Of Gods & Grunts

by Kyrell Kendrick

  That being said, we were lost. We were down in a cave that was from what I could tell, the size of a state.

  Arsch sat down on a smooth rock, pulled off his boots, and began rubbing his feet.

  I followed suit.

  My hearing had come back during the week, but we still spoke softly and infrequently.

  "Water won't be an issue," Arsch whispered.

  We had gone over this at least once a day. It was a coping mechanism for the gnome scout.

  I replied back, "What's edible?"

  Arsch had listed on more than one occasion the food that gnomes, and presumably, I could eat. It wasn't much.

  Crickets were edible if cooked, but we had not had the foresight to harvest the gargantuan insects. Cave fishers were edible too, but if we knew where the river was, we would be safe. Algae was edible, but there was none to be found.

  "Don't eat any mushroom that reacts to light," Arsch said, starting his mantra.

  We started rationing the food on the first day. Arsch consumed six hundred calories a day, I approximated. I required four to five times that much in order to maintain the present course. I crossed the bridge with just over fifteen thousand calories, I guestimated.

  "Which ones don't react to light?" I asked.

  "Mistgeschmack," he replied.

  I didn't even try to pronounce it. "What's it look like?"

  "Round, the size of a head," he looked at me, "the size of your fist, with black spots on top," he whispered and then leaned back against his rock.

  "Is that the only one?" I asked, once again already knowing the answer. I needed to keep him focused.

  When I was a buck sergeant, my unit bought out the Recon and Surveillance Leaders Course. Essentially my division told each rifle company they could send two soldiers to Fort Beginning, specifically Camp Rogers, to attend. That was back in the day when Ranger School ran RSLC.

  Anyway, I learned more in that course than any other school I had been to. I was also one of the few RSLC grads who didn't have a short tab.

  I laughed a little.

  Arsch looked up at me, concerned.

  "Guess they're gonna give my Ranger School slot to some fucking LT who couldn't pass it on the first try," I said.

  "My Dude?" Arsch said.

  I needed to keep spirits high, both his and mine.

  "Where I come from, some of the best training a lowly NCO like me can get is called Ranger School, or hooah high if you prefer," I started. "It's a sixty-two day," I didn't want to calculate Teletha time, so I just stuck with sixty-two, "kick in the nuts."

  "Why, uh," he began, "would you do that?"

  "Wanted to make E-7," I said.

  This confused him even more.

  "Anyway, it makes our leaders super proud and happy. In return, they give us more money," I replied.

  "So you would do it for money?" he asked, a little chagrined.

  "Well, no," I replied. "You go for the prestige, the training, the promotion, the pride, and I guess the money too."

  That brought a smile to his face.

  "For the glory," he said, smiling at the wall.

  We were no longer whispering, but I didn't care. I was so hungry I hoped something would attack us.

  "Glory? Is that why you became a scout?" I asked.

  Showing wisdom beyond his youthful looks, he replied, "A girl."

  I shotgunned my M4 and pulled my rag and the bolt carrier out.

  Noticing my attention and silence, he continued, "The most beautiful girl you have ever seen," Arsch said. "I mean, Cloy is very beautiful too," he said.

  "Cloy and I aren't a thing," I reassured him.

  "Schonbruste," he said, almost exalting in the word, "beautiful and innocent."

  "But?" I asked.

  "But she is above my station," Arsch said sadly.

  "Aren't you the scoutmaster?" I asked.

  "I'm still a worker," he said.

  "Who literally meets with the king like every day," I replied.

  "The king sees the piss boy every day, too," Arsch retorted.

  I guess he had a point.

  "So, what about her? Does she like you back?" I asked.

  He smiled, "She's promised herself to me."

  I reached over with a fist bump, "Nice.”

  He returned the gesture and said, "She's given me a full year to court her properly."

  That made sense. A woman couldn't wait forever.

  I searched for the words, "How long you got left?"

  "She gave me the ultimatum last month," he said.

