Price of Duty Page 6

  We clasp hands and exchange greetings. It’s good to see him.

  “Still playing?” I ask.

  “Here and there.” The way Barry shrugs says he’s not playing much. “You’ve sure made it big.”

  “Not quite the same way.”

  “Sure you could,” Barry says. “We’ll put together an act called Jake Liddell and the War Heroes. I’ll write the songs. Guaranteed a hundred thousand Spotify plays the first week.”

  Lori pokes me with her elbow. “Why not? It beats getting shot at.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I tell Barry, and we both know I won’t. I just might be the most unmusical person who ever lived.

  I introduce Barry to my sister, who orders a Long Island iced tea. I have a Patron on the rocks with a lime wedge. We may be underage, and the General may be a straight arrow, but the one exception is the rule of booze. Real men and women drink.

  And learn how to hold their liquor at an early age.

  Glasses in hand, we’re about to rejoin the festivities when Barry asks in a low voice, “It true you and Brad were at the same base over there?”

  I take a long, fortifying sip of Patron. Pretty sure I know what’s coming next.

  “And what I heard about Brad?” Barry says.

  “He was a great squad leader and did everything he could to protect his men,” I tell him. “I wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t for him.”

  “But I heard . . .” Barry lets the sentence trail off.

  Yeah, he heard. But that is only one side of a complicated and tragic story. I’ll defend Brad until the day I die. “Listen, man, no one who hasn’t been over there has any idea.”

  Barry grimaces. “That bad?”

  I take another sip of the Patron and feel the heat in my throat. I almost say, “Yeah, that bad,” but something stops me. No complaints. No bellyaching. What’s done is done. Suck it up, soldier.

  Lori and I head back toward the tables. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?” she asks quietly.

  I shake my head. “I just don’t know if I can.”

  As I crutch along, she rubs my back. “No matter what you decide, I’ll support you. I’ll always be proud of you, little brother.”

  She may be the only one.

  Lori goes off to the table in Siberia where Dad has been banished, and I take my seat with the crème de la crème.

  At the portable podium, the General tells the guests how proud he is of my heroism and contribution to the war effort. But it’s not long before he’s reminiscing about his own combat heroism in Vietnam. And from there it’s all about his rise through the ranks while commanding troops in the Gulf wars, and finally being promoted to major general. Then, as if he knows he’s spent too much time talking about himself, he winds up with a big rah-rah about the worldwide forces of evil seeking to destroy America, and how vital it is that we keep our military strong.

  More speakers follow, all of them praising my heroism (and being sure to remind everyone of their long friendship with the General). Lori, sitting with Dad at that table near the back, looks like she’s about to barf.

  Finally, the affair ends, but we have to hang around until every guest has congratulated me one last time. Then, just when we’re about to depart, the General takes me aside. “What are your plans, son?”

  Even though he’s my grandfather, it still feels a bit intimidating to be this close to an actual former major general who once commanded tens of thousands of troops. During my service so far, I haven’t even seen the general who’s in charge of my division.

  The General’s not asking about my plans for later tonight, or about the rest of my stay here before I allegedly head to Walter Reed for rehab. He’s asking about the future. “I take it that none of your injuries are severe enough to prevent you from returning to active service?”

  “That’s my understanding, sir. Guess I was kind of lucky. The docs said if I’d lost any more of my ring finger, they’d have shoehorned me into an honorable discharge.”

  The General glances at his gold wristwatch. Then back at me. “We need to talk, son. Not now, but soon. Before I go out of town on business later this week.”

  He turns away. Guess it doesn’t matter what I think my plans are. He’s already decided for me.

  BRAD

  At FOB Choke Point, Brad’s office was in a Conex box he shared with another squad leader. The door was slightly ajar. Not enough so that I could see in. I knocked. There was no answer. I knocked again.

  Still no answer.

