Jay Allan - Tombstone

When I’d first gotten to Tombstone, a well-trained but completely untried Marine, I found it very difficult to relax at all. Even in base when we sat around, waiting days, even weeks before getting the orders to suit up, I was nervous as a cat, expecting the alarm to sound any minute and scared to death about going outside, going into battle. There are certain clichés about soldiers, and I have found that many of them are true. One of these is the fact that we can sleep anywhere, and it wasn’t long before I’d joined that club. I was still scared to death whenever we fought; I still am to this day, though I have since learned to more or less ignore it. But even back then, if the shooting stopped for a few minutes, I could take a nap.

We’re good scroungers too, another military stereotype that turns out to be true. Despite living in the most hostile environment imaginable, cut off from virtually everything except official supply routes, there was actually a fairly active black market in the firebase. I never understood how the most active participants got some of the items that did. Later I came to realize that the officer didn’t just look the other way – they actually helped things along a little behind the scenes. All of our officers start as privates, and they knew very well that a posting on a place like Tombstone was a cheerless enough existence. As long as nothing degraded combat readiness, it was helpful to boost morale any way possible.

I’d gotten maybe 45 minutes’ sleep when I woke up to a jarring on my leg. My visor automatically went transparent and I could see Harden standing above me, kicking my leg. It was a gesture best performed by veterans; a little too much power behind the kick and the force amplification system in his suit could have damaged my armor. It was best done to a seasoned Marine too…startle a sleeping newb and you may end up getting shot to pieces or sliced in half with a molecular blade.

I was seasoned enough not to over-react. “I was sleeping, asshole.” Not normal chatter for the comlink, but I was mildly annoyed, and my tone conveyed it.

“What are you gonna do, sleep your life away?” He was always cheerful, which was surprisingly irritating sometimes. This time, though, it seemed like a facade. Something was bothering him.

“Wouldn’t want to waste a minute of the Tombstone experience, would we?” I wanted to be pissed, but he was a good guy; he just never shut up. “I think it will be a big vacation spot once we’re done fighting for it.”

He sat down next to me, leaning back against the rock wall. “I wonder how long we’ll be posted here.” His upbeat tone was gradually getting a little more somber. Tombstone wore everyone down. “The unit we replaced had been here six months. We’re almost there, but I haven’t heard squat about us getting rotated out.”

Of course, I’d considered it too, but I wasn’t sure I should tell him what I really thought. It looked to me like both sides were increasing the strength deployed here, and they were probably going to do it by extending the tours. “I think we’ll be here awhile.” What the hell, I thought. Tell him what you think. “It’s obvious the expeditionary force here is being increased. If they increase the postings to a year they can bring in the unit that was going to replace us as an incremental force.”

“Fuuuuck.” He stretched the word out impressively. “I hadn’t thought about it that way, but you’re right.” He paused for five or ten seconds, both of us silent as we thought about that unpleasant prospect. “Man, I hate this shithole.” He slapped his hand lightly against the ground as he spoke.

I nodded, though it wasn’t all that obvious of a gesture in armor. “We made it this far; we’ll make it a year if we have to.” I said it, but I wasn’t sure I believed it. A lot of us hadn’t made it this far, and it was anyone’s guess how many would get through another seven months on this hellhole.

I expected him to say something - he always had something to say - but not this time. What was there to say? We were here, and we had a job to do. That was all there was to it. Whether we liked it or not wasn’t part of the equation.

“I’m getting the shakes.” He’d switched to direct laser com. “The last month, maybe more.” His voice was serious, more so than I’d ever heard it.

I let out a short breath, thinking about what to say, wishing he’d gone to one of the real veterans who might have something wise to tell him. But he’d come to me, and we were Marines…we were there for each other. Always. “It can’t be too bad, Sam. I lost count of how many you dropped this morning. It’s not affecting your shooting any.”

“I’ve managed to control it when we’re fighting. I guess it’s the adrenalin or something. Focuses me.” He paused. “But it’s bad before, and it’s starting to get that way after too. It took me the whole walk back here to settle down.” His voice was edgy; he was really worried.

Sam Harden was a decorated Marine who’d been in half a dozen engagements. He was sure to be bumped to corporal and given his own team after this posting. But none of us was immune to the nerves, the fear. It gnawed at you, even as you pushed it aside, and it could come out at any time. We all controlled it in our own ways. Over the years I’ve known guys who had lucky charms, some who prayed before battle, still others who played different mind games with themselves. Some of them focused anger and rage; others relied on a sense of discipline.

When you started to lose your control, even a little, it became harder to get it back. Doubts preyed on your confidence, and eventually the fear that you wouldn’t be able to regain control added its own pressure. Marines, especially veterans like Harden, didn’t like to talk about this kind of thing, so if he was coming to me it was probably bad.

“Sam, you’re one of the guys who pulled me through when I got here. You’ve done it for other guys too…I’ve seen it.” I was trying to sound upbeat and supportive, but I really had no idea what to say. I was so green I barely knew how I kept myself together. “This place gets to everybody sooner or later. Don’t let it eat away at you. When it’s important, you’ll be ready. There’s no one here I’d rather have backing me up.”

He sat quietly for a minute then he turned and looked at me. “Four partners. Four partners I’ve lost here.” He looked down at his feet.

“Sam, that has nothing to do with you. We’re in a dangerous business.” I frowned, though of course he couldn’t see that in armor. The next time I heard that jinx bullshit being joked about I was going to have a talk with whoever started it. “Not one of them got hit because of anything you did.”

“I know you’re right.” His voice was really unsteady. “But still, I should have been able to do something, kept them safer somehow.”

He really sounded like shit. I was in way over my head. My first thought was, he shouldn’t be in battle right now. But what should I do? I wanted to run to the lieutenant and tell him about this, or at least the squad leader. It was the hardest situation I’d run into since I’d been in the Corps. Harden had come to me in confidence. He’d be furious if I ratted him out. It felt wrong. But letting him go back to the line in his current condition didn’t seem any better. I talked to him a while longer, trying to make him feel better, all the while trying to decide what to do.

In the end, I got up and walked away and kept my mouth shut. It was a mistake I have regretted the rest of my life. We were about to get called back to the lines, and Harden would be dead in two hours, him and Quincy both. I was never sure exactly what happened; I think he got rattled and decided to move the SAW, and they ended up exposed and were chopped up by enemy fire. By the time I got over there they were both dead, riddled by half a dozen rounds each. They’d had a good position; if they’d stayed put they probably would have been fine.