The Good Soldier

a shot from ex-Gunner Benway, RCA

Tin soldiers and Nixon's coming
We're finally on our own
This summer I heard the drumming
Four dead in Ohio.

Gotta get down to it
Soldiers gunning us down
Should have been done long ago
What if you knew her and found her dead on the ground?
How can you run when you know...

Ohio, by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

GOTT MIT UNS
(God is With Us)

[motto found on belt buckles of all Wehrmacht soldiers during WW2]

The soldier was excited. It would be his first taste of action. They had held a pool, a month before, all the cherries. He'd bet on Iraq, finally going after Saddam Hussein, Velasquez had bet on North Korea, but Raygo had gotten it right. They were going after domestic terrorists. Finally, the gloves were off. The politicans inside the Beltway were going to let them take care of the problem, once and for all. They'd been whispering about it after lights out. Even Velasquez had spared them the usual 10 minute air-humping of his probably imaginary little princess back in the Bronx. He was so excited that he would never have been able to sleep, had they not had the entire battery up half the night loading the choppers.

From the length of the ride and the rivers, he decided that they had to be somewhere over Indiana, or maybe Ohio. They'd all heard the rumours of terrorist installations in the Midwest, but somehow he had never really believed it. Still, the chopper was dropping fast and landfall would happen-

The klaxon sounded. Orders flooded into his headset. They all stood in the narrow aisles on either side of the L5 howitzer and waited. A crewman stood by the cargo door, opening it to reveal the grassy meadow and trees passing slowly below. The Chinook landed with a lurch, and he was among the first down the ramp, clutching his rifle in one hand and the aiming pole in the other. He ran where he was told to, heading for the gap in the tree-line at the top of the slope. He had no idea what might be beyond the crest of the hill, but he didn't have time to think about that. Forward security was a grunt responsibility, anyhow.

He looked down the slope to where the choppers were. Three heavy trucks had appeared, driven by weekend warriors. He watched the rest of his squad manhandling the L5 down the chopper ramp to hitch up to one of the trucks. If they hadn't brought the trucks, the squad would have to have hauled the bitch half-way up the slope. He received further orders. He set up the pole. He watched them spread the bitch's legs and level it. He watched as they unloaded the ammo pallets from the chopper. He watched the little red dot find its mark on the pole. He smiled to himself, knowing that he'd gotten out of some of the hardest work. His headset barked more orders and he ran back to the gun, on the double.

When he reached it, he cast his pack aside with the others, and left the aiming pole beside the ammo. He took up his number 6 position, and began lining up the casings on their side. The numbers 2 and 3 were in position, traversing the barrel towards the gap in the trees and elevating it. From the angle, it looked like fire control wanted the shells to come almost straight down. Target had to be a bunker, he decided.

"Five rounds HE, 4 bags," said the sergeant through the headset.

He rapidly upended the nearest casing and dumped the seven charge bags onto a drop sheet. They looked like beanbags, almost. Four went back in, three went into a pile at his side. Between himself and the numbers 5 and 7, they had the casings ready in under 10 seconds.

"Elevation, up 12 degrees," said the sergeant. "Traverse 20 degrees right."

He tensed on his haunches.

"Load," said the sergeant.

Number 5 lowered a shell into a casing. He scooped it up and ran forward, holding the fuse pointed up. As he neared the breach, he lowered the fuse and swept it into the breech in a single graceful, fluid motion. His fist slammed it home. He couldn't hold back a small smile. Raygo, the number two, grinned back and slammed the breach block home. The solid mass of steel drove his fist from beneath the shell and out to the side.

"Make safe," said the sergeant.

"Shit," Raygo muttered and dropped the safety in.

He doubled back past the sergeant to the ammo.

"Show-off," said the sergeant as he passed.

Crouching back behind the ammo, he saw the number 3, Mason, double over.

"What's your problem, number 3?" said the sergeant.

"Did something to my ankle coming out of the chopper, Sarge," said Mason.

The sergeant replied forcefully, then turned to the three of them.

"Number 7, are you still certified for number 3?" said the sergeant.

"No, sir," said Fred Flintstone.

"Number 6, take over Number 3," said the sergeant. "Number 3, switch with number 7, Number 7, switch with number 6."

"Aw, Sarge," said Mason, doubling back.

"You're on report," said the sergeant.

He stood at ease by the side of the gun in the number 3 position and waited.

