Revealing Revelations (3 page)

Fort Hood

Killeen, Texas

1/13/08

A mass of soldiers in P.T. uniforms run down Battalion Blvd. Male and female soldiers of every nationality side by side united in representation of the U.S. Army. All with same purposes in mind: American preservation, moral comradery, and self motivation. Sweat beads down their forehead all the way to gray Army shirts and smooth winds blow past their black P.T. shorts. A roar of cadence calls  echo through the streets.

“When that left foot strikes the ground!” sings out a single voice followed by a unified flock of others.

“All I want to hear is that “WHAT,” sound!” The platoon once again repeats after the sergeant.

My eyes from the distance watch them. Not with curiosity, but pride. Pride because of the fearless actions most have endured in combat zones and others who soon will, because of the loyalty amongst them. Not only the loyalty to their country, but more importantly, to each other. But, at the end, I almost feel a small sense of pity for them. So motivated and driven, it was obvious the majority of them are new soldiers who still have the privilege of being unaware of what awaits them overseas. Some will make it back, others won’t. It’s the life we all ignorantly chose.

“Specialist Thomas!” I hear a voice call out catching my attention. I look out of a small clear plexi-glass window, noticing it vaguely mirrors some of my reflection. Forgetting someone called my name, I get lost in the mirror image of myself, so impressed with my good looks. A light brown African American male dressed in Army ACU’s, mustache, standing about five foot six — handsome, if I do say so myself. Guess I was just being vain at the moment.

“Specialist Thomas!” the voice calls out to me again.

I convert all attention back to guard duty. I look towards the direction where I heard my name. Seeing a tan Honda Civic to my left, a hand reaches out of the car window handing me an identification card. The picture on the card shows a Caucasian male. I quickly return the card back to the empty extended hand. Neither name, nor the face is familiar, or of any importance to me for that matter. The only thing important to me was the rank that I saw as I glanced down towards the center of the man’s ACU top. Two black parallel vertical bars.

“You may proceed, Captain,” I tell him then I took a step halfway back into the guard booth pushing a button which in turn raises a yellow and white stripped horizontal gate pole.

He shoots me a stare of disapproval, probably because I didn’t respond when he first called my name, but he’ll be okay. The vehicle proceeds at a low speed.

Visually searching for the platoon running at a double-time I’d seen before are no longer in sight. I return to the booth. Sitting down, I wait for the routine to repeat itself. Car comes up, grab the ID card, push button, then give ID card back. “This is what Uncle Sam wants for the country, a button pusher,” I say to myself followed by a chuckle at the thought.

“Specialist Thomas!” a voice shouts out.

I turn around once again looking for the extended hand, but there was none this time. A short slightly pudgy figure stands before me in the opening of the booth. Looking at a pair of squinty eyes above a smile on the face of the tan-like brown individual.

“What’s up, black ass?” the Hispanic man in ACU’s asked me.

I sit down and lean back in the cushioned computer chair with hands folded behind my head. “Specialist Bernal, how ‘bout you remember to address me as Specialist Promotable Thomas when you see me, got that, my mexicano muchacho vato?” Both of our racist remarks are nothing more than jokes we use to remind us of our long-time friendship. It was humor that we both shared, even though I was from Chicago and Benal was from Las Vegas. After being in basic training for nine weeks, A.I.T. fifteen weeks, Iraq, and same unit together for three years, we became good friends.

“Had to throw that ‘promotable’ part in my face, huh, Thomas?” Benal says, maintaining the same smile as before.

I return the smile. “You know me, Battle, just had to let you know I got one up on you,” I said.

Benal’s smile fades into a crooked smirk and says in a low playful stern voice, “Black ass,” he says as under a snarl since he had nothing else to reply with.

I laugh, and rise from the chair walking pass Benal. “So you’re my relief, huh?” I ask.

“Yeah, but why?” Benal asks, stepping on the 6 inch high platform floor inside the booth looking a little bit taller than usual yet still shorter than me.

I start walking out of the guard booth.

“Are you just gonna quit your post without being properly relieved, Mr. Specialist
Promotable
? I mean, you didn’t brief me or anything, now did you?” he says in a tone of comical irony.

Realizing he was correct and had just got a shot in on me, I laughed it off. “How ‘bout showing your superior some respect,” I reply as I continue to walk away until Benal calls my name.

“Thomas!” he yells out, catching my attention.

I turn halfway around.

“It’s good to have you back, Battle.”

I look at him and shake my head slightly side to side. “You know what, Benal? I wish I could say it’s good to be back.” I continue to walk away, down a short road, crossing Hell on Wheels Blvd. and Old Ironside Blvd. and walking down Battalion Ave. Finally, making it to the barracks parking lot, I look at the broad tan bricked three story building. A repeated series on each floor: dark brown metal door, window, window, door, door, etc. I walk to the staircase doors and up the staircase I went. The extensive detail of maintaining uniformity takes life out of the Army life. Exiting the staircase on the second floor, I turn right and walk at a reluctant pace along the side of the rail passing multiple doors and windows until I reach a certain one. I stare at the horizontal 2” by 4” white sign that reads 246 in black numbers. Digging around in my pants pocket I find a key that reads the same. Key inserted and turned, I can hear the deadbolt unlock. I grasp the door knob turning it effortlessly and pushing the large light metal door open.

