Clouds

by Nate Allen

  Chapter 8

  Somehow the question didn't seem relevant. If he were to die? what would it matter if people mourned him or not? He'd be dead.

  For the second time, Grant closed his eyes to find a memory of a happier time. A time before his life fell to hell. And that was given to him:

  "Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday, dear Grant! Happy Birthday to you!" his mother and father sang. "How old are you, kiddo?" his dad asked with a smile as he curved the rim of his dirty trucker hat.

  "Five, daddy." replied a frenetic Grant.

  "Blow out your candles, buddy."

  Grant blew out his candles, smiled, and then found his father scooping him up.

  "You know what I got ya?"

  "Uh uh," Grant shook his head.

  "No? No?" he began to tickle him. "Well it's in that box over there, but I also got you this." his father handed him a card.

  "What is it?"

  "Two tickets to see the Twins."

  Grant's face lit up. "Really?!"

  "Yeah, we go tomorrow."

  "Thanks, dad."

  "I love you, kiddo. You know that right? I love you more than anything in the whole world. I'll be here to guide you through the good and bad. You'll never be alone." his father smiled, kissed him with chapped lips, and rubbed his prickly face next to Grant's. "You'll never be alone." his father's face dissipated into a blur, and Grant woke once more.

  This memory had stung worse than any dream meant to scare him. Grant had forgotten about his father's promise. A promise he broke just two and a half years later. He had forgotten how his little five year old self had taken it to heart, and put his father on a much deserved pedestal, only to watch the promise die along with him.

  No matter how hard he tried to stick to a decision, Grant was indecisive. He tried to care enough to see a choice through, but never could. Nothing ever seemed to matter enough. Not even his deepest love. Grant needed something more, something brighter? something better. Chelsea and the promise of a baby was enough to keep him going when he was living in that small, obscure Minnesota town. But, it wasn't enough now.

  His life was constant contemplation that amounted to unanswered questions filling an already full mind. As he sat in the plane, Grant knew he would never achieve knowing. He knew he would continue to run from any truth, until it finally found him. That had yet to happen. But, it was searching diligently.

  Grant hated questions and contemplation, because it always led back to the same answer. The same conflict: God or the Devil, Heaven or Hell.

  It was a question he never fully understood. It was so simple, yet unfathomably complex. Grant didn't want to choose. What was so wrong with that? Wasn't life enough hell to make up for it in the afterlife?

  He sat still, glancing left and right, seeing the men who claimed to be his brothers when they were anything but. The only brother he had was Bobby, and he was on his own plane, asking the same things as Grant. Grant and Bobby were people who had-at one time-believed in God, but now questioned it all. They both knew that the choice was coming though. One way or another, they would have to choose a side.

  The plane had been flying for a few hours. It had set itself into a comfortable purr, leaving Grant in a state of thought. For once in a long time, questions weren't piling on top of more questions. He was just thinking. There were no restraints to his thought, no worry. Yet, at the same time Grant was building himself up for the war they would enter in a little more than ten hours.

  He was clenching the M-16 tightly, and breathing himself content...

  Soon, several hours passed. The plane quivered within a harrowing sky. They were entering the monster's land. In only another 3 hours or so the C-23 Sherpa would open its mouth, and regurgitate twenty two men onto the sand.

  The closer it got, the tenser Grant became. But, somehow the fear was melting away. And anticipation was taking its place. He wanted to kill them. He wanted it to end. Part of him wanted to kill them for no reason other than the satisfaction it would bring. Though it was a small part of him, it was still there. Who was Grant Jonathan Smith beneath it all? Was he a good man with a monster for a conscience? Or, was he a monster with a good man for a conscience? Maybe there was some gray area, but his time to choose was creeping closer.

  All throughout his life he had avoided choices like the plague. Not just ones having to do with faith, but choices pertaining to the person he was. Ultimately, it all tied in together, but in its own way each choice was separate, and had a separate consequence. Some may have left him in a world with no one; others may have left him burning.

