Playful Bullets

[NOV2022]

I'm awakened by the crackle of the two-way radio and a series of short and long bursts. Morse Code that translates to "East Infantry". It's from the Sentinel 30 miles west of me letting me know that there's an Infantry convoy heading east toward me. Good. A distraction and not a Citizen transport. But these convoys of soldiers refresh my worries about Jack, especially the big convoys because it means the war back east is intensifying.

I get up and out quickly to scan the perimeter and get down to the checkpoint before the trucks roll up. It can sometimes be two weeks between convoys and so there's a twinge of excitement that comes over me when one is on the way, like cleaning the house before hosting a party. On my way down the path I kick rocks and debris to the sides knowing full well no one will see this path but it's a gestalt for me. I can see the trucks now emerge through the binoculars from the mirage waves between the road and the sky. One, two, three... I begin counting them as they veer along the road but there are so many that they blur together like one big camouflage snake slithering toward me. I know that distance well and know I've got about eighteen minutes before they get here, so I sit on the graveled shoulder scanning the rest of the perimeter not so necessary on a Monday.

The one day a week it is necessary is Tuesday. My favorite day of the week. I'm not perfectly alone out here. I have a friend. And we're very close. We've shared life or death moments together and all by each other’s hands. I call him "Mack" but have no idea what he calls me because we've never met.

I focus the lenses toward the South where Mack lives. It's a smaller Sentinel post than mine and not made of Army-issue materials. From here, about a kilometer away, it looks like the plywood forts we used to make as kids. There are hundreds of these along the convoy routes. Rebel Militia that refuse to enter the Citizen Compounds that the Army has set up believing them to be the ultimate Government takeover. Like the Tea Party types of a decade ago only on steroids and armed to the teeth. All this centralization of government power designed to document and secure the American People plays right into their most paranoid fears, even after the passing of the Citizen Soldier Act of 2017. The Act allowed millions of Americans to enlist which meant three squares a day for them and their families. And, depending on their skills in the private sector, ranks (and pay scales) could be leapfrogged as the government raced to fulfill their most basic constitutional duties to protect and defend the People. This is how I reached the rank of Captain in just under two years. (That, my sniper skills, my relative celebrity and fraternal connections.)

So Mack is my mirror. Like sentries on opposing walls, we mirror each other’s tactical moves. Rather, he mirrors mine. On Tuesdays I'm ordered to patrol south of US6 to test the security of the highway's parallel berth, which means on Tuesdays Mack patrols north toward me in mirror fashion. In fact, because I'm at the road now awaiting this convoy means that Mack's out there in the brush equidistant from me, looking right at me through his lenses and will continue to until I move.

Every Tuesday at precisely 1500, I strap on my sniper rifle and head south. Mack will head north, always to the same spot where I've set a rusty car hood upright — not for protection, but as a target for Mack. And in return, he's set up a slab of his plywood for me. We've even drawn target circles and scores for one another but, because we're both equipped with very precise weapons and years of practice, we're no longer able to tally the scores for the bull's-eyes we've blown out long ago. So every Tuesday we make a new circle to aim for. Once we even played tic-tac-toe before ammo supplies were cut back on my end. I really look forward to this ritual as it's the only time all week I have some measure of fun, and although we've never met, it gives me a sense of camaraderie above the politics and war. Like the WWI Christmas Truce soccer game between the Germans and French in 1914, our Tuesday Truce keeps us human.

The din of the convoy hits my attention and I stand up, brush the gravel off my pants and raise the yellow flag above my head. This is by far the longest convoy I've seen. It must have taken five minutes for the initial braking of the lead truck to reach the back of the line.

"Morning sir!" the fresh faced driver of the lead truck calls out above the droning diesel.

"Morning Corporal! Quite a line you've got here. All men?" I say approaching his cab and reaching for the clipboard of orders.
"Mostly, sir. We've got some humvee flatbeds at the rear but mostly men, sir" he replied.

I scan his orders and my eyes fix on the field for "Number of Troops" which reads "2248", twice as many as the largest convoy I had seen in three and a half years. Then the "Destination" field leaps out at me.

"Fort Campbell" (Jack's base) and my heart drops. "Campbell eh? Are these men headed to West Virginia?"

"Yes sir, they are. Three days in Campbell then off to West Virginia to relieve the first strike force. We're kicking some serious ass out there, sir" he says proudly. I feign a proud grin but the news of hard fighting where Jack is turns my stomach.

"My son's there now —101st —hopefully these men mean he's leaving the theater..." Then it hits me, "Corporal!" I shout excitedly, "Hold the line for five minutes!" I yell running up the path toward my tower.

"Uh, yes sir?!" He replies confused.

I bolt to the ladder but can't stop to catch my breath this time; yet the gift of this timing keeps my mind above the fatigue. I spring up the ladder and once inside tear the place apart searching for the document. This convoy can get this to Fort Campbell sooner than any investigative team who happens to find it. Not more than three minutes pass before I'm skidding across the shoulder to the cab of the truck.

"I need you to do something for me soldier." I say gasping for air.

"Yes sir?" he looks over at his co-driver who shrugs.

"I need you to deliver this to Colonel Pike at Campbell. Oh! Corporal, what's your ETA there?" I say holding my chest as if to keep my lungs from bursting.

"Thursday night sir. Around 1900 is our best estimate"

Between heaving breaths I say, "Good. Good. Thursday night works ... Now listen up. Just drop this in his incoming ... don't ... there's no need to see him in person ... in fact ... don't see him at all! He's a very busy man. Just drop it at his office the night you get in ... got it? Oh, and that's an order soldier. Are we clear!?" I say realizing that this chain of command thing can be a real handy tool.

"Yes sir. Got it. Deliver to Col. Pike Thursday night..."

"Colonel Pike's office, office! Not in person!" I repeat. "He's very busy."

"Yes sir, Colonel Pike's office, Thursday night."

I pick up the clipboard from the ground where I must have dropped it in my haste a few minutes before. Hand it to him, return his salute and wave him on. As the convoy rumbles passed me I scan the faces of the young men avoiding eye contact and stepping back at least ten paces so they're not obligated to salute me. They've got enough obligations coming their way.

As the last gust of spitting gravel sweeps across my boots, I stare after them, beset by the moment. The timing of this convoy — it's destination — the fact that I was waving these boys into harm's way. With the help of the Corporal's timely delivery and the relief this convoy meant for Jack, I may after all, keep a disquieting promise.