Tell me to stay.
Those four words have been haunting me since Eric walked through the TSA gates and out of my sight. At the time, I honestly thought I was doing the right thing, that being the supportive, loving girlfriend was what he needed.
For someone who didn’t want to live life wondering, I sure had a lot of questions. Like, what if Eric only asked me to tell him to stay because he had changed his mind? What if he didn’t know how to reverse what he had done and needed me to help him? Was becoming a soldier really what he wanted from life?
As soon as we got back to the house, I excused myself to the basement and cried.
I cried for the boy I lost.
I cried for the man he was about to become.
And lastly, I cried for me—the girl who wished he hadn’t asked. The girl who was heartbroken and wondering if she made the biggest mistake of both their lives.
I wish I could tell you that the ache in my chest eased up, but it’s been a week since he’s left and every day that passes has me doubting myself more and more. But I think what really threw me over the edge was not hearing from him. There was zero communication.
Upon arriving at Fort Benning, they allowed him to call Lauren and tell her he had arrived and was processed—but that was it. The phone call lasted a total of twenty seconds and I’m ashamed to admit that I was jealous he called his mom and not me. It was nothing personal, this I knew, but it still stung.
I got over it, though. I told myself if I kept busy, Sunday would be here before I knew it and he’d call me. I kept my phone glued to my hand the entire day. When Wolf and Maria came over for Sunday dinner and rang the bell, I lifted my phone to my ear. I was desperate to hear his voice.
Sunday came and went, though, and the phone never rang—neither did Lauren’s. I didn’t know what that meant, and I didn’t want to bother Lauren and Riggs with my concerns, seeing as they were torn up over Eric themselves. All I knew was that I was feeling an indescribable sense of loss. It was a different kind of ache and nothing like I experienced when my mom passed. I think that’s because I know my mom is in a better place, that she is free from pain. With Eric, I don’t know anything.
So I did what any normal person would do—I googled all my questions.
Big mistake.
First off, I should’ve been more specific when typing my questions into the search engine. Instead of typing my soldier is in basic training, why isn’t he calling, I should’ve typed my soldier is at Fort Benning when will he call. Every fort has different rules—hell, every platoon has different rules, and I learned phone privileges were earned and given at the drill sergeant's discretion. If one trainee in the platoon failed a task, the drill sergeant had the authority to punish the entire platoon, so even if Eric had done everything expected of him, he might not be able to call home.
That sucked, but weirdly I found comfort in that bit of information. The more informed a person is, the less room there is for doubt. I had researched all the ways to be supportive, but I didn’t give myself the tools I would need to allow me to portray that role. I didn’t educate myself on every detail.
So, in between classes and work, I spent most of my time researching everything and anything I could find on the internet about Fort Benning. I might not be able to speak to Eric, but I could learn what he was doing. I could read testimonies from other soldiers who had completed their basic training program there.
My findings were fascinating and somewhat terrifying too.
There are three phases to basic combat training, and Eric was currently enduring the red phase. By now Eric has received his military uniform, basic orientation, and an army-issued haircut. As soon as I read that last part, I closed my eyes and pictured my soldier boy dressed in his uniform, sporting a short buzz cut.
The vision was too much for me and suddenly, I felt just as anxious as I did my first night in the Montgomery house—only this time there was no boy to meet me in the kitchen and talk me off the ledge. I had his flag, our fish, and a stuffed teddy bear, that whenever I pressed his paw, Eric’s voice would fill my ears.
I love you, my pretty little hurricane.
It wasn’t the same, but it would have to do.
Once I could push past the vision of Eric in uniform, I continued to educate myself on what else he was learning and just like Eric can recite The Warrior Ethos and The Soldier’s Creed, so can I.
I will always place the mission first. I will never accept defeat. I will never quit. I will never leave a fallen comrade.
I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and proficient in my warrior tasks and drills. I always maintain my arms, my equipment, and myself. I am an expert and I am a professional. I stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy…I am a guardian of freedom…I am an American Soldier.
The red phase also includes physical readiness, road marches, and confidence training. He’d also be introduced to Chemical Warfare and how to breathe properly through a mask. The phase lasts two weeks and by this coming Sunday, he will receive his first patch that he’ll wear on the left shoulder of his uniform.
He might not be able to tell me about his days, but I have a sense of what they look like and every night when I write to him, I start my letter by reciting The Soldier’s Creed. I tell him I’m so unbelievably proud of him and that I love him more today than I did yesterday.
And it’s true.
I loved Eric the day he walked to the gate, but knowing everything he is doing, and the resolve it takes to be a soldier, makes me love him ten times more. It takes a certain type of man to choose sacrifice and stand up for everyone else but himself. And to be that man’s girl is an honor itself.
If these two weeks have taught me anything it’s that the distance between two hearts is not an obstacle but rather a reminder of just how strong true love can be.
Now, onto the white phase.
Let’s hope he calls during it.
Twenty-Eight
Eric
Join the Army, they said. It’ll make you a man, they said—and by they I mean my recruiter and the people who wrote the Go Army pamphlet. Everyone else told me I was fucking nuts, and you know what? They were onto something.
