They call us the quiet 117th. Yeah, quiet’s the right word. No reason to speak. No reason to fight this war. Our silence, a great cacophony of rebellion against our country. We weren’t fighting for the fatherland, he abandoned us. We weren’t fighting for our mothers; they left us on the doorstep of this rotting carcass of a nation, leaving only sweeping dust clouds behind them. We were just there, waiting for either us or time to pass, doing the one thing we knew; fighting together. Today’s march back began with a slow slog through slipping grains of yellow dirt. The truck buckled side to side like a drunk sailor. I sat in the passenger seat next to Sally, watching friendly ol’ Benny leading the way on foot. On his head he wore a pair of fluffy mufflers designed to block out the noises that weren’t the soft clicking of triggered mines or the sharp hiss of the detected explosives. A spiral cord ran down from his patchy helmet into the metallic shaft which extended from his hand to a mere few feet in front of him. Ol’ Benny would always be the one to hold the door for everyone. “Ladies first,” he’d say. Cheeky grin on his face, making a poor attempt at flirting with each girl in our little platoon. Yet, always first to volunteer for missions, often taking point before the rest of us had the chance to take a straw. When asked about the contradiction, he’d shake his head over his drink and in soft voice say, “You need to understand. Ladies first to the sheets, men first to the streets.” The rambling truck jolted to a stop when ol’ Benny raised his hand. Just over the chk chk chking engine, I felt a soft click in the back of my throat as his shoulders heaved a sole sigh. Eventually we made it back to Boondock Base as the ever-searing blob in the sky went to sleep behind several dunes. Don’t think I’d ever understand why they called it Boondock Base. There weren’t any trees or swamps, just dusty, shifty, hills. I suppose Boondock Base just had a ring to it. As usual every oblong barrack was noisy except for ours. The 117th knew the lights were to go out at ten and no later. Which wasn’t a problem for us, after doing it so many times, I doubt any of us could stay up like the young ones anymore. Getting into the green, mint thin mattress was the easy part. Hitting the light switch was even easier. Putting your head on the slight rump of what was meant to be a pillow was easiest. Falling asleep became the hard part. The 117th was quiet, that is, until the medicine wears off. The early bird catches the worm, but the early soldier catches a cold whipping wind with a bit of grit in the mouth. We marched out from the barracks over to an empty burnt out house. A fracturing wood sign sat on one of the walls at a tilt, etched onto it were the words “Mess Hall”. Better seen in the slow to rise sun from the east, were the other oblong barracks. Splotches of burned metal and pock marked holes had been randomly organized into the rounded metallic sheets. After the sand-paper meal, we were individually debriefed by a lanky man in a snide suit taking notes on a beige clipboard. He’d nod along to our explanations and feign sympathy with a simple yellow stained toothy smile and bleary eyes. The wrinkles in his skin reminded me of Trench Two-Forty a few years ago.
Benedict and I stood there, heads just inches from the top of a six-and-a-half-foot earthen line. We blew smoke out of our nostrils, taking light puffs, just trying to ease our strained ears. The wail of sirens and sudden bombastic explosions stirred the acidic mixtures in our bellies. The burning crinkled paper snuffed itself in the mud, as we dashed for the nearest rounded concrete box. The ground shook, spewing clumps of sod and limbs into the roofless tunnel, only to splatter against the wall on our right. Water and blood splashed up and over the sides of our boots, soaking and pulling down on our breathless feet. A flickering light wiggled up ahead, just behind a cracked copper colored steel door. With the ground’s sucking and slopping, it felt as though we were going to be eaten as we piled on towards that yellow glimmer of sizzling energy. Slapping my hands against the cold metal, I collapsed into a sergeant with the number 117 embroidered above a bloody three stacked triangle. He made a motion to another soldier, who went to shut the door. Looking over my shoulder, a hand protruded out of a mixture piled dirt, shimmering bleak metals, and splintered wood.
By the end of the debriefing, the searing sun dangled about midway through. After another meal of grit and the some-what refreshing hot whipped wind, we assembled in a dingy room about half constructed from the sandstone ruins and half assembled from a mixture of left over rusted metals used for machines of war. Our commanding officer stood in front of us with a long, thin, rapier pointed at a group of hastily drawn buildings, drawling on and on about our objective, a suspected weapons depot. A standard search and destroy, only one odd thing, no one knew how brass knew about this. Our surveillance was far from working. Perhaps to ease us, the heavyset officer with a Euphrates Tigris scar down his right cheek ended the meeting by proclaiming the mission would be a easy one but wishing us luck anyway. A wave of thin smiles spread across our faces along with Jameson almost chortling out of his chair. No mission was ever just “easy” for the 117th. Once dismissed, we loaded up the caravan grease buckets, started their engines and as I climbed into the lead vehicle, I caught a glimpse of Dodger spraying a Kilroy stamp of approval onto the side of the vehicle. He turned to me and pressed a finger to his lips before scampering off to the back of the truck. Oscar Mike played “Only the Peach Blossoms in Spring” over the radio, signaling for the rest of us to follow behind. The tune carried with a somber swing, almost like the look a of a rusted playground. A soft message of brevity even among sobering piles of the destruction that we had passed by on the way out of Boondock Base. For once, I felt as though I could just close my eyes for a second and just feel the sway of the truck. Not long after my nerves had relaxed, a small explosion bit the lead vehicle’s suspension, disabling it. Knowing there could be more and without Ol’ Benny, Scrawny Thomas pulled a bundle of straws out from his duster’s pocket and offered them to me. Taking one from the center, I checked the bottom and found a blurry fifteen written on it. He then crossed in front of the truck and tapped on driver’s window. Rolling it down, Sally smiled her smile and took out from the middle as well. Even when her number