After the memorial service for Private First Class Horace A. James, several of the Guardians went to the ready room to hang out. They called it the Round Table though there weren’t any tables, unless you considered a couple of empty ammo crates to be tables. But it was their space, their place to unwind while they waited to be called to action.
They sat on well worn sofas and lounge chairs. They didn’t talk much. There was an aura of sadness in the air, painful sadness.
Private Billy Parrish walked into the Round Table, slumped onto one of the well worn sofas, kicking up a cloud of dust and sitting almost on top of Private First Class Kelly Hendricks. “Hey Mo, is it OK if I talk now?” he asked sarcastically.
Specialist Maurice Williamson managed to get out a “Fuck you!” as he leapt from his chair lunging for Billy Parrish’s neck. A scuffle ensued. Punches were landed, furniture overturned, and expletives shouted.
“AT EASE!” The loud, commanding words pierced the frenzied room. Like a pack of Pavlovian dogs, everyone jumped to their feet and froze in place at the position of parade rest.
Staff Sergeant Reginald Wright stood in the doorframe, his hands on his hips. The stocky 5 foot 8 inch tall, 170 pound black native of Hartford, Connecticut rarely got animated. Today was an exception. “What the hell is going on in here?” he boomed in an unmistakably authoritative voice.
Nobody answered. They didn’t need to, the 27 year old patrol leader knew what the hell was going on, his guys were hurting.
The Guardian Platoon was divided into two patrols, 1st and 2nd, each with twenty-four soldiers assigned. Reginald Wright had 2nd Patrol.
SSG Wright had joined the Army nine years earlier, signing up to be a helicopter mechanic and has worked as such until he was assigned to the security detachment eight months ago. SSG Wright was not happy when he was first informed of his move to the SD and his first sergeant knew it.
“By the look on your face SSG Wright, I assume you are not happy with this assignment?” First Sergeant Marcus Washington asked.
“I will do whatever you ask of me first sergeant.”
“Sit down Wright,” the seasoned noncommissioned officer said, making a motion towards a chair across from his desk with his hand. “And I know you’ll do what the Army asks you to do, but you don’t seem too pleased about the askin’ part.”
After what seemed like a long pause with the first sergeant’s quiet stare making him a little uncomfortable, SSG Wright spoke, “Top, it’s just that I’ve spent the past several months getting my maintenance team trained and ready for deployment and…’
With a raised hand 1SG Washington stopped the young leader in mid sentence. “I got it sergeant Wright, but let me try to explain. The 214th Aviation Support Battalion will have the mission to provide a QRF for base defense when we get over there and I’ve been tasked with providing soldiers to fill that requirement.”
The first sergeant paused to read Wright’s face before going on, “And if I can quote the sergeant major, ‘don’t give me any shitbags first sergeants.’” SSG Wright fought to hold back a smile at the thought of their battalion sergeant major’s choice of words; it was very much in his character.
“The 50 soldiers on the QRF will habitually be outside the wire and routinely find themselves in harm’s way Wright,” the first sergeant continued, “And you are far from what one might call a ‘shitbag.’ You are a good NCO, a good leader, someone I can trust with getting the soldiers trained and ready to do this important mission. You’ve done an outstanding job with your maintenance team, and I know you’d like to see that through, but I, actually, the soldiers on QRF, need you more.”
Almost immediately SSG Wright asked, “What exactly is the mission first sergeant? How many soldiers will be on my team? What kind of special equipment will we have? When do we start training?”
1SG Washington knew he had picked the right NCO for the job.
SSG Reginald Wright remained standing in the Round Table, his hands on his hips, calmly surveying the room, allowing for tempers to settle and adrenalin levels to wane.
“Team One, SSG Lapointe is looking for you guys over at Camelot Base, you’re picking up the mission for the rest of the week to give us some time to regroup,” he said to the two members of Guardian 1 who were in the room. “If you see any of our guys, send them over here,” he added as they were leaving the ready room.
“Sit down everyone,” SSG Wright ordered before picking up the assault pack he had dropped when first coming into the room. Reaching into the bag he grabbed a handful of cigars and started handing them out to his patrol members. Most of the soldiers hesitated before accepting the large, obviously expensive, cigars with inquisitive looks of confusion on their faces.
Confusion turned to concern when they watched their patrol leader light his cigar and pass the lighter. “But sergeant, we can’t smoke in here,” PVT Foster protested.
