I summoned my nerve and stood up straight.
He stopped midstride and raised his eyebrows, looking puzzled as to why a lieutenant would stand at attention by his office door at six in the morning. He waited for me to say something.
I searched his face for clues, having failed to anticipate this turn of events. I’d imagined the moment many times and prepared for a dozen unpleasant scenarios, but never planned to initiate my own reprimand. Finally, Major Leighton’s face showed some recognition, like the memory of a root canal. He closed his eyes, pulled a slow, sour breath through his gritted teeth, and pointed at his office.
I followed him and came to attention six inches in front of his desk.
He didn’t raise his voice or lose his temper. He just glanced at a typed document, formatted in flawless naval correspondence, and pushed it across his desk. “Sign it.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” I leaned forward at modified parade rest, bent over with one hand tucked in the small of my back, and signed it without reading. I knew what it said.
“There were better ways to handle that, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.” I dropped the pen and stood up straight. Back to the position of attention. Eyes forward.
“You embarrassed us. You embarrassed me. The Marines in this company? They work hard. You took the spotlight from them and put it on yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Worse than that, you showed a lack of bearing. No emotional discipline. And I’ll be honest, Pete. It makes me question your leadership.” He looked me up and down. “It also doesn’t help that you look like shit.”
“Yes, sir.”
He stood, planted his hands on his desk, and leaned in close. “Would you like to defend yourself, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir.” I smelled scrambled eggs on his breath. “No excuse.”
“Good. Do better next time.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Dismissed.” He sat down and opened his laptop to a website about sports.
“Dismissed. Aye, aye, sir.” Even though he’d stopped paying attention, I made sure to leave his office in the proper way. I took a long step backward and came to the position of attention before finishing the ceremony with a proper “Good morning, sir.”
I turned on my left heel with a crisp drill movement and marched smartly to the door. A water bottle filled with sand hung on a length of parachute cord. It acted as a counterweight and closed the door behind me.
Wong smirked, “Have a good one, Donovan.” In the corner of my eye, I caught him smiling and dialing the satellite phone. Probably reaching out to Cobb to see what time he wanted to get breakfast.
Outside, under the awning, I leaned against the concrete wall and looked east into the sunrise, sickened at the thought of a night gone by without sleep. I worked to catch my breath and slow my heart. Three hauls of morning air, boiling and laced with exhaust, did the job.
I pulled the soft cover against my scalp and walked across the compound with the brim low on my forehead. The taste of hot guts stewed up into my mouth. I kept my eyes on my feet, hoping to avoid passing conversations with other lieutenants, or with Gunny Dole, refreshed and just back from an extralong breakfast.
Even looking at my feet, I stumbled. My toes caught the dirt with every third step. I worked my eyelids in an effort to get some moisture going. The gallon of coffee I’d needed over the course of the night, combined with the strain caused by dim computer screens, made my eyeballs feel like sponges wrung out in bleach. Letter of caution or not, I needed a few hours of sleep. I didn’t deserve it, but I needed it.
I staggered toward my room, steering a listless course through the rows of enlisted barracks, sculpting in my mind the moment I’d fall face-first onto my cot.
A voice stopped me. Gomez at her most stern, lecturing a Marine somewhere in the maze of long, wooden huts. She was lacing into him, whoever he was. But then a laugh rose up and I peeked around the corner to investigate, expecting some sort of criminal, group hazing. Instead, I found my whole platoon up early and smiling.
“Look, the object is to wrap the horseshoe around the post,” Doc Pleasant said to Dodge.
The rest of the platoon lounged on the barracks steps or leaned against plywood walls. They’d stripped down to their green T-shirts, folded their blouses and arranged them in three neat rows next to their stacked rifles. Obviously, the junior Marines had assembled expecting a morning formation run, but had found Gomez with another idea.
“Unless you can get a leaner,” Doc Pleasant continued. “That’s the most points.”
“I understand, then. How do I get a leaner?” Dodge considered the weight of the horseshoe in his hand.
“Just practice, man.” Pleasant handed a horseshoe to Gomez. “Will you show him, Sergeant?”
