Princes of War by Claude Schmid Read Free Book Online Page B

so. I’m on Sergeant Cooke’s list for 2200 guard duty. Need to fit some beauty sleep in after dinner,” Moose answered.
    “What a wuss,” Tyson scolded.
    Moose, annoyed, said, “We’ll see. Maybe I’ll take a six-pack of Red Bull from the DFAC and stash them for later. Uncle Sam’s contribution to me.”
    They passed the post office on the corner, then the finance office where they could draw a cash advance on their pay, and proceeded down the road that would take them past the battalion headquarters. The company area with their living trailers was another 400 meters beyond that. Dust as powdery as flour rose up from the road to greet them as they walked. Moose could feel the grit collecting in his saliva.
    “Fucked-up about that sniper shooting,” Tyson said. “Ain’t no place safe. I think I knew that guy. That makes nine KIAs so far in the battalion since we been here, don’t it?”
    “Think so,” Moose answered, without thinking about it.
    Shortly after getting back to Apache, everyone learned the identity of the KIA. That kind of bad news passed through the FOB like an arctic wind.
    “Hey, what’s up with Kale?” Tyson inquired, changing the subject. “The guys are talking about him. He’s—I don’t know—out there, or something.”
    “He doesn’t talk much, that’s for sure,” Moose replied, after thinking about it for a second.
    “It’s like he’s lost in his own world or something. The dude is dreamy. No jokes. No more smiles.” Tyson added, curious about what Moose thought.
    “I don’t know, buddy. I do remember him being more alive, more with it, back stateside,” Moose said.
    “Yeah. Think so too. Remember how that dude could run? He used to run all the time. Never see him doing PT now.”
    “Combat duty ain’t for everybody, Ty,” Moose commented, making an evaluation rarely voiced, but obvious to anyone who thought about it. “Does something to you, they say. Trouble is you don’t have a way of finding out ‘what’ until you’re in it.”
    Everything in war was everyone’s business. No place to hide. Men stripped each other psychologically. If a man’s bowels were loose, people joked about it. If a lady back home was messing with you, it wouldn’t stay secret long. If a man was a risk to the platoon, people would know. They might not talk right away. But they would know.
    “Yeah, I suppose that’s right, Moose. War damn sure ain’t for everyone. Since Ramirez, Kale hasn’t been the same,” Tyson said. Ramirez was the first—and only so far—Wolfhound soldier killed.
    Tyson hesitated, wanting to get the words right.
    “Certain things you won’t know until you’re right there in it. No trial run here. Here the race is always on, man! Fuck, you know that, Moose.”
    “Who talks to him most?” Moose asked.
    “Who what?”
    “Who talks to him most?” Moose asked again.
    “Probably you, don’t ya?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “He seems to be lugging around a pack of disappointments.”
    Moose saw the problem, and remembered checking Kale out on the rooftop earlier. Kale was his friend, ever since Army basic training. Something in his head wasn’t right anymore. Moose said nothing. Tyson dropped it.
    They arrived at the living trailers.
    “Meet you in about twenty minutes after showers, and we’ll go eat.” Moose said.
    “I’ll knock on your hooch.”
    “That works. Make sure you use soap!” Moose retaliated for the earlier abuse.
    “Fucker. You know it.”
     
    Kale sat in his hooch, alone. Earlier, after Cooke released the men from the day’s patrol, the platoon sergeant had walked over and commended Kale on his professionalism during the day’s missions. He hadn’t expected it. Thinking about Cooke’s comments now, Kale flushed with pride—but he also felt ashamed. All of his life, pride had both motivated and consumed him. Sometimes, when he felt on top of the world, a tiny voice inside him whispered that the air in high places was thin and