After one step in and taking the time to re-examine this motel-like designed barracks room, I start becoming even more disgusted with the militant mind.
Whoever the architect was, needs to stand in front of a firing squad,
I think to myself. I look at the mirror and sink built into the far wall in front of me, right beside the double entry bathroom I share with the room occupant on the other side. A refrigerator was to my immediate left against a tan wall and bed to the right. White sheets on a mattress with a wood frame bed. The only thing standing out on my half of the room was a red hundred-fifty thread count comforter and pillow case set I picked up in Kuwait. Underneath my bed was field gear, additional running shoes and combat boots. A wall locker three feet away from the bed divided  my side of the room from my roommate’s, which is perpendicular to a small wooden computer desk. I remove the ACU top and wearing the beige Under Armour shirt. Tossing the top down on my bed, I walk over to the sink placing my hands on the sink’s surface as I bend halfway over.

Looking at everything, I begin to realize how insignificant this room was. But it’s more than just that, this signifies my way of living, my entire life and my world. For almost three years, I’ve dealt with this lifestyle, a lifestyle that I was not in control over. Taking directions from a man. A man that’s neither different nor better than me or any other. “Stand here stand there, permission to fire granted, report to your section chief,” they tell us. Doing only what we’re told only makes the motto, “Move, shoot and communicate,” seem to be in full effect. The more I think about it, and how insignificant I am to the red white and blue, makes it become even more depressing. I almost feel lifeless now. I let the cold water run from the faucet catching some in my hand just to splash on my face.

Knock, knock, knock!

I ignore the knock at the door, but quickly turn the water off. Hoping whomever was knocking wouldn’t hear the water and know I was there. Right now I really wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone.

Knock, knock!
  The knocking continues.

“Thomas, open the door!” A familiar voice shouts.

Standing straight up, I take my hands off the sink and walk to the bed. “It’s open,” I answered to the persistent visitor as I stretch out in the bed, crossing my legs and folding my hands behind my head.

Errrr!
The door creaks open slowly, but only wide enough for the Caucasian male in his mid-thirties to enter wearing an army uniform just like mine. Three chevrons and a rocker brand his chest and cap. He looks at me with blue eyes and a rhetorical grin. He raises his arms high and wide. “What’s up, what’s going on with the sad face?” he asked.

“Sergeant Shanahan, don’t worry about it,” I replied.

Sergeant Shan drops his arms dramatically and twinges up the corner of his mouth. “Tch! Quit acting like a female soldier, Tommy Boy. C’mon talk to me,” he says.

“Congratulations on your promotion, Staff Sergeant, is that enough conversation for you?” I say with a sense of tiredness in my voice.

Sergeant Shanahan walked to the edge of the bed.

“Hmm, now you tell me. Scoot over, Private.”

Scooting my body closer to the wall, I make room for Sergeant Shanahan, who sits at the bottom of the bed. “Uh, is this one of those don’t ask don’t tell situations I been hearing about?” I asked with a joking grin. “You’re kind of closer now, Shane. TOO CLOSE,” I say joking with him. I had a long friendship with Sergeant Shanahan as well. He was my first squad leader when I came to the unit, I got shifted around from squads a little bit but ended up where I started. So it’s only to be expected that we become close and on first name basis.

“Seriously, I heard you… went… home recently,” he said, referring to the fact that I went without leave. I know with him being my squad leader, I got him into a little bit of grief for my actions, but he never really had any issues with me, so I knew he wouldn’t take it hard.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I went to Chicago for a day. Let me guess A.W.O.L. is what they call me,” I replied with no regard of consequence.

 “You’re most likely not facing U.C.M.J action. You know they wanna make examples out of every combat veteran they can just to prove to the new soldiers they’re not playing any games,” Shane says in an informative tone. 

I breathe in deep and let out a sigh. “I know,” I answered.

“Thomas, really? I know you went through a lot during our deployment,” he says, leaning forward placing his elbows on his knees and folding his hands. “Hell, we all did. But, you gotta get it together,” my old friend tells me.

“What will they do then, Shane?” I ask him.

 “Probably just do some extra duty, I mean, at least that’s what I’m pushing for to keep things from getting too severe,” Shane replies.

“Well, Shane, you know we went through it all together.”

“Hmph! That’s for damn sure,” Shane replies. Silence and memories of Iraq overcomes the room. Shane places his hands on his knees and with a burst of energy springs himself up to his feet. “Dammit, Thomas, you were, no, you
are
my best soldier. You picked up rank faster than any other, almost had your sergeant stripes before we left Iraq. You are a good leader and friend to me and everyone else in the unit.”

I watch as he begins to pace with hands on his hips. He comes to a halt. “Shane, you are forgetting one thing,” I tell him.

“What’s that?” he asked with an unexpected plain look on his face.

“I’m a damn good mechanic, too.” I answer him with a slightly comical tone.

“Hm hm hmm.” Shane drops his head in a chuckle. “Wow! You never cease to amaze me. Why?”

I express with a puzzled reply, “Well, I guess I’m just witty, it’s just natu—”

“No, not that jack-ball!” Before I can finish my sentence Shane cuts me off in anger. “Why did you work so hard for so many years just to pull an idiotic move like this?” Shane asks walking back to the bed, finding himself sitting in the same slouch all over again.

I swing my legs over the side and sit beside him. “Sergeant, I don’t know.” I begin realizing it got to him more than I expected.

Shane turns his head and squints at me. He begins to turn red with fury. “You don’t know? The hell you mean you don’t know?”