by B. K. Dell
Caleb squeezed the trigger. He wished that he could have let the terrorist know that it was a homosexual that had just sent him to Hell.
Caleb turned his weapon to take out more of the enemy, but all that he could see were terrorists falling, one after another in quick succession, being torn to pieces by Rider’s .50 caliber machine gun. Rider picked them off just as easily and as gleefully as if he were playing a violent video game – the kind that Caleb imagined Rider had played all his life. A type of fever came over Rider and it was plain to see by anyone who laid eyes on him that something inside his gut had been lit on fire. A switch was flipped in his brain and he liked it. He felt more at home, more complete, more natural behind such a weapon, dolling out the domination, than he did any place else on Earth.
Caleb caught a chill.
When the last enemy had fallen and the good guys were no longer taking fire, a cheer went up among the Americans. They had not taken a single casualty. It was after the cheering and back slapping that Caleb called over to Rider and said, “I’m sorry, Rider. I killed one of those terrorists. If you had wanted me to leave them all for you, you should have just asked.” People began to laugh. The inner circle of laughter expanded outward. There was more laughter than Caleb thought his joke called for, so he began to look around to discover what they had really been laughing at. Brit, whose senses had been on hyper-alert also, thought that he smelled something. Upon investigation he discovered Michael Ponce curled up on the floorboards in the back of the humvee. He had peed his pants.
Michael Ponce was never called Blitz again.
“Looks like we both got new nicknames today, didn’t we, Bam Bam?” Michael Ponce asked Caleb after they got back to the camp.
“Don’t worry,” said Caleb, “I won’t call you Mellow Yellow.”
Michael Ponce grimaced at the sound of his new nickname and the fresh memories of the Marines’ mocking laughter. “Do you ever get flashbacks of being picked on in school?”
“There have been a few scenes that have crossed my mind.”
“They’re just bullies really. Especially Rider. He’s a real piece of work, that one.”
Caleb laughed.
“Did you see him today? How many men do you think he killed?”
“I don’t know, but I’m glad he’s on my side,” said Caleb.
“Is he?”
“Of course.”
“Well, America, sure. But your side?”
Caleb shrugged. He looked away and added, “All I know is, the man sure likes killing.”
“I bet you wish you knew that before you pulled that stunt of yours.”
Caleb stopped dead in his tracks. He looked both ways to see who might have been listening to them speak. No one was around. He said, “I really misjudged him. You didn’t see the look in his eyes. I think he could have shot me.”
“Bet you feel lucky someone called out a false alarm.”
“I wonder if whoever pulled that prank knows that he may have saved my life.”
“He does,” Michael Ponce said as he turned to Caleb. The way he looked at Caleb let Caleb know that it was more than a hunch.
“Wait a minute, you called it out?”
Michael Ponce was, in fact, the man who called out the false alarm. He said, “I couldn’t have the subject of my story die, now could I?”
“You saved my life?” Caleb asked, then amended it, “Sort of.”
“Yeah, sort of.”
Caleb suddenly became very silent. He knew as well as anyone what it was like to be the one on the outside. He said, “I’m sorry I’ve been rude to you. I guess I really don’t see the harm in sitting down to talk about…whatever you want to talk about.”
“Listen Bam Bam, you don’t owe me anything, okay? But, if you really feel in my debt, you can try to score me some whisky. For crying out loud, I thought men in uniform were supposed to be drunk. I’ve been feeling like some kind of idiotic religious teetotaler.”
“No one’s drunk in this war. The whole country forbids it.”
“There must be a way, we’re Americans after all.”
“Tell you what, I’ll look into it.”
Just before turning in that night, Caleb saw that Trigger Happy Holt had many more tallies tattooed on his arm. He walked over to him and asked, “Hey Rider, how did you get those on so quick? Did you do them yourself?”
“Teflon,” is all Rider grunted.
Caleb promptly made his way over to Teflon. He said, “Hey Teflon, I’ve thought of something that you can trade me for that drawing.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jackson was part of a fire team heading out on a mission, but he didn’t know what it was. He was sitting in the back of a humvee staring out of the window when he felt a surge of panic. He didn’t know where they were going. He didn’t know or understand the mission. He looked out at the strange Afghanistan landscape and it looked like the surface of the moon. How did I get here?
He looked to Brit who was riding in the humvee with him. Brit was his team leader. “Brit, I don’t think I feel too well. I don’t know what I am doing. I don’t know where I’m going. I’m totally confused, Brit.”
“Relax, Brooks. It’s just nerves. Take this.” Brit handed him a bright red pill.
“What is it?”
Brit said some fancy word that Jackson could not hear and that Jackson imagined probably would not inform him of much anyway. Jackson swallowed the pill.
“Just rely on your training,” was the last thing that Brit said before they both heard a loud explosion from just in front of their position. It was followed by louder explosions popping against the armor plating of their humvee. Their caravan had hit a landmine and they were taking AK-47 rounds.
