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.

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.”

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!”