by Deacon Rie
Stephen had first been concerned about the tight bond Jonesey and Ambrose shared. But in time, it became apparent that they embraced the other squad members as part of their inner circle. Ironically, the only fist fight Stephen ever had to break up within the squad was between these two best friends. To which they responded, "Sarge, what's up? We're just working things out." It was a head-scratching moment for Stephen, but instinct told him to trust the years behind their relationship. He later had to suggest to his platoon leader that the two black eyes within their ranks should be ignored, unless the lieutenant had the patience for Stephen to access his severely underdeveloped creative mind in order to make up a story which would fit the scenario. Graciously, the lieutenant complied.
Private First Class Michael Hilton caught his glance from the peripheral and locked eyes with Stephen. Hilton's lips pursed into his chiseled locked jaw. He gave Stephen a single head nod delivered on a platter of refined, steel nerves. His eyes declared, "Ready to go, Sergeant." Stephen read Hilton's silent affirmation loud and clear, drawing his own strength from it before responding with his own slower nod of affirmation. Standing over six feet tall, with a chest that was easily mistaken for body armor and biceps that declared his masculinity from a mile away, Hilton was a midnight version of Italian romance novel poster boy, Fabio Lanzoni; minus the wavy golden locks of hair. Stephen knew the gentle giant well enough to understand that the muscle-head impression was little more than disciplined habit formed under a father who passed along genes of solid granite and a passion for body building. Despite the man's brawn and impressive physique, the men of his platoon knew that Hilton would bring an entire military convoy to a complete halt if he spotted an injured dog on the side of the road.
Hilton could easily be one of the most intimidating men in the company if it weren't for his very public passion for poetry. He was never disrespected; the sheer girth of the man did well to solidify his status among peers. But bench pressing 400lbs and then quoting romanticism by the English poet, William Blake, had a way of throwing people for a curve. Stephen reasoned that Hilton liked to keep people guessing and promoted his persona as a living paradox. Like the time he had let Hilton plan the music for the family bar-b-que being sponsored by the platoon. Most people had no idea who Il Volo was, much less what the Italian operatic trio was singing about. Stephen laughed so hard he had actually brought tears to his eyes while watching anyone who built up enough courage to proactively request a change of music only needed to take one look at the strained seams of Hilton's shirt before promptly becoming an appreciator, if not an unwilling fan. But the look in Hilton's eyes now gave Stephen a boost in confidence. He knew Hilton's muscles would be well used in their contribution to the war in Iraq they were departing for. The more he thought about it, the more he reasoned Hilton's poetry could come in handy as well.
2nd Lieutenant Scott Bradley, their platoon leader, echoed out another command along with a side comment for motivating emphasis. Stephen's response was tempered somewhat by the knowledge that after the hours of waiting and redundant safety briefings, they were about to load onto a C-130 cargo plane and then wait again while flight checklists and equipment validations were conducted. Nevertheless, young and full of fire men were motivated by the idea of "flying over there and kicking their ass", as the lieutenant so graciously phrased it. Loudest among the voices in his squad was Corporal Darnell Waters. Young and energetic, Waters wore a gritty shell that Stephen knew to be little more than a tough guy front put on to hide the internal panic that nearly overcame him whenever the burden of responsibility was placed on his shoulders. Stephen was patient with his over eagerness and while he knew a time to push Waters would one day come, for the moment he remained content to let the young man grow at his own pace.
Stephen cast a glance over each of the other squad mates. Hooper's profile looked like it had designed with a protractor. The man's thin cheekbones sharply gave way to his ski-slopped nose and finished demonstrative chin. Hooper looked like a French chef cartoon character. But the guy couldn't cook Ramen Noodles with an already boiling pot of water and the other men loved to let him know it on a regular basis.
Rodriguez had been a standout Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps cadet. Though very capable, he had opted out of college and the officer route because he wanted to spend more time pulling the trigger than figuring out what people should be shooting at. Stephen knew Rodriguez had too much potential and despite the man's best intentions, he would be a non-commissioned officer one day.