Jackson did rely on his training. Within seconds he was outside the vehicle, had spotted the muzzle flair of the enemy, and was on the opposite side of the humvee giving it right back to them. The enemy was high on the ridge of the mountains. Jackson wondered who had led them into such a fragile position. They were completely pinned down. When Jackson looked up to Brit, he saw him with the radio in his hands. When Brit saw Jackson’s eyes, he pointed straight in the other direction. Jackson turned to see a middle-eastern man running straight toward their position. He was less than fifty yards away.
Jackson turned his rifle on him and hesitated.
It didn’t make sense for him to be running right there, right then. The enemy had them so successfully pinned down. Even if this man planned to martyr himself, shouldn’t they reserve the suicide missions for when no other plan would work? Jackson thought perhaps this man might be retarded; he had heard stories of radical Islamists strapping explosives to mentally challenged people who did not know what was happening, then sending them out to their deaths. It made him sick. But then he also could be a villager, or a brave member of the Afghan security forces. Maybe he was a heroic man who once was a mere farmer back when he had the luxury to be, but now that this garbage has been brought to his doorstep he didn’t wait for anyone else to clean it up. Maybe he was running toward the Americans to bring them information that could save their butts right now. Maybe it was information that he had already risked his life for. The words, “Win the hearts and minds of the people” echoed through Jackson’s head. The words, “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,” did too.
The rounds exploding around Jackson sounded so loud he could barely think. The man was so close that Jackson could see the whites of his eyes. Still Jackson did not shoot. His heart was pounding. He could feel the sweat run down the side of his face. Within that second, the man shouted something that Jackson did not initially understand. Only after it was already too late did Jackson realize that he had said, “Allahu Akbar!”
A blinding light seared both of Jackson’s retinas. His sight went completely white, then completely black. The last thoughts going through his panicked mind were of how he lived, not how he die
d. They seemed to skip from one to the other. He heard, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” He heard, “I only regret that I have but one life to give for my country.” Then he thought about the ring. Before he left to Afghanistan, he secretly bought an engagement ring for Stephanie. He wanted to ask her to marry him as soon as he got home. He had carried that ring with him every second since the day that he bought it. It was a constant reminder of Stephanie. It was a reminder to not get himself killed. He felt like the ring somehow connected him to her, and connected him to this worldly plane of existence. It was unfinished work that he had to do and he promised himself he wouldn’t die before he had a chance to get down on one knee, trembling before her pretty face.
His body thrashed violently as he fought against his invisible restraints. He could hear his breath still breathing. He could hear his heart still beating. The restraints had only been the tangle of his bedcovers.
Ever since he heard what had happened to Trey Tucker, Jackson had been having the same recurring nightmare.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Caleb had a big dopey grin on his face as he walked over toward Michael Ponce’s table in the chow hall. He looked both ways and then presented him a bottle of Crown Royal.
“Where did this come from?” asked Michael Ponce.
“Canada,” Caleb answered quite correctly.
Michael Ponce laughed. “No, I mean where did you get it?”
“I acquired it,” Caleb said as a codeword for you don’t need to know, then added, “I am finding out the full meaning of what it means to be a Marine.” Caleb had learned the shear usefulness of the motto, improvise.
“No better friend, no worse enemy,” Michael Ponce said warmly and swatted Caleb’s arm, “or so I’ve been told.”
“You just remember that.”
“I will.”
That night, Caleb was sitting away from the other Marines working on a new drawing. Michael Ponce noticed he was alone, so he made his way over and asked, “Being antisocial?”
“Not really,” said Caleb. “I just don’t want anyone to see it until it is done.”
“A new masterpiece?”
“I doubt it.”
“Looks like you will be up for a while,” the reporter commented, taking a look at the unfinished state of the drawing. It was not even far enough along to tell what it would be. Michael Ponce tilted the large cup he was holding and poured some of it into a smaller cup for Caleb.
“Thanks,” said Caleb. After taking one sip Caleb quickly said, “Hey, there seems to be some whisky in this coffee!”
“You didn’t think I was going to hog it all, did you?”
“Where did you get alcohol?” Caleb laughed.
“I acquired it,” Michael Ponce coyly said.
Caleb happily took another sip, but stopped and asked, “You’re not trying to get me drunk so I’ll spill my guts to you, are you?”
Michael Ponce smiled guiltily; he hemmed and hawed, then said, “Umm…yeah, actually I am.”
Caleb looked up at him a little shocked.
Michael Ponce innocently put up his hand and said, “Just a harmless story. What’s so hard about that? You told me before that you had some stories about being picked on in school. Just give me something quaint, something Norman Rockwell. The readers will love it. Small town boy, right? Lake Dunham?”
“Lake Durham.”
“Just give me something simple and I’ll never ask again. Something straight out of A Christmas Story. Did the big kids make you lick a frozen lamppost?”
Caleb laughed, but still did not say anything.
“C’mon, I traveled ten thousand miles; I crapped in a hole in the sand; I’m having nightmares about scorpions; I have to hang out with a bunch of lunatic fundamentalists like Jackson; and I have even peed my pants after getting shot at, all just to learn about you!”