“What am I? Fucking schoolteacher over here? I look like Mary Poppins to you?”
The platoon laughed, either because she’d referenced some inside joke, or because her Mary Poppins crack had made no sense at all. I couldn’t tell.
Gomez rocked the horseshoe back and forth, keeping her arm straight, her knees bent. “Easy does it, Dodge. Straight wrist. Arch that fucker in there.”
She let go with too much force. The horseshoe flew well over the post and hit the plywood barracks next to me. I ducked and let it bounce over my head.
The platoon, suddenly aware of my presence, let out a collective gasp as they saw how close Sergeant Gomez had come to hitting me. In a stupor, which the Marines seemed to mistake for calm detachment, I went to the horseshoe and picked it up.
Gomez jogged over and took it from me. “Sir. Sorry, sir. Didn’t see you, sir. Sorry.”
Behind her, the Marines laughed hesitantly. She turned around and scowled at them.
“It’s all right,” I said. “Where did this come from?”
“The horseshoe set, sir? Doc’s father shipped it over. Pulled the shit right out his lawn.”
“And this is morning PT for you guys?”
Her face flushed bright red as she took the offhand remark as criticism, her platoon commander calling her soft.
“No, sir. Just some fun. Real quick. Then I’m gonna run them till they puke. Promise, sir.” She smiled nervously.
“Well, don’t do that. We don’t need heat casualties inside the wire. We get enough of that on the road.”
“No, sir. Course not. Just meant . . .” She stammered to a halt.
Without meaning to, I’d tied her in a knot. I never understood how I could make her nervous. How she ever viewed me with anything other than amused derision. An outsider, observing the platoon without context, would have no problem spotting its leader.
“It’s fine,” I said, balancing the horseshoe in my palm. “Just curious.” Behind her, the platoon began to fidget. “Mind if I take a throw?”
She brightened. “Sure, sir. Course.”
I walked to the spot where Dodge and Pleasant stood. “Whose turn am I taking here?”
“Me? I suppose?” Dodge looked at Doc Pleasant and shrugged.
Pleasant nodded. “Him against me, sir.”
“So I’m Dodge’s proxy then?” I smiled, light-headed and loopy. “Good deal for him. Alabama’s been taking it to Louisiana as far back as Bear Bryant.”
The southerners in the platoon understood and laughed, except for Doc Pleasant.
“Cold, sir,” he said. “Cold.”
I reeled back my arm and gave the horseshoe a few practice swings before closing my eyes and letting go. It wasn’t technique, closing my eyes. And it wasn’t some strange attempt to show my Zen mastery of horseshoes. I was just so tired, it couldn’t be helped.
My eyes stayed closed until a soft thump and a metallic clang let me know that the horseshoe had reached its target. I opened my eyes slowly to the sound of cheers. The horseshoe leaned perfectly against the post.
A big hand landed firmly on my back. It was Zahn. “Damn, sir. You do this a lot back home?”
�
��No. First time.”
Dodge laughed and feigned punching Doc Pleasant in the ribs. “Behold me, Lester. I am master of the horseshoe game.”
“The fuck you talking about?” Doc Pleasant shot back. “It was the sir’s throw.”
“The mulasim was my proxy. Do you not remember?”
Doc Pleasant shrugged Dodge off. “Back up. My turn.”
The platoon showered Doc with jeers and whistles as he pushed them aside to make room for his comically wide stance. He scowled and took his practice swings. The Marines kept the pressure on, gleefully unaccustomed to the sight of their meek corpsman so riled up. Even Gomez played along. She didn’t join in, but she didn’t stop it either. She just stood off to the side, arms crossed and smiling.
The heckling seemed to work. Doc’s face flushed bright red, and he couldn’t get comfortable in his stance. He tried in vain to find a grip he liked. He switched his feet and decided a two-handed tossing motion worked better. Each time he altered his approach, the jeers and laughter grew louder.
