Duty(52)

That pisses me off, and I glare at him, my jaw quivering. “My personal life has nothing to do with these incidents. Nadar slipped on mud, completely out of my control. And I take offense that you're even insinuating that I would be that unprofessional.”

“Don't you dare talk to me about being unprofessional!” Bradley hisses, his eyes blazing. “You . . . of all the f*cking rules to violate, fraternization? Fuck, man, isn't there enough * running around Fayetteville that you could have kept yourself satisfied outside of post? Fayetteville girls nearly walk bowlegged because of the 82nd!”

“I don't operate that way, Captain. So, what are you going to do?” I ask, ready to feel the hammer drop. “Do I need to talk to JAG?”

Bradley stares at me, fuming for a long minute before shaking his head. “No. First off, I can't stop your promotion, and busting your ass days before you pin 1LT is going to embarrass the battalion commander, who's already informed me that he would like to be the one to pin you Thursday morning at the officer's professional development meeting. Second, if I bring you up on charges or an Article 15, the whole deal for Hardy goes out the window, and he's going before a court martial. I won't have a trooper under my command suffer because his Lieutenant can't stick his dick in the right place. But I’m giving you a direct order. You will break it off with this Lindsey. Do you understand me?”

“I hear you, Captain. Is that all, sir?”

Bradley sees the set of my jaw and shakes his head. “Get the f*ck out. The next thing I want to hear about is some broken-hearted MP S-1 clerk who's pissed at you and keys your goddamn car or something. I already know about Nadar's injury status. Dismissed.”

I stand up and leave the office without saluting, probably a first for me. I'm pissed, upset, and also scared. I want to call Lindsey, but I don't. She doesn't need this dumped on her head just yet. I need to calm down. Instead of calling, I get in my car and drive home to sit in the dark, thinking.

The darkness matches my thoughts, which is helpful.



“So he overheard?”

Lindsey and I are sitting on the blacktop, watching as Lance plays happily in the late afternoon sun. Thursdays are normally short days for troops, and we're able to actually meet up here at an elementary school close to my place.

“Yeah. I guess . . . I didn’t realize I was that loud.”

Lindsey shakes her head. “We bucked the odds for how long at West Point? And let's face it, Aaron, it had to happen eventually. So, what did he tell you?”

“He told me to break it off with you, that the next thing he wants to hear from me is that you're broken-hearted and keying my car,” I say, and Lindsey tenses. “Don't worry, I'm not going to do that. Fuck Captain Bradley. I love you, Lindsey. And that's more important than what some Captain says.”

“He can make it difficult for you,” Lindsey says. “What if he gives Captain Lemmon a call?”

“Pete?” I ask, smirking. “Knowing Pete, he'll nod and say uh-huh, then hang up and go play volleyball or something. Pete's a good guy, and if he's anything like he was as a Devil, he knows that sometimes, there are things bigger than the rules. I guess the question is, what do you want to do? I'm willing to take on the whole Army and tell them from the Joint Chiefs on down to go f*ck themselves if they don't like it that we're together. But what do you want?”

Lindsey hums, then squeezes my hand. “You're an idiot, you know that?”

“I know.”

She lifts an eyebrow and gives me a sarcastic little twist to her smile, nodding. “Just as long as you know. I can't turn back the clock, and I don't want to. If the Army doesn't like that, we can deal with it. Oh, and as for the Army . . . congrats on your new rank, First Lieutenant Simpson.”

I smile, scooting just close enough that her knee touches mine, and we watch our son play in the grass. It's a good feeling, and I'm happy. We can't tell Lance just yet, but right now, it's good enough.



I'm feeling anger creep up as sweat drips down my neck—anger at Captain Bradley. Thursday may have been a fun afternoon, but since then, the CO has had me on every shit detail position that he can think of. Whether it's been Officer in Charge of the weekend work details, making sure that the weeds are pulled from between the bricks outside post headquarters by the troops who are under Article 15 punishment, or being in charge at the range for the reservists that can barely hit the broad side of a barn since they fire their rifles only a few dozen times a year. If it sucks, I've been 'volunteered' for it.

But today, today has to be the shittiest, literally, the shittiest work detail that he's assigned to me yet. It started when Toby Keith came to town over the weekend and did a charity concert for the troops on part of the airfield. Now, I'm not much of a country music fan, especially Toby Keith's over-the-top style, but I can appreciate a free concert as much as the next guy. I was on duty, of course, but now, two days after the concert, I get to be in charge of the cleanup detail, a bunch of trash but also the twenty Porta Potties that were arranged on the edge of the concert area. Twenty toilets for what one of the troops said had to be over five thousand people . . . that's a lot of piss and shit per potty.

It smells like it too, and I'm trying to not gag as I help the field sanitation engineers more or less vacuum the shit out of each stall. “Okay, sir, just clear the kink in the hose,” the engineer, who knows his truck and so gets to stay with the controls, says. “Unless you want a shit bomb to go off.”