  I nudged the door open just enough to peek. The office was paneled in raw plywood. Brad was sitting at his desk, hunched forward with his face in his hands. On the wall above his desk was a map of the valley.

  “Private First Class Jake Liddell reporting.” I thought he’d react when he heard my voice, but he didn’t move.

  “Uh, Staff Sergeant Burrows?” I said a little louder.

  Nothing. If it wasn’t for his slowly expanding and contracting chest, you wouldn’t even know he was breathing.

  I took a step closer. “You asked to see me, Staff Sergeant?”

  “You really never touched her?” His voice was muffled by his hands. The question came from so far out of left field that for a moment I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Sorry? Oh, you mean . . . No, Staff Sergeant. Like I told you, we were just friends after that.”

  Brad raised his head just enough to look at me with reddened eyes. “But you wanted to, right?”

  “No, I . . . It’s hard to explain, Staff Sergeant.”

  He was looking at me now and I could tell something wasn’t right. It was the way his eyes couldn’t stay focused. The way he’d blink rapidly a bunch of times and then just stare. “Give it a try, Private. And from now on, when it’s just you and me, you can address me as Sarge.”

  “Well, Sarge, to be honest, I was pretty torn up at first. I mean, who wouldn’t be? I used to think about messing with your Vette. Key it. Smash the windshield. Slash the tires. That kind of stuff.”

  He smirked. “So why didn’t you?”

  Scratching sounds were coming from under the Conex box. Probably rats. “Two reasons, Sarge. The first was that you would have known who did it. And the second, I guess I’m just not that kind of person.”

  Brad rested his face in his hands again. As if it weighed so much that his neck wasn’t strong enough to hold it up. “That’s what Erin Rose said. So you really were just friends?”

  “Yes, Sarge. I guess because of all the time we’d spent together. We knew each other pretty well.”

  It got quiet. Brad stared up at the map on the wall. Pinned along the margins were half a dozen photos of Erin Rose, some with their daughter, Amber. When he finally spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “She said you were a standup guy. None of that kiss-and-tell stuff.”

  So he knew. I never told anyone, so she must’ve told him.

  “You think she’s been faithful to me?” he asked in a raw, pained tone. It had to be hard for him to ask me—a mere grunt and his wife’s former boyfriend—such a personal question.

  “Honestly, Sarge, I believe she has.” I thought then he’d turn his head and look at me. Maybe act relieved. Maybe even thank me.

  But he didn’t. I waited until he spoke again: “Doesn’t appear that anyone around here knows about your grandfather, does it?”

  “No, Sarge. And I appreciate that, Sarge. I really do.”

  “You asked me to do you that favor, Private.”

  “Yes, Sarge, I did.”

  “Can I trust you, Private Liddell?”

  “In what way, Sarge?”

  “In all ways, Private. What did Erin Rose say about you?”

  “Uh . . . that I’m a standup guy. None of that kiss-and-tell stuff.”

  Now he looked at me, his eyes still bloodshot. “You ever see your squad leader all broken up about whether his wife had been faithful to him?”

  “No, Sarge, I ca
n’t recall that, ever.”

  “That’s correct. Now get your punk private first class ass out of here.”

  I did as ordered.

  LORI

  Jake! Wake up!”

  I open my eyes. The light is on and I’m sitting up in bed. Lori’s face is close to mine. Her forehead is bunched with concern. She’s got one hand on each of my biceps, and somehow I know she’s been shaking me. I’m breathing hard, my heart is racing, and my pajamas feel damp. There’s that split-second fear that I’ve pissed myself in my sleep. But it’s never urine. It’s always sweat.

  “Oh my God, are you okay?” Lori’s eyes are wide. She’s wearing the baggy T-shirt she sleeps in.