*****

He glanced at his watch, for the 30th time. It was 11h30, three hours since they'd loaded the bitch. It was hot as hell. The lieutenant had allowed them to take off their combat shirts and soak up a bit of sun. He glanced around. They were all muscular. They had to be, hauling the bitch and its shells around all over the place. It wasn't the sort of muscular that came from taking pills or bench pressing weights in an air conditioned gym while listening to a walkman. No, this was muscle earned from honest work. Definition from effort, not starvation. Raygo was staring off towards the trucks, back turned. He watched the sweat run down it, long streaks of shiny salt water marking out the trench above Raygo's spine. It was a thing of beauty. He told himself that there was nothing sexual about it, nothing at all. Even Fred Flintstone at 250 pounds looked a perfect picture of strength as he used a metal pole to make sure the muzzle break was screwed on. On the L5, it unscrewed in the same way that the shells came out of the barrel. If the number 6 didn't keep it screwed on, then the number 6 would have to go the mile or so into the brush ahead and haul the 60 pound fucker back to the gun before it could fire again. He'd never forgotten to do it, not after watching what effort Fred Flintstone ahd to make that one time.

He was halfway into his nutrition bar when his headset blared. He rammed the bar into a pocket, and took up his position at the traverse and elevation wheels.

"Elevation up, 25 mils," yelled the sergeant.

He cranked on the elevator wheel.

"Steady," said Raygo.

He slowed down.

"And stop!" said Raygo.

"That's not the drill," he muttered.

"Cherry," said Raygo.

"Ready," said the sergeant.

Raygo pulled out the safety.

"FIRE," yelled the sergeant.

He stepped back. Raygo hauled on the lanyard. The gun roared, and the barrel snapped back, faster than the eye could see. He stepped forward, watching as the barrel slowly returned to its position. Raygo opened the breech and the casing shot out, steaming.

"Load," said the sergeant.

Number 6 was there, driving the shell into the breach. Raygo slammed the breech block shut.

"Elevation, down 10 mils," said the sergeant.

He cranked it down.

"Fine," drawled Raygo.

"Traverse right, 24 degrees," said the sergeant.

His hand went to the crank and froze.

"Check traverse," he said, into the mike.

"Who the fuck is that?" said Lieutenant Marlo, breaking in from the fire control post. "Is it you, Mason, you miserable shit?"

"Washington, sir," he said.

"And just what the fuck do you know about the bearings, corporal?" said Marlo.

"Sir, that will place the shell 1 mile north northwest of the last one," he said.

"Only if you traverse right 24 degrees, you stupid shit," said Marlo. "Traverse right 24 mils."

"My mistake sir," he said, traversing as rapidly as he could.

"Ayo," said Raygo.

"FIRE!" yelled the sergeant.

The gun boomed.

"TAKE COVER!" screamed the sergeant.

He hit the ground flat and began crawling away from the gun towards a small hollow.

"Washington, Fogelman, ready the Condor!" yelled the sergeant.

He hurled himself up towards the edge of the position, cursing himself for volunteering for training on the fucker. He almost collided with Flintstone at the tubes.

"Fucking watch out," muttered Flintstone, picking up a tube.

"It's the one marked AFPM, not the TOW," he said.

"Asshole," said Flintstone, switching it for a different tube.

"Bogey coming up on the gap in the trees, dead ahead," said Marlo, from the fire control post.

Flintstone settled the tube on one meaty shoulder. He didn't begrudge him that; the Condor weighed close to 90 pounds. He pulled off the end covers, then yanked out the safeties. He opened the sight for Flintstone. He glanced across the position. The guns stood, erect but seemingly abandoned on the hillside. In the grass, he could see all the gunners that the sergeant was going to chew out later.

"Bogey in sight," said the sergeant.

"Gotcha" said Flintstone.

There was a roar, not as loud as the gun, but pretty fucking loud. A wave of scorching gas blasted into them. He looked up as the rocket generated a crooked corkscrew up into the sky towards the tiny speck between the trees. The speck hovered for a moment, then started to drop. The line of rocket exhaust zeroed in on it. There was a yellow flash and a sharp crack, right at the crest of the hill.

"Hold," said the sergeant.

A plume of black smoke started rising from somewhere on the other side of the hill.

"Satellite confirms kill," said Marlo. "Well done boys."

They fired 20 more HE rounds that afternoon, before ending with 2 WPs. Towards three, the wind shifted, now coming down from the gap between the trees. There was a strange smell in the air, that it took him a while to place. As they stood down for dinner, he recalled the time at the last Christmas before his gandmother went into the home, when she had placed the turkey in the oven without plucking it.