Asha easily beat Hooper as the most awkward looking man in the squad. He was just over six and a half feet tall, couldn't stand straight to save his life and had an overly extended neck that made you think he had been rescued from some medieval stretching device. Asha had the physical appearance of a giraffe on muscle relaxers but a more focused and precise mind, Stephen had never seen.
Tomilson, the corporal from Chicago who claimed to have single-handedly popularized the phrase "Chi-Town" had a knack for being able to describe any scenario with a hockey analogy. While he missed his hometown, the opportunity to avoid the winds coming off the Great Lakes during January and February kept him content to live in a place where he could watch news of the latest blizzard from the comfort of his recliner, while wearing shorts.
Chelphalvanova was simply referred to as Chelp by the rest of the squad, platoon, company as well as any person who ever met him whose first language wasn't Slavic. He had been a football all-American in high school when he was a dominant defensive lineman. Heavily recruited by colleges across the nation, Chelp turned down multiple scholarship offers after taking personal offense to watching the World Trade Center buildings fall.
Romero had a quiet peace about him at all times. He was a family man like Stephen and known to be somewhat of an old soul. His wisdom was often a help to Stephen, particularly when he was trying to navigate the sensitive personalities of Waters and the platoon’s self-proclaimed entertainer, Belvis.
Belvis was the pastry-loving, one-man variety show of the group. While continually entertaining, Belvis was the guy who would barely pass each physical training test and always subjected to height and weight measurements to ensure he met the standards. In a spell of Army wisdom, it was always Belvis with his bulging waistline along with Hilton and his thunderous chest that exceeded the military's body mass standards and were forced to undergo the "tape test" routine after each physical checkup. The two of them standing side by side without shirts would often result in Belvis turning into a standup comedian has he mocked Hilton's sculpted chassis for apparently being undesirable by Uncle Sam.
Each of the men in Stephen's squad stood with an appreciation and acceptance of the task ahead. They understood the responsibility for the uniforms they wore and it meant something to each one of them. Activation of their Guard unit had come as no surprise to any of them. Economist often cited the influence of the United States, saying that if America sneezes, the rest of the world catches a cold. If that was true of economics, how much more would the world feel American influence after the September 11th attacks on home soil? From the moment news of the attack broke, Stephen knew deployment was inevitable. America was looking for a fight and Stephen's squad, like so many others, was more than happy to be sent into the ring.
The squad was strong and well trained to do their jobs. Proud as he was, Stephen's heart skipped a beat as he thought about the responsibility he held by being first in his row; the position of squad leader taking his men into their first combat theater. Steady and confident, Stephen sheltered any hint of the overwhelming fear that trembled his core. Part of his job was to inspire a sense of loyalty; some would even call it a blind loyalty. He wasn't sure if he was ready for that. Leading this squad, facing combat, the possibility of injury to his men, or even fallen soldiers; the chaos associated with each potential scenario laid upon his shoulders was nearly too much of a burden for him to bear.
Having served with many people in the Guard plato
on for the better part of two years, he knew the strengths and weaknesses of his men. In large part, they were precisely what one would expect of cavalry soldiers; physically strong and mentally ready. Recent years had made everyone more focused. And while there was no question that war would make brethren out of strangers, to Stephen, these men were already his brothers. Their training had intensified as the welcome announcement of a deployment date became a reality. He had told the squad several times that if called to combat, he would be proud to line up next to them. Stephen had said it confidently each time, but in his heart he never quite knew what he would feel if they found themselves in that moment. Now, as Stephen stood at attention ready to lead them onto a plane bound for war, he understood exactly how he felt. He felt absolutely terrified that a mistake by him could jeopardize the safety of one of his men. The fear was not entirely unexpected but at that moment the dread was far more worrisome than he had ever anticipated.
