“Private First Class James!” the first sergeant called, standing in front of the formation.
“PFC Horace James!” he repeated after not getting a reply.
“Horace A. James!” he said a third time, again with no reply.
“READY, AIM, FIRE,” ordered the color sergeant. His individual commands were answered with sharp, well practiced movements executed in unison by each of three riflemen in the honor guard formed up a safe distance from the hundreds of attendees; snapping their M16 rifles to the ready position, simultaneously aiming into the sky, then pulling the trigger, firing seemingly a single round with a loud retort. “READY, AIM, FIRE,” they reverently repeated two more times before silently returning their weapons to the position of present arms, standing steadfast at the position of attention. While the echo of the final volley of gunfire hung in the air, a lone bugler, standing off in the distant, solemnly played Taps on his well worn brass instrument.
“You OK Mo?” Billy whispered to Specialist Maurice Williamson standing next to him in formation.
The 20 year old soldier from Alabama did not answer his friend. He was standing at attention, paying respects to his fallen comrade and would be damned if he’d stoop to Private Parrish’s level of indiscipline.
Private William Parrish repeated, “Mo, you OK man?” He knew that Specialist Williamson was putting up a front, he knew Mo was close with James, hell they all were. Ho was a teammate, a fellow Guardian, and now he’s gone.
“It’s OK Mo, I got tears in my eyes too man, Ho was a brother to us all,” he continued to whisper.
Feeling his blood beginning to boil, Specialist Maurice Williamson turned his head and angrily replied, “Shut the fuck up Boston, can’t you show some Goddamn respect!”
A terse “Knock it off,” came from behind them, chilling the blood in both of their veins. The scratchy, steeled voice was that of their platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class King, positioned to the rear of the platoon.
Both soldiers looked straight ahead just as the sounds of bagpipes began to fill the air. Before them a line formed as the brass filed by Private First Class James’ battlefield shrine; an M4 carbine, with bayonet affixed and stuck into the ground at the heels of a pair of desert tan boots. Atop the butt stock of the weapon sat the army combat helmet that once belonged to PFC Horace A. James, “Tony” to his comrades, “Ho” to his close friends and teammates. Tony’s dog tags hung from the pistol grip, dangling in the wind. The boots did not belong to Private First Class Horace A. James. They were brand new ones from the supply room. PVT James’ boots were in no condition to be put on display.
Generals, Colonels, and Command Sergeants Major walked past the shrine, stopping momentarily to salute, some quietly saying a private prayer, and some leaving a challenge coin at the base of the boots, a coin usually given to soldiers by the higher ups in recognition of excellence.
“Look at those hypocrites,” PVT Parrish again whispered, “None of those bastards know Ho, and they wait until he’s dead to give him a damn coin?”
“Parrish!” snapped the scratchy steeled voice again.
Just as he was about to turn and tell his platoon sergeant to kiss his ass, Billy Parrish felt a hand grab his and squeeze it tightly. That hand belonged to Private Kelly Hendricks standing on his right side. She knew her teammate was hurting and didn’t want him to do anything stupid. She nonchalantly reached over and grabbed his hand, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed by their NCOs. It wasn’t.
Billy Parrish calmed down, in part because of the soft hand holding his, in part because he reminded himself, “Ho’s already earned his gottdamned coin.”
On the day they had assumed the mission just over a month ago, SFC King called a platoon formation. He reminded the men and women in his charge of the hard work and training they had gone through for several months prior to deploying to Iraq. He reminded them that their mission of providing security for the FOB was the most important mission they’ll ever undertake in their military careers. He reminded them that the thousands of soldiers working and living on FOB Phoenix were depending on the Guardians to keep them safe so that they can carry out their duties. Then he did something that surprised the entire platoon.
In his hard raspy voice, a voice developed from over 17 years of smoking a pack of Camels a day, he said, “Listen up Guardians, if you think you wanna be a fuckin’ hero and came out here to earn a fuckin’ Purple Heart, or one of them sexy Combat Action Badges, or even a gottdamned coin, you can leave my formation now. Each of you needs to understand completely that we ain’t here for no glory, we’re here to do a gottdamned job and then get our asses home!” Ignoring a few chuckles from the ranks, SFC King continued, “I’m gonna take care of the recognition bullshit right now so’s you can get it out of your systems.”
SFC King went up to every member of the platoon, looked each in the eyes and shook each of their hands leaving a coin in each of their palms. It wasn’t much of a coin; in fact it couldn’t really be called a coin at all. To each Guardian he gave a round piece of brass about the size of a quarter with a large “G” stamped somewhat in the center.
“Now, you’ve got your gottdamned coin, get to work!”
One month and three days later, the soldiers of the security detachment platoon were paying respects to their first fallen Guardian.
As is the tradition with battlefield memorial services, the platoon remained formed, silently unmoving, as the hundreds of soldiers in attendance lined up to pay their last respects to the fallen warrior. The bagpipes continued to play while the Guardians looked on through watery eyes.
Nearly two hours later, they were still standing in silence, everyone else long gone, only the platoon, the wind, the dust, and Private First Class Horace A. James’ rifle, helmet, and dog tags. No more brass, no more flags, no more bagpipes; just the Guardians.
Lieutenant Lott did an about face, turning his back to the memorial some ten meters away, and called, “SERGEANT KING!”
SFC King executed a right face, then stepping off with his left foot walked briskly to the end of the platoon, making a left face he continued marching past his squad leaders on his left until he reached the first rank where he made a half-left facing movement and stepped in front of his platoon leader rendering the hand salute.
“Take charge of the platoon and have them say goodbye to PVT James,” ordered the LT as he returned SFC King’s salute before turning about.
After several minutes, sure that the LT had finished his farewell and left the area, SFC King gave the commands, “RIGHT FACE, FILE FROM THE LEFT, COLUMN LEFT, MARCH!”
The grieving members of Guardian Platoon marched single file to the battlefield shrine; each spending a moment to salute their comrade before heading off to mourn in their own ways. SFC King remained rigid, facing the empty space where the platoon had previously been formed, his back to the soldiers. There he stood until darkness fell. Alone, he turned about and sharply walked to the memorial, taking a knee and grabbing the dangling dog tags in his right hand, he felt his heart break.
After several silent moments, the salty old soldier wiped a tear from his eye noticing a pile of gottdamned coins cascading around the boots, covering any of the more ornate coins left by the senior officers. They were the brass discs he had given his platoon a month earlier; each and every one of them had given their gottdamned coin to Private Horace A. James.
Standing erect and rendering a slow, deliberate salute he whispered, “I’ll see you on Fiddler’s Green Ho.”
Sgt Hook out.
Posted by Hook @ 0007 zulu | | Permalink
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