A Lover's Lament(38)
"Never too early, my friend. I'm here anytime you need to shoot the shit. The kids, man, they'll adapt. Eventually, they’ll be old enough to understand the meaning behind all of this. As for us, I can only hope that when the last shots are fired, we are able to cope with what we’ve seen and done, and come back stronger. The Army way, right?" I let out a sarcastic laugh as I rise to my feet, flicking the cigarette butt into the fire pit. Navas doesn't move, just continues to stare into nothing.
I rest a hand on his shoulder. "We have another five months to figure it all out. Don't let it get to you too much. Let's get through this shit and get these guys home safe, huh?"
Navas rises to his feet and faces me, and for a brief moment he embraces me before letting go and making his way toward the tent. There is no love like that of your brothers-in-arms.
"Let’s get some f*ckin’ chow," he says, slipping through the tent’s entrance. I follow him in and scan the cots. Some of the guys are fork-deep in their MREs, while others are still getting their asses out of bed. I dig through a box of MREs at the front of the tent.
Chicken. Chicken. Chicken. I'm so f*cking sick of chicken. "Damn it, you f*ckers, this is a brand new box. Who the f*ck took my tortellini?" As I say this, I see Elkins plop the pasta into his mouth with a wide smile.
"I hope you choke on it, Elkins. You know I’ve got infinite dibs on the tortellini.” I smile at him then grab two of the chicken MREs. I toss one to Navas and tear open the other. We take a seat on our cots, one beside the other, and dig in.
"Sarge, you know those officer f*cks clear out the good ones before they give us the box, right?" Elkins’ words come out slightly distorted as he’s still working on a mouthful of my tortellini.
“Enunciate, Elkins, I can’t understand you with that dick in your mouth.” I lock my eyes onto Elkins with eyebrows furrowed as I fork a piece of dry chicken breast into my mouth.
Navas pulls my attention from Elkins by tossing a bag of peanut butter M&Ms at my back. In the world of MREs, peanut butter M&Ms are like gold. They are coveted and often bartered. I quickly forget about how awful the chicken tastes.
"That reminds me, when Dixon got done in the Comm Center, he told me to tell you there’s a meeting at 0700. Some kinda mission briefing or something," Navas says.
I eyeball my watch. 0650. Damn it. I shovel the remaining chicken into my mouth, retrieve my notepad and pen, and begin to head out, saluting Navas with the bag of M&Ms before departing.
The room is packed tight. The other squad leaders and I stand at the back against the wall. Lieutenant Dixon and the three other platoon leaders take up seating at two tables that separate us from the front of the room. On the front wall, there’s a large map of Baghdad with our area of operations marked boldly in red. Our company commander, Captain Kendricks, stands before us. He’s a Mr. Clean clone and is nearly as large as the map itself. Our brigade commander, Colonel Birch, is beside him, which tells me this is serious. He’s based out of the Green Zone and only comes here for the most important briefings. He's an extremely short man and looks like a midget standing next to Captain Kendricks, but he's stocky with a spark-plug personality. He's old-school Army and therefore barks his words rather than speaks them.
He starts off with his usual introduction, the whole ‘I’m proud of you’ and ‘keep up the good work’ bullshit, but my mind takes off after that. I think about Katie and the letter I sent. I know the military mail system sucks, but damn, does it have to take this long? I’ve even checked my email twice a day every day for a week straight, hoping to hear from her—but no such luck. I subtly typed my email address in below my name on my last letter hoping she’d see it, but I’m guessing that she didn’t, or she just didn’t want to write back. With each day that passes, I'm a little more convinced of it.
I guess her therapy in regards to me is already complete. She took out her anger and told me how she feels. What more can I expect after what I’ve done to her? And I do want her to feel better, but I just hope she has more to get out. I’ll take cuss words and insults from her over silence any day.
I can’t shake the feeling of seeing her name and reading her words again. It takes me back to middle school, and unbelievably, her handwriting is just the same. So beautiful and flawless you’d think it was fake. We’d pass notes back and forth, my chicken scratch and her artwork, and we’d do it all day long. By the time we caught the bus home, we had filled up five sheets, front and back. I still have every last one, since I always insisted on keeping them. She fought me every time, but I always won. The nights out here when I’m hurting so badly I’d rather die than bear the pain, I read those notes and can feel her there beside me, giggling as I throw paper airplanes at Wyatt’s head.
A tear rolls down my cheek, catching me off-guard, and I quickly wipe it with my hand before anyone can see. Almost immediately, I receive a quick jab in the ribs from Sergeant Adams, who is standing beside me. “Wake the f*ck up, dude. Kendricks is looking over here,” Adams whispers, which for a New Yorker comes out more like a yell. Dixon looks back at us, face red, and he jerks his head toward the front of the room. I roll my eyes at Adams and direct my attention to the front.
"We have orders to make a major offensive push," Colonel Birch says with his laser pointer hovering over the map. He circles it around a specific area. “Intelligence we’ve gathered is telling us that this area of Saidiyah has several large weapons caches and roadside bomb manufacturing facilities. For the next two weeks—at least—infantry units out of Forward Operating Base Falcon will be conducting massive door-to-door raids throughout this entire neighborhood. We will be going around the clock, twenty-four hours a day with two units from 1st Armored Division and 101st Airborne, who are leading up the raid and defense efforts. They need us to serve as their quick reaction force. If shit goes down, we’re there to assist.” He clears his throat and drops the laser pointer on the table.