by Jones, K. J.
“I can’t.” He shined a penlight into her eyes, trying to hold her head straight.
“They were talking about it. Peter’s gonna talk to you about it.”
“Shit,” he groaned. “She could die.”
Syanna suddenly fell quiet. She passed out from the pain. Peace from unconsciousness relaxed the muscles of her face.
He sat on the edge of the bed and checked Syanna’s vitals. “She’s okay. Pulse is fast, but that’s to be expected in such pain.” He put down the stethoscope and sat there.
Phebe sat next to him.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Tired, I guess.”
“You should grab sleep and food whenever you can. Let me tell ya, it’s the secret to survival.”
“Was kind of thinking guns were. In this.”
“Helps.”
“I’m not hungry. I feel too wired to sleep.”
“I recommend laying down. And force yourself to eat something. Particularly high caloric. Smells like they’re cooking something. Got a bunch of Rangers and Marines, bet it’ll be high caloric. We know how to do this. Well, I assume Marines do.”
She stared off.
“Phebe. How much sleep did you get last night?”
“Not a lot. Once the electricity went out and it got cold in …” She trailed off. The memories of what had happened threatened. “Anyway, how are you?”
“You can talk to me about it.”
“Nothing to talk about.”
“Phebe, it may feel better in the short term to push away a traumatic experience, but, trust me when I say, it’s not good long term.”
“You don’t talk about things, at least when I’m around.”
“That’s a big part of my problem. I do not talk about things. I’m a Ranger — I can handle anything. That’s what my brain tells me. But it’s actually not us that were the big traumatized soldiers. It was the REMFs.” He pronounced it as remphs.
“The what?”
“Rear echelon motherfuckers. Excuse my language. The soldiers safe back at base camp who got mortared once in a while. Special ops, we have our own problem.”
“Which is, since I’m in the hands of you guys? Wait, what’s special ops?”
“What civilians call special forces, but it’s not.”
“Special ops is what is not special forces?”
“Green Berets are technically SF. The rest of us are special operations.”
“Why can’t you just be special forces and make that simple?”
“Because it’s the US Army.”
“Oh. I see.” She tried to smile but wasn’t feeling it. “What were you saying about special ops … what?”
“We tend to have something different from shell shock type PTSD.”
“So what do you have?”
“We can’t turn it off. The war. Being a warrior. The turning on and off doesn’t work well. You wake up not knowing if you’re on or off. I go to VA therapy to learn how to not freak out in traffic, thinking we’re gonna get hit any second. To turn it off. Or bring it down to a level that works. You got a taste of it today. Hostiles, danger from everywhere and anywhere. Gotta be jacked up to face it and fight at any second.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Guess I did.”
“Imagine that going on for a while.”
“Prefer not to imagine that, thank you.”
“But we were trained. So we fall back on that. Well, not so much for Rangers. Our training is crazy fast. For some guys, they were in the live combat arena within weeks. Nineteen-years-old, their balls have barely had time to drop, and they’re in the shit up to their eyes. When you see a bunch of them, waiting, the military’s notorious hurry up and wait, we’re waiting for days, even weeks, for orders. You see them as the kids they are. They’re acting spastic and wrestling each other. Dumb shit. Annoying me. I remember watching them, thinking how freaking young they were. It’s worse now, seeing college guys. Their civilian counterparts. Wow. All about bongs, beers and boobs. Doing the dumbest things. Just the goofy laugh makes me want to punch some of them. Guys like that kid out there. Mulden.”
“Mullen.”
“Whatever. He doesn’t get a name yet.”
“What?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “A war thing. At least for us. Chris was terrible at that. If they haven’t proved themselves, that they won’t get themselves or someone else killed, they didn’t get names. They weren’t called by their own names. He’d come up with things to call them. He expected them to respond to it. They were so intimidated by him they would learn their new names and respond.” He chuckled.
“I don’t think Mullen is nineteen.”