  “Yeah.” I start to breathe easier, but my heart is still beating at speed-metal tempo. I was dreaming I was back at the ambush. On the roof, while the firefight continued on the street below. I was on my back, eyes blinded by the glaring sunlight. I tried to roll over but couldn’t. It felt like my body armor was bolted to the roof. A shadow moved over me—that insurgent wearing loose clothes and a cap. He was aiming his AK down at me, point-blank. My hands were sliding all over on the sandy rooftop as I desperately felt for a weapon or anything to protect myself with. But there was nothing. I was trapped on my back and he was closing in. The dark tunnel of the AK’s barrel growing larger and larger.

  “You were yelling so loud. I’ve never heard anything like it. I kept shaking you, but you wouldn’t wake up.” Lori gives me a penetrating look, asking with her eyes what could have possibly happened over there that would result in such a violent dream. Of course, I’ve never told her about the really bad stuff. To talk about it is to relive it. To relive it is to refeel it. And I never want to feel anything like it again.

  With the corner of the T-shirt, she wipes some sweat off my forehead. We sit for a while in silence. Finally, she says, “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but if you ever change your mind . . .”

  “Thanks.”

  She kisses me on the forehead and gets up, switching off the light as she leaves. I lie in bed, staring up into the dark, my heart gradually decelerating. At FOB Choke Point they gave us pills for night terrors. When I got to Landstuhl in Germany, I tried to stop taking them, but my nightly yelling woke the other patients on the ward. So I started again. Here at home I thought maybe being in safe, familiar surroundings might make a difference. I haven’t taken a pill for the past three days, and tonight’s the first time I’ve had the terrors. So maybe I’m getting better. Maybe I’ll be one of the lucky ones.

  BRANDI

  Thanks for coming,” she says. It’s early morning and we’re at Starbucks. Last year there was one Starbucks in town. Now there are three, including this one, directly across from the high school.

  “I don’t have much time,” I tell her.

  “That’s fine.” She’s bought me a venti coffee. At FOB Choke Point we were a twitchy bunch. We’d usually down about a quart of battery acid each morning before switching over to Rip It energy drink for the rest of the day.

  She’s gotten a green tea latte for herself.

  “Looks like pea soup with a cream topping,” I quip while she opens her laptop.

  She makes a face. “Thanks. I’ll enjoy thinking about that while I drink it.”

  She’s quick and funny. I enjoy our repartee. We’re huddled at a table in the back of the store. Meanwhile, a steady stream of kids with backpacks is waiting in a long line for their pre-academic caffeine rush.

  She’s cued up a video on the laptop, but before she starts it, she says, “Let me ask you something, Jake. Do you find it ironic that the United States passed something called the Child Soldiers Prevention Act to stop other countries from recruiting child soldiers? Meanwhile, we have the largest child soldier recruitment program in the world?”

  “What?” Is she crazy?

  “Sorry,” she says. “Did I say child soldier recruitment program? I meant JROTC.”

  Oh. “Larger than China’s?”

  “Okay, largest in the Western world.”

  JROTC starts in ninth grade, so kids begin to get “indoctrinated” at fourteen years old. Child recruitment indeed. But why is she telling me this? I glance at my watch. In a few minutes, Lori is going to swing by and take me to the bus station. In the meantime, shouldn’t I be looking for Aurora? To try to figure out a way to fix things between us? And what about Erin Rose? I promised myself I’d find her. It’s important. Way more important than sitting here discussing the evils of JROTC.

  But something keeps me. Maybe it’s the admiration I’m beginning to feel for Brandi, someone who thinks about more than herself. Someone who appears willing to act for a cause she believes in.

  Brandi starts the video. It’s the Franklin High School JROTC drill team in the gym before a crowd. The team is in full dress uniform, red berets, white ascots and gloves, aiguillettes. Following orders with precision, they smack their rifles in unison, slap the bolts open and slam them shut. Snap to attention. About-face and march. The drill master’s barking orders fade, replaced by Brandi’s voiceover: “According to the United States military, the Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps program is not a military preparation class. Meanwhile, the word ‘training’ appears constantly. Not just in the name of the program, but in its promotional literature as well. And like aspiring soldiers, members of JROTC are called cadets, wear uniforms, and have ranks. The instruction they receive mirrors military training in nearly every way. But let me repeat, the military says JROTC is not for the purposes of preparation in the military.