SSG Reginald Wright blew a cloud of cobalt smoke into the air and said, “Do me a favor Foster, all of you actually, if I should get my ass blowed up over here, smoke a big fat cigar in my honor, deal?”
Lighters clicked and cigars were lit as the room suddenly filled with the aromatic smoke of Honduran cigars, “Deal sergeant,” a collective voice announced.
Grabbing an ammo crate and turning it on its head, SSG Wright sat down exhaling a puff of smoke as he did. “James was a good man, a good soldier. I think we’ve all benefited from knowing him,” he softly said, looking around the room at the twenty some sets of young eyes upon him.
After a few moments of absolute silence, Private Gryzbowski said, “Tony was the best friend I ever had.”
“Yeah, remember that time before we left when Tony drove me all the way to Florida so I could see my moms before she passed?”
“How ‘bout when we were all out at the lake and Ho drank too much…”
“Ho always did well with the ladies too. Man he was smooth.”
“I miss him,” Private Parrish said, dead panned.
“Me too,” echoed Specialist Williamson.
“AT EASE!” yelled Private Gryzbowski as soon as he noticed their platoon sergeant, SFC King, standing in the doorway.
“What in thee fuck is this?!” the unhappy senior NCO boomed. “I got me a bunch of gottdamned morons who either, A. can’t read the gottdamned no smokin’ signs plastered all over this place, or B. don’t give a rat’s ass about the rules and regulations,” he went on in his cold scratchy, albeit loud, voice.
SSG Wright began to speak, “Sergeant King, the soldiers…”
“STOP,” SFC King cut him off. “I want this place cleaned up in 20 minutes,” he said turning to leave. “And I want you in my office in two sergeant Wright.” The door slammed and their platoon sergeant was gone.
The awkward silence was broken with, “OK Guardians clean it up and get some sleep. PT at 0600 tomorrow, don’t be late,” SSG Reginald Wright said, turning to leave and preparing himself for the ass chewing he was about to receive from his superior.
“Hey Sergeant Wright,” PFC Hendricks called to him as he was walking towards the plywood door. Stopping with his hand on the handle, he turned to see what she wanted.
“Thanks,” was all she said. SSG Wright nodded before pulling the door open and leaving the Round Table.
“Get your ass in here Sergeant Wright!” came the reply from behind the office door that Reginald Wright had seconds before knocked on. SFC King, sitting in his chair, his feet resting on the top of his homemade plywood desk, himself lighting a cigar said, “What in thee fuck is wrong with you Wright? You are the senior noncommissioned officer of that patrol, a staff sergeant in the United States Army, and you allowed that behavior to go on!” Motioning with his hand for the patrol leader to take a seat, he handed him a cold Gatorade, and continued, “I cannot, WILL NOT, allow this kinda bull shit to happen on my watch, do YOU understand me?”
The “ass chewing” went on for a few more minutes before SFC King said in a low voice, “How they doin’?”
“They’ll be OK, thanks for the help Sergeant King. I think a good long run in the morning will complete the mourning period and get everyone’s head straight.”
The sun was barely creeping above the horizon, turning the dark sky orange and casting its warmth across the miles of flat desert between the Guardians and the rising star. SSG Wright was stretching out his patrol, preparing for the workout session.
“Stretch them out good Sergeant Wright, we’re gonna run to the sun this morning Guardians” the platoon sergeant said in his raspy voice, a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other. SFC King didn’t warm up or stretch out himself, he just stood there, smoking and waiting. After several minutes, stepping on his second smoked cigarette butt, he said, “OK, that’s enough, let’s go.”
The 23 surviving members of Guardian 2 formed up in three columns ready to “run to the sun” with their platoon sergeant. “DOUBLE TIME, MARCH” commanded SSG Wright and off they went, not to return for almost an hour and a half.
After a grueling 8.2 mile run, sweating and gasping for air, the soldiers coughing and hacking, eagerly grabbed bottles of cold water and started re-hydrating.
Sergeant First Class King, showing hardly any signs that he had run at all, picked up his stainless steel travel mug, emblazoned with a gold emblem depicting a lone soldier standing with the wings of a guardian angel silhouetted behind him, lit a Camel cigarette and said before walking away, “good run Guardians, good mourning.”
Sgt Hook out.
Posted by Hook @ 0527 zulu | | Permalink
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