Through All the Plain. Benjamin John Peters
Mexico. I nodded to him. “How you doing?”
“Good,” he said while looking around. “What’s going on?”
“No idea.”
“How was your Christmas?”
“Good. Yours?”
“Yeah, it was good,” he said. “My pops and I went to Mexico to visit my grandpa. He owns a ranch in the southeast. Well, over the years my grandpa has been donating money to the local church. In return, they decided to honor him. So we went down for the celebration.”
“What did they do?”
“His money bought the church a new stained-glass window, so we went to watch ’em install it. We had front row seats, Peters.”
“Cool,” I said. “How long—”
“Who the hell are you two?” a gruff voice inquired.
I stood at attention. “I’m Lance Corporal Peters and this is Private First Class Mexico,” I glanced at the speaker’s collar, “Gunny.”
“Alright,” the Gunny said, “and what the hell are you doing in Bravo Company?” The Gunny sported a flattop haircut, glasses, and an extra fifty pounds.
“We’re new reservists, Gunny. We graduated from the schoolhouse in November. We checked in downstairs.”
“Fu—king—shit,” he said. “And nobody called you, right?”
“No, Gunny. I guess not.”
He shook his head. “Iraq, gentlemen. We’re going to Iraq. We leave on Thursday.”
interlude
“Where did we leave off?” Trent asked.
“I fell asleep in my hotel room.”
“Right. What happened next?”
“Weeks came and went. I requested leave. It was granted, and so I flew home to Portland. My mother hosted a picnic. My dad and stepmom were there. I caught up with my siblings.”
“Was it good to see your family?”
“Yeah, it had taken nearly a month, but I felt like I was home, if only for a time.”
“Did you ever . . . struggle, being back?”
“From the war?”
“From the war. Humor me. Be specific.”
I bit into my cheek. “One afternoon, while in Portland, my mother and I went shopping at Safeway. We were strolling through the produce aisle when I heard an incoming mortar. I screamed, reached for my gas mask, and jumped on the floor. I was wide-eyed and sweating when I realized that my mother was shaking me. ‘You’re home now,’ she was yelling, ‘you’re home!’ I tried to clear my head. The store’s manager came running over. It hadn’t been a mortar. Water had been running through overhead pipes to spray the fresh produce. I stood up and apologized. My mother started to tell him I had recently returned from Iraq. I looked at them both. They were far away, like looking backward through a telescope. I rushed out of Safeway and waited for my mother in her car.”
“Did she ask you what had happened? Did she talk with you about it?”
“Yeah. I told her it was nothing, that she didn’t have anything to worry about. And she said: ‘I’m your mother, Benjamin, I’ll worry about it.’” I started to laugh.
Trent was smiling, too. “Go on.”
“I told her that I wish I had an explanation, but I didn’t.”
“Do you know what that was, Benjamin?”
“Yeah, a flashback. I could’ve sworn I heard a mortar.”
“And did you see your dad during this time?”
“Yeah, I was home for two weeks. I saw him quite a bit.”
“And he was recovering from his open heart surgery?”
“Yeah.”
“How was that coming?”
“Fine. He looked well. He had lost weight. He was walking most days.”
“That must have been hard to lose your grandfather right before your father’s health was in question.”
“And the looming war.”
Trent nodded. “And the looming war.”
I gnawed on my cheek. “It was. It is.” I breathed. “It was good to see him though. He told me he was proud of me.”
“Did you hear that often growing up?”
“For sure. My parents were always good about telling us they loved us. It was just . . . you know . . . the war. Losing friends, dropping bombs . . . I . . . I didn’t do anything to be proud of, you know? I’m no hero. But he kept pushing it, challenging me. ‘Someday,’ he’d say, ‘you’ll be proud. Trust me. You accomplished something great.’ It made me mad. So I shot back: ‘And what was that?’ He stopped trying to convince me.”
“Do you believe your father loves you?”
I nodded. Trent jotted in his notebook. “After you visited your family, what then?”
“Five months sped past. Back in Denver, I drilled with my reserve unit by day and lived out of a hotel by night. We weren’t allowed to return to our regular lives until our demobilization papers were approved. So, I did what Marines do best. I waited.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, yes and no.”
“Yes and no?”
“I met someone.”
Trent raised an eyebrow. “Someone?”
“A girl . . . I mean, woman. She’s a teacher.”
“Does this someone have a name?”
“Natasha.”
He smiled. “And?”
I rolled my eyes. “And I like her.”
“Okay, okay. We’ll leave it there today.”
I stood up to leave.
“Benjamin,” Trent called after me.
“Yes?” I turned.
“Next time we’ll have to talk about the war.”
I grasped for the door handle. “I know.”
17. Rhizome
As a reservist, I explained to Gunny Bravo that he must be mistaken. He told me to shut the hell up, after which I informed him of my recent move and enrollment. He said I had until Tuesday to drive to Kansas, drop my classes, gather my belongings, and return to Buckley. “Unfortunately,” he said, “you’ll lose your tuition.” By way of consolation, he shook his head and mumbled. “Someone really should’ve called you.”
The world was frozen. It was February. Interstate 70 cut an ebon path between the crystal plains. I drove with no music, no radio—only thoughts. In five days I would be leaving for war. Where was the ticker tape and beautiful women? It didn’t feel right. I wasn’t part of the Greatest Generation—I was a nobody caught in the arbitrary gyrations of history. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t want to be a coward. A flood of questions I’d hoped to never confront rushed my mind: Do I believe in war? How should 9/11 be answered? Would the world be a safer, better place if I died in the pursuit of a free Iraq?
The plains were quiet. Snow fell. The sky darkened.
My anxiety acquiesced to anger. What right do I have to kill? I could destroy a bull’s-eye at 500 yards. I could target an enemy remotely and decimate him or her with a keystroke. Could I actually