by B. K. Dell
Jackson looked over at Rider. Ridley Holt’s full nickname was Trigger Happy Holt, but that was too long, so most people just called him Rider. He was watching a movie with Brit. Rider wore the only set of headphones, despite it being Brit’s laptop. Brit didn’t need them though; he laughed at all the appropriate moments because he knew the movie so well. Just half an hour before, Caleb heard Brit laugh, “It’s just a flesh wound!” Jackson imagined that they weren’t quite half way through the movie yet.
It’s a pity, Jackson thought. He really liked Rider. There was a lot about Rider to like, but every time he heard him use words like fairy or queer, they sounded to Jackson like someone plucking strings on an un-tuned guitar.
When Jackson first got to camp Kookaburra, it was Rider who fascinated and inspired Jackson more than anyone else. At the end of his first week there, Jackson asked him, “How did you get the name, Trigger Happy?”
“Well, you remember that Rules of Engagement speech they gave us?” asked Rider.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t,” Rider smiled. They were both sitting in the chow hall. Rider added, “I’m not afraid of the Taliban. But, I’ll be damned if I will risk my life for some wingtip wearing, linguini-spined lawyer who is still trying to give his drug addled hippy days in the sixties some meaning.”
Jackson laughed in agreement. He added, “In World War II we were in danger of our freedoms being trampled underneath jackboots, today if you can’t find your freedoms you should check underneath the nearest Italian loafers.”
“Lawyers!” laughed Rider. “You know why Marines should never be judged by a jury of their peers? Because we have no peers.” Rider smiled proudly.
Jackson could tell that he, more than anyone he’d ever met, woke up each morning feeling proud to be a Marine. “You really love being here, don’t you?” Jackson asked.
Rider didn’t know if he meant Camp Kookaburra or all of Afghanistan. He said, “I love being a Marine. Love it.” Rider was on his fourth deployment. He had an energy and raw intensity about him, the likes of which Jackson had never encountered in civilian life. Jackson felt like he was a young novice studying at the feet of a learned sage. Rider told him, “There is something profound about fighting. There must be. Everything that we have ever done in the Corps is geared to raise us up to our highest potential. Fighting for your life produces a luminous focus in the mind, an economy of priorities. Only the objective matters, nothing else. Nothing else. So look at our training. When the drill instructor insults us, it means that pride is a hindrance to success. Any hindrance is a potential tool of the enemy. When the upper brass speak casually about loss of life, they’re desensitizing us to both killing and dying. Killing the enemy requires an absolute morality – love of moral violence coupled with the mourning of every drop of innocent blood. Disregard for one’s own life is a bulwark against narcissism. What does that tell us? Our narcissism is a tool of the enemy. Narcissism traps us in a prison of our own skin. Releasing the self, surrendering to a greater cause, is the only way that the self is ever discovered. And then there is pain. Then there’s pain. Through pain we retain. When we suffer pain, and are meant to suffer pain, called to suffer pain, what should that tell us? That pleasure plays no role in accomplishing our objective, and that pleasure-seeking is a tool of the enemy. These are not just the priorities we need in order to fight; these are the priorities we need in order to live, truly live.” His words excited Jackson. “Do you know what finally got me to sign up for the Marines?” Rider asked.
“9/11?”
“No, I was still in high school for 9/11. Still a dumb kid. But two years later I was out of school and floundering. Didn’t know what to do with my life. Didn’t have any place where I fit in and too many places where I didn’t. Then on the 4th of July, my uncle was slipping Jack Daniel’s into my Coke, and the two of us were trying our best to keep our mouths shut as my aunt went on and on about how much she hated George W. Bush. That was the first time, since I never really watched the news, that I had heard his statement from earlier that week. Apparently the President ticked a lot of people off when he told anyone who wanted to engage with American troops to, ‘Bring it on!’” Rider laughed. “It was so much fun to see her with her panties all jumbled up, but those words were a gift. Bring it on! They were an early Independence Day gift to every man and woman in uniform. They were like a hard backslap and an oo-rah! They were like an encoded message to our troops that the enemy got their hands on and couldn’t understand. My Aunt did not understand it because it wasn’t meant for her. It was meant for the troops. It was meant for me. My head was starting to spin from the alcohol while the fireworks were popping off loud in the sky, and I knew for the first time that there were people out there who spoke my language. I was beginning to understand that being a warrior was all I was ever meant to be.” Rider was becoming starry-eyed as though he could still see the fireworks exploding above him. He watched them explode every time he heard live ammo while engaged with the enemy.