  Serenity slept with delusion, causing a pleasant daze to hover above the men. Grant looked around, seeing the faces made from stone. Their eyes sat cold, and concentrated, yet, somewhere within deep thought laid peace. Everyone felt it from time to time. It came in spurts, until disintegrating back to the reality they had to face.

  Time sped forward, turning three hours into one. The atmosphere reeked of danger. There was no turning back. The content and serenity they had felt disappeared, leaving them with one more hour of preparation. Grant was only one of the twenty one other men who worried of death. They knew some would hardly even make it off the plane. Some prayed, others reflected, pondered, and accepted. This was the future they were fighting for, something that would prove ultimately futile in the grand scheme of things.

  Grant didn't know that very soon the world he knew would disappear. The future he waited to see wouldn't come to pass. Instead he'd see man at it's very truest: monsters that were hungry.

  He sat trying to tell himself that he was fighting for something. He was fighting for Chelsea, Kali, his mother, and sister. He could have said it all day long, but that didn't change the fact that his horizon appeared bleak because it was. They were fighting a war that would soon branch off into an apocalyptic state. It was coming. The world was soon going to fall... fast.

  Grant held his gun closer than ever before. He wore his helmet, and sewed his love for those he cared for over the many voids riddling his heart. That early August 14th Wednesday morning, a healing took place. Grant's voids were packed full of love only because he had no other place to put them.

  Patrol Sergeant Ricks stood up, trying to rally his men one more time:

  "I want to tell you a story." he said. "When the Iraq war began, I was like you. I joined the war mostly out of desperation. School hadn't been good, so I thought what the hell, I'll join the Army. I joined before 9/11, and when I heard that a war was starting I was petrified, absolutely petrified. In that one moment, every part of my life flashed before my eyes. What did I amount to? I asked myself that all throughout training camp, and finally when I rode this plane for the first time, I realized the answer: it's what men do. We have our wives, girlfriends, mothers, and sisters at home. It is our job to protect them. I'm not saying there won't be casualties. I'm saying you won't have died for nothing. I have tried to be completely honest with you all from day one, but there is something I haven't told you." he paused.

  "What is that, Patrol Sergeant Ricks?" Grant asked.

  "I am still just like you. I may have a higher ranking, but I'm still just a boy in a uniform, holding a gun."

  "What do you mean, Sir?" asked Grant.

  "I still have no idea what I'm doing." he laughed. "I have prepared you boys the best I can, but there is no way to prepare you entirely. I have taught you to shoot, and live in the sand. I have given you many tactics, but as I stand here I cannot describe what it is like... because it's never the same. After seeing what still haunts me, I've never been able to return to the man I was before. I'm done after this. I've served my time, and I just want to spend time with my girls. Maybe the nightmares will fade. Maybe they'll even die in their company." his face lit up with what can only be described as hope. "We land in an hour. If you trust anyone, let it be these twenty one men around you. Differences aside, they are your brothers. They will watch out for you. As will I. I
will do my very best to get you all home alive. Now give me your word."

  "I will do my very best, Patrol Sergeant Ricks!" the men said loudly in variations different but close to this.

  "That's all you can do! And if you die, you will have died doing your very best. There will be no regrets, no cowering! We touch down in less than an hour. The ramp will drop, and you will leave alert. The base is half a mile away from the plane."

  "One question, Sir?" asked Grant.

  "Yeah, Smith?"

  "About the other three groups we trained with for the first month. Will we meet up with them?"

  "Yes, definitely. Each Patrol Sergeant is part of a squadron. Patrol Sergeant Hetel, Liese, Scott, and I make up one squadron. We answer to our Company Commander, who you will meet once we get into Baghdad. But, it may not be for a day or two."

  "That's okay. Thank you, Sir." said Grant.

  Next thing they knew, the plane dropped its wheels, and landed on sand. The door opened, the soldiers stood and held their guns closely. Grant took one step after the other, until finding himself on the sand, staring at a rising sun. For the moment it was quiet. Guns were held, but weren't fired.

