Sergeants Major Rivera stood in front of him for what seemed like an eternity. He was still holding the shower curtain against the wall that was draped between the stalls of commodes. The curtain, instilling a feeling of privacy as you did your business. This business is what Rivera came in here for five minutes ago. You know what I mean. That pain that hits you in your gut and you can’t do anything about it but to go and the turtle is trying to stick its head out. Well, that feeling has since left him.
He stood there looking at him. Joe was sitting on the commode, leaned back, his arms dangling to his side, a piece of his scalp gone at the top of his head, blown to bits by the round, his face pale as a ghost with his jaw hanging, and the M16 still between his legs. Blood splattered on the wall behind him and to his right. Blood still dripping from the ceiling where a six-inch hole, punctured by the bullet, letting the sunlight in and shining on Joe.
Rivera stood there envying Joe in a way. He looked beautiful to him. Peaceful even. Whatever had pained Joe so much that he felt this was the only way to ease it, it’s gone.
In his twenty years of service, he had never seen anything quite like it. Not even in the first gulf war where he had been a brand spanking new sergeant. It took ten years to get it but he finally got promoted to E-5. Now he could start telling other people to do what other people had told him to do. That’s just one of the privileges that comes with the territory. He had planned on getting out of the army if he didn’t get his E-5 by his tenth year. He had planned on moving his family back home and joining the local police force. Well, it’s not like he had any choice in the matter. He had to do something. Time was his enemy. A year before his promotion to sergeant, his commander had called him in to his office.
Captain Henry was a Soldiers Soldier. He had spent six years as an enlisted soldier before he got his commission. So he felt he understood his soldiers and was able to relate to them. And he knew it bugged the heck out of them if he called them by their first name. But he had grown accustomed to it because that’s just how officers addressed each other. Except of course if the one they were addressing was of a higher rank. Every month Captain Henry would receive a report of the soldiers who were approaching RCP. A point in a soldier’s career where a decision has to be made, stay in or get out. When RCP hit you had no choice, you were out.
“Brian,” Captain Henry began, “you know you’re coming up on your tenth year right.”
“Yes, sir,” Rivera replied standing at attention and trying to keep the conversation short and irked for being called by his first name.
“And, you’re still a Specialist.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know we’ll have to kick you out on RCP if you’re still an E-4 at ten years right.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get your ass in gear. What’s the matter with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to get your ass in on next month’s promotion board.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d hate to have the army waste any money on kicking you out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, get the heck out of here.”
He didn’t get promoted at that promotion board. But he did, eventually, getting promoted three months before his RCP cut off date. After he was promoted to Sergeant, Rivera progressed through the ranks rather easily. Now he has attained the highest rank an enlisted soldier can attain and he finds himself in another war zone looking at the lifeless body of a soldier he just spoke to yesterday. The conversation was nothing in general. He just gave Joe his congratulations, inquired if he had called his wife to let her know, he said no, shook his hand and went ahead to work. Joe showed no indication that he was distressed in anyway.
Joe looked happy actually. Having just been promoted to sergeant. He actually tried several times yesterday to call his wife, Heather, to let her know and was on his way to the phone center to call her again. This would be his last chance before he goes out on a convoy to an outlying FOB and only God knows what kind of communication capabilities they have out there. The first three times he’s called there was no answer. This time, however, the phone picked up.
“Hello,” Joe said.
“Hello,” a man answered, “Joey is this you.” The voice sounded familiar to Joe and knew that it was Heather’s father Bill.
“Yes, this is Joey, what’s going on I’ve been trying to call and haven’t been able to get a hold of Heather. Where is she?”
“Joey, I am so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Bill said, sobbing.
“Why are you crying, where’s Heather?”
“Joey, she didn’t make it.”
“What are you talking about? Where’s Heather?
“Joey, she didn’t make it.”
“Bill, what happened? What happened to Heather?
“Joey, she’s dead. She didn’t make it, Joey.”
Joe’s heart sunk and was all out of breath. Like someone had just punched him square in the chest.
“Bill, no, tell me you’re joking,” Joe said sobbing, “no, you’re lying.”
“Joey, she was killed by a drunk,” Bill said angrily, “a mother fucking drunk took my baby.”
“Bill, no, this can’t be happening.”
Joe slams the phone down. He runs to the latrine. Another one of those shipping containers converted into a latrine. Joe slumps on the commode shuts the shower curtain and rests his face in his hands and sobs.
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