Rider was overcome with another broad dopey grin. He laughed and said, “Then, I was wrapping up my first deployment when Lt Gen Mattis said he likes to shoot people!” Rider slammed his fist on the table as he laughed. “He said he likes brawlin’. Well, I like brawlin’ too!”
Jackson nodded, still never having seen combat he had little to add. He spotted a collection of tallies tattooed on Rider’s shoulder, but he didn’t ask about them. He said, “Yeah, I got kind of a strange feeling when they brought that lawyer in to tell us about the ROE.”
“Of course you did. He was an outsider. You tell me what he knows about shooting people. You tell me what that ivy league egghead knows about brawlin’. There is one thing – only one thing – that I remember about my ROE training. The pine box theory. If one of you is going to end up in a pine box, you’d better make it the enemy. But, the thing is: it is my pine box, not some ACLU lawyer’s. I will be the one to decide whether the threat of me dying is real. And if there is even the slightest chance that it is my pine box, it’s my call.”
“Win the hearts and minds of the people,” Jackson parroted what he had been told.
“Yeah, but not if I have to bet my heart or mind to do it,” said Rider.
Jackson understood where he was coming from. He said, “Even the instructor got silent when he had to bring the lawyer in. His whole demeanor changed. It was like nothing was fun anymore. Up until that point, everything could be mocked. Life, death, even my faith was constantly mocked. That’s what guys do. Then this guy with a briefcase comes in and he was like the class trip chaperone. Christianity was fair game to be teased, but we were supposed to show reverence to this guy? Everything got so serious, so humorless. He was like a woman who wanted to put a stop to us just being guys.”
Rider smiled. “Chickafied,” he said. “Everything’s chickafied. The military is the last bastion of masculinity, the last place on Earth where you are allowed to just be a guy. And now even it’s under assault. Rules of Engagement. Embedded reporters. Lawyers second guessing decisions that they are too cowardly to ever have to make. Speaking of cowards, don’t even get me started on the Attorney General.” Rider shook his head disgusted. The fireworks had left Rider’s eyes. “Did you know that the Army is not allowed to have separate male and female platoons for their boot camp? And now the Marines have let in a queer.”
Jackson looked down. It was obvious that Rider had veered into territory where Jackson would not follow. It was obvious that the mental connection between the two men had been lost. The novice was no longer at the teacher’s feet.
Jackson made no protest. He doubted he would ever see Caleb again after graduation and he saw no reason why Rider’s use of one epithet should be a battle worth pursuing. But it was too late; Rider had already interpreted his expressions. Anxious to provoke a response from Jackson, Rider pushed further. “Can you imagine that fairy around here? That’s rich! A pack of devil dogs and one devil cat! It makes me sick.”
Jackson still didn’t respond – although he thought that devil cat was sort of funny.
Rider asked, “Private First Class Brooks, what are you going to do when your four years are up? Are you going to re-enlist?”
Jackson shrugged. He really wasn’t sure. “Probably not. I might go to college. I might go work for my dad.”
“And what about that homosexual in the news?” Rider asked. “Do you think he will re-enlist? I doubt it. He will probably go back to civilian life and become a hair dresser, or pursue his interest in interior design or something. And good for him. He will discover that it suits him and he will be happy living off the royalties from his book deal. But what about the Corps? Will he, and those of his ilk, have left the military as good as they found it? You will be fine, working on your Ph.D. or something. But what about me? When the last place I can still act like a man is gone, what happens to guys like me? Where can I go when there is nowhere left? Where is my book deal? Not one of them will cry one tear for the death of masculinity. Brutal, barbaric, glorious masculinity. They want me to shed a tear for them, but not one of them will shed a tear for me.”
