Headed west, maybe. I’m more of a left- right person. But I’ve been at this road most of my life. Aaron’s truck knows it by heart too it seems. Maybe I should’ve let him take his truck with him.
No, like his mother, he learned to drive on FM roads and pastures filled with nothing more dangerous than rocks.
Rocks. I still smile today, just thinking of the word.
Even with a newfound attitude, I was no match for a soldier I made friends with after the invasion. Sergeant Dumbacher. Sergeant D had strung commo wire over the bridge during Operation Just Cause. She was in charge of troops. Thin and blonde, the blue-eyed Cincinnati native had already served ten years in the Army. She was tough.
I rode shotgun across the bridge in a flak jacket. Loaded down with two hundred and ten rounds, two canteens of water and an M-16, it was all I could do to lift my hundred and five pounds and sixty-one inches onto the hummer. I supplied the Marines with food, ammo and water, but maneuvered like a toddler dressed in too many winter clothes.
I was stuck in a section that viewed women as good for only two things. Making coffee was one of those, so I perked a lot of coffee.
Sergeant D protected her troops in between hollers. Griped out those where Druid was engraved against their dog tags in the space most people put Protestant, Catholic or Jew. Always articulate, she said things like, “Well, I don’t know Sergeant Major. What do you want me to do about the busted radio? I can’t shit parts.”
Caustic to the end.
Things got easier.
Caustic and cream.
I was cream and so Army green. Even with attitude, I was a rule person in the military. I’d never forgotten all that hollering in training. Older, I never quite got the game of it all. Never found that relaxed middle ground. Took everything serious. The epitome of a Drill Sergeant’s best nightmare.
Our battalion was preparing for field training, and though we spent six months out of twelve in the field, this exercise was different. Good training they called it. Everybody was talking about the upcoming possibility during chow one day. Somebody said something about light discipline.
“Light Discipline?” I asked. “What does that mean anyway? We’re not getting in trouble much?”
“Austin
Dang. It sounded anything but light to me.
Sergeant D hated Physical Training. I loved it. Could run faster and pull harder than a lot of the males. Worked hard physically most of my life. Energy to burn.
In training, I’d often heard, “Drop Momma Smurf! Show these Joes how to push!”
I always obliged, dropped and knocked out my normal seventy-five push-ups.
I had one thing in common with Sergeant D. We both thought of our male counterparts as mentally deficit to us. We prided ourselves on high GT scores. Together, we secretly referred to the members of our battalion as “Rocks.” Daily stories and inventive jokes passed between us—all in tribute to the Rocks. The jokes kept our sanity.
The ever-present threat in the Middle East loomed and our battalion deployed on a good will mission to Panama’s interior. Months of building roads, schools and clinics. Enlisted females slept in one huge tent. Mosquito netting covered canvas cots. Cord strung up laundry washed by hand. Bras and panties, T-shirts and shorts sagged, dripped water onto the dirt covered floor. We shook critters of the six or eight-legged variety from our jungle boots in the dark of the morning, took turns and held unseasonable small floods at bay with entrenching tools in one hand, a comb or brush in the other. Cold showers dribbled by way of huge water bladders. An eye-opener for sure, but a welcomed one after hours in the heat.
After the first week, our battalion was put on high alert because of Hussein and his chemical agents.
Words from an unfamiliar dictionary.
For me.
Then.
Due to anti-American sentiment, guard duty increased. Not the hours, as Army hours were always the same, but the number of guards. Operation Desert
Our Rocks were called for Desert entry. Sleep turned into a precious commodity.
I listened to the briefings, feared for the risk of the soldiers. Worried for the innocent. The cost of war was high, had always been high. At times, it seemed inevitable, other times avoidable. I didn’t know for sure who decided these things. I asked the Sergeant Major, “Is it a Holy War?”
Brilliant.
“They’re all holy wars, Austin
The bulldog stomped away, off the chain, shouted at everyone near or far.
Geez, I thought. He could be a dog for sure. I had to respect his rank, but I never revered the man. I hoped the other Rocks were smarter than him. I prayed they were more knowledgeable than me.
Precious sleep escaped me that night. After I sacked out, I thought for a long time. Tossed. Turned. After a long battle, I appreciated the Rocks. I enjoyed the same freedoms they did. Enlistment allowed both male and female to serve, or the freedom not to serve. I could pray, bear children, bear arms.
Grids on a map intimidated me. I had to re-check my double checks. Shot I'd rather be, than have to qualify at the range with an M-16. I loved my country, and right this minute, I loved its Rocks. I was thankful the effort didn’t rest or depend upon either the intellectual or the pacifist. Maybe it was time to think about going home when my time was up.
My orders for Panama had arrived as an eighteen-month tour, without a family in tow, and by the time I landed they’d changed to a twelve month hardship tour. Before six months passed, Aaron and Doug had joined me in Panama and my contract changed to a three year accompanied tour. Too soon, Doug and I returned to our passion for devout disagreement. With more than six months commitment in country and on contract, I watched my heart leave Panama, not quite ten then. My Aaron.
With only three months left, I was short and met Specialist Gregory L. Miller.
A beginning, a rather large middle, an ending. Then you start other stuff.
As the clerk for Company Operations, I had checked Miller’s GT score on my computer. His was the same as mine. He wasn’t a Rock. Well, he might’ve been a little hardheaded because he followed me home nearly two months after I left.
It took a year for me to quit calling him Miller.
Glad to be home and finished with the long drive from the university, I was disappointed when my husband told me I’d missed Aaron’s call.
“How’d he sound?”
