Don't Call Me Hero Read Online Free PDF

Marines, part of Obama’s surge in 2009 into the southern part of the nation.
    I met Terrance Pensacola on the transport from the States. Like many other recruits, it’s his first time out of the country and there’s a nervous, but excited energy about him. Private First Class Pensacola is a black kid from Detroit. We shouldn’t have any common ground, but we bond over our geographic similarities and our mutual hatred for the Chicago White Sox. He’s bullet bait and gung ho, and I wonder how long it’ll be before he realizes that this life is nothing like the movies.
    Hurry up and wait—it’s the unofficial motto of the armed forces. Pensacola and I play a game of spades. We play a whole lot of card games. Pensacola is a hell of a Euchre partner. If nothing else, I’ve gotten to be a really good card player in Afghanistan.
    “You still glad you re-upped?” he asks me.
    I’d submitted my reenlistment packet when my first four-year commitment was almost up. I didn’t know what else to do.
    I throw down a card. “Well, nothing I can do about it now.”
     
    + + +
     
    My footsteps creaked down the wooden staircase the next morning. The ground floor was silent except for the ticking of a grandfather clock. The big band music from before had been turned off, and I found myself alone in the bed and breakfast. I still had yet to see the owner’s husband, which made me suspicious that she’d made him up or that she had him locked away in the basement and only dusted him off when company came over.
    My steps were light as I walked through the eerily quiet front parlor to the dining room. An old chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the floor was covered in the same worn, green carpeting that spanned the entirety of the first floor. Six chairs surrounded a rectangular wooden table, and a white, knitted doily covered the center panel of the polished furniture.
    The proprietress had left a plate of still-warm blueberry muffins and a bowl of plain yogurt and granola on the dining room table for me. There was also a handwritten note saying that she’d gone to church, but that I should help myself to any other food I wanted in the kitchen pantry. I shook my head and took an oversized bite of the muffin. If everyone was so trusting in this town, it was no wonder that Chief Hart needed more police officers. All it would take was one bad egg to corrupt an entire community.
    I had to call Chief Hart this morning to receive further information about my future in Embarrass. But first I poured myself a cup of coffee, finished my yogurt and muffins, and enjoyed the near silence of my surroundings. That kind of peace was rare in a combat zone, and I’d learned not to take it for granted.
    I found a kitchen attached to the dining room, and I rinsed my breakfast dishes and set them in the sink. The bed and breakfast proprietress had still not returned from church, so I went back to my room and packed up my things before calling the number I had for Chief Hart. I didn’t know if he’d be at morning mass with the rest of town, but I could leave a message if no one answered.
    A woman picked up after a few rings. “Hello?”
    I had been mentally prepared to hear Larry Hart’s gravelly voice, and for a moment I worried I’d dialed the wrong number. “Hi, uh, is Chief Hart around?”
    “If this is police business,” she said sternly, “you should call City Hall.”
    “No, uh, this is Cassidy Miller. He said I should call when I got into town.”
    “Cassidy!” The woman’s tone immediately brightened. “I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t recognize your voice. This is Marilyn. It’s been so long.”
    Marilyn was Chief Hart’s wife. Although I hadn’t seen her in years, I only had fond memories of the older woman.
    “How are you?” she asked. “Did you just get into town?”
    “Last night, but it was late. I didn’t want to bother you guys.”
    “Oh, nonsense,” she chided. “You’re family; you can call