Let’s call a spade a spade. Things were bad before the wheels hit the tarmac in Georgia. I felt as though my heart was beating outside of my chest, like I had left it in Newark Airport. I was an empty vessel. A lump of matter that served just to exist.
But then the powers that be said—wait, hold my beer.
The Army didn’t take things slow, there was no gradual progression. I became theirs the moment I lifted my hand in salute and reported for duty. Upon my arrival, they ordered me and the hundred and fifty other trainees to line up and place our luggage in alphabetical order. None of us knew each other’s names, and they gave us three minutes to complete the task. But three minutes in military time is like ninety seconds. It was like they were intentionally setting us up to fail.
No failed mission goes without punishment, and so it began. They ordered all one hundred and fifty trainees to drop and give them fifty while singing The Star-Spangled Banner as loud as they could. Now, thanks to my dad and his brothers, I could do fifty push-ups without breaking a sweat or blinking an eye, but the Knights never had me sing while doing it. It was challenging.
After the sing-along, they brought us to our bunks, and I met the members of my platoon. We were all babies; I think the oldest guy in my platoon was twenty-one, and as I shook all their hands, my mind drifted back to the day my mom walked me into kindergarten. She told me to be nice to everyone and to make as many friends as possible. I took her advice at five and I took it again at eighteen because let’s face it, this is a lonely job. Everybody needs a friend and at the end of the day, I’d likely know more than I care to know about each of these guys—like what time they take a shit and all sorts of other useless nonsense. So, with my mom’s voice sounding loudly in my ear, I asked the guys where they were from, if they ha
d anyone back home waiting for them, and what their favorite sports teams were.
Rogers was from North Carolina and had a fiancée, Tompkins was from Oregon and he and his girlfriend had decided to break up before he left. Then there was Crimmons who got married twenty-four hours before leaving, and his new wife was three months pregnant. Barrows was from Ohio and had no one waiting for him, and neither did Harf, who was from South Dakota.
There were others but I couldn’t remember their names much less if they had a significant other and forget about what baseball team they liked. By the time they called lights out, I was drained and on top of trying to recall every fucking thing I encountered, I couldn’t stop thinking about Brooklyn. I wondered if she had pressed the Build-A-Bear’s paw yet, and if my voice brought her any kind of comfort. Lord knows, I wished I had a bear of my own.
The days that followed were horrible, and something became painfully clear. Uncle Jack was right, they were going to try to break me. It didn’t matter how hard I tried to do the right thing or be a good brother to the men in my platoon, they were going to destroy me. Mental toughness was ninety-nine percent of surviving basic training, and I was failing.
I couldn’t call home and the mail was so backed up that I didn’t receive any letters for the entire duration of the red phase. I wasn’t even sure if anyone was writing me because I couldn’t remember if I gave my mom the correct information when I called her upon my arrival. It was a twenty-second phone call. I think I told her I was safe, and that I loved her—that’s it.
In that first two weeks that’s all I got, one twenty second phone call, and that’s mainly because my mom was the only one who taught her son how to play nice with others. Barrows and Harf were constantly picking fights with someone and fucking up left and right, but when one brother falls, every brother falls, and we all got our phone privileges taken away.
We eventually entered phase two—the white phase—and I started it off with a bang. Being away from home with zero communication was really getting to me. I missed my family, my mom’s lasagna, and more than anything, I missed my pretty little hurricane. I yearned to hold her, to hear her voice and get lost in her stormy eyes. I couldn’t go through all the photos on my phone because my drill sergeant had possession of that, and I had no idea when he was going to give it back and grant me permission to call. All I had was a photograph of her I printed out a couple of days before I left and tucked into one of my bags. Surprisingly, it wasn’t confiscated during inspection and still sat safely at the bottom of my bag.
One night, after I received the weapon I would use throughout the duration of my training, I took the photo out of my bag and slipped it through the slats of the bunk on top of me and when I laid my head on the cot, I stared up at her beautiful face. I couldn’t have her next to me, but I made sure her face was the last thing I saw before I fell asleep.
One of my so-called brothers ratted me out to my drill sergeant and the next morning I found him standing at my bunk, holding Brooklyn’s picture. I can’t even describe the anger I felt in that moment or the fucking fear and let me be clear, I couldn’t give a fuck less about me and any punishment he physically tried to inflict. I’d do ten thousand push-ups while reciting the Pledge of Allegiance and whatever the fuck else he wanted me to say, but if he destroyed my photograph or took it like he took my phone—well, that weapon was lying around here somewhere. I’d fucking blow my brains out.
I know how that sounds, but you should know my state of mind at the time. There was no question of me breaking, I broke the second I saw him holding my most prized possession. But my drill sergeant must have surmised that because he handed me back the photograph and told me if I wanted to keep it, I needed to earn it.
I pushed until my arms felt like they were on fire.
I ran until my legs buckled.
I did sit-ups until I threw up.
But I kept my picture—well, at least for the night.