I watched Doc’s face as genuine anger replaced the worry lines and grimaces. It crawled into his cheeks and out to his limbs. The beast in him. Something I hadn’t seen before. I looked to the Marines to see if they’d noticed it, too. They hadn’t. The intensity of the banter only grew, the Marines thinking it all in good fun.
Doc clinched his jaw and narrowed his eyes, alone in the moment. The more he delayed, the more seriously he seemed to take this throw, and the deeper the platoon sank into hysterics.
The jeers became more cutting.
“Doc Pleasant! Captain of the Olympic horseshoe team!”
“The fuck you doing, Doc? Yoga?”
“If you don’t throw that thing in three fucking seconds, I’m taking it. You forfeit.”
Through the haze of fatigue, I found a grin spreading across my face. I worked to remove it, tightening my cheeks and pursing my lips, trying to regain my officer’s composure. My bearing, as Major Leighton had called it. But the grin would not be tamed. The muscles of my face succumbed to it, driven back by a force I was too addled to resist.
It was happiness, I realized. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been happy. The platoon, my Marines, had welcomed me. For the first time, invited me to join. In that moment, listening to them laugh and jeer, not standing apart from them or banished to my Humvee, I smiled.
Doc Pleasant made his throw. The platoon’s laughter stalled, and a collective, anticipatory howl rose up as the horseshoe sailed toward the post. He missed it badly, and the jeers erupted again. No longer making any attempt to hide my participation, I smiled and clapped as Zahn walked over to jokingly pat Doc Pleasant on the shoulder.
Doc bristled. He brushed Zahn’s hand away violently and turned on his heel in an attempt to shove him. But Zahn stepped back before Doc could connect and watched as he stumbled awkwardly forward.
Doc recovered his balance and snarled a sincere “Fuck you!” in Zahn’s direction.
Zahn threw up his palms in defense. “Whoa, whoa. It’s fucking horseshoes, Doc!”
The mood of the platoon turned. The laughs evaporated into cries of protest. They’d been having fun a moment before, a genuinely fine morning ruined by Doc’s nonsense, and several Marines moved to break up the nascent fight.
Gomez got there first. Zahn shook his head with confusion while Gomez wrapped her arms around Doc’s waist and put a shoulder into his chest. She dug her toes into the dirt and pushed him back. Dodge wanted to step in, too, but he saw something in the demeanor of Gomez and Zahn that told him it was a Marine thing. And he wasn’t a Marine. He backed away and slipped his hands into his pockets.
Different elements within the platoon, sensing that morning PT had ended, began drifting back to their folded blouses and stacked rifles. They dressed and walked away without waiting for formal permission, hoping to get breakfast before the chow hall closed the line.
Zahn whispered in my ear, “Sir, you should probably go. We’ll square this away.”
“Right,” I murmured. “Right. Of course. Thanks, Corporal.”
Zahn was protecting the platoon, ensuring that I didn’t witness something that would make me obligated to bring Doc Pleasant up on charges. And possibly even culpable if I didn’t.
I walked away, expecting at any moment to hear Gomez’s sharp voice lacing into Pleasant with threats of formal charges and extra duty. But all I heard was Pleasant’s deepening stream of invective. Cursing her. Cursing Zahn. Telling the whole world to fuck off. I snuck a glance over my shoulder and saw that she’d sat him down on the barracks steps. She kept a hand on his shoulder while Zahn knelt and looked into his face, both of them trying to understand what had gone wrong.
I glanced in the other direction and saw Dodge choosing a path to avoid both me and the pack of Marines headed to the chow hall. He was walking with his head down, toward the nice spot on the berm overlooking the river, alone.
Half a block from Molly’s, weaving through the packed sidewalk and feeling brutally sober, I wonder if Dodge has found his way into something like a home or met anyone he can consider a friend. That’s what he always needed, I think. More than money. More than safety, even.
I walk into Molly’s, elbow my way through the thinning crowd of drunk revelers, and, through sheer determination, manage to get a beer and a shot of Jameson from the little blonde behind the bar. I take the shot with half the beer and start to numb down. I feel instantly better, and much less interested in an ass-chewing from Paige. Still, I scan the bar to see if she’s here.