Lieutenant Bradley completed his final orders and it was time to board their designated plane for their journey to a readiness base. There they would spend six weeks for preparedness training before claiming a new piece of desert real estate as home. The men in the front rows leaned down and grabbed their gear. Stephen bent over to hoist his own and his squad followed suit. As the rows before him began to part for their assigned transports, Stephen held his ground. In deference to the man they followed and trusted, his men stood fast as the squads behind them moved forward and walked between them, breaking their ranks. Hooper leaned forward and caught Stephen's eye.
A different fear gripped Stephen and held him in place. Like so many service members before him, it was less the fear of what lay ahead and more the fear of what remained behind. Playing it off like he was courteously allowing others to progress ahead of his own squad he validated Hooper's inquiry as if he had been waiting for the fire-team leader to give that signal. Stephen addressed the entire squad and called out, "Alright, you heard the lieutenant. We've got an all-expense paid trip to the desert. Let's move!"
"Hooah! Let's go boys." Hooper chimed out with an anxious breath he had been holding too long. "And Asha, don't drag ass. I'm gonna be pissed if you make me miss the in-flight movie."
Belvis, never one to miss out on a chance to launch a joke at a squad mate's expense, hollered ahead, "Why the rush, Hooper? They showing Lilo and Stitch?"
"Don't knock my little blue man, Belvis." Hooper had his gear over his shoulder and called back to anyone who could hear his bellowing. "Stitch is one high-speed, low-drag hardcore ball of destruction, inflicting havoc and chaos on anything and anyone in his path. Just like me."
Tomlison, catching up hollered ahead, "Yeah, he's like you alright. Just like you… if you're in the kitchen." The squad let out a collective teasing response, submitting Hooper to relive one of his multiple famed culinary mishaps.
Hooper's ego bubble burst, "Ahh- come on, really? You gonna bring that up? That was one time."
The men moved toward their designated transport and the banter continued as they made their way onto the plane. Stephen knew the harassment would stretch on for the duration of the flight. He readjusted his over-weighted rucksack to fit squarely upon his shoulders and clenched his duffel bag. He straightened his back and prepared to step forward but instead he hesitated, resting the duffel and breaking a promise to himself. He turned to the rear and peered into the brightly lit hanger. Behind the makeshift rope line he saw the breaking hearts of loved ones. Some waved in an effort to absorb every last moment. Several stood in silence, while others shed tears to an unknown future.
Despite the distance, Stephen found her immediately. Sarah stood in place bouncing what was now a fully awake and fully cranky toddler who insisted on squirming out from under the protection of the yellow fleece blanket. The long morning had undoubtedly caught up with Hailey and a defiant arm flung out from beneath the blanket. She had done as well as a two year old could be expected for a having being woken so early to endure long and uneventful hours under the moderate shelter of the Air Force hanger. Keeping his face locked in the stern gaze of a soldier's discipline, he watched as his heart reached beyond the distance to embrace them. He argued with himself for not going back and spending one more moment gazing into Sarah's hazel eyes or placing one more tender kiss on the brim of Hailey's soft blonde hairline. How could he leave them?
Stephen's parents, Tom and Rebecca, stood closely behind his wife. Tom looked through the crowd in an attempt to find his son. Stephen knew that his father's vision had diminished significantly since his stroke and anything beyond twenty yards was a pure apparition. Regardless, Tom intensely searched the sea of camouflage among the dim, gray hour of the morning.
Rebecca, being the ever-helpful mother-in-law, reached over to Sarah and helped pull the blanket back over the protesting toddler. Rebecca had said goodbye to her only son and was now focused on supporting his family the best she could. His mother's words had been sweet, sincere and uplifting. She said nothing about taking on additional duties while still serving as the primary caregiver for Tom. His mother was now a woman who lived with purpose and always expected the best of even the worst situations. She stood firm and resolute, a strength Stephen knew would be needed for the wife and daughter he was leaving behind. Rebecca noticed that her husband's unbuttoned overcoat had fallen and was sliding down his large shoulder as he peered into the crowd. Gently getting his attention, she pulled the jacket back over her husband's shoulder. She turned and said something to Sarah while placing an arm around the young mother.
