It is the opposite times that Lance Corporal Michael McMaugh and I live for. Though, they are few and fleeting. Many battles rage at night. Many Marines and Sailors die. Many rockets come. We come here, too.
Our days are tasked out to the accomplishment of many missions: fix this nation; win the peace; kill all terrorists; don’t get killed. The fourth of these is the only objective we ever seem to meet. Though, Mike almost failed that goal when shrapnel from a roadside bomb peppered his unprotected backside. Apparently his Irish heritage did provide him luck: the blast only punished him with a minor wound. Later, he received a Purple Heart like a consolatory prize – as if that’s an award that anyone would want.
On top of those four goals, when we are not on patrol, our days are loaded down with the bullying system of Marine Corps life. Mike and I are lowly Lance Corporals, which is the status of utilitarian. We can do everything, just not very well, and certainly not without authoritarian supervision. Before our missions, our non-commissioned officers watch us as we tweak the radios, perform maintenance on our humvee’s engines, and setup the gunner’s turrets with machine guns, ammo, and anti-tank missiles. They wake us up late in the evening and chew our asses, informing us of how we failed some other Marine – we don’t even really know and actually outranks us anyway – who decided he wanted to kill himself (and almost tried). When we go to the port-a-johns, they make sure we carry our weapons in case our abandoned railroad station in the middle of no freaking where is overrun by insurgents while we excrete.
We are reminded of how worthless we are when we forget to take out the trash, and how our lethargy is going to get everyone killed. We forcefully comply with their direction: “Aye, Sergeant,” we say crisply when accosted, effectively agreeing about what a bunch of assholes we are. We bite down, and our lips are always chapped and silent.
Our only respite from this life occurs in the evenings. Our sergeants and officers sleep like stones and we rebel in their slumber.
Mike waits at our hill, a secluded spot on the outskirts of the base, while I sneak into their room. I arrive like a window shadow sliding with the movement of the moon. I cargo-pocket their satellite phone, and walk purposefully out of the building, saying “good evening” to the second shift Marines. This demeanor is easy to fake; I am a utilitarian after all.
It seems hotter in the evenings than in the days. The moon and the indigo glow of the galaxy make us feel close to blue flame; and the stars are embers so radiant, they don’t ever burn out. We should be hydrating and resting for tomorrow’s inevitable combat mission, but we consume warm soda and smoke dehumidified imitation Cuban cigars instead. Our sitting spots are craters left on the decline of our hill, created by military vehicle traffic, ten thousand scorching summers, and the imprints of rockets and mortars. Still, we laze around in them, resting our hands behind our heads.
We do not care when it is our individual turn to talk on the phone. We are speaking – speaking to our loved ones back home – speaking our minds – speaking about anything other than where we are. People back home wouldn’t understand if we tried to explain it all anyway, and somehow that creates the best catharsis for us. We break from the military machine and just speak from our hearts, and in these times (only these times) we feel human and important.
These talks feel eternal, even though our lives might not be. Mike and I resolve to be friends forever.
And many years later, I still visit him in Providence every chance I get.
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