Pappa Zulu – Chapter 9

“Leadership is intangible, and therefore no weapon ever designed can replace it.”

-Omar N. Bradley

They must have thought themselves brave and noble warriors. Coming home, the taste of victory in their mouths, the feeling that they had done something uncommonly difficult, but carried on through.

To Ross, they looked little better than a bunch of drunken teenagers away on Spring Break. And the smell of them, which he could only guess was a combination of sweat, axle grease and cordite, was just plain horrid. But if he wanted to get a first glimpse at the spoils of their latest foray into the big city, he needed to be here, front row center as the peons cheered their heroes on.

Looking around, one had to guess that half the town had poured into the streets to welcome them home. Men, women, children, entire families; no one seemed to still be in their houses whenever the Rattlesnakes poured in these days. Drunk off of numerous victories, they must have thought that the Mage and his men were truly doing them a service, and intended to show such sentiments whenever it seemed appropriate.

Poor fools, he thought. And yet, it was a good thing. So long as they understood who was in charge and from who’s leadership they benefited, they would never do anything so foolish as to question things or think they could live without the framework that had been put in place to protect them.

And he should hope so, given how important he was to that framework.

Ross waited for the heavies to finish rolling in. These consisted of the heavy tanks and the infantry fighting vehicles, which he surprisingly recognized. Perhaps the time he had spent perusing the battle manuals had actually paid off, the one Thur had provided and insisted he study. It was one of the many contradictions be had been forced to endure as Thur’s pet, given him additional busywork while at the same time pressing him to produce results on the project that actually mattered.

When the Infantry Fighting Vehicles and LAV’s stopped passing by, the Humvees arrived. There, Ross spotted a soldier who looked officious enough to know something, and the glint of bars on his collar indicated that he was a Lieutenant. Good a place as any to start.

He also had to elbow his way through a bit of admiring rabble to get close enough to be heard.

“Excuse me. Excuse me!” he yelled. “Lieutenant. I need to talk to you!”

The Lieutenant looked up from the rear of the Humvee, where his men were already busy unloading equipment. Ross looked to it with sudden fear, knowing the grunts never exercised due caution with fragile materials.

“Careful! That’s all precious!”

The Lieutenant put a hand to Ross’s chest and held him back. “Excuse me, sir. Who are you?”

“I am Doctor Cooper Ross, soldier. Lead researcher for the Mage and the man who asked that your unit find me the cache of lab equipment that was inside that city. Do you have it with you? Is that it there?”

The Lieutenant eyed the boxes his men were offloading. “No sir, you’re requested kit was stowed aboard the Stryker. We didn’t have room.”

Ross looked ahead to the armored column with dismay. There, he saw infantrymen offloading more boxes and crates from the rear of their vehicles, the cabins of the LAV’s having been turned into cargo carriers.

“Are you insane?” he yelled.

The Lieutenant scowled and inched closer to look him in the eye. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“The instruments I requested are fragile and extremely expensive. You don’t stick those kinds of things in the back of an armored car! They could have been broken!”

“Well I’m sorry sir. There just wasn’t room enough in the back of our Humvees after we took on all the food, ammo and medical supplies we needed. Luxury items had to be stowed elsewhere…”

“Luxury-” Ross’s voice caught in his throat. Were he a fighting man, he would have slapped the Lieutenant in the face, maybe even punched him in the jaw. Luckily, he knew of better ways to put a man in his place, ways that didn’t involve brutish violence. “What is your name, Lieutenant?”

“My name?” he said, unconcerned. “Lieutenant Walter Baker, Alpha Troop Mounted Recon. You want my SSN too?”

“No need!” the Doc said, and proceeded to the armored column ahead. Once he was sure his equipment wasn’t damaged, he would be sure to stop by the Mage’s office to file a complaint. Negligence, insubordination, failure to comply, whatever he could find in the regs. Then again, if anything was damaged, he would be sure to hold the Lieutenant responsible. The Mage would surely take an interest in anything that delayed production of his precious inoculate.

At which point, heads would surely roll…

*               *               *

The lights were dimmed now low, the rule for nighttime light discipline still taking effect. Some time ago, the need to keep the lights off to avoid attracting Whiskeys had gone out the window. Now it was simply a matter of making sure the generators weren’t tacked too much. A good policy, and it suited Dezba’s mood just fine.

As usual, he had scoped out the far corner of the bar. A small table with two chairs, and only the one occupied by his ass. The only companion he wanted tonight was the bottle across from him.

Mercifully, the place was almost empty too. Just about everyone had poured out to welcome the troops home. That cut down on the bar flies, the bar chatter, and the chance that anyone would come up to him to accost him. It was always the same, people asking him the same question every time they saw him.

“Are you a soldier? Are you a veteran? How did you lose your hand? How many did you kill?”

It was his fault. He wore the khakis often enough, but he had little civilian clothes of his own anymore. He never did his own clothes shopping, and without someone else to buy them for him, his wardrobe had fallen into disarray.

And then there was the haircut, which he insisted on keeping short for the longest time. Only in recent weeks did he bother to let it grow again. Maybe he’d grow it out, do an old fashion warrior braid or something. Wouldn’t that be a kick…

But even if he changed clothes, grew out his hair, there was still the little matter of his left arm ending in a stump. No one would fail to notice that. Nor would they fail to notice the look in his eyes. Each attracted attention, stoked curiosity, and seemed to cry out for sympathy, none of which he wanted… ever.

