The "R" Word

Only saw her every now and then, say, every couple of weeks or every couple of months. Every couple. But we weren’t a couple. I was engaged and she was, well, not my fiancé. Not that she knew my status, we ain’t shared personal shit like that. Just every couple of weeks/months when I’d come back to the FOB and she’d be guarding the gate (an MP) she’d give me a smile and I’d give her a wink: that was the intensity of our relationship and relationship is too strong a word for what’d been between us.

One afternoon, after a couple of months, she ain’t smiled. Ain’t thought anything remarkable about her appearance, but, at the same time, she wasn’t a “desert dime” – a perfect ten for the sole fact of being a female in the vast lonely desert. Rarely even saw her eyes on account of her shielding them with sunglasses and most of the time mine where shielded the same, but I’d lower mine to give her a wink. Iraqis, male and female, had this thing: they’d gesture for us to lower our sunglasses. If we did (and we usually did) the males would smile and the females would giggle. What the fuck? This American MP hadn’t ever made that gesture to me nor me to her. There’d been times, of course, when I ain’t been in the driver’s seat of whatever vehicle we’d rolled in on, but of course she’d know my unit was returning. No one showed up that the MPs weren’t expecting.

That afternoon when she ain’t smiled I’d been in the rear of the convoy and in the rear of the vehicle that’d brought me in. Ain’t known if she’d been at the gate or ain’t. After a showered I’d gone to the DFAC for a hot meal that didn’t come from a bag mixed with water from our canteens. Yep, we still used that kit: canteens. If it ain’t broken . . . and caught her in the service line. Let her eat in peace, finished my meal, kept an eye on her. When she’d gotten up to leave I’d approached her, “Hey,” was all I’d said. Ain’t I extravagant with my greetings? She ain’t said nothing in return for a solid minute. Maybe she’d been surprised at hearing my voice cause I don’t recall us every saying anything to each other, just a smile and a wink. Finally, after I’d stood there and stared at her, kicked imaginary sand, she returned my greeting with her own, “Hey,” low, just a breath above a whisper. She ain’t seemed happy to see me, but there hadn’t been a reason she should’ve been. Wasn’t her lover, wasn’t even strictly her friend, just the guy who acknowledged her smile with a wink every couple weeks, couple months. “Missed ya at the gate,” I said. Maybe I shouldn’t have. But I’d been at the wheel that afternoon and she’d just smilelessly waved me through so it ain’t that I’d missed her, but her smile. That understanding had sunk in, I’m sure, cause she said, “Sorry.” And she hadn’t yet looked at me. Stared at her small booted feet. I said (more extravagance), “How’s it going?” and thought maybe the gravel in my voice aggravated her or maybe my approach discomforted her. What’d I want by seeking her out? “You know . . . ” Okaaay . . . “Alright, good to see ya good,” and I went back to my table, ate a few more spoonfuls, caught her still standing where I’d left here. Just when I decided to approach her again she left. Shit. No one lingers for no reason.

At the NCO Club I shot some pool, played some cards (Texas Hold Em, I suck) and decided it was high time to retire. Bones ached. Thought maybe after I brushed my teeth I could cough the gravel out of my voice. Somehow, out there in the desert for prolonged periods, shouting over the noise of ammunition firing, everything had been affected, even my voice. Not it’s tone, but it’s texture, like my vocal chords were rubbing grains of sand together whenever I talked. Hell, even snot became gravelly, dry.

En route to my barracks I heard, “Hey.”

“Hey,” in a voice as dry as hay.

“Didn’t mean to offend you,” still ain’t looked at me in the face.

“You ain’t. Just thought it was funny that you ain’t smiled like you usually do. No worries.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

What doesn’t?

Extravaganza: “Alright.”

“Guess I was just having a bad day.”

There was about ten feet between us and neither of us took a step to close the gap.

“We all have one.”

“One is one thing.”

“Many of us have many.”

“A couple of months of them?”

I approached, wan-tup-threep-fower-fife, she retreated, wan-tup-threep, I halted.

