Ja-Booty

  As watch officer I spent most of my time scanning my computer screen for noteworthy developments in the situation. Another thirty minutes and my shift would end; 4 am, flipping through the endless messages I abstractly glean information that merits forwarding to higher headquarters; the rest was like a huge gossip board. 

Suicide jumps out at me. 

Young private shot himself.

   "Damn" I mutter at the displayed message.  I shake my head conjecturing what would drive a new soldier to such desperate resolve?  Military police even: on the dark continent of Africa.

Ironic, I think; how in the past, the term would invoke romantic mysteries; Death on the Nile; Kilimanjaro; the Serengeti; boyhood memories of wonder as counterpoint to where this young man ended his days.  My mind takes the thread as if listening to a conversation in his home town, amongst the people he grew up with:

   "Years back, my sister’s oldest boy done lost his life in Africa" a rustic blue collared factory worker would volunteer to his bar buds.

   "Back in a place they call Ja-booty." He'd chuckle softly that humorless regret laugh easily identified. It was more at the irony than the humor. Then he’d take a swig of his Budweiser as if to wash down the unsavory-choking pain of loss.

   "What kind of name is that Ya think?" he asked no one in particular; snoring as if that'd veil the anguish still lingering like the last smoke of a fire gone out.  He'd look at the man sitting next to him who would be nursing his own complaints and disillusionment.

   " Yup, the boy couldn't take the heat" and he'd gesture with his head towards the tinted picture window on the far wall, past the bar that kept the Arizona suns' 103 temperature ‘out there’ and not affecting the air conditioned climate they were lounging in; making it possible to sit, talk, and drink their beers; spend their time comparing scars without showing them. 

   "Ya know he was raised in Wisconsin" no one was interested, but didn't have anything else to offer, so he was tolerated like background music in the mall…not loud enough to make annoyance something needing attention; the drone of him kept the quiet voices in the other patron's heads from becoming shouts.

   "So I'm told that it gets to 130 in the summer there…" he coughs, by reflex, then lights another camel.

   "…hear tell that the Army had it all dicked up when they shipped them boys there." A few heads turned, mostly from vets of wars recent past, Gulf, Nam, not many still hanging out at bars from Korea; they'd be sitting in their golden retirement home parks, watching golfing matches on the TV.

   "Sent over a thousand of 'em over there with only nineteen shitters" That got him a short burst of laughter. 

   "Ya got to stop and think how you'd manage that kind of problem" there was silence. 

   "Anyhow, you know the military, some officer who had nuthin better to do, figured out a pass system so they'd only have to have them pumped out once a day to save some money."  He shook his head in disbelief,

   "…so they had to post a guard to check on passes to use the can" Now the head shaking took on that nature yawning does in a crowd; one starts, then involuntarily mindless mimicking. It must be some primal gesture of tribal agreement.  I'd be in that scene, sitting next to him, doing the math in my head, like I was doing in the Headquarters Building as my mind wove dialog that wasn’t happening.

   'Yeah, young private filled to the brim with idealism about protecting the home fires from terrorist.  Getting his pats on the back and the surprise kisses good-bye from his secret high school heart throb.  Those longing lasting stares as he got on the bus to go save his world…She'd wait…and he'd feel funny in his loins the whole ride to the airport; heroic. 

   Then the reality of being miserable claimed him; and to top it off, the indignity of guarding sweltering human waste portals.  His sergeant didn't want to hear any complaints, it was part of his dues; but that's not how he saw it.  It was abuse of power, and mindless to follow such a stupid policy, that’s what the note he left said; in the hurried scribble before he acted to make a permanent change to what he saw as an insane situation.  What idiot thought that making rules about bowel movements was in the best interest of the service?

   I remember this neighbor who lived down the street in my subdivision.  Nice family, two young boys under the age of ten. One Sunday the dad, a sergeant first class in a unit on the same post, just did himself in; right in the family back yard. Sheez, what was he thinking?  Rumor had it that his wife didn't see it coming. They had a pleasant fun day in the park; playing Frisbee, grilled out in the back yard; as the boys scampered off to bath and last minute preparations for the coming week, he went out to clean up after supper, and closed the chapter on the life of that family; swift and sudden.  Weeks later it was discovered that he was struggling with a drinking problem.  That mercifully the Army had transferred him to his new assignment at Atlanta just before his misbehaviors caught up with him from Texas.  My old commander used to say,

   "Al There are three things that will end your career; booze, bucks or broads." 

A fellow will get into deep trouble if he can't keep his finances in order; the rationale being if you can't keep your finances in order you've no business leading others.  As to broads, well that was Russian roulette any way you sliced it, but still guys just couldn't stay out of other fellow’s gardens.  So if there wasn't gunplay sooner or later there was humiliation and of course, that violated the ethics and morality of a leader. Booze wasn't so easy to hide, no quiet dismissal.  Hard to hide the fact of a SUV wrapped around an old elm on main post.  If you're lucky no innocent will get killed. But still, it was a sure ticket out of the service.  

   Seventeen years.  Lloyd as a Sergeant First Class with one more three-year hitch then he could retire and win freedom from his self imposed prison.  The carrot at that stage was to make it to Master Sergeant.  The retirement pay jumped significantly. Of course the game was that if he did get promoted in his nineteenth year, he'd have to stay another two in order to retire at the Master Sergeant grade.  Then the trickery was he'd be sent to some far off frontier without his family.  Those post needed senior noncoms and the only ones that would go, were the ones that reluctantly had to.

    With that many years in service it’s hard not to cross paths with others who have been around as long.  Seems Lloyd ended up working for an ex-partner from his young and wild days.  Problem was the Sergeant Major was still a heavy drinker and did so with abandon.  Such suffering languishes for company. So when the Sergeant Major and Lloyd traveled around the country on their staff assistance visits they end up at out of the way Reserve post near towns that possessed almost fictional namesakes. Slippery Rock; Smut Eye; or Barnesville;  They'd stay several days, and after inspections would be the drinking nights.  And that would be invariably tossing tequila until the dawn.  Lloyd needed the benevolence of the Sergeant Major so when evaluation time came around he'd get the right 'atta boys' to propel him to his goal; his freedom.  I guess the stress of keeping up the drinking, along with life's demands became too much for him to shoulder; similar to that young MP.

***

   "… my sister”, the old man continued,

“Said he wrote her a letter and called himself the Crap Cop. Yeah that's what she said.  Said he didn't know how much longer he could take it, that no one would listen to his protest."

    I read once that often a single word of encouragement can turn a person around; one that lifts, or one that discourages. It’s just too bad that young MP didn't hear the word that would change his world for the better; from misery to hope.  I know I've had my share of leaders that demonstrated care.  Not by giving us days off, or false praise, but concern when it was plain to see that all was needed was a demonstration of support.  I pondered the depth and breath of selfish thinking and that notion that we're alone; self-delusions that we don't have to care if it doesn't affect directly. 

   "James…" I said to the screen.

   "…member of the gallant Military Police Company serving in Djibouti.  I want to remember you.  I hope your parents find some sort of comfort."  I turned my screen off; it was time for me to go home.  Yeah, home.  Thanks for the lesson on the delicate nature of the human spirit Private Canton; you mattered.  At least in my world, your departure reminds me to be aware of the need for demonstrating care; the milk of human kindness.  When alerted ~ give it freely

The consequence affects us all if I don't remember.  When will that become apparent?

I can hope, in time to keep us all on mission.

  One soul at a time.