He finished the contents of his glass and eyed the bottle in front of him. At least four more fingers of the delightful golden-brown contents remained, and his glass had grown watery long ago, the outsides slick with condensation.

Grizzly was manning the bar tonight, a rare treat for the flies that frequented the place regularly. Scarcely anyone who showed up at his bar hadn’t heard the tale of how the place had got its name, the Em Nine Special. Though he was surprised he of all people had chosen to stay in tonight. He didn’t bother to ask, as he knew that returning troops was something he’d seen many times before.

And ol’ Grizzly was not one to make his way to the action, more often than not, it found him and was sorry for it. Either way, it felt appropriate to have him here, the token company of the place.

“Boss,” he said, then raised his voice when it became clear Grizzly hadn’t heard him. “Boss! I need more ice.”

Grizzly turned and looked at him over the specs that rested on his nose. Turning up his hearing aid with one hand, he cupped the other around his ear and asked him to repeat himself.

“I need… never mind,” Dezba replied, and got up and made his way to the bar. The glass and bottle rested in one hand, and he placed both down on the fine wood surface and pointed to the ice box. “Need me some of that, old bear. Can you help?”

“For you, sure…” he said, with only a hint of sarcasm. “What brings you back to the bar tonight?”

He shoved a few cubes into the glass and placed it back in front of Dezba.

“Didn’t you hear?” he said, refilling his glass. “I’m on medical. No reporting for duty until the doc discharges me.”

“Ah,” said Grizzly, looking at him down the length of his nose again. “And what about your buds. Where are they these days?”

Dezba took a sip and looked at him, half-frowning. “I don’t know, off on another mission I guess. Last I heard, the northern roads needed to be cleared, the fields retaken for the farmers. Guess the LT took em up that way since they wouldn’t be part of the fun down south.”

Grizzly had taken to drying off the glasses and placing them back in the top rack. The look on his face told Dezba he was content and listen and he should continue.

“Truth is, I haven’t talked to them in weeks. They seem to be getting along fine without me.”

“Ah, I doubt that,” he replied.

“What makes you say that?”

“I seen you and your unit come in here often enough to know that you guys had some real cohesion between ya. Common amongst you folk, always watching each others backs and making sure those bastards don’t get ya. But you guys got along, that’s a rare gift.”

Dezba thought back to the way he and his crew were always ragging on each other, how they would mock his heritage whenever possible. Well, it was mainly Whitman who did that, but he did plenty of the same to him and his. He wasn’t sure that qualified as ‘getting along’, at least not nicely.

“Yeah, well… don’t believe everything you see.”

“Point is kid, someone isn’t forgotten just because they aren’t around anymore. People get remembered long after their gone. People get missed.”

Dezba finished another sip and placed the glass down. All this talk of being missed, of missing others, it was beginning to get under his skin. Not exactly what he was looking for when he sidled up to the bar. Besides, he didn’t agree…

“You’d be surprised ol’ timer.” He downed his glass in one haul and began refilling, his hand trembling from the effort. “People get forgot all the time. One gets lost, another comes in and fills their post. Happens all the time.”

“Really?”

“Hell ya. And the sooner you accept it, the happier you’ll be. It’s not fair to yourself, hanging onto something that aint there anymore. Not fair to person who’s replacing them either. All they want is to do their part and not end up like them. Moment you get too attached though, you can’t function once they’re gone. And they will surely be gone, sooner or later…”

Grizzly nodded and hummed thoughtfully.

“Like it or not, we’re all just expendable. Quicker we fade away, the easier it is for others to move on and do their job.”

Grizzly finished with the glass he was polishing and hung it up quite deliberately. He waited for Dezba to finish his glass and then snatched it from him. Before he could protest, Grizzly had some new words for him.

“There’s just one thing wrong with your theory there, kid.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“You’re not dead. Wherever your crew is, they’re wondering about you. Are you thinking they should just move on without you?”

“Wha- I don’t know!” He fumbled for the words, but was having a hard time of it. He eventually just held up his arm. “I lost my fucking hand, old man! What do I suggest I do about this?”

“You lost a limb,” he said, nodding. “What about the rest of ya? Did you lost that you?”

Dezba didn’t answer. For several moments, he just hung there, slacked jawed and staring. His eyes were beginning to feel a little misty, his skin flushed. Was this the effects of the ample whiskey or was he on the verge of lashing out? He wasn’t sure. He was also surprised to see that he was standing now, and his body was demanding he do something about the build up of pressure in his stomach.

“I gotta piss,” he said, pointing at Grizzly with his index finger. “To be continued!”

The door swung open from the light punch he gave it. He was immediately hit by the stench of old urine and cheap deodorizers. He crinched at the stink, and was hit by a terrible moment of deja vu.

The night before they shipped out. Before LA…

The night he’d done it.

A terrible pain gripped his chest. His eyes clenched shut and hot tears began to fill them. The pain extended down his arm. He screamed at the sensation of a hot blade slicing through his skin. He screamed as the vision of decayed teeth and white eyes closed in around him. He screamed as he realized he was killing them, and that they were his blood.

His screams faded and were replaced by sad moans.

“I’m sorry…” he said, over and over. Even as the medics from the VA Hospital found him huddled on the floor, he continued to plead for forgiveness.

“I’m sorry baby… I’m sorry!”