Duty(27)

Chapter 9





Aaron





It's been a long, strange ride, I think as I pick up my ACUs from the tailor. They look perfect, and I'm impressed at how quick and how cheap the work was.

“Thanks,” I tell the tailor, an old guy whose shop's been around for a long damn time, according to the scuttlebutt. “Perfect work.”

“Eh, no problem,” the guy says, ringing it up. “I wish it was like the old days, the BDU days. The old ones, everything was sewn on, tabs, badges, name tapes, all of it. Back then, three tops like yours would get me thirty bucks easy. Then I had the dry cleaning and starching work on the side. That was even better. These new things, just no money in it.”

“So why do you keep doing it?” I ask, folding my tops and putting them in my bag. “Doing the dry cleaning on dress uniforms can't replace that, can it?”

“No, but I still get enough from the civilian side to keep things going, and I'm retiring in two or three years,” the man says, smiling wistfully. “Besides, us Airborne types gotta stick together, you know? Good luck.”

I leave the tailor's shop, taking one of his cards and making sure I do come by. I don't have a lot of things that need dry cleaned. Even a year after graduation, I still don't have a big clothes collection, and most of it consists of jeans and casual shirts.

Still, he's right. Airborne sticks together. I've only been with my unit two days. I still haven't officially taken over my platoon yet, but the idea that Airborne sticks together winds through everything in the 82nd Airborne. Fort. Bragg is a good-looking post, and it's a lot greener than Benning, where I did Infantry and Ranger school. And with fall coming on, North Carolina is a beautiful area, cooling down nicely. Doing Ranger school in the summer sucked ass. Even the mountain phase sucked.

I circle around post, staying outside the gate until I get to my house. Bragg's got enough space that an unmarried officer like me could use the Bachelor Officer Quarters, but the idea of having to live in a military controlled building is not one that I want to even consider. Not after living in West Point barracks for four years. I like the freedom, and the house is close enough that I don't even need to drive fifteen minutes in the morning to get to the unit.

I see my unit welcome packet on the seat of my car and shake my head, still kind of amazed. Third Platoon, Delta Company, 2nd Battalion, 405th Parachute Infantry Regiment. The ‘Regulators’. My platoon.

It's scary and awesome at the same time, and I'm looking forward to tomorrow when I’m actually formally introduced to the company at morning formation.

I bring my uniforms inside, hanging them up before checking everything else. I've spent two weeks shaping and forming my maroon beret. It's damn near perfect, along with its backup just in case I f*ck one of them up.

“Well, Lieutenant Simpson, looks like you're ready,” I say to myself, stopping when I realize that talking to yourself is a sign of stress and something I've been doing far too much the past three years and some change. It started while I was going to Airborne school, really. And I know why. Three years, and I can't get her off my mind.

I wonder if she's still in the service? She could be. She said she'd still be when I graduated from USMA. She could have . . .

“Stop it, you dumb f*ck,” I mutter to myself, bitter. “Just . . . f*cking stop it.”

It's hard, though, I think as I turn away from my uniforms and plop down on my couch. At Airborne school, when I twisted my ankle on that second jump and still had to force my way through another two days of PT, she was there, telling me she was proud of me. The last two years at school, I drove myself from a solid middle of the class up to the upper quarter, even making the Supe's Award one semester. Hell, even in Ranger school, she was there, in my mind. One of my patrol buddies, a funny kid from Oklahoma, asked me at one point who the hell Lindsey was, because I'd spent ten minutes of sleep deprived zombie status talking to what I thought was her, and it turned out to be a pine tree.

I've tried so hard to get her off my mind though. Following Mel Riordan's advice, I tried to date my last two years at the Academy, both civilian and cadets. But I never even sealed the deal, as pathetic as that sounds. It just didn’t seem right.

Making out was easy. Second base? Date one, maybe date two for sure. But when it came time to seal the deal, I couldn't do it. Three and a half years, and I'm totally celibate.

“I don't know why I can't get you off my mind,” I mutter, rubbing at my temples. “You changed your phone number. I guess I know why. I promised myself that I'd respect your wishes, but that first chance I had, I tried to call your cell. Still, almost four years . . . what did you do to me, Lindsey?”

I sigh and reach forward, grabbing the remote to my TV. There's gotta be something loud and distracting on, something that can get her off my mind. I flip around and see some pro wrestling on one of the cable channels. I smile, thinking about the little group of guys who'd gather down in the dayroom to watch Monday Night Wrestling back at school, although this isn't the same company. These guys on TV right now are louder and dirtier, with more chairs involved. At least the violence is distracting.



“Well, let's see if El Tee can hang,” one of my privates cracks as I stand outside the circle, waiting my turn. I've only been in charge of the platoon for a few days. I figured this would happen. There's always a feeling out period when a new leader comes into a unit. The Regulators have been together for a long time. They're cohesive, they're a good platoon from their records, and I've got to prove myself worthy of being 'the old man' with them. Why is it Lieutenants are always called 'the old man' anyway, when I'm younger than all of my squad leaders?