  "It's quiet. Come with me." whispered Patrol Sergeant Ricks.

  The men followed him away from an idling plane, keeping wary eyes on a shadowed horizon. There weren't silhouettes scurrying, or jeeps emerging from a mirage. After four or five slow steps, they ran.

  Suddenly, shots echoed against empty air. Grant kept his eyes focused on the base one half mile away. It was all that mattered. Soon, the shots came closer and closer until sand was kicked up next to them.

  "Keep running!" screamed Patrol Sergeant Ricks. "Do not stop!"

  Grant kept his gun close, and his senses closer. The shots were getting closer. It was continuous gun fire from a mirage covered horizon. They didn't look. They ran. It was all they could do. The shots continued coming from the distance. It was all they could hear. Bullets landed in the sand like raindrops falling from the sky. But, no one was struck.

  They kept running until reaching the base, and taking cover.

  "In situations like that," Ricks paused. "You don't stop to shoot. You just run. If you can't see them, you don't shoot. Got it?!" his anger had a film of fear covering it.

  "Yes, Sir." the men answered.

  "Now that we are under a temporary cover, all of you stay quiet, and keep your weapons close." Ricks pulled a walkie talkie off of his belt, clicked to a usable station, and began to speak. "Come in, Company Commander Bishop. Come in, this is Patrol Sergeant Ricks."

  "Ricks?"

  "Is that you, Commander?"

  "Yes, Ricks. Have you landed safely?"

  "Yeah, we were under fire, but I got my men safely to base."

  "Good. Stay there for the moment. I'm gonna send a few jeeps with ammunition to you. Where are you exactly, Ricks?"

  "We are about twenty miles from Baghdad."

  "Ricks. When the jeeps come, you are to bring yourself and your men into Baghdad. I have a group waiting for you there, who will brief you on progress, and missions."

  "Yes, Commander. How long do you think it will be until the jeeps come?"

  "A few hours,"

  "Thank you, Sir." Ricks said as the transmission cut out. "So, as you heard we are going into Baghdad. The danger there is far worse than the danger out here. Here we can do something, but in a city of hundreds of thousands of people we have to be discreet. Riots start from one soldier firing one bullet. The men we are after are no longer just men. They are children carrying explosives in backpacks; they are women with minds poisoned by their husbands. Because you are good men, you'll try to see the good in these people too. But, I've learned that they use kindness to kill. If we trust them, then it's easy. Trust what you know. Be cautious of what you don't."

  They waited quietly, keeping their rifles cocked, and pointed at the entryways. Grant was pondering the war he now found himself in. It was surreal. He had just outrun bullets. Part of Grant had wondered if Patrol Sergeant Ricks' words were over exaggeration. But now that he had been shot at the first minute in the monster's land, he knew that if anything he was being discreet on details. It was just as dangerous as the Sergeant Major had said it was, but somehow Grant had expected something of a nightmare.

  He had expected men with hooks holding severed heads. Grant had expected nothing short of a nightmare. Maybe it was that beneath a sandy, sunny surface. But, all he saw were sandmen with guns and a hobby.

  For the next three hours the unit spoke candidly. They reminisced about past events, and smiled themselves calm. Soon thereafter, two jeeps followed a winding road into the desert, until pulling up next to the tent. Two men from each jeep got out, ran into the tent, and brought the men with them. Grant piled into a jeep along with ten other men, sat low, and aimed his gun outwards. Within just minutes, the tent disappeared within a growing density. The wind tore a hole in the sky, and filled it with a storm.

  Soon, both vehicles found themselves wrapped in sand. They rolled along slowly; Ricks ordered the men to cover themselves with a blanket and to stay low. Without question, they listened.

  "Smith?" Charles Prate asked beneath a blanket, breathing heavily.

  "Yeah, Charles, what is it?"

  "I don't know. It's really loud. This way were not gonna get sh-"

  "What? What did you say? Charles?!" after a moment of wariness, Grant popped up from the blanket, and uncovered Charles Prate. "Charles?!"