The next morning, I woke up, and the picture was gone. I tore my bunk apart, ripped the top one from the wire frame and tore that apart too. Then I heard the laughter.
Burrows and Harf.
“I bet she looks good with a dick in her mouth,” Burrows taunted.
“Those fucking lips,” Harf chimed in. “Thanks for the material, Montgomery. My dick thanks you too.”
I take it back. The anger I felt while my drill sergeant held that photograph was a fucking walk in the park compared to the fury pulsing through my veins when I overheard that bullshit. I lunged for Burrows and in one swift move, I lifted him off his feet and threw him down on the floor. With my boot pressed to the side of his face, I plucked the photo from his hands.
“Oh, come on, Montgomery,” Harf said. “We were just fucking around. Get off him!”
“Fuck you,” I spat, glaring at him as I pressed my boot harder against Burrows’ face.
“She’s probably taking it every hole,” Harf fired back. “Girl like that ain’t going to sit around and wait for a soldier to get her off.”
My jaw clenched and my vision blurred as those words fermented inside my already failing mind. I stepped over Burrows and went for Harf. Rearing my fist back, I let it collide with his jaw. I would not survive this shit.
No way.
No how.
These motherfuckers didn’t know Brooklyn. They didn’t know what we had. They didn’t know our situation was unlike anything else. That we were connected in ways no one else could imagine—especially not these two worthless cunts.
I should’ve ignored them.
I should’ve went about my business because deep in my heart I knew Brooklyn would never cheat on me. My pretty little hurricane was waiting for me. She was playing that stuffed animal over and over, wishing I was next to her. She was sitting in the kitchen with a sleeve of Oreos counting down the days until I could grab the milk for her, writing letters I’d one day receive and read until my eyes crossed.
But what I knew in my heart never made it to my head, and my fists continued to pummel Harf until my drill sergeant pulled me off him. The next day I was recycled. For those of you who don’t know what that is, it is the punishment feared by every trainee. I was moved to a different basic unit, one that trailed behind me by a week.
My fourteen-week sentence in basic, became fifteen.
My phone privileges delayed again.
And my mail—who knows when I’ll get that.
But worse than that, I couldn’t shake Burrows and Harf’s words, and when my phone privileges were finally restored, I made the biggest mistake of my life.
I broke both our hearts.
Twenty-Nine
Brooklyn
It’s been four weeks and still no word from Eric. Not a phone call nor a response to any of the letters I sent. At this stage of his training he should be deep into the white phase, learning to identify every weapon and how to assemble and dissemble each of them. He should’ve also received the weapon he would use throughout his training. One website I research often suggests that the trainee name his weapon. I wonder if there is any truth to that and if there is, what did Eric name his weapon—let’s hope it’s a little more badass than Splish and Splash. When we have kids, I’m naming them. He can continue to name our pets and his weapons.
Also in the white phase, Eric should learn how to zero his weapon. Everyone looks into a scope differently, but this part of his training will allow him to customize his weapon and make for a more accurate shot. Once that is nailed down, he will begin to hit targets.
There’s team building exercises and skill-development tasks, too. And according to this blog post, he will become all too familiar with MRE—Meals Ready to Eat, for civilians like us. I can’t picture him eating anything out of a bag that isn’t a Dorito, but I’m sure he’ll get the hang of it.
I’m also sure he’s going to eat like he’s going to the chair when he finally is finished with training. Lauren does too, and she’s been stress cooking all these freezer frien
dly meals that neither me nor Riggs have the heart to tell her he probably won’t have a chance to eat. When he does finally graduate, he will be stationed to a base and expected to report for duty three days after graduation.
Speaking of which, that’s the topic of today’s letter. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t responded to any of the others, I still write him every day. I tell him how close I am to graduating and I fill him in on some things we’ve been doing as a family. That I’ve gotten close to Bella and every Saturday she and I go for manicures. I update him on the adventures of Splish and Splash—they don’t really do much, but they’re alive and that’s an adventure in itself and a total accomplishment on my behalf.
Anyway, back to my letter.
I’ll be graduating before he finishes training and I’ve held off on choosing a college until we know where he will be based. The military only provides housing for married soldiers so Eric will live in the barracks, but he’ll be able to come and go off base and I can visit him there. It’s something we have discussed in the past, but it’s worth a mention again since the sale of the Connecticut home I shared with my mom is finally complete—a pleasant surprise Riggs and Lauren sprung on me the other day. Now, I have the means to move, I just don’t know if I’ll be living in a dorm close to his base or an apartment. I suppose it doesn’t matter so long as it’s close to him.
I’m just about to start penning my letter when my phone rings on top of the pull-out. Sighing, I drop the pen and make my way to the bed, but my feet come to a halt when I catch a glimpse of the wallpaper on the screen.
My heart stops.
The butterflies return.
He’s calling!
He’s finally calling!
Snapping out of my trance-like state, I dive onto the pull-out and my fingers fumble with the phone in a rush to answer it. When I finally get my bearings, I swipe my thumb across the screen and lift the phone to my ear.
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