and take out a slim leather journal. There’s a Bic pen inside the cover and I jot down some sentences about the day. I close the cover, put it back, and flop down on my bunk, look up at my meager collection of possessions. At one end of the shelf is plastic model of what was once called a cell phone. It was a toy I got eleven or twelve years ago. Dad tells me that when I had the toy cell phone, I’d pretend to call Mom and tell her to come home early and make me mac and cheese.
I remember playing with that toy a lot during the first year or two of the war, hoping against hope that my Mom would somehow hear me and find her way to my Dad and me.
I want to stop thinking about that and I close my eyes and fall asleep in a couple of minutes.
Something furry and wet presses against my face. I push it away, it comes back.
I open my eyes.
Thor is by the side of my bunk, panting, looking on with an expectant look on his face.
“Oh, come on up,” I say, and Thor seems to grin as he jumps up on the bunk. He rotates twice and then thumps down, wags his tail, and lies down.
“And don’t snore,” I warn him, but it’s too late, as he starts sawing wood.
I wake up with someone knocking at the door. I yawn and toss off my olive drab wool blanket. Thor rolls over with a doggie sigh and I say, “Some damn hunting dog you are,” as I step barefoot across the cool tile floor to the door. I unlock and open it up, and in front of me is the oldest man I know. He’s in standard fatigues that hang on him like they’re a size too large, and he has almost no hair on his freckled pink scalp. His nametag says MANNING and his rank is corporal. He’s the “batman” for the barracks.
“Sergeant Knox,” he says, “just checkin’ to see if you got any laundry.”
“Sure, hold on,” I say. I duck back into my room and grab a canvas bag, which Manning takes from me with a wrinkled, shaking hand. Nobody knows how old he is, but I did hear him say once that he had served in Korea, which means he’s old. Like a lot of other vets, he re-upped after the war started. Once upon a time the U.S. Army and the National Guard didn’t have batmen for their troops, but now we supposedly experienced fighters aren’t supposed to worry about cleaning, laundry and other necessary chores.
Manning says, “Also wanted to let you know that Lieutenant May has canceled your 1600 meeting.”
My stomach feels cold. “Dead?”
He sighs. “Yeah. They found Ruiz a couple of hours ago. Shot to death, body stripped. Hell of a thing. Damn Coasties killed his dog as well. Bastards. But at least the morons had the good sense to leave his M-10 behind. No way they could sell or trade that.”
“Any leads?”
Manning shrugs. “Not sure. Word is, the State Police and the county sheriff have joined the hunt, plus some militia types. Figure it out, Sarge. You think the locals want the Army folks defending them getting ambushed and robbed?”
I remember the protestors out at the main gate, and say, “You’d think.”
Manning starts to walk down the hallway, dragging my canvas laundry sack along with a few others, and I call out, “Mail call come?”
“Yep.”
“And . . .”
He turns, thin lips pursed. “So sorry, Sergeant. Nothing for you.”
My throat thickens and I close the door. The silence from my dad continues.
I sleep pretty deep for a good chunk of the day, and when I wake up I get a chit for a hot shower later in the day. I bring Thor back to the kennels and then I work out in the gym, lifting weights, working some reps on my legs, biceps and back. It’s a weekend so it’s relatively quiet. Then I cash in the chit for a ten-minute hot shower, and then head off to the D-Fac, or dining facility, which is pretty much the same school dining hall. I see Abby chatting it up with Dewey, a plump mess officer with short blond hair who had slipped Abby a rare Red Bull the other day.
I nudge Abby as I get in line with a scratched plastic
I remember playing with that toy a lot during the first year or two of the war, hoping against hope that my Mom would somehow hear me and find her way to my Dad and me.
I want to stop thinking about that and I close my eyes and fall asleep in a couple of minutes.
Something furry and wet presses against my face. I push it away, it comes back.
I open my eyes.
Thor is by the side of my bunk, panting, looking on with an expectant look on his face.
“Oh, come on up,” I say, and Thor seems to grin as he jumps up on the bunk. He rotates twice and then thumps down, wags his tail, and lies down.
“And don’t snore,” I warn him, but it’s too late, as he starts sawing wood.
I wake up with someone knocking at the door. I yawn and toss off my olive drab wool blanket. Thor rolls over with a doggie sigh and I say, “Some damn hunting dog you are,” as I step barefoot across the cool tile floor to the door. I unlock and open it up, and in front of me is the oldest man I know. He’s in standard fatigues that hang on him like they’re a size too large, and he has almost no hair on his freckled pink scalp. His nametag says MANNING and his rank is corporal. He’s the “batman” for the barracks.
“Sergeant Knox,” he says, “just checkin’ to see if you got any laundry.”
“Sure, hold on,” I say. I duck back into my room and grab a canvas bag, which Manning takes from me with a wrinkled, shaking hand. Nobody knows how old he is, but I did hear him say once that he had served in Korea, which means he’s old. Like a lot of other vets, he re-upped after the war started. Once upon a time the U.S. Army and the National Guard didn’t have batmen for their troops, but now we supposedly experienced fighters aren’t supposed to worry about cleaning, laundry and other necessary chores.
Manning says, “Also wanted to let you know that Lieutenant May has canceled your 1600 meeting.”
My stomach feels cold. “Dead?”
He sighs. “Yeah. They found Ruiz a couple of hours ago. Shot to death, body stripped. Hell of a thing. Damn Coasties killed his dog as well. Bastards. But at least the morons had the good sense to leave his M-10 behind. No way they could sell or trade that.”
“Any leads?”
Manning shrugs. “Not sure. Word is, the State Police and the county sheriff have joined the hunt, plus some militia types. Figure it out, Sarge. You think the locals want the Army folks defending them getting ambushed and robbed?”
I remember the protestors out at the main gate, and say, “You’d think.”
Manning starts to walk down the hallway, dragging my canvas laundry sack along with a few others, and I call out, “Mail call come?”
“Yep.”
“And . . .”
He turns, thin lips pursed. “So sorry, Sergeant. Nothing for you.”
My throat thickens and I close the door. The silence from my dad continues.
I sleep pretty deep for a good chunk of the day, and when I wake up I get a chit for a hot shower later in the day. I bring Thor back to the kennels and then I work out in the gym, lifting weights, working some reps on my legs, biceps and back. It’s a weekend so it’s relatively quiet. Then I cash in the chit for a ten-minute hot shower, and then head off to the D-Fac, or dining facility, which is pretty much the same school dining hall. I see Abby chatting it up with Dewey, a plump mess officer with short blond hair who had slipped Abby a rare Red Bull the other day.
I nudge Abby as I get in line with a scratched plastic
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