God, what he wouldn’t give to hear her happy giggle again. Her sweet voice, something he used to tune out, thinking she droned on and on, and now she was so quiet. He gave her a squeeze with his arms, and asked, “You gonna miss me, baby girl?” Her head moved up and down, a silent nod. “Love me, Tabby?” Another nod.
“I love you more,” he promised and squeezed again, hearing the bus driver calling names. “It’s time. I gotta go. You be good for Aunt Loretta, you hear?” The nod came slower this time. “I’ll see you real soon, Tabs. Love you.”
“Love you.” Scratchy and quiet, her voice was gravelly with disuse. Nearly two months, and these her first words. Praise Jesus, he thought, standing with her in his arms, holding her tight for just a moment more.
Target is clear
“Jeebus,” Mike muttered, hitching his rucksack higher on his shoulder, marching in place three measured paces after the shouted instruction to halt came.
“Yeah, boy,” a voice murmured from behind him, laughter thickening it considerably. “Italy is hot. North Africa is even hotter.”
“Ain’t that,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, eyes on their commander who stood near the front of the rank. “It stanks.”
“Tannery,” the voice said, this time a chuckle breaking free.
“Jeebus,” Mike said again. “Really stanks.”
“Price of beauty.” This came from his left. Mike cut his eyes to the side in time to see a grin on his friend’s face. Grant Williamson had been in boot camp alongside Mike, and they came out of it with both of them headed to Fort Leonard Wood for their training as something the army called an “elite combat engineer” but the men, and everyone else, called sappers. To wear the sapper tab gave a soldier instant respect, only one of four specialties to have the honor. Their entire cohort hadn’t been able to stay together, but Mike counted himself lucky he and Grant had been side-by-side since. Luck of the draw, he thought, knowing he was fortunate to have this man at his back. “Leather shoes and bags from here are the shit.” Grant chuckled. “All beauty comes with a cost, and Eye-talian leather is the real shit, man.”
“Quiet.” Shouted from the front of the rank, the irritation in their commander’s voice had them standing still and silent, arms at their sides as they waited for instructions.
Seated on the side of his bunk that night, Mike asked Grant, “You think Gaddafi wears Eye-talian leather boots?”
“Fuck no,” came the immediate response. “Gaddafi’s boots are made from the skin of German babies.”
“Sheeit,” Mike said, making a face. “That’s gross, man.”
From his greater age of twenty, Grant looked and acted like he lived in a different world from the one where Mike had come. He had an answer for everything, was steady and hard to anger, and even though they hadn’t yet been in a combat situation, all the training he had done alongside his friend with both dud and live ordnance had proven to him that Grant had a steady head as well as hands. He looked up to him, not quite hero-worship, but Grant was who he wanted to be in three years. Confident and competent. Good and honorable.
***
“Say again,” Mike shouted into the radio handset, covering his other ear with a flattened palm. “Did not copy. Say again.”
Static greeted him, and he scanned the men squatted in a half circle around him. He gave it thirty seconds, counting down slowly like Pa had taught him about thunder back in the mountains of Kentucky. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand…
“Command, this is Echo Bravo Golf Niner Two Two and I did not copy. Say again.” One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand…this cycle had gone around two more times before he shoved the handset into the side pocket of a pack sitting on the red sand. Looking up at the men, he saw fear or hopeless resignation on every face except one, so he focused there when he spoke. “Second Armored seems to be non-responsive at the moment,” he drawled, and Deke laughed while Mike grinned back at him like a loon. “Not the first time we’ve been here,” he said, glancing around at the rest of the men. He then finished fastening the straps on his bag before hefting it over one shoulder, shrugging into the harness.
“We set our charges, then head back out, easy does it. Target is clear. The only question we had was about any changes. If we’re out of communication, then the expectation is there are no changes. OPORD rules, no frags, no changes. If there were, brass would have gotten them to us.” He pulled one of the pockets on his pants open, the quiet sound of the zipper louder than it should have been in the silence.