  “You might also be interested to learn that the drill rifles and sabers that cadets train with are not to be considered weapons. They may look exactly like weapons, but the military says that is not what they are meant to be.

  “If you find these statements puzzling, you are not alone. Just because the military says JROTC isn’t a military preparation class doesn’t mean it’s true. Just because they say a drill rifle is not meant to represent a weapon doesn’t mean it’s true. They also claim they don’t have weapons training, but the National Rifle Association contributes to JROTC. In return, JROTC encourages cadets to join the NRA and participate in marksmanship matches.

  “If JROTC isn’t a military preparation class, then why do roughly forty percent of its graduates go directly into the military? Meanwhile, less than two percent of all high school students nationwide go directly into the military.

  “In other words, graduates from JROTC are twenty times more likely to enter the military than students who were not in JROTC. But, as I’ve said, the military still insists that the JROTC program is not military preparation.”

  The video ends. I feel Brandi’s eyes. She’s waiting for my response.

  “I could argue with a few of your points,” I tell her. “Drill rifles are just toys. But I get the idea.”

  “That’s just the introduction,” she tells me. “From there I want to point out that twelve percent of the American population is black, while thirty percent of the United States Army is black. Fifty percent of the enrollees in JROTC are black or minority. Wouldn’t you say that sounds a little disproportionate?”

  “But that’s because the military offers opportunities for advancement,” I suggest.

  “You mean, for those who manage to survive whatever war we’re currently involved in?” she asks. “And even if they do survive, fifty percent of homeless veterans are black. That doesn’t sound like an opportunity for advancement to me.”

  “Look, it’s an all-volunteer army,” I counter. “It’s not like anyone’s being forced to sign up.”

  Brandi drills me with those hazel eyes. “Don’t play dumb white cracker with me, Jake Liddell. Minorities in this country don’t have anything close to the educational or job opportunities that white people have. For a lot of minorities, the military is one of three options. The other two being an unlivable minimum wage, or crime and incarceration. Look at it that way and the military becomes the only option.
Even if it means a serious risk to life and limb.”

  Okay, so it’s obvious she’s done her homework. This is important to her. And I guess what she’s saying is true. But . . .

  “Why tell me?” I ask.

  It must be getting close to first bell. The line of students at the baristas has grown shorter. Brandi leans close. Her sweet fragrance strangely at odds with the flashing intensity in those eyes. “Because you could make a huge difference, Jake. You could speak out. Expose JROTC for the minority child military indoctrination program that it really is. You’re a hero, the grandson of General Windy Granger. If you speak out, people will listen.”

  Okay, now I get it. But I’m curious. “Speak out how?”

  Brandi’s hazel eyes dart at the laptop screen.

  “You want me to be in that video?” I realize.

  “Yes.” She tells me about the National Network Opposing the Militarization of Youth, Veterans for Peace, the War Resisters League, and the Project on Youth and Non-Military Opportunities. All organizations that actively oppose JROTC.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Jake,” she says. “What you saw on my video is nothing new. But if I have you talk about your experience . . . that would make a huge impact. Then this video will become something that can really make a difference.”

  American War Hero Speaks Out Against JROTC. Calls It Minority Child Military Indoctrination.

  I cross my arms and lean back. “I admire your determination, Brandi, but all the reasons that you just gave for why I should speak out are exactly the reasons why I can’t. Because they say I’m a hero. Because I’m the grandson of Windy Granger. Because I went through JROTC myself. I’m not saying you’re wrong. I agree that JROTC deserves an honest appraisal. And so does the Army itself. I’m just saying that were I to do that, it would be a betrayal verging on treason.”