Jackson was thinking about those words when he was jerked back to the present by an unfamiliar voice.
“It’s Private Jackson, right?” The embedded reporter, Michael Ponce, asked. Jackson put down his Bible, which he wasn’t really reading, and looked up at the reporter.
“Actually, it is Private First Class Brooks,” said Jackson.
“Oh. I thought someone told me your name was Jackson.”
“Jackson Brooks. Jackson is my first name.” Jackson held out his hand, but Michael Ponce did not seem eager to shake it.
“Michael Ponce,” he said, slowly taking Jackson’s hand.
“I know your name from the paper. I have read your articles,” Jackson said vaguely.
“Oh…” Michael Ponce hesitated as his brain scanned Jackson’s comment. “Thank you,” he said, despite having found it to contain no compliment. There was a moment of awkward silence and Michael Ponce fidgeted a bit. “Um, actually, I was wondering if you could help me. You see, it was a long trip in, so…and I drank a lot of coffee, so I was wondering…” his eyes panned the length of the Bedouin-style tent, “how one went about using the little boy’s room?”
Jackson laughed warmly; he said, “Oh, well you just-”
“He’s going to need his own e-tool eventually,” Brit said forcefully, inserting himself into the conversation.
“What’s an e-tool?” asked Michael Ponce. Turning toward Brit, he missed the subtle curl that formed at the corners of Jackson’s lips.
“It’s an entrenching tool,” said Brit.
Michael Ponce still looked completely confused. Brit excitedly walked over to his gear and pulled out a shovel. He said, “Here, you can borrow mine.”
As the reporter stared at the shovel, it dawned on him just what exactly had to be entrenched. “You’re joking.”
“No. It’s not so bad really, just make sure you get far enough from the camp. Oh, and take this,” Brit pulled out a roll of toilet paper.
Michael Ponce slowly glanced over at the bathroom tissue and the shovel. He said, “So, I just grab a flashlight and-”
“A torch? Are you mad? A bloody torch?” exclaimed Brit, still holding out the offering.
“You can’t turn on a flashlight out there,” explained Jackson.
“You can’t even use a lighter,” added Brit. “Didn’t anyone explain to you light sensitivity?”
“No,” said Michael Ponce. “I guess they haven’t explained all that much to me.”
“The enemy shoots at any light it sees. You want to get us all killed?”
“So, I’m supposed to wander out in total darkness?” asked Michael Ponce slightly indignant, slightly just afraid.
“Can you hold it until morning?” Brit asked as he drew back the toilet paper and e-tool.
“No!” Michael Ponce shot forward and grabbed both items out of Brit’s hands.
“Okay,” said Brit. “Bring them back when you are done.”
Michael Ponce sighed. He raised both items like he was toasting, grimaced, then headed out to the front of the hooch.
“Wait!” laughed Jackson.
“Brooks, don’t,” said Brit.
“I can’t do it. I can’t do it,” Jackson said to Brit.
“Do what?” asked Michael Ponce.
“We were about to play a very mean trick on you.”
“Jackson!” protested Brit, disappointed.
Jackson continued, “We were about to send you out there without warning you about the scorpions.”
“Scorpions?” the reporter asked nervously.
“Huge scorpions,” said Jackson. When Jackson said it, Brit actually held his two hands up almost a foot apart to indicate the length of the scorpions. Jackson nodded in agreement. “There’s how many different species of scorpions in Afghanistan?” He turned to Brit.
“Twenty-five, all deadly. And that’s not to mention the scarabs, black widows and tarantulas.”
“Arab tarantulas,” confirmed Jackson.
“How are Arab tarantulas different from regular tarantulas?” asked Michael Ponce.