“He sounded great, honey. He said he’s a squad leader and he’d try to call again tomorrow.”
Later, we listened to the nightly news on television and knew the War on Terror would be an extended one.
“I hope I’ve done the right thing by encouraging Aaron to enlist.”
“You can’t be second-guessing yourself like that.”
“I know. Idealistic to a fault—that’s me. Life isn’t always ideal though, and besides….” I lit a cigarette, watched a couple of smoke rings, flicked at some ash on the table.
It was old ground. I needed to relax in a hot tub.
I replayed Aaron’s last year at home inside my head a dozen times. He’d changed his mind more than once about entering the service. He loved his friends, his social life. He wasn’t real keen on adult direction, though he certainly knew how to charm a grown-up if he wanted to. Finally, he’d met the oath. I knew the events of September 11, 2001 were part of it. But there was more. Life itself, as it does, instigated his desire.
My son had worked and lived on his own just long enough. He’d figured out some important things in life. Without an education or a financial boost of some kind, he was probably set to go nowhere fast. I couldn’t and wouldn’t hand that kind of cash over to him. He didn’t want me to. Materialistic? For sure, but he’d worked since the ninth grade. He enjoyed independence. I didn’t have the kind of money it’d take for college, and even if I did, I’d spent four tough years just getting him up in the morning. A mom can’t live in the dorm.
Aaron had already attended more than one friend’s funeral. Drugs, drinking, car wrecks, shootings. God only knew what all had been involved with the young boys’ deaths. My son had some growing up to do, and I wasn’t financially prepared to throw thousands down the toilet while he did.
Maybe my maternal instincts were a bit marred, but I’d encouraged the son I loved to enter military service before, during and after nine-eleven. Death and destruction could be found everywhere. And like life and resurrection, it was often discovered in unpredicted circumstances. At the oddest of times. Sometimes a person just had to make do with what life offered then and there. I thought if anyone had the heart for it, it was Aaron.
I’d spent years imagining my son living with me. I’d nurtured him the first three years of his life, then a short while in Panama
Then it happened. The unexpected busted into all our lives after Aaron turned fourteen. Over Wranglers. He no longer wanted to wear Wrangler jeans just like his dad. Both males played the hardhead. All the great issues we’d fought about, persisted in, endured sleepless nights through, nothing—absolutely nothing had ever produced the amount of turmoil this one pair of jeans initiated. We all spent the next four years fighting about jeans and grades and all the things parents and teenagers fight about.
And like all beginnings, middles, and ends, things changed. Old paths, new paths. Same paths. Different paths.
The boy grew up. In spite of me.
I smiled to myself. I remembered a movie we’d watched together. Its plot was full of action and betrayal. The government veered antagonistic and the protagonist, of course, double-crossed.
My son’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “How could they do that to their own?” The boy’s idealism surpassed even that of his mother’s.
At no loss for words, it was a speech I’d thought of many times while I watched him prepare for military service. I wanted this for him as much as he did. Maybe more. But even as a late bloomer, I’d learned a few things. I answered him in almost a sermon. “Aaron, if you’re going to do this, you’ve got to do it for you and for the things you believe in. Don’t ever once think that political climates don't exist. If the time ever comes that your life is required, then it has to be for what’s in your heart, for what you believe in, and if you don’t think you can do that, and do it without reservation, then don’t do it. You can’t do anything much about the hearts of others. Check your own. Be sure of what’s there. Then go with it.”
Time passed.
When he came home on leave after Boot Camp, I’d asked, “What do you think should be done about John Walker Lindh?”
Aaron thought for a few minutes. “Who’s he?”
I’d grinned at the time. Yes, the Drills had done an excellent job of keeping their recruits isolated.
I finished my bath, carried my thoughts to bed with me. I barely slept. Was relieved when the sun peeked between gray clouds.
Strong coffee for breakfast. The television was loud; an earnest voice drew me into the living room. It was Montel Williams and he gave a speech all his own. “You young people need to rise-up to the occasion and go out and fight against this terror and crime against humanity.”
I sat down and listened to the talk show host.
“I served twenty-two years in the Marines. I’m too old to go and fight or I’d go. Your generation has been brought up in total freedom … a generation that has experienced all the benefits of freedom—freedom that came at a huge cost to thousands before you. If you don’t rise up to the task before this country, then your children will want to know why.”
He’s right, I thought. My mind relaxed. I liked his speech better than my own. Soon enough, I concentrated on my paper, but the phone interrupted me.
It was Aaron. “Hi, Mom.” His voice sounded great.
“Hey, Kid. How is everything? I hear you’re a squad leader! I’m so proud of you. Does your squad like you?” I felt sure they must.
“Mom, a good squad leader doesn’t figure his squad will like him. That’s part of being a good squad leader.”
“Mmmm …” I replied to the squad leader.
But he wasn’t listening. He had a lot to say in a short time. A fast-talker. “I don’t ask my squad to do anything I don’t do. If I tell them to do a hundred push-ups, I push too. I’m fair. But we need to be in top shape.” He sounded tough and not the least bit apologetic. He continued, “Oh, Mom, I do have the GI Bill. I checked like you told me to. I must’ve signed up for it sometime, but I don’t remember it. Maybe when I signed up for all that other stuff. When I get out in four years, I’m going to use it to go to night school in L.A.
This was news to me. Last week he’d said he’d probably stay in for twenty years and then live overseas. Australia
“I do love it,” he said. But I want to go to school too. And I won’t be able to since I’m infantry. We’ll be out in the field or deployed all the time. I want to go to L.A.
Here it was.
Who’d ever thought?
My very own Rock.
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