Eventually slowly grudgingly she told me about a soldier who hadn’t halted his approach. Ain’t halted until he’d raped her. Point blank period. Would you be surprised to read that I ain’t been surprised? Everyone knew that females were encouraged not to go to the latrine alone. This encouragement hadn’t prevented the deaths of females by dehydration. Don’t drink, don’t need to pee, don’t need to pee, don’t need to go to the latrine, alone or otherwise. Found them dead in their cots, dehydrated to death. Now, you might think, shit, these females were soldiers, trained soldiers, ain’t they been able to defend themselves? Against men who carried rucksacks that weigh more than them? Against men high on war? Even my (ex) fiancé complained (when I came home for furlough) that I was too rough, aggressive. Once I bit her inner thigh (ain’t none of your business what I was doing down there) and another time she slapped me, told me to get off of her. It’d never been a decision, dig? I never decided to be rough, to bite. That’s not my style. Well, unless it’s her style then, alright, whatever makes her happy. I can adapt. Now let’s get naked. Which brings this aside: females are entirely too self-conscious about their appearance. You know what men are thinking? Naked woman naked woman naked woman naked woman naked woman naked woman . . . so don’t worry about it, ladies. No, back to the meat of the matter: there are strong females, no doubt, and weak males, no doubt about that either, but those are exceptions. On the whole, men are physically stronger (intellectual and emotional strength is a different story) and when they’re charged up their strength can be aggressive and they don’t even know it, like me with my (ex) fiancé. Now flip the coin: there are men who aren’t aggressive no matter what. Not against females. When it comes to females in combat these men are distracted by worry. They’re so concerned about females and kids that they can’t concentrate and that makes them a burden. Dangerous. A liability. For these reasons, aggression and distraction, I don’t like females in combat. The a-woman-can-do-anything-a-man-can-do female empowerment bullshit won’t change my mind. She can’t. No more than a man can do anything she can. And if it’s gonna be status quo to let females serve in combat roles then let’s get serious: have them register for selective service too. If they want to do everything men do then they should put themselves up to be drafted. Equality, right? None of this women and children first; go down with the ship with the men.

Now there’s assault and there’s full bonafide no-dobut-about-it rape. She claimed the latter; claimed that after she ain’t showered in order to preseve the “evidence.” The chain of command she honored: reported first to her first sergeant who’d ended all other reports – don’t crucify him yet – he’d advised: (1) if you report this you will be reported for dereliction of duty for leaving your weapon unattended (2) it’ll be his word against yours. So you have the sperm, the bruises, his word will be that you liked it rough (3) everyone knows that you smile a lot. A lot. An invitation? (4) the sperm and the bruises will only prove that you’d had rough sex, not unconsensual (5) you’re a specialist, he’s a sergeant, you smiled at him all the time . . . encouragement? (6) if you don’t like these questions you won’t be able to defend yourself against the questions the CID will ask if you make this an official complaint (7) you bring him up on charges and he’ll bring you up on charges (8) how bad could it have been if you didn’t seek medical attention after you claim the “rape” happened? (9) what will you gain? (10) what will you lose? (11) aren’t you always smiling (12) You said no? There’s No, stop, with a giggle and a smile and there’s No, STOP. Who’s word do you think will be taken? (13) You aren’t even active duty. A reservist accusing a career soldier? (14) Couldn’t have been that bad . . . you’re still here, aren’t you? (15) You claim it was rape? What will you claim when CID comes down on you for violation of UCMJ? (16) In case you haven’t noticed, we got a war to fight. You want us to stop the war to investigate the maybes and perhapses of your sex life? We don’t know what you did to encourgage him. We don’t know if he’d done only what you’d encouraged. Aren’t you always smling at them?

Smiled at me too and I knew that a smile doesn’t mean fuck me, no more than a wink means I wanna fuck you. I think you’re pretty, I’m guessing you think I’m cute. Attractive. Not necessarily sexy. But what’s sexy? Alright, so I’m only 5’11”, alright, so I’m a slim 175-180, alright, give or take (take more when I’d been away for a couple of months, give more when for a couple of weeks) and, alright, so I ain’t and ain’t never been the biggest man, but I’ve been bigger and stronger than you always. And I ain’t never never never never never never never never never felt the need to take advantage of my biggness, strongess. So I could carry you on my back as easily as a rucksack. Ain’t never meant that I’d wanted to push you down as if you were a weighed down rucksack, get you on your back, weigh you down, power you out, fuck you smileless for a couple of months or more. So you ain’t gotta be nervous around me. But who am I to tell you how you should be? Then again, she must’ve trusted me or else she wouldn’t have told me, right? Right? Did she want me to do something about it? Avenge her? Beat the shit outta the guy? Report it on her behalf? Did she -

“I see Black Jack’s back in town.”

