Through All the Plain. Benjamin John Peters
He scanned the room before continuing. “If I hear another laugh, then the offending service member will be dismissed.” He turned back to the screen and pressed play.
16. Wilberson’s War
Before our final exam, Staff Sergeant Wilberson talked with each of us in regard to our progress. I walked into his office and stood at attention. “At ease,” he said. “For the last time, this is the Air Force. Relax. Sit.” I sat. “One week left until your final exam. How do you feel?”
“Fine,” I responded. “There’s a lot to study, but I feel prepared.”
“And after?”
“I’ll report to my unit in Denver. I’m a reserve, though. I think I’ll go back to school.”
He smiled. “School, huh?”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant. I plan on majoring in Communications.”
“Not the Middle East?” We stared at each other. “You’re a relatively new Marine, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And you’ve never been to war?”
“No.”
“How are feeling about that? Dealing death from a computer?” I didn’t have an answer. “Wars happen, Peters. You’re a war fighter now. It’s best that you start thinking about yourself that way.”
For a moment, I was honest: “I don’t want to, staff sergeant.” The moment I said it, I regretted it.
He laughed, covering his mouth with his hand. “No one does, Peters. No one does.”
I passed my final exam and graduated. During 070502’s graduation, Staff Sergeant Wilberson spoke on our behalf. “I have never,” he began, “seen a class with so much drive and willpower. I attribute this to 070502’s fine leader, Sergeant Indiana. Not all of you who started together finished together, but those of you who leave this place today, leave it proudly. Though, often times, we leave this schoolhouse and never meet again, I believe this will no longer be the case. When we meet upon the sands of the Middle East, may we remember our common bond: 070502.”
Later that night, as I finished packing my car, I shook Mexico’s hand and told him I’d see him in February. We had a month leave before we had to report to our new unit at Buckley Air Force Base in Aurora, Colorado, after which I would make the long, solitary drive to Kansas and Bethany College.
“Alright,” he said, “take care.”
“I will. You got plans?”
“You know me, Peters. I always got plans.”
“Well, use protection.”
I drove home to Portland. I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with my family. It was cold and rainy. My dad and stepmom had their three-foot, fiber optic Christmas tree on display. My mom was busy with school, as she had recently decided to return to college. My brothers and sisters were growing up. We spent what time we could together before I packed up my 1990 red Dodge Dakota and made the twenty-two-hour drive to Lindsborg, Kansas. Like my mother, I was returning to college.
It was snowing when I arrived at Bethany. I moved into the dormitory alone. Most of the students were absent because it was January and between school sessions. I hadn’t been on Bethany’s campus since I’d decided to drop out two years previous. I had originally chosen Bethany for two reasons: one, they offered me a football scholarship; and two, it was the farthest school from the Northwest offering said scholarship. I had wanted a fresh, new experience, free to learn and make mistakes. Bethany was a small, Lutheran liberal-arts college. I had signed my letter of intent with the delusional hopes of becoming a football star. Two years in, however, I was a tired and beat up third-string fullback. Where one dream died, another was birthed. Amidst Bethany’s echoing halls ringing with choral melodies, I discovered learning and books and that pre-made molds were lies. I had dropped out and moved to Colorado frustrated with a broken football career, but had returned—after my hiatus in both Recruit Training and Imagery Analysis School—for the ingrained memories of passionate professors willing to invest in their students’ growth. At Bethany I wasn’t fitted; I was asked to become.
The spring term would start in February, which was about four weeks away. I wanted an early start, however, and so I enrolled in Bethany’s January term, which, in my case, was a three-week crash course in advanced public speaking. Before my first class, I flipped on CNN while I dressed. The news was ominous.
“All signs point to an American troop buildup in Iraq by March,” the reporter said in her British accent. She was wearing a drab-safari outfit. “The American Secretary of Defense is presenting his case to the UN Security Counsel by week’s end, and my sources tell me that Secretary Powell’s goal will be to convince the world that Iraq has not only begun the process of enriching uranium, but is already in possession of weapons of mass destruction.”
“Thank you—” the anchor replied and moved onto other news. I left the television and turned on the shower.
I spent a week researching and prepping speeches. On Friday I drove the six hours to Aurora, Colorado, a suburb of Denver, for my first reservist-drill weekend. I slept at an Embassy Suites, woke up at four, dressed in my camouflage fatigues, and drove to Buckley Air Force Base. My truck was not yet registered, so I parked next to Buckley’s gate and went into the Military Police Officers’ hut to register for a weekend pass. It was a frigid Colorado morning, and I waited in a line of ten other services members who were also waiting to register their cars. The serviceman in front of me was a Marine. He was taller than me by three or four inches. His uniform was finely pressed. His shave was close. He turned to me. “You fucking believe this shit, Devil?”
“Yeah,” I said, not knowing what he was talking about. “It’s pretty cold.”
“Shit, well, it won’t be for long.”
It was already February. “How’s that?”
He turned and looked me over. “Who are you?”
“Lance Corporal Peters.”
“You Bravo Company?”
“Yes,” I quickly glanced at his collar, “Staff Sergeant.”
“Nobody called you?”
“Am I late, Staff Sergeant?”
“Fuck man, we got the call, Devil.”
“Oh,” I was stumped. “That’s . . . great.”
The line was moving. He started filling out paperwork for his car’s registration. When he was done, he walked out past me. “See you at Bravo.”
I registered my car and drove to the Marine Corps headquarters.
Tucked away in the northeast corner of the Air Base was the Marine Corps detachment, which housed both Alpha and Bravo Companies. Alpha was an artillery detachment. Bravo was an intelligence detachment. This was the first time I had visited the unit. The building was two stories high and contained a gym, a shower facility, a cafeteria, numerous offices, and, of course, a military display case. Alpha Company was downstairs; we were upstairs. We in Bravo never mingled with our lesser counterparts below.
I went to the main Marine Corps Administration office, which was situated between Alpha Company and Bravo Company. I had to check in and hand over the paperwork I had acquired during Recruit Training, MCT, and Imagery Analysis School. There was a tall Marine with a shaved head and thick mustache behind the counter. “What can I help you with Marine?”
“I need to check in, Gunny.”
“Alright, let me see that.” He pointed to my paperwork. Ten minutes later he walked back to the counter. “You’re in Bravo. It’s upstairs. You’ll want to check with Gunny Bravo. He’s a good Marine. He’ll help you with all that’s comin’ up.”
“Coming up, Gunny?”
“Shit