  "Lots of time," I replied, smiling.

  Arsch looked down at his feet, "If we get out of here," he said.

  I groaned, he was a great scout, but he sucked at resilience. "When," I replied.

  "When," he repeated half-heartedly.

  I let that word fall on its own and slid to the nearest pool. Water was everywhere in the caves, and thankfully it was clean and refreshing.

  We shared a small snack of salted beef, which reminded me of the Slim Jims that used to come in MREs.

  Wordlessly we put our boots back on and continued down another corridor.

  Caves suck. How much do caves suck, you might ask?

  I would rather slide down the Mammoth covered in rusty razor blades into a pool of rubbing alcohol filled with jellyfish, than step foot into another fucking cave ever again.

  In caves, you have no idea what time of day it is, which way is north, if you are going up or going down, or if you even are on the right track. You can't get comfortable sleeping, because there is always a fucking rock that pokes through the fucking sand and gravel. You bang the shit out of your knees and elbows, and you always, and I mean always see shit in the dark.

  Four days had passed before another conversation was had, four days. We were exhausted, starving, and, worst of all, hopeless.

  I knew it was four days because my watch worked, and I had been smart enough to track it. Four Earth days.

  "My Dude," Arsch said as we took another break.

  They were becoming more and more frequent.

  "Call me, Kevin," I said.

  That put a smile on his face.

  "If I don't," he started.

  The only thought in my selfish ass mind was, if he didn't make it, I wouldn't make it.

  I just nodded in complete understanding. I traded letters with Staff Sergeant Rod. I got the short end of the stick on that one. Rodriguez had a wife and four kids. His lucky ass just had to deliver a letter to a mom and dad.

  That sent my mind into a spiral. I didn't even think about what happened after I left. Did they call me MIA or KIA? When they sent a senior NCO to my folk's door, did they send some POG ass bitch, or did they send a fucking blue cord?

  A vision of my mom balling her eyes out hit me hard, my father with his hand on her back, trying to remain stoic. The chaplain giving some fucking religious platitude like, he's in a better place now, or it was God's will.

  Arsch brought me back to reality, "Schonbruste, her father is the King's Announcer."

  "Wait," I said, catching myself, "Schonbruste's father is the King's Announcer?" I asked, ensuring I knew what he was saying.

  "Yes," he said, energy depleted.

  I laughed. It was a pitiful, ragged laugh, but it was unmistakable.

  "Why are," Arsch started asking before I cut him off.

  "Fuck man, I thought she was Glorybeards, daughter, or maybe a noble knight, not that foppish asshole who guards the door," I exclaimed, more laughter heaving up.

  The laughter was contagious, and Arsch began cackling too, between breaths, he asked, "Who the fuck is Glory Beard?"

  What the hell was that guy's name? "You know, the huge gnome with that magnificent red beard. The guy who looks like he could kick my ass."

  Arsch began cackling in earnest. "Stroknair Battlehand," he started, "he's," he said, trying to get the words out, "he likes men."

  I looked at him to see if he was serious, and once
confirmed, I literally rolled on the ground laughing.

  The laughter died after what felt like a few minutes but was probably only thirty seconds. I let the silence sit a little longer, and then broke it, "We're getting out of here, but if we don't, I'll tell Schonbruste, your last thoughts were on her."

  He smiled and bowed, "Thank you, My Dude."

  I was tired from the laughter and the days travel. I was hungry too. I didn't want to think about food. We had almost nothing left. I reached into my ruck and grabbed the last bit of hardtack. I split it in half.

  "My Dude," Arsch argued.

  I was tired of his argument. He had made the same one several days before, and I had acquiesced because it made sense, but I wanted this last bit to be split evenly, right down the middle, not a quarter to him.

  "Please?" I asked, smiling.

  He closed his eyes and nodded, savoring the meager feast.

  "I'll take first guard then," he said.

  Did I mention I was exhausted? I nodded and closed my eyes slightly.