  "Smith?!" Ricks asked loudly, while cocking an M-4, and assembling an M-2 machine gun. "What is it?"

  Grant stayed low, pulling Charles up to find blood dripping from his mouth, and wide, blank eyes.

  "What is it, Smith?!" Ricks asked again.

  "Charles is dead, S-Sir." he said softly.

  "Get down!" he commanded, while propping up an M-2 machine gun onto the side of the jeep. He lifted his head barely above the side of the jeep, pressed his eye against the sight, and began to fire into a growing sandstorm. Bullets replied, pelting the side of the jeep.

  Grant stayed low, shut Charles' lids, and laid him down. He looked around at his other men, seeing sad eyes, but silent voices. They didn't say words. Instead they mourned him within silence. Something small and white stuck out of his uniform pocket. Grant grabbed it, and found a picture. On it was a happy Charles Prate, hugging a petite blonde haired girl. They looked smitten, and love struck.

  "Damn it." whispered Grant while shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Charles. I'm sorry you won't see her again." it only made Grant's happiness float farther and farther away. That small picture had been him and Chelsea in different bodies, living different lives. Love was love. Sadly, Charles Prate died before he knew what it fully was.

  After another minute of silence, Grant put the picture back in Charles' shirt pocket, and covered him with the blanket they had been covered with.

  The ride into Baghdad was one of petrifaction. Grant held his hand over the trigger, clenched his gun tightly, and reduced his eyes to a beady squint. He glanced up at Patrol Sergeant Ricks, seeing him rapidly firing into a sandstorm. It was a display of a man ready to break. Just another death to pile on top of the many others he had seen. He had been responsible for Charles's safety. He had failed. And now he could only fire into a growing sand storm.

  Grant didn't try to dissect his reasoning. He knew better than most that some actions don't have an explanation. They just happen. Something had snapped inside of Patrol Sergeant Ricks, brought on by pent up anger blooming into hate and becoming rage.

  The storm was intensifying. Winds were picking up. Sand was spinning into a fluid wave. The driver pushed down the accelerator. Baghdad was still five miles away. Each minute the winds kicked up, jumping from twenty five to thirty five. The jeeps were nothing when it came to a wall of sand, nothing at all.

  Patrol Sergeant Ricks had now let go of the gun, and ordered his men to cover up for the second time. Although reluctant, they listened. Grant co
vered himself up with that itchy green blanket, seeing the other ten men beneath it. Once down there, they couldn't help but look at their dead friend. To Grant he had not yet been considered a friend, but more of an acquaintance aspiring to be more.

  The jeeps pulled into Baghdad. From the way the city presented itself, it was empty. People were not walking the streets. It appeared to be a city of buildings with no one in them.

  They drove another half a mile into Baghdad, parked, and began to take ammunition from the jeeps. They carried them into a small, white brick building just feet away. After one trip to carry the ammunition in, and another to carry Charles in, they locked the doors, and found themselves in a dimly lit home. The floor was stone. The whitewashed walls were plastered in blood. And voices came from somewhere farther in.

  Grant followed his unit, until finding a large table with a map, and a group of men around it. They noticed him noticing, nodded their heads, and then went back to what they were doing. Patrol Sergeant Ricks saluted them, and then shook their hand. They replied with the same motions.

  "Company Commander Bishop." Ricks said.

  "Welcome, Patrol Sergeant Ricks." a man turned from the table.

  "Pay attention, men." Ricks said.

  "I saw some of you looking at the blood on the walls." said the Company Commander. "I am Company Commander Bishop. In the last two weeks we found a few terrorists making bombs in this house. The blood on the wall is theirs. We have many units spread across the city, some by the river, the museum, the bridge, everywhere. Lately, attacks have been down, but you always stay wary. I'm supposed to brief you on missions, but as of now your only mission is to watch over the city. Anything that looks suspicious or strange, you report to either Patrol Sergeant Ricks, or me. What did your draft card say?"