Flattening the map on his thigh, he held it in place with his palm for a minute, looking again at the men. “Corky,” he called, and the youngest member of their unit startled, then froze in place as he realized his movement telegraphed nervousness. “We got this, son.”
“Yeah, Watcher, I get that. You’re on it. No worries, old man.”
Mike shared a rueful glance with Grant, the two of them acknowledging that to these kids they were old men. Old and seasoned, because individually they had been deployed for more than the rest of them combined, and had multiple successful missions under their belts. Mike, now called Watcher, because the FNGs—or fucking new grunts—were of the opinion he saw everything. Grant, with a call name of Deke, because he could weasel his way out of nearly any punishment, deking around it like he was on the ice in Michigan where he came from. Definitely the old guys here.
“Okay, then. Let’s go blow our bridge.” He stood and scanned the horizon. “Eighty-second will be there when we need them, I have confidence. Those boys are faithful to a fault, never failed me yet.”
Forty-eight hours later, Mike and Grant were sitting in the makeshift gym back on base, tepid water in hand. Tipping the top of his canteen in a toast, Mike said, “Another successful run, my friend.”
Grant reached out and bumped his against the offered rim, responding, “Hell, yeah. We crisped that shit, man. Cheers to our fine asses.”
“Cheers.” Mike lifted his water, took a long swallow, and then dropped his hand back to rest on his thigh. “Could have gone badly, man. You did a great job keeping the guys together.”
“Fuck that,” Grant laughed, shaking his head. “I didn’t do shit except back you up when you needed it, man. You’re the glue, and you fucking know it.” He reached out, thumping the back of his hand against Watcher’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, Otey.”
“Yeah, back atcha, brother.” Mike grinned at him, then he frowned, seeing a somber expression roll across Grant’s features. “What’s up, man?”
“Not sure how to tell you, Mike.” Grant held his gaze, regret and sincerity in his voice as he said, “Not re-upping. Four does it for me. Time for me to head back, get my ass stateside, find me some pretty pussy to play with.”
At his blunt talk, Mike winced, then focused on the news in the speech. “I’m losing you?”
Nodding, Grant reached out and put his hand on top of Mike’s shoulder. He gripped tightly for a moment before he made a fist and pounded hard. “I’m here another ninety, then I’m out and about, brother. We need to find you a wingman before I go, preferably one who’s better at the damn job than me, since I haven’t gotten you laid yet.”
Shaking his head, Mike said, “What’ll you do?”
“Dunno, just know the army ain’t the be-all, end-all for me. I’m looking for something else.” He shrugged, then said, “I don’t regret the experience, the chance to travel like this, and I sure as fuck don’t regret the opportunity to meet you, brother.”
“Same here, man. Won’t feel right without your ugly mug watching over my butt.” Mike drank the last of his water, balancing the empty canteen in one hand. “But, I still got you. I still got you today.” He sucked in a breath, blowing it back out slowly. “My belly’s ringing the dinner bell, you ready?”
“Sure. Let’s go get some chow, and then we’ll troll the zone, see if we can get you laid tonight. Target is clear.”
***<
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Mike took a step back and felt his shoulders smack into the plaster-covered wall running alongside the road. He shook his head vehemently, trying to push away from the person in front of him. There were hoots and laughter from along the wall, and softer noises of clothing being discarded or moved, adjusted to make room for the activities of the evening.
In his head, he heard a stuttering slide, smelled decaying metal, rust, saw the glow of a false dawn growing bright around the peak of a mountain in a Kentucky skyline. “No,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes closed as he felt a hand groping across his belly, angling downward. “Huh uh, no. No, ma’am.” Fast as a thought, he reached out, clasping tight around the wrist attached to the hand, only easing up when he heard a soft grunt of pain.
Looking down, he saw a girl standing close, pulled there by his grip on her arm. Her other hand was trying futilely to peel back his fingers from her arm as she stared up at him, her mouth twisted in pain. Shocked, he released her and grasped her shoulders, setting her back and away from him. “No,” he said again, firmly, “no more.”