*****

They were in the back of a Weekend Warrior truck, hauling the L5 along behind. In spite of his good performance, he'd been placed back on number 6 duty, watching the wheels. Lt. Marlo had said the new position was only 5 miles away, but the gun could be towed no more than 10 miles before one of the four axle bearings seized and the associated wheel fell off. If that happened, they'd have to disassemble the bitch and haul it into the truck, then undo the trick at the other end. At the end of a day like this, it was the last thing he wanted to do. As he watched the wheel, he felt a certain warm satisfaction creep over him. Marlo had said that they'd kept the enemy's head down all day, but that had felt no different from an exercise. He didn't feel like a cherry any more, not after the missile. Flintstone got all the backslaps and high fives, but he knew damn well that if Mason had been there, they would have fired the TOW . He didn't want to think of what might have happened, then.

The truck began to slow, then turn. He glanced up at an APC parked on the corner by a mailbox that said McCoy on it, just like Bones out of Star Trek. They drove up what must have been a driveway slowly, then into the trees. They slowed again as autumn came suddenly. Even though it was July, the trees had lost their leaves. They were in what had been the fire zone.

The truck came to a halt, and they disembarked. There was no order to unhitch the guns, so he milled around with the others, watching. They were at the edge of a clearing. There was a farmhouse in the middle that had sustained a hit, but looked structurally sound. All of its windows were blown out. There were six picnic tables with picnic fixings sitting on them in various states of disarray. The terrorists hadn't been expecting the army to attack on this day. A flagpole remained intact with Old Glory fluttering in the light breeze. There was a smell in the air of cooked pork and the stuff they had to use outside when they cleaned the guns. A half mile behind, the remains of a barn burned brightly. Beside it, there were black holes in the field, surrounded by what looked like broken concrete. There had been something underground out there, once. The area around the house was swarming with grunts. By the insignia, they were Green Berets. He counted out ten body bags that he could see, and two other bodies covered by drop sheets that weren't in uniform. He counted off 12 men lying on the ground receiving aid. Some looked pretty bad, even from back there.

"Washington, Fogelman, grab a radio and set up a fire control post at the back of the house," said Marlo over the headset.

He ran forward, picking up the radio unit as he went. He doubled along the road to the front of the house where he was stopped by a sentry.

"Still checking it for booby traps," they were told.

He reported back over the headset to Marlo, who responded with a string of descriptives and a completely pointless order. He set the radio down, and Flintstone put the telescope down beside him. He looked around. On his left, beside an SUV that had taken a direct hit, four prisoners were kneeling, surrounded by guards. All were blindfolded with a strip of duct tape right around their heads, and had their hands taped behind them. All but one, the prisoner in the black suit with two bandaged stumps instead of hands who kept crying out in a British accent for someone to bring him his cat. Beside him was a woman in a white lab coat with bloodstains on it. She was trying to say something in an accent like the blue guys in Braveheart had. An officer yelled something at her, the wrapped the guy's mouth with duct tape. He looked away. Nothing interesting there.

On his right, something bigger was going on. Maybe 20 grunts were standing in a circle around something that was lying under a ground sheet.

"Watch the radio," he said, sprinting over before Flintstone could say anything.

The grunts say him coming, and covered whatever they were staring at with the groundsheet.

"Yo," he said.

"What's up, holmes?" one of them asked.

"Here for our weenie roast?" said another, pointing at the burning barn.

"Gonna ask you," he said.

"Come and see," said the grunt, moving aside.

There was a body, half covered by the sheet. She was white, not more than 20, maybe only 16. She had long brown hair that lay fanned out in the grass behind her head. The one eye he could see was closed. He looked further down. She had a nice body, kind of skinny, but nice, even if it was sort of cut up.

"Why'd you strip her?" he said, feeling every inch the cherry the moment he said it.

"You're arty, right?" said one of them.

"Yeah," he said.

"You did it," said the grunt. "Blew the clothes right off her."

The grunt whipped aside the sheet.

"Anatomy lesson," said another one.

His cousin had studied to be a nurse. She had had a model with hooks on the side. If you undid the hooks, plates of plastic skin came off and you could see the muscles and organs inside. What was under the sheet looked like one of those models, maybe after it had been run over by a heavy truck.

He didn't flinch. He swallowed gradually as he felt dinner rise.