“Black Jack” is the 2nd Brigade Combat Team of the 1st Cavalry Division, my brigade. The comment came from a Soldier who’d come out of the NCO Club. When she turned, saw him, she said, “Gotta go,” and split. He approached me, “She’s nice, isn’t she?”

“Nice?”

“Yeah, you know, friendly.”

“Guess so.”

“How long are you guys in?”

“Two weeks.”

“Good, that’s really good. Well, take it easy. Enjoy your stay.”

“Appreciate it.”

He looked over his shoulder in the direction that she’d gone, “Yep, she’s a friendly one, for sure.”

“She a friend of yours?”

“We get along all right.”

“That’s nice.”

“Whatever you say,” he chucked me on the shoulder, “Don’t forget to get yourself high and tight again. You guys get a little shaggy when you’ve been out for a couple of months.”

“Top priority.”

“You get yourself a good rest.”

Affirmative nod of silence.

Didn’t see her for the next three or four days. Didn’t seek her out either. Read a lot. Slept a lot more. Attended meetings. Played basketball. Wrote letters. Made phone calls. Fucked around. Ate fluffy scrambled eggs for breakfast, damn sure missed them. Took special notice of the females at the DFAC, how they had their trays heaped with food, but not just food, “wet” food, you know, soup, juicy fruit, food that had a lot of liquid, hydration. And they didn’t have a tall full glass of anything. They didn’t gulp, they sipped and didn’t empty the glass. Lots of them just sucked on ice. Lots of them had dry, cracked lips. Walked a little unsteady, slowly. Tipsy. Kind of like a lady with a solid buzz and wearing high heels. She ain’t drunk. But she’s gotta mind her steps, dig?

To give ourselves a break from real war we played fake war one night at the NCO Club: RISK. Ever play that boardgame? That night she came in, sat down at a table and played cards with two male Soldiers. Seemed okay, not nervous, at ease. And didn’t drink a thing. Threw some darts. Didn’t drink a thing. Sat at the bar. Didn’t drink a thing. But she kept chewing gum. Swallowed aspiring dry. Got a headache? Dehydration causes headaches. She kind of stumbled off her stool and made for the exit. My army had already been annihilated from Europe so I got up and met her at the door meaning to open it for her. Her hand was already on the doorknob, my hand grasped hers. The look, no, look ain’t strong enough a word. Glare? no. Gaze. The gaze she gave me: like she thought I meant to restrain her. Keep her in the club. Heard you’re nice, friendly. All us guys in here could use a nice friend tonight. Always smiling at us. Big wide smile. Your legs open as wide? A gaze is usually a pleasant thing, ain’t it? Gazing at the stars on a clear night. Gazing at a field of Spring flowers. Gazing a wild creatures doing their thing. Just gazing at the ceiling while listening to your favorite song. Her gaze was the godawful opposite of all that. I removed my hand, held both hands up as if I was the Soldier that she, the MP, was arresting. Nodded at the door, “Was gonna get that for you.” She turned the knob, “I got it, thanks.”

“Hey . . . it’s your roll,” from the RISK table.

Returned to the table and my roll got me annihilated from Asia. Maybe it ain’t a fake war. Sometimes battles in real wars are determined by the toss of a dice, luck, dig?

Talked to mama before bed. Was I getting enough to eat? Taking plenty of hot showers? What did I need her to send me? Did I have plenty of clean underwear? Didn’t tell her that we didn’t wear underwear. Fired off an email to sissy. Wrote a letter to my (ex) fiancé. Watched some news. Hunk of bullshit. Read an article in National Geographic. Great pictures. Stupid story. Passed out. Even now I don’t fall asleep. I pass out.

Time to get back to business. Rolling out the gate I caught a glimpse of her, looked like she was relieving the MP on duty. Saw her a couple of times more. A couple of smileless times more. Never winked at her again. There are all kinds of casualties. None of them should be taken casually.