Caleb wondered if the fundamentalist crack was meant for his benefit, or if Michael Ponce had some issues of his own. He was still resistant to talk, so Michael Ponce pressed further, “Hey listen, if I hadn’t offered them up Bam Bam, your nickname would be Pebbles right now! And, if you think that wouldn’t have turned into Fruity Pebbles, you’re mistaken!”
Caleb could see the truth to his argument. “Okay, I have a story. It’s not a classic, but if you think you can use it then you can have it.”
“You didn’t shoot your eye out with a BB gun did you?” Michael Ponce asked as he pulled out his Crown and topped off both cups.
Caleb told the story of his first day suiting up for gym class in embarrassing detail. He continued drawing as he spoke. Having something to distract him made the story all the more honest because he did not have to watch the reporter’s face. This is why psychiatrists have couches. As he spoke, his hand stayed in constant motion and he was in perfect focus, never distracted by his own words.
Michael Ponce laughed at the description of Caleb’s embarrassing short shorts. Michael Ponce laughed as he pictured the tantrum Caleb threw and the children laughing at him. Caleb got the real sense that Michael Ponce was no stranger to being bullied. Perhaps he had a few quaint stories of his own.
When Caleb came to the part about his father, he reached over and poured himself some more Crown without waiting for Michael Ponce to offer.
“‘You quit,’ he said.” He took a big swig of his drink. Michael Ponce could not tell if the face he made was caused by the sting of the alcohol or the sting of the memories. “You quit,” Caleb repeated bitterly. For a second it even seemed to Michael Ponce that it was Caleb who was now the one saying it, scolding the young boy in his memories. “After that day, my father hung a rope for me to practice on in the barn. At the top of the rope he put a red flag. I never did make it to the top. For years that flag taunted me.”
“That’s awful,” said Michael Ponce sincerely.
“Do you want to know what the worst part of that day was?”
“What’s that?”
“The whole time that I was standing there, knees trembling, looking up at my father and listening to him tell me that I disappointed him, that I quit…I had this stupid trophy in my hands!”
“They gave you a trophy?” Michael Ponce laughed.
“We all got one!” Caleb said in a higher pitch, half humorous, half rancorous. “It was supposed to help my self esteem!”
The men both laughed, but Michael Ponce laughed uncontrollably. It had been a long time since Caleb saw someone laugh like that. He laughed so hard it made it difficult for Caleb to stop.
Still laughing, Michael Ponce said, “Oh, that must have been the worst day of your life!” Suddenly he stopped laughing. He said very sincerely, “Um…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I mean, I wasn’t thinking. Of course that was not the worst day of your life.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t know. I had just imagined that…” Michael Ponce’s words stumbled apologetically out of his mouth. He finally added, “You know what? Never mind. Forget I said it.”
“The day I came out?” Caleb asked and stared out past Michael Ponce’s shoulder, seeing nothing. “Yes. The day I came out was the worst day of my life.”
Michael Ponce shook his hands like he did not want to know. “I’m sorry I said that. I only thought that because, well, your father sounds like one of those closed-minded types…”
Caleb sat motionless for a few moments. Michael Ponce dared not move a muscle. Caleb grabbed a different piece of charcoal and returned to his drawing. He began to tell the story.
“I first spilled the beans to a girl named Joann. I don’t know why I did it. Then I immediately lost my best friend. I started to head home, and just like that day in gym class, I knew my father had already heard everything that there was to know before I even had the chance to tell him. He wouldn’t speak to me. I begged him and begged him to just say something. Tell me he had heard, or call m
e a queer, just say something! Finally after he cooled off, he came to find me. I was out back chopping wood. I had been chopping so long that blisters had formed on both of my hands and then broken open. He stepped onto our back porch.
“The sun had just finished going down and the old tungsten bulb on the side of our house was the only thing that gave off light. My father’s face was orange and black. The hard-lined shadows on his face were one solid shade of black with no details. I could not see his eyes, just two empty holes. ‘Stop it,’ he said. I thought that he meant the chopping so I quickly stopped, but he meant something else. ‘Stop all this sinning,’ he said, ‘and we can forget that it ever happened. It’s a choice.’ He turned around and walked back inside. I heard the door latch lock hard behind him; he had wanted me to hear it. Then the porch light went out.
“I don’t know what he expected me to do, but I could not envision a situation where I obsequiously knocked and begged him to let me back in. I couldn’t do something like that. I threw down my ax and ran to the barn. The light from their bedroom window on the side of the house produced enough light for me to see the path, and before I even reached the barn, that light was turned off too. It was dark. The barn never had electricity, so once inside I had to feel my way around. I could avoid stubbing my toe, or impaling myself on any pitch forks well enough, but I could not seem to find a light. We had a flashlight, but I knew that the batteries were long dead. I finally managed to find an old oil lantern and light it with the lighter I had hidden by my secret pack of smokes. I placed the lantern on the ground at the foot of my true nemesis – the hanging rope. The lantern gave off so little light that as I stood at the bottom and looked up the length of that rope, I could not see the top of it. It stretched so high, so fast, that the dim lantern light could not catch it. I started to climb.