"We kept her head down," he said.

"Fuckin' A," said a grunt. "Not one friendly fire fuck-up. You guys did good."

"Yeah," he said, looking at girl's necklace, one of those things that Jews wore. "We did good."

He walked away. It had suddenly gone very cold. He glanced at the prisoners, where the blindfolded woman was trying to talk to the officer again. The officer was tearing off another strip of duct tape. He looked back at the flag, which still fluttered in the breeze.

"Hey, arty," said the sentry. "House's all clear."

He picked up the radio, which seemed much heavier than before. As they came up on the front of the house, he tried counting the bullet holes. There had to be hundreds. They waited at the door as two grunts carried out a body bag. Inside, they had to step around a pile of upholstered chairs that some fucking idiot had tried to use as a barricade. The fucking idiot, some fat old guy in farmer overalls, was partly covered by a throw rug. There was a shotgun, breech broken, lying on top. The old guy had been gut-shot, and there was a pile of what looked like raw liver on the floor beside the corpse. He piled into the back of Flintstone, who had stopped and was staring.

"Fuck," said Flintstone.

"Up the stairs," he said.

There were more bullet holes at the top of the stairs. There was a bedroom facing the right direction, and a shell had conveniently taken off the entire back wall of the house. He looked at the top of the dresser. There were pictures of some old people, including maybe the stiff downstairs. There were also pictures of some thing that was blue and covered in hair. There was a body on the floor, covered by what looked like a duvet. He stepped around it carefully, then leant over the edge of the floor where the wall had been. Down below a grunt was trundling a wheelbarrow along past a circle of ten other grunts who were kneeling and praying. The wheelbarrow was filled with extremities. Some of the arms and hands were very small. The worshippers didn't look up as it passed.

In a corner, next to a pile of rubble beside the bed, Flintstone was setting up the telescope.

"Look at this," said Flintstone, pointing to something on the floor.

He understood for the first time what 'burned beyond recognition' meant. He sat down on the bed and set up the radio, as far from the corpses as he could. He switched it on. Nothing. He checked the battery. Dead.

"Fuck," he said.

"You go get it," said Flintstone.

"Like hell," he said.

"Hey," said Flintstone. "I'm the hero."

"Fuck you," he said, then doubled out of the room and down the stairs.

There was a hassle at the truck, but he evaded Marlo and doubled back to the farmhouse. He was half-way up the stairs when he stopped dead. There was a sensation, a tightening, at the back of his neck. There was no explanation for it. He could hear some grunts ransacking the bedroom on one side, and Flintstone in the other messing with the tripod. Even so, he laid the battery down and clicked the safety on his rifle off. He mounted the last few stairs very slowly and quietly, and froze again when he reached the bedroom. Flintstone was sighting something through the tripod. Both corpses were just where he had left them on the floor. He looked back at Fred, still concentrating on the telescope. Something moved at the corner of his eye, and he raised the rifle to a firing position in a flash.

When he was eight, his sister had made him watch a movie late at night. It was a vampire movie, but not Dracula. It was stupid because it had no sound. There was a Thing in that movie, like a mutie, only worse, that had scared him so much that he had wet himself. Something that rose from the shadows like that burned black thing in the black jacket was rising from the mess on the floor behind Flintstone.

It had to be dead. Anything that burned, that fragmentary, couldn't be alive. Yet it moved, jerkily, silently, with intent. It glowed with a golden light. It touched Fred Flintstone and something happened. Fred died, in a way that he never possibly could have imagined. He fired three shots at what might have been the thing's head. The head disintegrated. He fired three more shots into its body, then three more. It jerked, twitched and collapsed. A golden light washed over the blackened mess on the floor, then went out.

Silence.

He stepped forward into the room.

Still silence.

The body lay under the duvet. He kicked it off, and winced. No glow. Another girl, maybe 15, laying on her back, fully clothed in a crimson uniform with an X at one shoulder. Chinese face, short black hair, brown eyes clouding over, mouth slightly open and filled with strawberry foam. Sylvia Tsang. Sylvia Tsang who he knew from the Diversity Club at high school. Sylvia had died two years before, in a car accident after Karl Svenson had lost a race with a train. Chinese food in Minot hadn't been the same after that.

Somewhere, a sound.

He fired a bullet at the body. It ricocheted off past his ear. He fired a second. It ricocheted between his legs. He pointed the barrel at her face and emptied the magazine. No more Sylvia Tsang. No golden glow. Just dead meat.