  Silence lingered until Grant spoke: "Sir, it said that our mission was to stop terrorism, and rebuild the economy. Pretty much the same as when it all started."

  "Don't get smart with me-" he looked at the name on Grant's uniform. "-Smith, it isn't a joke."

  "I didn't say it was, Sir. I just said that it is the same goal from when it all started. I meant no disrespect."

  The Company Commander looked at him and then brushed it aside. "Since there is a storm today, you will stay in and wait it out."

  "Yes, Sir." the men replied nearly in sync. After being dismissed, Grant and the other men turned around, and gathered around Charles' body. It was a small funeral, before shipping him back to the States. The men who knew him best said a few words, honored the memory of him, and then covered him up with the green blanket from the jeep.

  Grant sat on the floor, propping his back up with the wall. He sighed, wiped his face clean of sand, and closed his eyes...

  Two days passed. Grant was walking down the streets of a busy Baghdad, seeing women and men with wide droopy eyes, blotchy brown skin, and ragged clothing. In a nation as such, poverty wasn't wrapped into the clich? of third world countries. It just happened to be that way. Baghdad had its rich and its poor, just like America. Except poverty was a vast majority.

  Grant glanced at them, holding his gun with the barrel pointed at the ground. The people looked back at him with a loathing stare, something that told him to leave without saying it. He had known from the beginning that he wasn't going to be welcome. But, now that he saw the hate in their eyes, Grant was thrown. He wondered if they sensed his hate toward them.

  They were at war. Grant didn't expect happy smiles, and thankful notions. He expected what he received. The hate between the two countries was mutual; it always had been.

  He took step after step, passing stop lights, idling cars, and even singed remains of soldier material: the result of roadside bombs. Soon, Grant's steps brought him a few miles into the city, and into a growing group of soldiers. It was happening. The squadron was completing itself once again. Grant would no longer be alone. He found himself running the last five hundred feet, and within a group of soldiers wearing matching helmets, stood Bobby Jackson.

  "It's you, buddy!" Grant said happily, coming up behind Bobby and grabbing his shoulder.

  "Grant?" he was surprised.

  "How are you doing, Bobby?"

  "I'll be happy when it's over." he smiled.

  "I like the glasses."

  "Thanks. Yeah, apparently if you wear glasses they make you wear these big round frames instead of the ones I had. I was pissed until I realized that the only people who would see me were these people. In comparison, I fare better than them in the long run." Bobby laughed, as did Grant.

  "Yeah, that's arguable."

  "I guess. I mean I am one ugly son of a-"

  "It's good to have self-awareness." Grant laughed. "Anyway, man, what have you been up to?"

  "Probably the exact same as you: just trying to survive."

  "Yeah, same as me, but, it'll make it easier being together again. Training camp was boring without you."

  "Did you miss me, Grant?" Bobby asked with a lisp, and puppy eyes. "That is so nice."

  "Ye-"

  BOOM! Suddenly two explosions on opposite sides of them happened. At most they were two miles away from the nearest one. Fire clouds lifted into the air, and painted the sky in black swirls.

  "What the hell?" Bobby asked while swinging his head slowly from one explosion to the other.

  "You two follow me." Patrol Sergeant Ricks appeared before Hetel could take Bobby. Much of the unit was spread around a couple of miles of city. Hetel was nearest to the other explosion.

  Grant and Bobby looked at the other for a moment with eyes that were pulled open wide, and then followed Patrol Sergeant Ricks with a sprint. Their hearts were pumping fast, their minds were clouded with the image of an explosion fading to a black stain in the sky, and the city of Baghdad was frantic. Grant and Bobby kept their M-16 rifles pointed at the ground, still sprinting.

  After running for two miles, they arrived at a blazing fire holding screams. The building that had been there was now just bricks on top of bricks, debris forming a mound, or maybe a tomb.

  "Let's go." said Patrol Sergeant Ricks.