  Like every night, I found a nice covey to hide while I slept. It was in case we were attacked. One of us might surprise the enemy.

  Chapter 20

  Dream or not dream?

  I strode through the tall grass of a cold countryside. Cold mist and fog settled upon the treeless hills. Rocks jutted from the ground in small patches.

  As I moved, the ground squished underfoot. The smell of a wood fire hung on the air, and I could make out the faint melody of an Irish Jig.

  It felt real.

  I had my armor, my ACH, my weapon, and the familiar weight of two frags pulled slightly down at my right pouch.

  It wasn't day, nor was it a night. I couldn't tell if it was dusk or dawn, but after five minutes of walking, the light neither dimmed nor brightened.

  I followed the smell and the sound. The dense fog limited sight to less than fifty meters.

  My walk took me to a game trail, which turned into a paved trail, which eventually led to some flagstone stairs set into a steep knoll.

  The jig grew louder, the smoke denser, and my curiosity greater.

  I climbed each step with greater ease than the step before. I wasn't sure what I was being drawn to, but I knew I wanted to be there.

  After one hundred steps, I arrived at a cobblestone path that led directly to a double wooden door.

  The building looked like something out of medieval times. It had a stone base, three feet tall with wood on top. The windows were shuttered, but light still filtered through the cracks, breaking up the dreary gray mist.

  I opened the doors to the oddest sight.

  Warriors from every epoch and culture sat around tables, enjoying drinks and eating food.

  A Zulu sat with a Brit, a Wehrmacht with a Soviet, and two humans in unknown synthetic armor, that I could only assume was from the future sat apart from each other. At least fifty warriors in total, all sat across from their presumed adversaries.

  Where was mine?

  No eyes turned to look at me as I entered; they just stared across at each other. Some chatted, while others just drank in silence.

  I walked up to the bar and plopped down on one of the five empty bar stools.

  Behind the bar, a short, stout, dark human washed and wiped glasses and plates. He looked up with a bit of surprise on his face.

  "A solo," he said in a thick accent I couldn't place.

  I looked around and replied, "What is this place?"

  "This is the Five Way Inn," he said calmly, "And if you are here by yourself, then you have impressed someone greatly."

  "Who could I have possibly impressed?" I asked, and then added, "How the hell did I even get here?"

  "A drink first," he offered.

  The thick accent was possibly African, but I probably only thought that because the man was so dark.

  "What have you got?" I asked. I saw no taps, no bottles, nothing.

  "Pick your poison," he said.

  I was surprised at the colloquialism. I wasn't sure of the origin, but I was pretty sure it was at a bare minimum western in nature.

  "OK," I said, deciding to test the man, "Ardbeg." I knew there was no way the man had scotch.

  He turned around, and within minutes a small Glencairn with an amber liquid was placed in front of me. I picked it up and sniffed it cautiously. It smelled like the stuff my dad gave me when I graduated OSUT.

  "You don't like scotch, do you?" the man asked.

  "Not really," I said.

  The man turned around, did something, and then produced a tall beer glass with a dark black liquid.

  "What's this?" I asked, looking at the glass in front of me.

  "Guinness," he said.

  I smiled and immediately attacked the beverage. After draining at least half of the cold brew, I placed the glass on the counter.

  "Damn, that's good," I said.

  He smiled and pulled out an old stone bottle. He then pulled out two carved wooden shot glasses and filled them.

  In his thick accent, he said, "I don't get to drink unless a solo sits at my bar."

  I grabbed the wooden shot glass and examined the liquid in it. It was a cloudy tan concoction that smelled vaguely of Cera Sport.

  "Wiitya-wiitya," he said, raising the glass to me.

  I did my best to mimic the saying.

  I coughed hard, as the liquid burned down straight to my soul.

  He sighed and stared at the shot glass.

  After a moment, he smiled broadly, refilled his shot glass, and took another hit.

  I watched him intently, trying to discern some piece of knowledge from the able barkeep.