“Damn, Watcher.” Grant was nearby, leaning his forearm against the wall. His stance was wide, with feet planted firmly and he was angled in, hips moving powerfully. His body was big; so big, if you didn’t know to look, you would never see the girl on her knees in front of him, accepting him into her mouth. “You need to get you some, brother. I’m only here another week.” He grunted, then groaned, mouth gaping open as he tipped his head back, cords standing out on his neck. “Fuck. Yeah, baby.” The fabric of his shirt rippled with movement then stilled as he groaned again, hips rocking forward a final time.
After a few moments, Grant stepped back, adjusted himself and turned to face Mike who still had his hands on the girl’s shoulders, keeping her away from him. “Seriously, man. You need to pop that fucking cherry. It’s a burden no man needs.” He indicated the girl, saying, “She’s right here, man. I already paid her for you. Let her jerk you off, at least.”
“Grant,” Mike said, his voice low and intense. “I cain’t. I just cain’t.”
“Why the fuck not, Watch?”
Mike shook his head. “She’s just a kid.”
“So are you! It evens out.” Grant laughed, reaching out to steady himself against the wall as he refastened his belt one-handed. “Makes it okay.”
“She’s just a kid. I’m twenty.” Mike pushed her away a final time and she slunk away to run along the street, turning and disappearing into the first alley. “Girl wasn’t much older than Tabby is, Deke. Just a kid.”
“How’s your sis doin’ with school starting back up? I saw you got a letter from your aunt at mail call.” With ease born of long practice, the two ignored the rest of the men populating the whores’ wall and turned to walk back the way they’d come.
“Doin’ good. Tabby’s doin’ real good. Hard to believe my little girl started junior high this year. I need to ask to rotate home for a visit soon. Maybe before Christmas.” He grinned, thinking of the most recent picture their Aunt Loretta sent him. It was taken outside, a not quite teenaged Tabby sitting astride a four-wheeler, helmet in place, a grin wider than her face showing nearly every tooth in the girl’s head. “Darrie’s supposed to have leave for Christmas. Would be real good to see both of them.”
“You should go,” Grant told him.
At a noise behind them, both men whirled, dropping into defensive crouches. Unfolding and laughing, they looked down at the young girl Mike had refused. She was standing with her body as far away as possible, arm stretched out, fingers fisted around the money Grant had given her.
“Laa,” Mike said, shaking his head. “Laa, child. No.” She took a step backwards, then bent far forward and shook the money. He waved a hand at her, frowning when she flinched at his movement. Then he told her no again, “Laa.” One skipping step backwards turned into two, and then with a flick of her hair, she whipped around and was running, pelting down the street back to the wall.
“Bah. Your loss. If we ain’t taking the money back from the kid, means you’re gonna pay me back.” Grant reached out, wrapped his elbow around Mike’s neck and tugged hard. Pulling Mike against his side, Grant scrubbed bent knuckles fiercely across the top of Mike’s head. “Your fucking loss, in so many ways, brother.”
Drink me out of the country
Watcher stood in one corner of the briefing room, narrowed eyes flicking back and forth, looking at the map on the board. He lifted a steaming mug of coffee to his lips, sipped, swallowed, and then blew across the top of the liquid before he sipped again. To his right stood the commander, silently waiting. Watcher sighed, and then took another sip before he said, “It’s gonna be a bitch to get through with so many men. You want us to remove impediments to troop movements, or have a running fight?” Twisting his neck, he looked at the commander, as usual trying hard not to wince when he saw the kid.
At twenty-four, with nearly seven years of solid deployment, Watcher was the seasoned vet in the room. The only person who had more years than him was their local liaison, and that man was someone’s grandpa. The idea on the board had merit, but he wanted all things to be taken into consideration. This meant he would be walking the thin line of encouraging while discouraging, once a-fucking-gain.