Sarah shifted Hailey over her shoulder and into Rebecca's arms. In the return glance, she immediately caught sight of her soldier and Stephen could see her eyes brighten as they met his. His last embrace with them had occurred around 3:45 am and somehow three hours spent in the bone-chilling cold air, supplied with the regular gust of thirty mile per hour winds coming off the flat terrain of the runway only made Sarah more beautiful. Her smile captured him, and for one single moment he was the only man standing out on that open field. He gave himself a full second to enjoy the moment and preserve his mind's picture.
Stephen's reasons for joining the National Guard had been affirmed many times. Experience, adventure, income; they had all been enhanced by his enlistment. Though he held only minor reservations for the dangerous road of combat which lay ahead, in that moment he would give up every advantage enlistment brought them if he could just stay with his wife and daughter. He felt an almost physical longing as his heart burned and sank deeper into his chest.
Sarah gave him a sweetly pronounced smile, then a wave and a kiss blown across the chilled paved landscape. She wiped her glistening eyes and continued waving as if she feared he would have to leave the moment she stopped. Stephen smiled and lifted his duffel bag over his shoulder so he could raise both hands to his mouth and return a set of kisses; one for Sarah, one for Hailey. As the leader of a cavalry scout squad in an infantry platoon, he had received training on several scenarios pertaining to desert and urban warfare: how to avoid fire, how to use cover and concealment, how to move to his squad in response to contact. He had been trained well on how to run into enemy territory. But no one had trained him for how to walk away from home.
Stephen committed every ounce of strength within him to the task of turning away. He began the walk towards his men who were already boarding their plane. Moving past the perimeter of the hanger Stephen scanned the crowd one final time and saw at the far end of the hanger an elderly man in a sleek black windbreaker standing separate from the longing families. With years of hard living evidenced in the stiffness of his glare, Stephen recognized the man as Corporal Waters' grandfather; a Vietnam veteran whom Stephen had earlier watched give Waters a firm lecture on the conduct and purpose of the soldier. Having long since learned when to shut up and listen, Waters had stood there in silence taking in every word of the early morning lecture that the grandfather had clearly delivered multiple times before. His only comment had been periodic
nods and a series of appropriately timed responses consisting of two words, "Yes, sir."
Darnell Waters wasn't the most disciplined of the squad. Perhaps it had something to do with never having known his own father and having a mother who could not commit to a job, much less a child. Out of necessity he had been raised under the strict guidance of his already aged grandparents. Growing up hearing the pessimistic voice of his periodically present mother, Waters inherently looked for opportunities to avoid responsibility. However, with a grandfather who was not one for mincing words or accepting excuses, when he did his work, Waters was deeply driven and effective. Waters had struggled with school but seeing the chiseled nature of his grandfather, Stephen understood why the young man had no choice but to graduate high school and do something productive with his life. Delivering structure and guidance, the Army had been the perfect transition for Waters. Now that the country was calling volunteers to make good on their commitments, his grandfather had made it a point to ensure the boy knew what was expected of him.
Stephen watched the grandfather standing at attention, observing the soldiers as they approached their assigned transports. The falling temperatures had no impact on the man and no attention was given to the jacket's zipper flap relentlessly tapping the side of his face in the wicked wind. Just as the last few men began boarding the closest plane, a single, sharp, proud motion by elderly man brought his worn and weathered hand up into a crisp salute. Corporal Waters was well aware that he had a duty to this patriot who had sacrificed so much for his beloved country. Stephen knew that duty did not belong solely to Waters. It was their duty to burden together and while each step on the tarmac felt like trudging through a sandy beach in the middle of a thunderstorm, that duty was the one thing stronger than Stephen's desire to stay with his family. Stephen picked up his pace as he watched Waters' grandfather firmly maintain his salute. The man was steadfast, diligent and firm; giving no regard to the stream of tears descending down the crevices of his dark rugged cheeks.