orders?”
Bridie blinked and mentally formed her face into a steel mask, willing the droplets of his saliva to bounce off and land back on his face. “No, Sergeant. I just . . .” Stop floundering! Just shut up and take whatever he’s got and get it over with. The sooner he’s done, the sooner you can get to bed.
“Roberts?” He held out his hand behind him without looking.
“Here you go,” Specialist Roberts said, winking at Bridie as he handed the Sergeant a clipboard. He stepped back a few feet and adopted a casual “at ease” posture.
Sergeant Simpson unbuttoned his breast pocket, extracted a pair of reading glasses and perched them on the tip of his nose. He read, “You are directed to report for duty to the Welcome Station at Riley Barracks, Building 51005, at Fort Huachuca, Arizona no later than 2400 hours on 4 May 1981.” Pausing, he raised his glance over his shoulder. “Time, Roberts?”
“Twenty three fifty eight hours,” Roberts replied without looking at his watch. He wiggled his eyebrows imitating the Sergeant’s overly dramatic expressions.
“You’re late.” Sergeant Simpson declared.
“Well, technically speaking, she’s. . .” Roberts began.
“Haven’t I told you when you begin your argument with ‘technically’ you better pack up your kit and withdraw from the fight? You know you already lost if that’s your argument, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Roberts nodded, rolling his eyes.
Bridie wondered, not for the first time today, if any of this was real or if she’d wake up tomorrow in her bunk back at Fort Leonard Wood facing a 15-mile forced march.
“Overlooking for just a moment, your flagrant disregard for your reporting time and the fact that I missed my anniversary dinner with my wife in anticipation of your grand arrival. . . “ He paused and dropped his gaze to her uniform. “. . . and your obvious disdain for the requirements of Army Regulation 670-1, Wear and Appearance of Army Uniforms and Insignia, I am required to read the following statement per Fort Huachuca Policy. ‘Welcome to Fort Huachuca, home of the historic Buffalo Soldier. You are assigned to the United States Army Intelligence Center and School (USAICS), Delta Company, in anticipation of your eventual selection for advanced training as an Intelligence Analyst. It is my . . . ‘ Roberts, what’s this here word?” He held out the clipboard and pointed.
“Fervent, Sergeant. FUR-vent. It means burning or glowing, as in -–“
“Shut up. “ Directing his attention back to the letter, “’fervent hope that you will find your assignment to USAICS personally rewarding and professionally challenging.” He pronounced the acronym as a single word ‘You-SAYks’. “At Delta company. . .”
Bridie settled in, unlocked her knees and let the jargon drift past her and dissipate into the night air. She gave up any hope of dinner and considered the possibility of finding a cookie.
“. . . make the most of your assignment by. . . “
A long blink. She fought to reopen her eyes and mentally scratched the saliva drying on her face.
“. . . an environment that is welcoming and encouraging . . .”
Doo-dah, doo-dah, she sang to herself. OK, forget the cookie, maybe just a sip of water? Focus! What is he going on about now? She waited for the key phrase that usually signaled the big finish “it is incumbent upon you. . . “
“. . . training that is demanding and rigorous . . “
He’s gearing up for a second wind. Doesn’t he want to go home to his wife? He wasn’t making that up about his anniversary, was he? Who’d marry that troll? Another long blink.
“. . . and to ensure compliance with AR 600-9 Army Weight Control Program.“ He stopped and looked her up and down again. “That gonna be a problem for you, Traynor?”
Bridie shriveled. Her constant struggle. In Basic, she’d dropped maybe 15 pounds, but she’d never be called thin. Don’t let it get to you, she thought, rubbing her thumb along the seam of her uniform trousers. “No, Sergeant!” Dear God, please let me pass the weigh-in, she prayed.
“Un-huh.” He thumbed down the page to find his spot and resumed reading about the Commander’s Open Door Policy. “. . . it is incumbent upon you to bring the matter to the attention of the Chain of Command.”
Thank you, God. Blink.
“’I hope you will make the most of your time during your assignment here by exploring the richness and majesty of the surrounding area, steeped in the history of . . .’”
Bridie’s eyes slammed shut, squeezing back her frustration and losing her battle to maintain focus. She swayed from her strict posture. What was that? He’d stopped reading. She opened her eyes.
“You may consider yourself welcomed.”
Shit! What did he say? Had she fallen asleep? “Thank you, Sergeant?” she offered.
“Uh, Sergeant Simpson? The supplement?” Roberts stepped forward and took the clipboard. He sorted through the pages. “Here it is.”
“Ah, yes. ‘Supplemental Attachment 1 to Fort Huachuca Welcome Letter. Distribution: All personnel upon reporting for duty will initial they have received this supplemental briefing. On 17 June 1981, Fort Huachuca will host the annual desert training exercise on the western range. All personnel not specifically assigned to an active training slot will be attached to the Casual Platoon to support preparations for the exercise. Specific duties will be assigned as required. Effective immediately, all leaves, except those categorized as emergency leave, are hereby canceled until the conclusion of the Exercise and its attendant clean up activities. Anticipated personnel release date: 17 August 1981. . .”
Bridie drifted again with the singsong delivery.
“. . . desert tortoise training. . .”
She blinked slowly, her eyes resisting reopening. What was that about a porpoise?
“. . .You have been trained. Sign here,” he said and clicked his black government pen, thrusting the clipboard and official form at her. His ragged fingernails looked chewed as he pointed to the acknowledgement line.
Training Certificate? “Service member acknowledges. . .” What was this? “What training?” she asked.
Sergeant Simpson turned to look over his shoulder. “Roberts? Desert Tortoise Training?”
“Don’t touch ‘em.”
“Any questions?” Sergeant Simpson tapped the form.
She scrawled her name in the vicinity of the signature block.
He grabbed the clipboard and slipped the pen in his pocket with his glasses, and buttoned the flap. “PT formation at 0500. Selection at 0700. Chow, if you got time before Selection. If that don’t interfere with your busy press schedule, that is.” He snapped into position. “Atten-shun!”
Bridie and Specialist Roberts snapped.
“Roberts, get this sorry excuse for a soldier outta my yard, so I can go home and begin the process of apologizing to my wife.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Dismissed!”
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