And for a moment I think I’m hallucinating. But I look again and find there’s no denying it.
It’s Lester Pleasant, by himself at the end of the bar, looking drunk enough to fall off his stool.
hey lester its Zahn and im living at home back here in missouri and i thought you should know that the lieutenant is living in new orleans now and i saw him a while ago and he seems good i know you live close by there so if your ever up that way maybe say hello to him write me back and ill send you his number and stuff if you want it
Escalations of Force
This guy keeps talking at me and calling me Doc.
“Sit up, Doc. Wake up.”
When he’s not talking at me, he’s talking to this little, blonde bartender. This girl I’ve been hitting on. He tells her it’s okay. That he’ll take care of this. That he knows this guy, and he’ll get him out of here.
I don’t know which guy he’s talking about, but he has his hand on my shoulder and I don’t like that. Don’t like it one bit. I shrug him off, about to get pissed and swing. But before I can, he locks up my arm and carries me off into the street where all these assholes are singing about people they used to know.
“Let’s get you a cup of coffee.”
“I don’t need any fucking coffee, sir. Get fucked, sir,” I say, not sure why I’m calling him sir. My feet won’t push off the sidewalk the way they should, so I drag my toes and let this guy carry me, like Lieutenant Donovan pulling me around the day Zahn got beaned. “An asshole. Just like Lieutenant Donovan.”
“Who?”
“You. You. The asshole.”
“I guess that’s fair.” He puts me down on a bench while the singing reaches a high note. This guy takes a seat next to me, and I start to understand where I am. It’s that little square with the fountain, right next to the French Market, where all the tourists buy their feather boas and shit.
“One more time, Doc. It’s Lieutenant Donovan. It’s Pete, I mean. It’s me.”
“Yeah . . . Zahn told me about you.” I hear for the first time how bad I’m slurring these words. “Zahn told me the lieutenant was around here somewhere. Fuck that asshole.”
And now this guy starts laughing, and I think maybe I’m sobering up, but that can’t be because I’m still seeing the lieutenant sitting here next to me.
“I am an asshole. This is true.”
“Sir?” I poke him in the face.
He pushes my finger aside. “Yes, but don’t call me that. I went through the same thing with Zahn. Just skip it, okay? Call me Pete.”
I reach out again, and when he swats my finger away like a fly, I come back to the world. There’s no reunion or nothing. No hugging or any great-to-see-you bullshit. Or maybe there was earlier in the bar when I was too drunk to realize it, but for now it’s right back to work.
He takes me over to this diner he knows, around the corner. I’m still staggering drunk. Doing better, but still leaning on him every now and again. The poison is on its way out, though. That’s made certain enough when I puke into a gutter. The lieutenant hustles me away, worried the cops might put me in lockup for the night if they see.
He sets me down at the counter and starts ordering food. He makes me drink water, like we’re back in the desert and he’s making us hydrate. I tell him so. “You gonna check the color of my piss, too, sir?”
“Don’t call me that.”
Next, it’s a plate full of french fries. These fries taste so good, I just want to tell everybody. I start raising my voice about it. The lieutenant keeps putting his hand over my mouth, trying to shut me up. I guess he thinks we’re about to get kicked out of here, too. He might be right, but I can’t tell.
It starts working. The coffee, the water, the fries, and the talking. And pretty soon I’m sober enough to understand that this is crazy. Running into the lieutenant in a random bar on New Year’s Eve? He thinks so, too.
“Were you really out alone on New Year’s Eve?” I ask him.
“I was. Were you?”
“No. I was with a girl for some of it.”
He doesn’t push me for details. “I was thinking about Dodge. Five seconds before I walked in there.”
“That a fact, sir?”
“It is. I was wondering what ever happened to him. Where he ended up.”
“You know his real name is Kateb, right, sir?”
“No. First I’m hearing it. And stop calling me that. Please.”
“Okay, sorry.” I put a finger over my lips and shush myself.
“What else do you know about him?”
Fives and Twenty-Fives Page 27