Duty(16)

“You told us to bring the trash wood up to the arch.” We drag the tree out of the arch and dump it onto the pile of waste wood that's been growing. “So, we brought some.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do with a f*cking tree?” he asks, and I shrug.

“Don't know. We just brought the wood as ordered.”

He looks like he's about to rip into our asses, but the Sergeant Major speaks up. “Okay, you two, carry on. And try to keep the wood to under body-length from now on.”

Will and I nod. As we leave, the Sergeant Major speaks up, loud enough that we can overhear. “Learning point. Soldiers who feel like they're getting jerked around are going to find ways to stretch your orders to piss you off or amuse themselves. Sometimes both. Now, where are you going to get the handsaws to chop that thing up?”

Will and I keep it together until we round the curve of the trail before laughing. He offers me a fist, and we bump knuckles. “That was fun. Better stay away from the firstie, though.”

“Yeah,” I agree, checking my watch. What the hell, only two hours to go now. We're past the halfway point. “So you remember the name yet?”

“Sort of,” Will says. “I mean, she was half turned away from me. I never even got to see her eyes. But she had her name tag on, it was Mor . . . Mor something. Maybe Moreland, Morehouse . . .”

“Morgan?” I ask, a knot building in my stomach.

“Coulda been,” Will says. “Why, you know who I'm talking about?”

“Not sure, really,” I reply, picking my words carefully. If I say yes, I get questions that could lead to a lot more hours pulling sticks out of the woods. If I say no, I could be potentially lying, an honor violation that could get my ass in even a bigger sling. And I might be in enough trouble. I don't need to be f*cking with the Honor Committee. “You know how it is, though, man. Lot of people named Morgan around the country.”

“Yeah, I know. Let's go find some damn trash somewhere.”



I finish my lift. I don't lift here in the basement of Grant that often, but it's Saturday night. I didn't want to go to the pool after the work detail, and I'm confused.

Lindsey? A Private First Class? I mean, the way Washington described the girl he saw fits Lindsey to a T. Blonde hair, amazing legs, face like an angel . . . and her last name is Morgan.

I remember that she had an enlisted sticker on her car. This whole time, I thought that she was someone's daughter. There just aren't a lot of twenty-one-year-old enlisted people running around post. West Point tends to draw on older soldiers, at least the ones who interact with the cadets. And some of the older Master Sergeants and Sergeant Majors could have a twenty-one-year-old daughter living with them.

But what if the car isn't her parents’ . . . but hers? What the f*ck am I supposed to do? I mean, I know what the rules say. I’m not supposed to fraternize with enlisted. And I've done a lot more than just fraternize. FUCK!

I can't think about this any longer. I need to get out of here. I'd go down to Grant Hall and grab some food, but with twelve bucks to my name, I'm stuck. At least the mess hall has decent food today, and they weren't dicks about making us wear dress gray for dinner tonight like you're supposed to on weekends. I grab my sweatshirt and leave the weight room, heading upstairs and going outside. Maybe the cold air can help. The night is black and chilly, the area floodlights glowing orange-yellow as I walk back and forth, trying to get my damn head right.

“You know, you won't get bonus hours to bank for next time walking here,” Mel Riordan says, sticking his head out of the window to his room. With the way Grant Barracks is laid out, he's got one of the few rooms at ground level, being the First Sergeant. “What're you doing running around?”

“Too much energy I guess,” I answer, bouncing up the two steps to reach his level. “Work details aren't shit compared to what I normally do on Saturdays.”

“Yeah, I heard that,” Mel replies. “That triathlon shit, no thank you. Gimme boxing or wrestling any f*cking day. At least the pain's over quicker, and you can beat the f*ck outta what's causing the pain. You can't exactly beat up your bike.”

“Good point,” I tell him, smirking. Last semester, Mel was the spirit sergeant, and he did pretty good at it. At least, staging a fake 'pro wrestling' match including a roof dive for Army-Navy week was the sort of shit that makes guys into legends for a few years. “Then again, I don't take concussions in the water.”

“Hmph. So, what's got your head rattled?” Mel asks. Two plebes from E-1 come out of their division and jet past, tossing us quick greetings like they're supposed to before bouncing down the steps to wherever they're heading. “Jesus, how many more weeks before that shit's over for the year?”

“Five,” I tell him. “Come on, you like the smacks calling you First Sergeant all the time.”

“Yeah, yeah. Honestly, I'd like it if they just left me the f*ck alone at night so I could get my work done,” Mel says, waving it all off. He's a lot like me. He sees the rank issues at the cadet level as playacting more than anything else. “Hey, you want in? Seriously, you don't need to freeze your ass off.”

“Nah, it's all good,” I tell him, taking a seat on the bricks and leaning on the wall. “Too hot inside, especially your division. You'd think they'd fix the f*cking heaters at some point.”