“They can jump,” said Brit.
The Marines watched a chill go through the reporter’s body. Michael Ponce turned to leave. With heavy bowels and a heavy heart, he stepped out into the cold desert night. He had spent most his life in New York City. He could not believe the incredible darkness that surrounded him.
They were lying about the scorpions, he tried to assure himself. That part was the trick. They can’t fool me.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next morning in the chow hall was Jackson’s first chance to talk with Caleb. “So they got you in Echo Company now?” he asked. Echo Company had been airlifted in to join up with Golf. Their mission was to clear the town of Almoud, a mostly farming community that had become a Taliban enclave.
“Yes, sir,” confirmed Caleb.
“I heard you were coming up from Camp Sydney, how long were you there?”
“Ever since I left ITB.”
“What was it like down there?”
Caleb shrugged, “Well, I was allergic to all those pillows filled with goose down and ostrich feathers, and the bidet was out of order. Otherwise fine.”
Jackson laughed, “Well, I hope at least the bellhops and the maids treated you well.”
Caleb rubbed some peanut butter onto his cracker.
“And, your fellow grunts,” Jackson asked with a grin, “how did they receive you there?”
Caleb gave him a mock look of insult and asked, “What are you, the press?”
Jackson laughed. “Yeah, what’s that like, anyway? I mean all that.” When Jackson said the word that, he tilted his head toward Michael Ponce as if he symbolized the entire concept of news reporting.
Michael Ponce, who was only a short distance away and could hear every word, raised his hands in a protesting shrug. Neither of the other two acknowledged his gesture.
Caleb casually said, “It’s a drag,” then began to exhibit more emotion. “I haven’t told anyone about this. The strangest thing happened to me. I was at my mom’s home for ten days. I hadn’t been back there since…” Caleb shot an irritated look over at the reporter and decided to not finish his sentence. “She used to come visit me in Dallas, but I haven’t been to see her in a long time. Anyway, one day while she was at work, I was home alone and started to wonder if she had kept any of my old drawings. So I opened her filing cabinet and saw a file simply labeled ‘Caleb.’ I’m not usually a snoop, but it did have my name on it. So I went to pull it out and the file was like two inches thick. I opened it up and the first thing I saw was an article cut out of the paper with the headline, ‘Do Ask, Do Tell; Tell it to the Marines.’ Then I started to shuffle through it and realized that the whole thing was nothing but newspaper clippings and they were all about me. Two inches worth! The New
York Times, the Washington Post, the Boston Globe, USA Today, Time Magazine. Someone had even mailed her a clip from Der Spiegel. All the words were in German, and there was a picture of my face. The headline said ‘Er ist Homosexuell!’”
“That’s so creepy,” said Jackson.
Caleb’s body shuddered as he let out a chill that had built up in him. He went on, “Most of the articles were treating me like I was some sort of folk hero. They were calling me an activist – which to me is a dirty word. I just wanted to be a Marine, but the way some of them were talking, it was like they wanted to name elementary schools after me.”
“Better check the internet, they may have already done it,” Jackson teased.
“Next thing you know, school children will be singing about me on YouTube,” said Caleb.
Jackson laughed. “Mmm, mmm, mmm!”
Caleb added, “I did hear that one congressman mentioned my name on the floor of the House; that really happened. I guess someone told him that my name polled well in his district.” Caleb laughed awkwardly. “And it wasn’t even for anything to do with gays in the military; it was for a vote on a school lunch program.” Caleb shook his head. “Oh yeah, and there was this one article that even had a photograph of me at ten years old wearing roller skates. I had never seen the photo before in my life. Who took it? How did the press get it?”
“Did your mom give it to them?”
“No! God no. She won’t talk to them. She hates all of those…” Caleb trailed off, then nodded toward Michael Ponce in the way Jackson had done before – blaming him for the actions of his entire profession.
Michael Ponce let both hands and silverware drop to the table with a thud, giving up.