Craig Dilouie - The Killing Floor

The minute Fifth Dragoons returned to the forward operating base, many of them headed for the mess hall. They hadn’t eaten since the previous day, and they were starving. Major Duncan pulled them out of the chow line and told them to get cleaned up. Outside the banquet hall being used as a dining facility, Rod told his squad to hit the showers and put on some clean uniforms, and then go get something to eat if there was still time. This done, he walked into a nearby park, stretched out on the ground at the base of a tree, and fell fast asleep. Screw it , he thought just before he went under.

“You work for Major Duncan, Corporal?”

“That’s right, Sergeant.”

“Did he order you to tell me to get cleaned up before reporting to Captain Rhodes?”

The kid swallows hard. “No, Sergeant.”

“Then mind your own business. Nobody likes a busybody, even if your intentions are good. Understand?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” the kid answers, paling. “My bad, Sergeant.”

Rod sighs, letting go of his anger. “What’s your name, Corporal?”

“Sam Carlson, Sergeant. Corporal Sam Carlson.”

“Well, then, drive on.” Translation: Carry on with your mission, soldier.

The kid smiles at this and leads him through the park toward the massive building across the street—the old Harry S. Truman Building, former home of the Department of State—that now houses the headquarters staffs of Rod’s regiment and several other large units operating in the area. Along the way, he sees the familiar base personalities hard at work and play: chairborne rangers and the cheesers who suck up to them sunning themselves in the park, sick call ninjas smoking outside the infirmary, gung-ho-mo-fo lieutenants drilling their platoons mercilessly toward perfection, treads terrorizing the enlisted just for the fun of it, tough Jane Waynes out jogging and the shit patrol cleaning latrines, almost everyone sandbagging to stretch out the long, hot day. Observing the dicked-up routine he’s known for years, Rod feels something like fondness for it. It feels normal; it feels a little like home. If nothing else, he knows he is safe here, safe enough to sleep.

Some of the boys from Third Squad call to him as he passes. They’re cleaned up and heading back to the mess hall to get their supper.

“What’s on the menu at the DFAC tonight, vatos ?” he says.

“I heard cigarette soup, Sergeant,” Tanner tells him with a laugh, referring to onion soup.

“Sergeant, we got mail,” Davis says. “I think there’s some for you.”

Rod waves the boys on and turns to Corporal Carlson.

“We got about an hour, right?”

“That’s right, Sergeant.”

“Then take me to wherever you’ve put my company clerk.”

♦

Dear Rod,

We’re all okay.

Rod smiles. Gabriela always starts her letters this way when he is deployed, and they have an immediate healing effect on him. This last letter is dated a week ago. While he’d rather it be dated today, he feels assured his wife and children are alive and safe.

He leafs through the handwritten pages hungrily, as if getting acquainted with a brand new book by his favorite author. He has a lot of reading to do. Pages and pages of life.

Back to the beginning. He picks a spot at random in the first letter, and reads:

We’re too close to Columbus, and can’t handle all the refugees and Infected coming south. Shooting kept the kids up all night. I doubt anyone on base slept at all. I sure didn’t. Today we were told that we’re evacuating to Fort Hood in Texas. The trip is going to take a while since we’re going to avoid the major highways, so we’re being told to bring as much food and water as we can carry, while we can only bring a few personal effects. I didn’t know it would be so hard to walk away from our home with almost nothing, Rod. I was allowed to bring a photo album and some toys and books for the kids to keep them occupied during the trip. Sitting on the bus as I write this, everyone is quiet, scared. We’re all diving off a really high diving board and we have no idea of what’s down there, you know?

Rod stops there, sniffing and wiping his eyes. He feels restless, but fights it. He wants to read the entire stack of letters in a single glance, but wants to savor every word. As a compromise, he skips ahead to the middle of another letter.

Fort Hood is serving as a refugee camp for military families, and it’s huge. I heard there are something like thirty thousand of us here, pulled together from bases all over the country, and still growing. It’s even hotter than Georgia, if you can believe that. Hot and dry. We’ve been here six days and we’re still not used to it. I spend half my time chasing the kids around, making them drink plenty of water. The barracks are all full, so we sleep on cots in a big tent they put up for us. You can imagine what that’s like: babies crying all night long, and the cot murder on my back. There’s a lot of resentment between the families that were already here, who have houses and call this place home, and the newcomers like me who showed up scared and with nothing. I’m not getting caught up in any of that nonsense; the Army is taking good care of us. We’ve got everything we need. Things could have turned out a heck of a lot worse. We’re all being given work—help with the daycare, tend the garden, type up memos, empty the latrines, collect firewood, wipe the dust that gets into everything, and laundry, laundry and more laundry —all sorts of jobs. The list of chores is endless. I feel like we’re in the Army too. We eat, sleep, shower, work together. Almost everything we have is government issue and we share everything. I miss our house and old life but in a way it’s kind of fun, like being on a camping trip. We tell stories about our men and it really helps to know so many of these people are feeling the exact same things as I am every day. Last night, some of the wives put on a play that had us all laughing for the first time since the Screaming. The kids are also making the most of it, and my only regret is I did not bring more clothes for them; they are wearing out what little I could bring as fast as they can. Oh, by the way, some drill sergeants are teaching us to shoot. I have a 9-mm and fired it a few times at a target and the drill sergeant told me to tell you that I’m good enough to earn the Bolo Badge, whatever that is, so there! You’d better watch your ass, Cool Rod! Mustang Sally is packing heat.

Rod laughs. The Bolo Badge is slang for the marksmanship badge they give to soldiers who score at the lowest possible grade, and yet still pass, on the shooting range. In other words, Gabriela can’t shoot for shit. He’s proud of her. He always tried, and failed, to get her to learn how to use a handgun for home defense while he was away on deployments, but she always refused; she hates guns. Times have certainly changed , Rod thinks. I pity the dumb Jody who comes sniffing around our kids. My wife the pacifist will turn the bastard into Swiss cheese.

He skips ahead again.

So we’ve got a plague of bedbugs now. The kids all have rashes, and there’s not enough cream to go around, so we’re washing our bedding every day to try to get rid of the pesties. What else? Victor is walking now, and if you can believe it, he’s learned some sign language. Another family taught me a few basic signs for milk, eat, drink and sleep, and I tried them on Victor over the past few weeks. Just when I was about to give up, he asked for milk! Which I give him from the boob, as with everything that’s going on, I decided to keep nursing. I wasn’t even sure what he was doing at first, but sure enough, he kept squeezing his little fist together, which is the sign for milk! He cries so much less because he can tell me what he wants even though he can’t talk yet. Lilia isn’t doing so great right now, though. She asks about you all the time, cries a ton, and has nightmares that make her wet the bed. She’s back in diapers, and sleeps with me now at night. Kristina’s going the other way, thriving like a weed. She’s doing well in the camp school. The one thing that worries me is she’s starting to hoard food a little—she eats as fast as she can, and then squirrels away little bits—raisins, Cheerios, whatever she can get—under her cot.