***
For Specialist Fallon the stress of combat wasn’t anything different than what the other soldiers endured on a daily basis. Some days were bad and some days were worse, but Fallon would just tell himself that in other wars it was worse, much worse. In his first few months of combat in Iraq, he had already been wounded twice, both times were just scratches really. He was prepared for the third and maybe fourth time, but he just hoped the next one wouldn’t be too bad. It’s just part of the job he told himself.
The worst part of combat, however, for Specialist Fallon, was the feeling that he was trapped. Trapped not by the war and the constant fear, but by the same mundane feeling people have with an everyday regular nine-to-five job. Just like most normal jobs, a lot of that trapped feeling came from the boss, and Colonel Bugs wasn’t your average type of boss. What made it so bad for Specialist Fallon was that in Iraq a soldier couldn’t go home after work or on the weekend. He was literally trapped with Colonel Bugs.
It’s not that Colonel Bugs was a mean man, he just projected the intensity of a sergeant with the authority of a colonel. Unlike most officers of his rank, Lieutenant Colonel Bugs had first served as an enlisted soldier and then later commissioned as an officer. He liked to remind people that unlike the West Point officers, he’d paid his dues the hard way. On the few occasions that a West Point officer was foolish enough to disagree with Bugs, his fists would usually convince them of their error. Bugs knew what it was like on the bottom of the Army food-chain and because of this he spent a lot of time focusing on the junior enlisted in his battalion. He pushed the men in his battalion hard, and his single maxim reflected his intensity: the more sweat on the training field, the less blood on the battlefield. So his men sweat a lot. In Iraq they sweat even more, but a lot them still bled.
Much of Bugs’ intensity was embodied in his love for basketball and he used it to try and mold the junior enlisted soldiers in his battalion into a lethal fighting force. He would constantly walk around the battalion’s small base checking everything. “Get your game face on men,” he would shout to soldiers he saw standing around. “We ain’t playing scrimmage games here.” Often he stood by the gate as his soldiers left to go on patrol to remind them that it was game time, and to keep their eye on the shot clock. “Get after it!” he shouted.
Bugs’ passion for basketball went well beyond simply using sport idioms. He wrote to Wal-Mart to inform them that it was their patriotic duty to support his troops by sending a backstop and hoop to Iraq. Wal-Mart, to their credit, sent two hoops and backboards. They also sent several basketballs, pumps, towels, and a few game jerseys; all free of charge. Bugs then hired a few Iraqi locals to build a basketball court next to his command office so he could play pick-up games with his soldiers. When a lieutenant broke his ankle playing, Bugs forbid anymore unauthorized officer games. Of course, the mandatory esprit de corps pick-up games with the junior enlisted went on as usual.
Their little patrol base normally received about four or five mortar rounds every few days, but it didn’t stop Bugs. He just gave the order to play with combat gear, helmet, body armor vest, and rifles at the ready just a few meters away. After a month or two the mortar rounds began to land closer and closer to the basketball court. It was obvious that whoever was shooting the mortars was trying to hit the basketball court. So Bugs ordered bunkers to be built next to the court and local Iraqi contractors would patch up any new holes with concrete.
For Specialist Fallon, basketball wasn’t really a sport he cared too much for, but he never really disliked it either. Nonetheless Colonel Bugs’ nonstop references to the game -“take your shot” - and his insistence on playing regardless of the heat or danger from incoming mortars, combined with his relentless patrol cycle, pushed Specialist Fallon and just about every other soldier into the so-called gray area. On one day when Specialist Fallon and a few other soldiers were supposed to be on their rest cycle, Bugs called a pick-up game. Because Fallon and the others were in the wrong place at the wrong time they had to play. It was the day a bit of smoke began to appear in Fallon’s rear view mirror.
After the game, Fallon leaned against one of the bunkers along the court and set the basketball down, but he never seemed to stop playing with it. The ball lay on the ground at his feet, but Fallon kept twirling it in his hand. When his buddy asked him what he was doing, Fallon just looked at him. When his friend asked again, Fallon said “oh,” and seemed to stop.
