The hum of morning deafens the senses as I pulled back the heavy, desert-tan canvas door. Reds and browns danced in the air with a cool breeze futile against the already blazing sun. Smells of musk and defiled grey water filled my nostrils as I embarked upon my morning trek. Lips burned as my sandpapered tongue attempted to moisten. My body ached and creaked as it was propelled forward with hopes on mental reprieve. I sat upon a makeshift bench of rejected two by fours and cinder blocks. The only company was another red-eyed sleep deprived soldier. He stood beyond the massive grey concrete walls in his modest wooden shack. Rifle slung across his chest, one in the chamber twenty-nine in the mag. Finger gently rested on the safety, ready to slip into fire or three round burst if there was any warrant for a cause. My rifle laid on my lap with the same standards of operations always in effect. I removed the crumpled Camel from its designated resting place. It had been compressed from the constant movement of bodies, sometimes mine and sometimes another. Its plastic bottom speckled with reds, browns, and blacks. My trouser had an imprint of a similar irregular pattern of black. I scratched the surface and flakes decorated my tan and creased thumb. My mind drifted to thoughts of its origin and concluded that where, or when, or even why it was there was of no consequence. I peered into the Camel’s pack to find but six cylinders of release remained. I removed the cotton-based cylinder and found its place upon my hardened lips. Flames extended from a mixture of butane, a spark wheel, wick, and flint. Paper turned from red to black as white and grey emitted from my mouth.
My shift was like many before and many that followed. When you are stateside at a hospital the night shift is welcomed. It is a time for relaxation, conversation, food, and amusement. In purgatory, nothing is ever the same. While the world slumbers and dreams of pleasantries and nightmares, you run to stop demons from achieving their true cause. Each second of what should be peace is used for the preparation of the upcoming battle. You check your equipment, ensure your medications are stocked, prepare the beds, and make certain you have blood available. There will always be a need for blood. Twenty hundred hours came with a ferocious thunder. Radios screamed with information of a mass casualty incident. The quiet hospital tent sprang to life with every available soul to be used at her discretion. The intensive care unit was flooded with experience, and Custer and I hurried to the tarmac. The birds of hope would soon arrive with countless souls between this world and the next. The winds whipped sand and dust as the first AH-64 Apache began its descent. Custer and I knelt behind the giant grey concrete slab preparing to take charge of what was to come. The flight chief signaled with two fingers thrusting forward; Custer and I scrambled forward in a crouch to avoid four blades that decapitate upon impact. We reached the belly of the bird as her giant, olive drab steel flung open. The roar of the engines left us deaf but no words were needed. Metal handles of a stretcher found their way into my hands. I pulled with urgency and expectation that Custer would receive the opposing end. We reached the concrete barriers and Custer stumbled; his left hand failing to maintain its grip. The stretcher tilted under the differential of weight and obtuse, concave, and convex structures painted a mosaic on Custer’s left leg. We sat the stretcher upon the ground and collected what was found to be the inferior of the man. He was set beside the emergency department. Olive army green wool covering his face. A black flag was placed upon his torso for purpose of identification. For the remainder of two hours, we progressed in a similar fashion. Some people marked in green, some in red, and others in black. Men came with holes of stars and circles decorating various portions of their bodies. Children left with half a smile or part of a wave. Women decorated with glistening fragments of metals and glass. Not a soul that was there before was to ever come back. The battle had subsided but the war continued to rage. Beds that were once empty now filled in excess. Tears and pain medicated into submission or remission. Twelve pine boxes sat where people used to lay. The next soldier arrived to relieve the red and puffy-eyed. Laughs and jest of sorrow were exchanged in halfhearted sentimentality. My cigarette had vanished midway down its path. David approached me with his often-worn childlike smile. Hand held awaiting his payment and ready to relieve me of my own demise. He tossed his head to the left indicating his intentions of moving. He said, “Did I ever tell you how I found my ‘67 Mustang? It is one sweet ride.” Comments are closed.
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