“See what I mean? Ya know, there’s military years, which are like double normal years. And there're war years. War years are like dog years. By the time I was that kid’s age, I had already done a tour. Saved men’s lives. Or lost men. I had already killed men.”
“I killed people today.”
“I know.” His voice softened and sympathy in his eyes. “How do you feel about that?”
“Are you my therapist now?”
“Can’t get you to the VA.”
“What feelings are a person supposed to have? They were going to kill me.”
“Exactly. The first time you take a life, it’s like, whoa. I did that? I looked at my weapon like I had Thor’s hammer. Then Sully yelled at me, because we were under fire and I had to dig in.”
“I don’t even know how many people I killed.”
“Here’s a screwed-up concept. You probably killed more today than most of the United States Armed Forces troops have.”
“Wow. That is … weird. I dunno.”
“You got the instinct. Let me tell you, as a Ranger, that’s what makes a big difference. There’s instinct or not. I mean, I cannot tell you what an extraordinary amount of badass you pulled out today. You should be proud.”
“Proud?” She scowled hard. “I left her, Matt.”
“Chris told us what he found with you girls.”
“What a coward I was?”
“Exact opposite. He was impressed by you. Let me tell you, he’s not easily impressed. No training whatsoever. You did shit that would make most soldiers in RASP piss themselves and run away.”
“RASP?”
“Ranger Assessment and Selection Process. Gotta give yourself some credit.”
“I cannot believe I left her.”
“Phebe, come on. You sound like war medic. Superhuman expectations and guilt.”
“I was exhausted. I was scared. She wouldn’t stop screaming. I couldn’t help her.”
“Phebe, you carried more weight than we do in our rucks.”
“I couldn’t get far.”
“Barely any sleep. Thrown into the deep end of the shit. No training whatsoever. Never even shot a gun. Come on.”
“No,” she insisted, shaking her head.
“But you were there. You didn’t run away. He said you popped up and did some funny movie cop thing on him.”
“I was exhausted.”
“And you were in a car accident. Wounded yourself.”
“Stop it,” she said. “There’s no excuse for what I did.”
“Phebe, it’s not the movies. People don’t actually pull out that kind of nonsense. They got this bullshit of these women, full face makeup—can you tell I have sisters?—never looking like crap. They go from civilian to warrior in the blink of an eye, all while looking hot. Not reality at all. Everyone in those movies can suddenly shoot a gun. And shoot well. They can do extraordinary shit. All without getting tired. No training. It is utter bullshit. And you women are getting that bad. Movies. Games. Bad message. Look at me.”
When she didn’t, he demanded, “Look at me, Phebe.”
She sighed and met his gaze.
“Everyone out there, except for that kid, are highly trained, experienced soldiers and Marines. Chris is five tours. Sully six or someth
ing. He was with Delta at the end. He was impressed with what Chris told him about what you did. We all assumed you two were dead. When I saw your house torn up. When you said you were on foot and she was unconscious. Holy shit, Pheebs. Chris said you followed his orders better than most green Rangers do. He said he was using hand signals and you understood. He asked me if I had done some training of you. And you stood back-to-back with him. You were ready to mercy kill your friend.”
“He saw that?”
“Chris sees everything. Don’t let the stupid redneck facade and all the jokes fool you about Sergeant Higgins. As long as he isn’t married to you, he sees everything.” He cracked a smile. “Don’t ask. His life’s a train wreck. There’s a reason he didn’t make rank again. And that he’s a fat sergeant, sitting around at Bragg during his reservist weekend. Checking off the months until his contract is over. It has nothing to do with war. He’s good at that. It’s life he sucks at. Sully, the same way, except he didn’t try at life. His closest relationship with a female in his home is a mental cat. And he’s made her psychotic. Guys with multiple deployments, hmm.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m in there. Four tours. Fifteen months each, usually. About fifteen minutes between. But look at my relationship.” He pointed to the unconscious girl in the bed. “My VA therapist says I need the drama. Same with being a paramedic. I need the life-and-death situations, or I’m restless. Or whatever. It makes me feel alive, she said. I thought she was full of it. Until today.”