Over the next few days Colonel Bugs canceled the pick-up games because it was too hot, even for him, but Fallon never stopped playing with the ball, at least with a ball that no one else could see. Nobody really seemed to care too much about it either. That’s not to say they didn’t notice him playing, it just didn’t feel too out of place. Half the battalion already had mild cases of dysentery from the swarms of flies living in the kitchen, and the daily mortar attacks kept putting holes in water tanks, humvees, power generators as well as a few soldiers. Some junior enlisted soldier bouncing an invisible ball in the chow line wasn’t at the top of anyone’s ‘things-to-worry-about’ list. The other enlisted soldiers joked about it from time to time saying that “Fallon’s gone crazy,” but neither the sergeants nor officers seemed to be concerned. As long as Fallon could do his job and he didn’t create any extra undo danger to anyone, then nobody really cared what he did with a ball they couldn’t see.
Once, late at night, Fallon was on radio watch in the company command post. Another soldier who was also on radio watch with him sat in the corner watching Fallon try to spin the invisible ball on his finger, but it never seemed to work. Fallon stood there with his finger in the air, and one hand spinning an invisible ball. When the invisible ball fell, Fallon would stop, bend down and pick the ball up then try to spin it on his finger again. After a half hour of watching Fallon, and bored from hours of radio watch, the other soldier, who played basketball all through high school stood up.
“You’re doing it all wrong,” he said holding up his own imaginary ball. “You got to use two fingers like this.” The other soldier held up his hand and Fallon mirrored the instructions. “You’re spinning it in the wrong direction too,” he said. After a few minutes it appeared Fallon had it down pretty well.
“Thanks,” Fallon said.
The other soldier sat back down in the corner. “No problem,” he said picking up a magazine.
The first to say something was Haleem, the company translator. He, like the others, had seen Fallon playing with the imaginary ball, but like everyone else had watched Fallon doing it for so long that it became something normal. It wasn’t until third platoon was on patrol that someone from the outside noticed. On Mondays after the city council meeting the platoon would often walk through the tomato market and speak with the local farmers. On one day Haleem and Fallon happened to meet a local tribal leader.
Haleem translated what the tribal leader said to Fallon. He like most Iraqis was very polite and wished Fallon a long and happy life. Fallon thanked him and then began to spin his imaginary ball on his finger. The tribal leader looked at Fallon for a moment and then to Haleem.
“Why does he mock me with his hands?” he asked Haleem. “I will not be made a fool by some crazy American soldier.”
Haleem reassured the tribal leader that Fallon was young and nervous being around such a strong Iraqi leader and that when Americans are nervous they play with their hands. The tribal leader, satisfied with Haleem’s answer, again wished Fallon’s family a long and happy life, then walked away. It became obvious to Haleem that what had become normal for them wasn’t normal at all.
After the platoon returned from their hot and dusty patrol, Haleem told Sergeant Kim what had happened. Kim was Fallon’s Platoon Sergeant and very much a practical man, but by all definitions a mean person. Sergeant Kim didn’t like to involve anyone in third platoon’s problems, not even the lieutenant who technically was the senior member of the platoon. Sergeant Kim went looking for Fallon and found him b
ouncing the invisible ball next to a humvee in the motor pool. Sergeant Kim grabbed Fallon by the arm pushing him against the door.
“Look here college boy you’d better stop fucking around while on patrol.”
When Fallon tried to say something, Sergeant Kim’s hand bit like a python deeper into Fallon’s arm.
“Hey,” Fallon said, wincing under the pain and trying to wiggle free from Sergeants Kim’s grip. “That hurts.”
“Shut the fuck up Fallon. I’m talking and you’re listening,” he said. “You’d better stop the dick dancing around on patrol or life for you is going to get really miserable. Understood?” Specialist Fallon tried to stand up straight, but Kim didn’t let up. “I said,” Kim leaned in close to Fallon’s face. “Do you fucking understand me?”
Fallon mumbled a meager yes and Sergeant Kim immediately screamed in Fallon’s face, “Yes what?”
Fallon snapped a clear, “Yes Sergeant.”
