A Lover's Lament(17)

But this deployment … this is so much different. I didn’t sign up for Iraq. I didn’t even really agree with it. Hell, I even had ‘Fuck Bush’ written in white window paint on the back of my mom’s ’95 Dodge Stratus in high school. That shit was on there for like two years. Mind you, that was mostly because pissing off Tennessee rednecks gave me a hard-on. I never really belonged there.

As a soldier, I took my doubts about Iraq in stride, but with explosions every other day and the enemy camouflaged so thoroughly within the public, it’s made for hard time served. With each passing day, these thoughts have become more frequent, pulling at my attention, taking me to places I know I shouldn’t be going but can’t seem to help. They burrow into my brain and have their way with me.

I think of what stage of decomposition Jax would be in as visions of blood seeping through the material of his uniform flash through my head.

God, please save me from these thoughts.

It’s been three months to the day since Jax was shot. With his head resting in my lap as we waited for the med chopper to arrive, his chest bled out from where the sniper’s bullet sat, warm and still. Before taking his last breath, he reached his trembling hand into a pocket and pulled out a letter. His fluttering eyes demanded I take it. I knew all too well what was in that letter, and whether I wanted to or not, I pulled the letter from his hand just before it slumped lifelessly to his side. Every day I ache for him, and with that pain comes the insomnia.

I’m perched on a concrete jersey barrier, sipping black coffee as thick as tar while my squad preps the Humvees for a mission. I let the rumble of the engines soothe me as the sun finally starts to bathe my face in warmth. Throwing my head back, I breathe in slow and deep, the wind whipping my face as I wait for the caffeine to do its job. I take a long sip of coffee, letting it rest in my mouth for a moment before drinking it all down.

This spot, this sunlight, this coffee — it’s my release. I often wonder when it will no longer be enough. My eyes are tightly closed, and I feel a single tear roll down my cheek. I quickly wipe it away. Not here. Not now.

My thoughts are interrupted by my driver, Private Blake Thomas, shouting from one of our four Humvees idling a hundred feet away. I shift my focus and catch sight of one of my other soldiers, Specialist Jace Elkins, as he thrusts a boot into Thomas’s ass each time he attempts to pull the dipstick from the receptacle. I pull a tin of chewing tobacco from my pocket and pack a pungent wad behind my lip. I cup my other hand to my mouth and yell, “Elkins! Don’t you have some f*cking radio frequencies to be dialing into?” I pocket my tin as Elkins swings around and snaps to attention. Thomas chuckles and resumes his duties undisturbed.

“Hooah, Sergeant, I already did it,” Elkins calls back.

“You got ice in the cooler?”

“Roger, Sarge.” Elkins is more confident now, borderline cocky, and it’s unfortunate for him because his memory’s for shit. It’s not his fault … or maybe it is. He’s young, and by his own account he smoked more weed in high school than Cheech and f*cking Chong. When I stand before him, he has to tilt his eyes up to meet mine. I get pleasure out of this every time.

“Elkins.” I plant a smirk on my face.

“Yeah, Sarge?” I wait a moment and let him sweat.

“Did you fuel up this morning?” I ask, though I know the answer already. His eyes widen immediately, mouth gaping open.

“Fuck!” he shouts as he races to the driver’s seat and throws himself in. Thomas caps the oil terminal as Elkins opens the window then sticks his head out of it. “Come the f*ck on, T! Lieutenant Dixon is gonna tear into my f*cking ass, man.”

“I’m coming, man. Fuck, it’s not my fault you forgot.” Thomas slams the hood, lifts it, then slams it again and continues leisurely toward the passenger side of the vehicle. He opens the door and carefully climbs in, putting his seatbelt on as slowly as possible. “What about Navas? He’s still gotta get the gun up.”

“We’ll worry about that later, man!” Elkins yells as he tears from the dirt lot. Thomas is wearing a devilish grin you could spot a mile away as the Humvee races to the fuel point.

I give them shit for it, but really, I love their nonsense. I wonder, at times, if it’s helped keep Thomas alive even. He hasn’t been dealing with the deployment well, but Elkins can always bring a smile to his face. And for the rest of us … well, it’s a little piece of youth in an otherwise very adult world.

They are the halls of junior high. They are scout meetings and tee ball practice.

They are home.

“Hey, Sarge.” Specialist Brooklyn Navas’s Mississippi drawl catches my attention, and I turn to see him shuffling his linebacker frame toward me. In one hand he makes a fifty-pound machine gun look like a child’s toy, and in the other he balances a stack of loaded magazines. “Where the f*ck’s the Humvee?”

“Fuckin’ Elkins forgot fuel again,” I say as I grab the stack of mags from his hand.

“Well shit, that’s a goddamn shocker. Did he take Tweedle Dick with him?” Navas grunts and spits a rope of tobacco and saliva to the ground as he sets the machine gun down.

“Yeah, they should be back soon.” He hands me another stack of mags from his cargo pockets and I line them into my vest while he does the same with his. "Lieutenant DickFuck’s probably still sleeping anyway.” I think I like calling him that too much. One of these days he’s going to catch me. I’m not so sure I’d mind.