“What do you mean?”
“I hate to admit it, but I liked it today.”
“You liked that?” Her arm gestured towards the window.
He shrugged. “Yeah. The excitement of it. That was more alive than I have felt in a long time. I didn’t go Reserves because of too much excitement in war. I did it … now, looking back, after today, because of an identity conflict. That’s probably what my therapist would say. I had become someone I did not intent on becoming. You see, Pheeb, I joined the Army and I went option forty, went Rangers, because of patriotism. I thought it my duty to go off and kill the bad guys, the evil Muslims who did nine-eleven to us. Rangers were the way to achieve that duty, I believed. I wanted to be a doctor. Honestly, my mom wasn’t for me enlisting. She wanted me to go to college and pursue my dream of being a pediatrician. But I did it. Basic training, jump school, RASP, medic training, and I’m off to Iraq. Red, white, and blue still. And I’m in a whole other world.”
He suddenly chuckled. “Wallace. Sergeant Wallace. A black man from a place called Newark, New Jersey, you know it? You’re from that area.”
“We New Yorkers try not to acknowledge Jersey, but I know of it. The asshole of the Garden State.”
“Why’s it called garden—never mind. He said to me, ‘White boy, you just shit apple pie, don’t you?’” He laughed. “That was me. Apple Pie Doc, they called me for a while.”
“Doc?”
“It’s what we call medics. So I was Apple Pie Doc for a while. Before I got a name.”
“Oh, that name thing again.”
“Lately, I wonder if Chris has gone senile and forgot my name. The kid thing. Or he’s trying to insult me. He’s weird, as you have probably noticed.”
“He saved my life. I think I may love him.”
“Totally don’t say that to him. It won’t go well.”
“Getting that.”
“Keep in mind, we had a guy in the platoon we called Horndog.”
“Oh God.”
“Yeah, name says it all.”
She smirked, mischief entering her brown eyes. “So, do I have a name now?”
“You’re a girl.”
She frowned. “Yeah, rumor has it.”
He laughed.
“What does that mean, I’m a girl?”
He shrugged. “You’re a girl.”
“So, what, I have tentacles and eat through my ear?”
“Rumor has it.”
“Oh shut up.”
He smiled to her.
She looked away, not comfortable with how he looked at her. His eyes sparkled with her in his gaze.
“So I don’t get a name ever?” she asked.
“I think girls get names because they’re girls.”
“Shall I point out the obvious there?”
“We’re not the most sensitive guys, you got us there.”
“No, you suck.”
“Okay. So, we suck. Isn’t it better to have a name right at the giddy-up than having to earn one?”
“No. Oh, I don’t know. This is my first combat scenario. I haven’t explored my viewpoint on women in war.”
“Hope you’re not planning on doing that. This is not the best of guys to get feminist on.”
“What about Mazy?”
“She was intel. Not with a platoon of men. There are so many complications to that. Little of which actually has to do with if women can fight. It’s not that. At least I don’t think so. Not anymore.”
“It has to do with sex, doesn’t it?”
“With what?”
“Sex. I’m quite sure you’ve heard of it.”
“Smart ass. Can we change the topic?”
She laughed at him.
“What?”
“You act like I goosed you.”
“Can we change the topic?”
She said, “Nice weather we’ve been having.”
“Oh my God, what a smart ass.”
She fell over, giggling.
“Stop,” he said.
“Okay, apple pie.”
“I shouldn’t share with you.”
“Sharing’s caring.”
“Oh my God. Are you sure you’re not one of us? You got the smart ass-ness down.”
“Then I get a name.”
“Stop it with the name. You’re lucky if you don’t get a nickname.”
Peter appeared in the doorway. The blue eyes narrowed. “Interrupting?”
“No,” said Matt. “We gotta give this girl a nickname. She’s a smart ass.”