Kim released his prey. “Consider this your first, last and only warning fuck-tard,” he said.
Specialist Fallon understood well enough and quickly walked away. Sergeant Kim, thinking the game was over, didn’t notice Fallon carrying the imaginary ball in his hand.
Despite the near death encounter with Sergeant Kim, Fallon continued to play with the ball, yet nobody really seemed to notice or really care that Fallon stopped playing whenever Sergeant Kim came around. So it went for the next few days. Haleem shook his head and wondered why nobody was helping the crazy soldier, Sergeant Kim didn’t give a damn as long as he didn’t see it, especially while on patrol, and the junior enlisted had seen it so much that they knew something was wrong, but as long as there wasn’t too much smoke coming out the back, then why should they stop to take a look?
Of course, it was just a matter of time before Colonel Bugs overheard the rumors and took notice of Specialist Fallon. Usually Bugs would leave such things for sergeants to fix, specifically the Sergeant Major. After all it was the Sergeant Major’s job to keep soldiers off the grass, yell at them for not shining their boots and deal with the occasional oddity like an invisible basketball. In Iraq there was no grass to keep the soldiers off of and no one wore boots that could be shined. Bugs wasn’t really sure what the Sergeant Major did all day or why he hadn’t already dealt with Specialist Fallon. Bugs knew it was just a matter of time before the Sergeant Major would take notice of Fallon, but Bugs didn’t want that. Not this time, Bugs told himself. It’s too personal to let the Sergeant Major deal with it. That Fallon guy and his invisible basketball is a direct attack on my leadership. No, I can’t leave this one to the Sergeant Major. Some things, Bugs told himself, a man has to fix on his own.
Bugs knew he needed time to figure out how to deal with Fallon, but he also knew he had to distract the Sergeant Major’s attention away from Fallon long enough for him to figure out how he could fix Fallon’s little game. Bugs thought for awhile as he looked at the dry dusty ground, then it hit him. I’ll just hire a contractor to put in some grass by the Sergeant Major’s office. It’s perfect Bugs told himself, a Sergeant Major can’t resist yelling at soldiers to stay off the grass anymore than a dog can resist a hotdog that has been carelessly left alone on the table. In the time it takes the grass to grow, if it will grow at all, I’ll have enough time to make a reconnaissance of this Fallon situation before the Sergeant Major notices. He’ll be too busy with his grass to notice anything else. Bugs smiled as he walked into his command center. “Somebody find us a contractor so we can get some grass put in,” he yelled. “It’s dry as a desert around here.”
For the two week Bugs made his rounds and talked with his soldiers as he always did, keeping a sharp eye out for the guy with the basketball. One day he stood next to the entrance to the battalion headquarters and watched three soldiers painting rocks bright white. The rocks made a nice little border around the Sergeant Major’s dark green grass. Bugs shook his head, how the hell does he get grass to grow like that? Suddenly one of the soldiers twirled something in his hand. Bugs’ heart began to beat faster. He looked closer, but the soldier’s hands were empty. Now, Bugs thought, attack now.
He quickly walked over to the soldiers and the three men stood at attention when they saw the senior officer. “Carry on men,” Bugs said patting one of the soldiers on the back. “Don’t stop working on my account. Got to keep your game face on at all times, right?” He turned to look at Fallon. “There’ll be plenty of time for playing basketball later.”
Bugs couldn’t believe the audacity of the young soldier standing right in front of him as he twirled an invisible basketball in his hand; right in front of the Battalion Commander. The son of a bitch must either be completely crazy or fearless. Bugs didn’t know if he should strangle him or promote him on the spot to lieutenant and give him command of a platoon.
“Specialist Fallon,” Bugs said. “Why don’t you and I take a little walk?”
Bugs put his hand behind Fallon’s shoulder and guided him to the doorway, so the other soldiers couldn’t hear him.
“Son, what exactly is it that you think you’re doing there?” Bugs said keeping his voice low. Fallon looked at the colonel and seemed a bit confused.
“What is what that I think I’m doing?” Fallon asked.
“The ball,” Bugs barked. “What the hell do you think you’re doing with that damn ball?”