He threw the empty rifle down on the floor. He turned to the door. The two grunts from the other bedroom were hovering there, rifles pointed at him.

"YOU MISSED ONE," he screamed. "You missed one of those mutie fucks, you FUCKING ASSHOLES!"

He lunged at them. They didn't fire, but drew back and all three fell down the stairs.

"CODE RED!" screamed one of the grunts from underneath him.

"Where?" said an officer-voice.

"You fucking missed one!" he yelled.

"Get a hold of yourself!" said the officer. "Where?"

"Upstairs," he said. "I killed it."

"Clear out!" yelled the officer. "Code red!"

The grunts hit the deck and started crawling for cover. The officer grabbed his collar and dragged him forward, up the road towards the trucks. As they passed the prisoners, a grunt put a pistol to the side of the head of the guy in the black suit and pulled the trigger. The prisoner crumpled to the ground, a small fountain of red blood geysering out of the bullethole. Two other grunts picked up the woman in the lab coat and started dragging her towards a black car with tinted windows.

At the trucks, he told them what had happened. He told them again and again and again. When he could tell no more, they put him in a helicopter and sent him back to the barracks.

*****

He lay in his bunk alone. None of the other gunners were there. They were still out at the battle site, mopping up. He had only a 40 ouncer of gin to keep him company, and that wasn't going to be around for much longer. He didn't see the officer until the man sat down on the bunk beside his. He recognized the officer as a colonel from the artillery school.

"Son," said the Colonel. "Your CO asked me to check up on you."

"Sir," he said, trying not to slur, trying to get up.

"At ease son, at ease," said the Colonel. "First blood, eh?"

"If I'd seen that mutie-" he started.

"Not your job," said the Colonel. "It would've taken an expert to tell that that thing was still alive. The grunts had experts. They fucked up. You killed an alpha class mutie, son. You saved a lot of lives."

"An alpha?" he said.

"Would have killed you all," said the Colonel. "You could be up for a medal."

"I-" he said.

"You're a hero, son," said the Colonel

"There were kids there," he said.

"Hold it, hold it, hold it," said the Colonel. "This is your first time seeing combat, right?"

"You told us we were there to keep their heads down," he said.

"You fired HE shells at them with a 105mm howitzer, son," said the Colonel. "You kept their heads down, all right."

"I saw a dead girl," he said. "I saw two of them. Kids. Little hands-"

"Shut it," barked the Colonel.

He instantly snapped into the nearest thing to attention that he could manage, dead drunk and slumped in his bed.

"What are the duties of a soldier, corporal?" asked the Colonel.

"Courage," he said.

"You showed that," said the Colonel.

"Selfless service," he said.

"You could have run," said the Colonel. "Others have. Others do, all the time."

"Duty," he said.

"You discharged it admirably," said the Colonel.

"Honor," he said. "I killed little kids."

"You killed terrorists, in a terrorist cell," said the Colonel.

"Integrity," he said. "It wasn't right. Not to do that. They were just like us."

"Like hell," said the Colonel. "You haven't seen what I've seen, at the briefings. Shit, most of what was there didn't even look human. Some of them were small and might have been mistaken for kids. Hell, most of them weren't even Americans."

"Respect," he said. "Treat others as you would have them treat you."

"They would see you dead," said the Colonel. "They are the enemies of us all. Those freaks would kill your mom and make you watch. They've done it before."

"But there were kids there," he said.

"Respect," said the Colonel. "Do you respect me, soldier?"

"Yes, sir," he said.

"I earned this ring at West Point 15 years ago," said the Colonel, indicating at the heavy metal band. "I'm one of the best educated, best informed officers in this Army. I've been to special schools in Langley and in Sandringham, and I know all about what's really going on. You're a 19 year old black kid from Minot, North Dakota who graduated from a shit high school and couldn't get into or afford to go college, right?"

"No, sir," he said. "I volunteered because I wanted to serve my country. But those kids-"

"You saw what they wanted you to see," said the Colonel. "Dead hostages. They blew them up as part of a covering operation as the infantry went in. We have proof."

"Hostages?" he said.

"You killed no children," said the Colonel. "You have my word as anofficer and a gentleman."

"Yes, sir," he said.

He couldn't hide the doubt in his voice.

"You missed a virtue, son," said the Colonel.

"Loyalty," he whispered.

"That's a very important one," said the Colonel. "Maybe the most important one of all. Do you truly love your country, son?"