Peter smiled to her, eyes sparkling. “Good to know. Otherwise, you’d get called Hooah Girl.”
Matt burst into laughter.
Phoebe stiffened. “Now wait a minute. That didn’t sound good.”
“Not what you think,” said Matt, rosy cheeked.
Peter chuckled as he said, “We had an L-T –”
“That’s a lieutenant,” Matt said.
“Thank you, translator,” said Peter. “An L-T. The Army didn’t requisition a sense of humor to this guy. Good Ranger, but horrible human being to be around. I don’t know if he was a suck up or he just didn’t get it. He’d say hooah after the senior officers concluded talking to us.” He laughed. “Even our Colonel would give him a look. Just everything was hooah.” Every time Peter said hooah, he jerked his head forward. “So I started calling him Lieutenant Hooah. I trained my spider monkeys –”
“What he called the nineteen-year-olds.”
“My spider monkeys to all stand up and bark ‘hooah’ every time he came by. Dude didn’t know what was going on for the longest time. Then he complained about it. You can’t get somebody in trouble in the Army for misplaced hooah. You know what that is?”
“Syanna kind of told me,” Phebe answered.
“Good. Then that story made somewhat sense to you.”
“All except the spider monkey part.”
“My idiot savant nob heads.”
“Nob heads,” Matt said. “Because many of them didn’t get it they could now grow out their hair more than a centimeter. They looked like nobs.”
“These kids,” said Peter. “Totally special needs during down time. Acting like spastic reta’ds. Wrestling each other. Piling on top of each other. Some latent homosexual thing going on. Very awkward to witness. But at my command, they’d snap to as my platoon of combat spider monkeys. A lot of Rangers are built like Conway out there. Little and wiry. Spider monkeys. Climbing ropes. Leaping aroun
d. I’d go, Attack, spider monkeys, and they’d do it. Boy Wonder out there’s a spider monkey in the making.”
“See,” said Matt. “The kid doesn’t have a name.”
“You’re telling her all our secrets.”
“Did she earn a name yet?”
“A little foreign to the tongue to say, At your three, Phebe. You’ll be Pheeb. Pheebs. Something like that. Can’t do Phebe in a combat situation. What’s next, Dolores? Feels like we’re attacking a hat sale.”
“See,” Matt said to her. “You got a name. Happy?”
“Yeah,” she said. “You know, apart from the zombie apocalypse, end of the world thing.”
“There ya go,” said Peter. “She says it too.”
“No,” said Matt. “They’re not zombies. I’m never giving on that.”
“You’ll get warn down.”
“Never.”
Syanna stirred in the bed. Her once peaceful, passed-out face began to crumple into pain.
“Matt,” said Peter. “You gotta give her something. We cannot have her screaming.”
“It could risk her life.”
“Her life or ours. Or are you two staying here? You gotta make the hard decision.”
“Why are we moving on? We’re good here.”
“Here? In a one-story house. What’s our perimeter, an azalea bush? Did you not tell me what happened to their house?” He pointed at Phebe as representative of their house. “A two-story. And it got fucked real fast.” Peter looked at her. “Right?”
“Very fast,” she responded.
“Matt, we got windows and shit. Nothing to block ‘em up with. All the doors are hollow.” He knocked on the bedroom door to prove it.
“They go right through hollow doors,” Phebe said.
“See? We can’t Night of the Living Dead here, boarding up the farm house. Matt, brother, I know where you’re coming from and I know how you are. Patient first. I got that. And it’s great. But you are back in the shit. I know you hate it when you have to compromise the patient for the platoon. But it’s happening. She’s your girlfriend to boot, whatever that means to you. Obviously a lot, since you been with her forever. If that takes priority, then the two of you stay here. Alone.”
“I guess,” said Phebe. “I could stay, if that’s what you want, Matt.” Her facial expression looked guilt-ridden.
“No,” said Peter. “You’re not.”