Specialist Fallon turned his head to the side as if he was a dog trying to understand what his master was telling him. “What ball?” he asked.
“That goddamn ball you’ve been carrying around for the last month,” Bug said pointing his finger at Fallon’s empty hand. Fallon looked at the colonel’s finger and then to his own empty hand.
“Sir,” he said cautiously. “Are you feeling okay?”
Bugs knew there was no ball and that he looked pretty damn stupid. He broke his stare with Fallon to see the other two soldiers listening. When they saw Bugs look at them they quickly started painting the rocks again, but Bugs knew the damage was done. This young soldier was making an ass of him in his battalion headquarters, right in front of his own men. Colonel Bugs, the tactician that he was, knew when to press the attack and when to withdraw.
“Keep your head in the game,” he said to Fallon. “This ain’t no scrimmage we’re playing here.” Fallon still had that damn stupid dog look on his face and it angered Bugs.
“Carry on,” he said dismissing the soldier to continue with his duties.
As Specialist Fallon walked away Bugs watched him carrying the ball that no one could see. Bugs knew he lost this fight, but there would be more. Sooner or later Fallon would tire or make a mistake, and when he did Bugs would strike.
“I’m on you like stink on shit,” he said as Fallon walked away.
Bugs stared at Fallon for awhile. The little shit got me, he thought. I attacked too soon without thoroughly reconnoitering my objective. I walked right into an ambush. Bugs was now forced to look for a counterattack after retreating from this first engagement and he knew eventually momentum would shift in his favor and when it did he would get the young soldier with the ball no one could see.
It was a week later that Bugs saw his chance to counterattack, thanks to the Sergeant Major. After a staff meeting the Sergeant Major leaned over to the colonel. “Sir,” he said clearing his throat. “Normally I wouldn’t bother you with personnel issues but you may have heard we got us young soldier who seems to have blown a gasket or two.”
“A gasket?” Bugs said, looking up from his paperwork.
“Yes sir,” the Sergeant Major said. “I believe, he thinks he’s got himself a basketball.”
“Sergeant Major, we’ve gone over this before. No unauthorized pick-up games without my approval.”
“Well actually sir, it’s that he… well he ain’t got a ball but he thinks he does.”
“What exactly are you trying to get at?”
“It seems he’s got some kind of mental issues.”
“Mental iss
ues,” Bugs barked. “I don’t have time to deal with mental issues.”
“Right sir, I know, I just wanted to make sure you heard it from me because I think it might be serious.” The Sergeant Major looked through some papers. “Specialist Fallon is his name. I want to send him to mental health screening over at Camp Victory. I saw the kid twirling his um… basketball yesterday while he was on grass guard and there wasn’t anyone around to look at him. If you ask me, the boy’s got serious issues.”
Bugs put his hand to his cheek and turned to the side so he could smile. This is perfect. “Get him over to mental health right away,” he said. “Sounds pretty serious.”
“Right sir,” the Sergeant Major said standing up. “That’s what I think too.”
As the sergeant major left the room, Bugs could hardly sit still. This is absolutely foolproof. Just send him to a shrink and when the clowns over on Camp Victory say he’s not crazy then I can nail his ass for cowardice in the face of the enemy, maybe even for treason and whatever else I can think of between now and when he comes back. Bugs felt just like he did before a high school basketball game. He knew his team would win. No doubts about the outcome, it was just a formality to play the game. Victory was almost guaranteed. Nobody beat Bugs – nobody.
So it was two days later that Lieutenant Colonel Bugs was just a bit surprised to see a young Air Force psychiatrist with a very non-regulation haircut standing in front of his office. If some pussy-ass Air Force guy comes all the way out here to talk to me, Bugs thought, this could be serious. Lieutenant Colonel Bugs opened the door to his office and the major followed him in. As Bugs sat behind his desk the major gave him a folder with several sheets of paper in it. Bugs opened the file and looked at the first Department of Defense form: acute combat stress psychosis was written at the bottom. That just sounds really bad, Bugs thought. There might actually be something really wrong with Specialist Fallon.
The Pick-Up Game Page 2