  He opened his arms wide and said, "Welcome to the Five Way Inn."

  I looked around again. Nothing had changed.

  "You are one of the lucky ones," he said surprisingly chipper, "You have impressed someone of significant power."

  "Who?" I said, feeling as if I had already had this conversation.

  "Who knows," he said, and then added, "I am the barkeep."

  "And your name?" I asked.

  "I have been the barkeep for longer than I can remember," he replied.

  I nodded and asked, "What's with the strange couples?"

  "Think of it as," he paused a moment, "counseling."

  There was an American in khakis and a Japanese pilot or officer. They just stared at each other with venomous rage.

  "World War Two?" I asked, pointing towards the khaki-clad officer.

  The barkeep nodded, "Hate from two people who would otherwise be good."

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "They are good men. Good people in their own right, but one stain upon their souls," he explained. "They hate those they do not know."

  "Isn't all hate bad?" I asked, remembering my protestant upbringing.

  "Of course not," he laughed. "If you saw your mother murdered before your eyes, would you not hate the murderer?"

  "Touche," I said.

  "Those two were never even in the same country together," he said, pointing at the pair. "The American was in the Philippines. He marched to a camp and saw hundreds of his cohorts massacred," he said forlornly. "The IJN sailor was the commander of a destroyer in the South China Sea, his wife and three children lived with his parents in Hiroshima."

  "Oof," was all I could say.

  "They hate each other, yet have never met, and had nothing to do with each other's misfortune other than they had comrades who did bad things," the barkeep said.

  I was about to argue with him about the nuking of Hiroshima, and how it was necessary, but decided against it. I was probably a little bit biased.

  "So what, they just sit there until they stop hating each other?" I asked.

  "Pretty much," the barkeep responded.

  "How long does that take?" I asked.

  "Had a Pic and Roman in here for a week," he responded and then pointed at the Brit and the Zulu, "They've been in here for a century and a half."
<
br />   "That's a long time," I said.

  "Not as long as some," he said, "There was a French Catholic and an Assyrian Muslim who sat at a table for over six hundred years."

  "Guess if you can't drink," I said, not finishing the statement.

  "Some don't drink at all," he said, "their hate is just deep."

  I let that statement sink in. Did I hate the Taliban or Isis? I knew I had dehumanized them, but it was their culture I hated more than just them. If an Isis member recanted, then I wouldn't hate him.

  "I figured there would be a lot more than just these," I said.

  "A lot come in and leave, but like I said, these are just the ones who are good at heart, but just have a blemish," he said.

  "The ones that are not good at heart?" I asked.

  "Tchuway padai," he replied, and then for my benefit, "Only God knows."

  I shuddered a little. Before I had come to Teletha, I knew, absolutely knew, that there was no afterlife. I had never been so wrong.

  He looked at me, smiled, and poured me another drink.

  Silently I raised the shot and saluted.

  "One of two questions everyone asks, and you will get answers to both. So please ask them," he said.

  He was right; there were two more questions I wanted to ask. I decided not to be selfish.

  "What about you? Why are you here?" I asked carefully, not wanting to insult him.

  "I," he started as if boasting, "have the pleasure of being the first-ever murderer."

  "Kane?" I asked, once again remembering my Sunday School days.

  "Kianei," he corrected my pronunciation.

  "No shit," I said, surprised to know who I was dealing with.

  "No shit," he repeated.

  "So what, you're just doomed to serve drinks for couples counseling until the end of time?" I asked.

  "When no one is here, I can close the bar," he said longingly.

  "So, what about me?" I asked, trying to take the edge off his last thought.

  "As I mentioned," he said, pouring another drink, "you have impressed someone."

  "Who, though?" I asked, drinking the shot he proffered.

  I could tell there was alcohol in the drink, but I was still quite sober. Not even a buzz.

  "Nothing happens in here without His say so," he said, emphasizing His.

  "God?" I asked, "Like the God. Like God, God?"