"That's why I joined, sir," he said.

"You fought for it today," said the Colonel. "You'll get a medal and a promotion to lance corporal. Hell, I think there's a chance you might even be officer material. That is, if you're a good soldier."

"A good soldier," he said hollowly.

"A team player son," said the Colonel. "This is your once chance to make it. This is the only place in America where blacks like us could rise to a position of responsibility like the one I hold. You know it. You play the game, you get promoted, you and your family get the benefits. Where does your mother work, son?"

"McDonalds," he ssaid.

"And your father?" said the Colonel.

"Died," he said. "Long gone."

"Brothers?" said the Colonel. "Sisters?"

"Three sisters," he said. "My older and the middle one have kids."

"Even in Minot," said the Colonel, shaking his head. "Guess that makes you the man of family, doesn't it?"

"Yes sir," he said.

"If you're dishonorably discharged, you lose all the VA benefits, and the GI bill benefits," said the Colonel.

He stared.

"No free college, just a one way ticket back to Minot with what you came with and a brand of dishonor," said the Colonel.

"No," he said.

"If you don't play the game, you disrespect me and everyone in uniform and every veteran of this army and the flag, understand?" said the Colonel.

"Yes," he said, without conviction.

"When I was in the Gulf, we shelled the towelheads as they were fleeing Kuwait," said the Colonel. "They were on the run. They were going home. The war was over. We shelled them and killed over ten thousand of them."

"Shit," he said.

"That's what I said, when I saw the fire zone on CNN," said the Colonel. "My CO came and found me when I was getting drunk with some BBC guy. Took me aside just like this. Explained how it was necessary, to show that fucker in Baghdad that we'd won. To make it a victory. That's war, son."

"Huh," he said.

"I thought about what he said, and I made a decision that I would see it his way," said the Colonel. I stand by the decision I made on that day, and will until I die. I'm loyal to my country, son."

"Oh," he said.

"Loyalty," said the Colonel. "The most important one. Do I make myself clear?"

"Sir, yes sir!" he slurred.

"Good," said the Colonel, slapping a hand the size of a baseball mitt on his shoulder. "Good to hear it, son,"

He lay alone in the darkness, thinking, until he passed out.

*****

He went through the motions in the empty barracks. He did the duties that he was ordered to carry out, and did them well. Behind his impassive features, his mind was on fire.

For the three nights after the Colonel came to talk to him, he lay in bed praying to the concrete ceiling. It never answered back.

On the fourth night, once his duties were complete, he telephoned his mother in Minot and left a message on the answering machine, saying that he was sorry. He locked himself in the latrine of the empty barracks and took off his boots. He took out the laces, and tied the ends together with knots that would not slip. He looped the noose around a coathook. He prayed to the ceiling one last time. He turned away from the God who would not listen, and took the flimsy noose in his hand. It was so insubstantial, yet he knew it would not break, only take one thing if he let it. For the first time since his first wet dream, he began to weep. He closed his eyes and saw the anatomy lesson and the girl who wasn't Sylvia Tsang and the man in the black suit falling with blood fountaining out of his temple. He saw his mother on the sofa in Minot, crying five years after his father had died of cancer. He saw himself, hanging, being found when the unit returned the next afternoon. Found dead.

He twisted the noose on his hand, over and over, until it bit into his skin. He thought about why it was wrong and pulled down with all his strength. The white metal coathook snapped, and he almost fell flat on his face. He stared at the broken hook on the floor, then at the broken fitting in the wall. He unwrapped the noose from his hand. He undid the knots. He relaced his boots. He unlocked the door of the latrine. He lay on his cot, in the darkness. He wept, but he wept tears of joy.

The next morning, he dressed as usual and ate in the mess. Instead of heading to morning parade at the HQ, he picked up his kit bag and doubled for the gate. Three trucks were waiting there, filled with recruits in basic training. He climbed up on the tailgate of one, and found an empty place on the bench. None of the recruits made a comment. There was no inspection at the gate, and when the truck stopped at a light in Lawton, he jumped out. Some of the recruits stared at him quizzically, but he doubled around the corner and out of sight before anyone came after him. He ducked into a McDonalds and changed into civvies in the bathroom. He chucked his uniform in the stinking dumpster behind the restaurant. He found the Greyhound office.

"Where can I send you, son?" said the grizzled old guy at the counter.

"How about Columbus?" he said.

"Which one?" said the old guy.

"Ohio," said the good soldier.

FIN

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