No Hero, Part 3

Did you hear that popping noise, sharp like a cracking bone? It split the Kansas night, every night, sundered the still darkness and was borne away on the stirring wind. It startled you at first. You heard it like someone sneaking behind you in the dark, the Boogeyman or a thug fiending for the cash in your wallet. Paranoia made your mind spin and whirl in place. Your brain dove and twisted in your skull trying to escape, to veer out of the reach of the whip crack of surprise, to display calm while underneath a pinch of the surface lay the chaos of terror.

The sound of barking, snarling dogs straining against taught leather leashes drove you to the edge of a crowd that formed under the floodlights of the Fort’s main gates. You muscled your way forward through the seething, chanting mass until you had worked your way to the front. A line of men with rifles stood before the gates holding back the crowd. The dogs were on either end of the rank of soldiers, snarling and straining towards the howling crowd. The soldier’s young faces were hard; men so recently boys with their big guns in their shaking hands, their visibly quaking knees; the sick feeling in their stomachs echoed in the lines around their mouths. A water bottle arced out of the crowd behind you and struck a soldier squarely in the shoulder. The crowd seemed to surge forward then, the tide set on breaking against the eroding shore. They made no sound, but you could hear the soldiers screaming behind their unblinking eyes, strained against the leashes of duty, honor and country that kept them from tucking tail and running. Doom is what you felt, standing there on the brink of an event that couldn’t be taken back.

The bathroom was long and empty. The click of your boot heels on the tiled floor echoed back at you. You brushed your teeth, shaved and splashed water on your face. You took a good long look at yourself in the mirror. The dream with the soldiers was still fresh in your mind, one of those dreams that taint the rest of the day with the emotions it provokes. Their grim faces looked like yours did in the mirror as you stared back at yourself, the deep creases around your mouth that tried to keep from screaming echoed theirs, the intensity hidden behind those hooded eyelids was theirs too. You blinked and straightened up, splashed some more water on your face and then wiped it off with your sleeve. You straightened your ruinously crumpled uniform as best you could, pulling and smoothing down with your hands the wrinkles and errant creases. You trooped back to your room and lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling tiles, counting slowly to fifty and then back to zero until it was time to head downstairs to begin the day’s festivities.

Training began promptly at eight. The combat harnesses and Kevlar helmets jangled and clunked onto the floor as bodies sank into the plushness of the furniture in the conference room. The sergeant came in with his crisp manila folder under his arm and scanned the faces in the room, taking note of the absent. When he was done taking his silent count, the sergeant set his folder down and thumbed it open. He opened his mouth to speak and a tardy soldier ducked into the doorway and made for the back of the conference room and unoccupied seats. The sergeant shot the late arrival an acid look, but once the soldier was seated went about conducting the morning’s briefing.

"First off, guys," the sergeant said briskly, "we have some fresh intel on the protests that we’re training up for." He paused and a smile came to his face, a faint curling of his upper lip. "They’re not protesting next weekend. They’re protesting this weekend; Saturday."

The reaction from those seated around the big conference table was nil. No one seemed to bat an eye. You felt your throat constrict, and you hoped, in your embarrassment, that it didn’t show on your face.

"So, since Saturday is only two days off, we’re going to be hitting the training hard today and tomorrow," the sergeant continued. "We’re going to focus on the hand to hand and non-lethal measures today; tomorrow we’re going to the rifle range." His smile broadened. "All you deadeyes get to brush up on your skills a little." He made his fingers into a gun, depressed his thumb into the meat of his hand and mouthed the word "boom."

Bodies filed out of the conference room, shrugging harnesses on, slipping helmets onto closely cropped heads, and made for the Arms Room to get rifles issued to them. You followed at the tail end of the line. The cool, black plastic of the rifle’s stock and handgrips felt good in your hands. The weight was reassuring. You could grip the thing tightly and your hands would stop shaking.

When all the soldiers had been issued their rifles, they formed a long line on the grass in front of the Company building. Nicknamed the "football field," the lawn stretched the entire length of the building, and it was dotted with scenic maple trees. The line of armed men weaved between the maple trees on the lawn and you stood about at about the midpoint of the line. You’d thought ahead and gotten into the shade of a particularly large maple tree.

The sergeant stepped in front of everyone and shouted so the soldiers at the far ends of the line could hear him clearly.

"You remember some of this stuff from basic training, right?" he hollered. He went through some of the motions, swinging the butt of the weapon like a club in various maneuvers. Up, down, then swept left and right.

"Now you do it," he said. Arms swung, uncoordinated and halting, embarrassed. Some of the soldiers issued blood-curdling screams as they lunged forward manically with the butt of their weapons. You swung your weapon about in a self-conscious manner, grinning sheepishly at the soldier next to you as he furiously pounded the invisible enemy to the ground and kicked him under the invisible ribs.

The sergeant raised his hands and the soldiers regained control of themselves.

"Not like that, you bumble fucked retards. Like this. Follow me, step by step." The sergeant went through the motions, and all of the soldiers in the line followed his every move to the best of their ability. An upward thrust with the butt of the weapon, three quick jabs, then a downward thrust that was followed by a jab from the barrel, which would normally have a bayonet on it; then a sweep to the right, a sweep to the left and then back to the center, a short lunge forward with each motion.

"Again," the sergeant barked. "Faster this time."

The sun was rising high in the pale blue sky, and even in the shade you were sweating like a pig. Over and over, you pounded the air with your weapon, clubbing and thrusting at those invisible beasts. Each time you finished, the sergeant ordered everyone to do it again, faster, harder, and louder. Your arms grew heavy, your shoulders started aching, your voice turned hoarse from yelling; your brain quit functioning. Your reactions were automatic, if strained; your body was set on autopilot.

"Alright," the sergeant said, "that’s enough. It’s lunchtime. Go get you some good Army chow and be back here at 1300." Before the sergeant could change his mind you stacked your rifle with some other quick witted soldiers and made for your car. You drank deeply from your olive green canteen, drinking so greedily that the water dribbled past your mouth and down your chin onto the brown undershirt you wore beneath your camo blouse. You unlocked the door on your car and tossed your gear onto the passenger seat. You started your car, and sat for a moment enjoying the cool air blowing from the vents