“Rolling with only half the guys gives us greater mobility. We can calculate the needs for the blow you want, take that, and enough to also take down bridges as needed, but if we split the group—” He walked towards the map, finger pointing at a location. “—then we can remove this route, too.” Without turning around, he said, “Gives the hostiles only one corridor to move everything, which will keep things nicely contained. As long as they have at least one bridge to use, they won’t reallocate construction units to rebuild for at least a while, so we leave them one. By leavin’ one to give us a pinch point, and taking out these two”—he lifted his other hand, still holding his cup, pointing to the pin on the map indicating the original target—“we make our boys’ lives easier.”
“How do you see this shit?” The question from the kid in the greens didn’t surprise him, but still drew a rough laugh.
“I’m a watcher. It’s what I do.” He shrugged, then smiled. “You know the code. Sappers, we live for this, sir. When it absolutely positively has to be blown up, breached, or destroyed overnight, we’re there. Because, sir, there is no situation that a small amount of properly placed explosives cannot handle.” The commander laughed, and Watcher grinned.
“Hey, Watch.” He turned to find the signal officer standing in the door and nodded, giving him full attention, eyes focused on the paper in the man’s hand as it was waved up and down. “I have an urgent personal for you.”
There was more movement outside, and Watcher saw a figure approach, then the unit chaplain’s head peered over the kid’s shoulder, eclipsing him. Watcher’s stomach gave a lurch and then dropped into his boots. Only one reason for an urgent personal message to coincide with a visit from the preacher, and he took a second to try to compose himself, putting an impassive mask into place before acknowledging the man. “Preach.”
“Watch, my friend,” the chaplain said, his voice quiet and sympathetic, rich with shared pain. “Let’s walk.” Preacher reached over to pluck the paper from the signal officer’s hand, tucking it into the front pocket on his shirt. “Come on, brother.”
That night Watcher lay in his bunk, eyes open, staring sightlessly up at the shadowed rafters holding up the flat metal roof. In his mind, he kept rolling the information Preach had for him, which was more than what was on the paper. The message said to call his aunt. Lots of room for wiggle there. Interpretation of disaster was implied, but it could have been his uncle or even Darrie. Anything. Nothing to point towards the story Preach had.
“Why?” He hadn’t been aware he was about to speak, and the sound of his voice, raw and anguished, shocked him. He jerked and closed his eyes, then squeezed them tightly, hands fisting into the blanket underneath him as he shouted
, “WHY?”
In his mind he saw her, grin wide as her cheeks could stretch, sitting behind the wheel of the beat-up old farm truck he’d bought from the used lot in town. Arm leaning against the top of the steering wheel, Tabby’s head tilted slightly, close-cropped hair curling all over her head.
She was always like that. Always careful with how she dressed and looked. After what had happened to her, Watcher felt it was understandable, but it worried him. Worried him so much he asked Tabby’s talking doc about it once and the woman gave him some lame explanation of why his sister seemed determined to look as masculine as possible, but still loved to dress her dollies in frills. She looked cute, was cute, but she hid it behind baggy clothes, unattractive haircuts, language to make a sailor blush, and an attitude of indifference about nearly everything.
She loved that truck, though. Called it a classic. Spent every dime she earned working at the local drive-in on things to dress it up. Seat covers, floor mats, even a brand new sound system. Since the day he drove it into the yard with a little three-inch yellow bow taped to the hood, she had loved that truck. Hardship license since she wasn't old enough for a regular one, but she was a good driver. She had learned in their uncle’s old jeep, careening all over the meadow for days, grinding the gears down to nothing until she got the hang of it.
“Watch, they said it might not be an accident.” Preach’s voice was in his head, and Watcher’s neck twisted, pulling his ear down to his shoulder, instinctively trying to block sound that wasn’t there. Words existing only in his memories. “Weather was good, early morning clear skies. No reason for her to run off the side of the mountain.” There hadn’t been any images to go with the story, just the words burned into his brain. “Nearly a hundred feet, brother. I talked to the sheriff’s men. There’s no guardrail there, just a sheer drop. Took them hours to recover her.”
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