was the losing one, her smile didn’t fade. She tapped the sunshade twice before opening the door and traded positions with Thomas. After some movement in the back Sally emerged with the anti-mine gear strapped to her. Not a trace of darkness on her face as she took up the lead of the convoy. “Only the Peach Blossoms in Spring” began playing again, and my eyes were left to watch her bun, that protruded out of the back of the carved hole she made in her helmet, bob back and forth in sync with the detector stretched out in front of her. We traveled on for another hour or so, arriving at rally point Bravo, positioning the convoy just below the crest of the hill. Dismounting from trucks, we assembled into a double file line and watched as Lieutenant Rye dragged his little soap-box out in front of us. We weren’t a big fan of him, in a dry voice, he would go on and on about regulations this, regulations that. Such guidelines were nothing but a piece of a shambly record and its player. Clearing his throat twice, he recounted the mission parameters, rambled a bit on duty and service, finished with a short-hand bow, a final snappy dismissal. Separating into our usual fireteams, the three groups splintered off in different directions towards the village up ahead. Staying close to the sparse brush-line we hauled ourselves to the edge that looked over a dried-out river bed. Across the way was our target building, between it and the river bed, a waist high sandstone wall. Lowering our bodies shorter and shorter still, like a reverse evolution line, we approached the crumbling wall. A brief pause as we drew straws for point man, and Sally lost. She eased up to the back of the home with four of us providing cover for her from the shelled-out ground. Leaning into the wall, she stuck her head around the corner, hair bun coming undone at the edges. She circled two fingers in the air, clearing us to join her. Crossing the short stretch, we stacked up on the backdoor. There I stood opposite of Sally’s bright smile. Thomas stepped up to the frame, shotgun in hand. Etched on the side of the barrel; Knock Knock. With gun stuffed against the wood, he pulled the trigger. The door bucked under the first blast. The second one sent it tilting back. One final kick from him, knocked it down completely, allowing Sally to move in with her machine pistol, Gladeon, raised. I followed two steps behind her. The short hall opened into a larger living room with moth eaten couches upended by someone in a hurry. With the bottom floor clear and no sign of a weapons cache, I joined Sally at the stairs. With her back to the steps, she traveled up slowly, finger on the trigger. Three of the four doors on the second floor were left hanging open. I checked right as she moved left. With two rooms cleared, we checked the last opened one, together. Peering into it I saw a white curtain pulled across a balcony entrance. With slow steps, I moved over and peeled them back, rifle held at the waist. Except for a decaying plant, the platform was clear. From up high I could see the other teams clear out buildings from the across the way. Just over the sound of a warm breeze, I heard the subtle click of a door knob turning. I snapped back to see Sally spin round towards the door. Drawing her weapon up in a slow trance as a cylindrical object bounced off the wooden doorframe, illuminating the first time I saw her frown. I could almost hear gunshots
The quiet ringing isn’t unusual, and it would eventually go away, least that’s what the doctor told me. She was fair looking from the top of her head down to her feet. A little blush to give her cheeks some warmth and square glasses on the tip of her narrow-perked nose. I met her about three months after Benedict had disappeared in the trenches. I always knew he was skittish, but to see him actually leave, took something out of me. The doctor prescribed a new kind of medication and gave me a note to hand to a Commander Marshtown. I was told to not read it and reminded how a good soldier follows orders. It wasn’t long after that, I was transferred to the desert to as a sergeant in the 117th.
I could confirm that the village was desolate about an hour after Sally disappeared. That fact alone, seemed to eat at my mind. She had always seemed happy to be in our unit, she wasn’t skittish like Benedict. No one was like Benedict, yet everyone did what Benedict had done. They disappeared. Even the lieutenant was missing. Loose metals and disturbed gravel crunched under my foot as I stepped out from the now craggy interior of the house. Not a soul in sight, just smoldering, seared, gear. Blackened adobe structures, dribbled rubble from shattered walls that once protected families from the hot blob in the sky. Endless swirling black clouds drifted out of several burning vehicles that had been driven in to the center of the quiet community. I walked through the disorder, empty rifle dragging on the ground, until I found our green truck sitting on the fringe of the fractured village. The canvas that normally sits over the back had been ripped off like paper mâché. Taking the handle, I pulled the door open as I had always done and clambered up into the cab of the truck. The bottle opener keychain dangled from the ignition slot. Turning it made the truck choke like a heavy smoker as it woke up. It coughed and shuttered as I push down on the gas pedal. The trip back to Boondock base was a quiet one. No one was out scanning for mines this time. Instead it was just me and the rumbling truck. The loose visor shook along to the beat of the bumps I rolled over. Eventually it fell off, bringing with it a couple of pictures that landed on the floor. Bringing the rusting vehicle to a stop, I reached down and picked up the photo with three kids about the same age sitting together in a content fashion, bright-future smiles on their faces, features most like their mother’s. Placing it carefully on the dash, I flipped over the next photo. It was our platoon with shoulders pulled back, chests out and faces serious, except for Sally, she always smiled. Tucking the two in my breast pocket, I looked at the last one in my lap. With it smudged, and coffee stained by time, I couldn’t make out the details. Flipping it over, the back had a scribbling of muddy words. Home . . . where. . . brothers. . . sisters are. Kicking the truck back into gear, I drove on and didn’t stop.
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Carson TidwellA fictional tale of aging soldiers in an aging war. (Psst. If on mobile, turn horizontal for better viewing experience)
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