people take it very seriously. When I looked back over at him, he had started to list facts about himself on the fingers of his small right hand. He hadn’t yet moved to his index finger before pausing. “Yeah, I guess that’s about it. Not much.”
I hadn’t even been listening. I could tell he was embarrassed. He hung his head a little and grabbed his gear from the locker and began to mirror my actions. For a while we were alone. The sound of the wire brushes roughing against green nylon and little pieces of metal settled into the room with a low hum. I understood. Being from a place where a few facts are enough to define you, where a few habits can fill a life, causes a unique kind of shame. We’d had small lives, populated by a longing for something more substantial than dirt roads and small dreams. So we’d come here, where life needed no elaboration and others would tell us who to be. When we finished our work we went to sleep, calm and free of regret.
Days passed. We came closer to our ship-out date, which was still being kept a secret by the higher-ups. But we felt it looming. The war had become a presence in our lives. We were grooms before a marriage. We trained in the snowy fields. We left the barracks in the morning, went to classrooms for briefings on the social structures and demographics of the unnamed towns that we’d be fighting for. We’d leave the classrooms at night with the sun already fallen as if by accident, somewhere to the west beyond the base’s barbwire fencing.
The last week we were in New Jersey, Sterling came to see us in our room. We were packing up all of our gear that we knew we wouldn’t need. The higher-ups had told us we’d have a pass soon and that our families would be able to see us for a last visit before our battalion’s movement. The only thing left was a final range day, put in place as the result of a suggestion Sergeant Sterling had passed up the chain of command. When Sterling stepped through our door, he waved off our somewhat lazy effort to rise to parade rest.
“Sit down, guys,” he said.
Murph and I sat down on my bunk, and Sterling sat down on the bunk across from us, rubbing his temples.
“How old are you two?”
“Eighteen,” Murph answered quickly. “My birthday was last week,” he said, smiling.
I was surprised he hadn’t told me and a little surprised by how young he was. I was twenty-one then, and eighteen had never seemed so young until I heard the number said out loud. I looked at Murph sitting next to me on the bunk. He had a pimple on his chin, but otherwise his skin was smooth. It dawned on me that he’d never even shaved. The soft down on his cheekbones beneath his ears glowed whitely under the panel lights. I heard myself say, “Twenty-one.” And now, as I remember it, I can feel how young I was. I can feel my body before it was scarred. I can reach to my cheek and for a moment remember how the skin was unblemished, then torn, and then healed below my eye like a wadi in miniature. “Twenty-one,” I’d said, and I was as full of time as my body would allow. But looking back from where I am, almost thirty, old enough, I can see myself for what I was. Barely a man. Not a man. Life was in me, but it splashed as if at the bottom of a nearly empty bowl.
And so we looked at Sterling, distraught, and he said, “Fuck,” and I knew that when he told us his age it would not be much more than ours. “All right, look,” he said. “You guys are my guys.”
“Roger, Sarge,” we said.
“Our AO just came down from higher. It’s gonna be a goat fuck. You guys have to promise to do what I say.”
“OK. Sure thing, Sarge.”
“Don’t give me that shit, Privates. No ‘sure thing’ this time. Tell me you’ll do what I say. Every. Fucking. Time.” He beat the notes with his fist into the palm of his left hand.
“We’ll do what you say. We promise,” I said.
He took a deep breath and smiled. His shoulders sagged
I hadn’t even been listening. I could tell he was embarrassed. He hung his head a little and grabbed his gear from the locker and began to mirror my actions. For a while we were alone. The sound of the wire brushes roughing against green nylon and little pieces of metal settled into the room with a low hum. I understood. Being from a place where a few facts are enough to define you, where a few habits can fill a life, causes a unique kind of shame. We’d had small lives, populated by a longing for something more substantial than dirt roads and small dreams. So we’d come here, where life needed no elaboration and others would tell us who to be. When we finished our work we went to sleep, calm and free of regret.
Days passed. We came closer to our ship-out date, which was still being kept a secret by the higher-ups. But we felt it looming. The war had become a presence in our lives. We were grooms before a marriage. We trained in the snowy fields. We left the barracks in the morning, went to classrooms for briefings on the social structures and demographics of the unnamed towns that we’d be fighting for. We’d leave the classrooms at night with the sun already fallen as if by accident, somewhere to the west beyond the base’s barbwire fencing.
The last week we were in New Jersey, Sterling came to see us in our room. We were packing up all of our gear that we knew we wouldn’t need. The higher-ups had told us we’d have a pass soon and that our families would be able to see us for a last visit before our battalion’s movement. The only thing left was a final range day, put in place as the result of a suggestion Sergeant Sterling had passed up the chain of command. When Sterling stepped through our door, he waved off our somewhat lazy effort to rise to parade rest.
“Sit down, guys,” he said.
Murph and I sat down on my bunk, and Sterling sat down on the bunk across from us, rubbing his temples.
“How old are you two?”
“Eighteen,” Murph answered quickly. “My birthday was last week,” he said, smiling.
I was surprised he hadn’t told me and a little surprised by how young he was. I was twenty-one then, and eighteen had never seemed so young until I heard the number said out loud. I looked at Murph sitting next to me on the bunk. He had a pimple on his chin, but otherwise his skin was smooth. It dawned on me that he’d never even shaved. The soft down on his cheekbones beneath his ears glowed whitely under the panel lights. I heard myself say, “Twenty-one.” And now, as I remember it, I can feel how young I was. I can feel my body before it was scarred. I can reach to my cheek and for a moment remember how the skin was unblemished, then torn, and then healed below my eye like a wadi in miniature. “Twenty-one,” I’d said, and I was as full of time as my body would allow. But looking back from where I am, almost thirty, old enough, I can see myself for what I was. Barely a man. Not a man. Life was in me, but it splashed as if at the bottom of a nearly empty bowl.
And so we looked at Sterling, distraught, and he said, “Fuck,” and I knew that when he told us his age it would not be much more than ours. “All right, look,” he said. “You guys are my guys.”
“Roger, Sarge,” we said.
“Our AO just came down from higher. It’s gonna be a goat fuck. You guys have to promise to do what I say.”
“OK. Sure thing, Sarge.”
“Don’t give me that shit, Privates. No ‘sure thing’ this time. Tell me you’ll do what I say. Every. Fucking. Time.” He beat the notes with his fist into the palm of his left hand.
“We’ll do what you say. We promise,” I said.
He took a deep breath and smiled. His shoulders sagged
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