The Soldier by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

It’s a bone-dry, sadly sunny, clear-and-azure-as-it-was-a-millennium-ago, ancient-calm, mild (68ºF; 20ºC), eerily quiet, mid-March (2009) late afternoon in a virtually treeless, rocky, dusty, barren, lunar-looking section of Zabul Province, Afghanistan. MOS [Military Occupational Specialty] Chemical Warfare Specialist (74D) Jake Z. Andersen, a 23-year-old, short and thin, fair-skinned Caucasian American, and Caporal Ion Dinu, a 22-year-old, dark-haired, olive-skinned MOS guard from the Romanian battalion, are heading to the Tarnak River in an MRAP (a Mine-Resistant Ambush-Protected vehicle) to take some water samples, as the nearby villagers believe that the Taliban are poisoning the shallow, small-stones-and-dark-brown-sand-bottomed watercourse.

Caporal Ion Dinu’s English is limited, but the a II-a and the E-4 American corporal soon strike up a conversation as the rangers tootle down a rough dirt road as Andersen’s 5.56x45 mm M4 carbine bumps up against Dinu’s Pușcă Automată model 1986.

“You CBSU, [Chemical/Biological Sampling Unit] Specialist Andersen?” Ion asks Jake.

“That is I. So, Caporal Dinu, what city or town are you from in Romania?” a sincerely curious Jake asks. “Let me guess – Bucharest?” They all guess that as if it’s the only place in the country.

“No, not the capital,” Ion nonchalantly replies.

“Transylvania?” Jake quickly ventures. “Somewhere near Count Dracula’s [Vlad the Implaler] castle?” Ah, the second place they all assume.

“No, I am from Caracal, a village in Vlad III’s Wallachia region. The famous Bran Castle is far to the north of my home. And Bucharest is a two-and-a-half-hour drive to the northeast.” Ion then looks at the front of Jake’s desert-camouflage jacket, and at the chain-of-custody forms on the seat. “And, from where are you, Specialist Andersen?”

“Bemidji. It’s a small town in rural Minnesota. You can just call me Ander-man.” And/or, man?

“Min-AH-so-TAH?” Ion slowly syllabicates.

“Yeah, you got it, Caporal Dinu. It’s an Upper Midwest state on the Canadian border. Very cold winters. Ever heard of the Minnesota Vikings?”

“Yes, we both, Caparal. Romania, cold winter, too. Please just call me Dinu. That team is in N-F-L, [National Football League] right?” Wow! He knows it.

“Yes, correct. Do you have a brother or sister, Dinu?”

“Just one sibling: a sister. She is two years older than me. She went to your America. The city is called Charlotte.” [NC]

“Really? What is she doing there?”

“It is not very honorable, her profession, Ander-man. My sister is a topless dancer – a stripper as you Americans say. She was tricked by dishonest job recruiter – a very deceptive man.” Woah!

“Does she like it?” Jake asks as the MRAP bounds over a small boulder. What a freaking road!

“She likes the money, but doesn’t like the job. She – Iona is her name – says many creepy people.” Can only imagine.

“I bet. Well, I hope that she finds a job to her liking.”

“She’s stuck there because of her work-visa status,” Ion reveals. “If she tries to work somewhere else, the boss said that he will call ICE [Immigration and Customs Enforcement] and have her deported. We come from poor family. Not much opportunity if not smartest. We were both average students. Not good enough to get the nice job. Do you have brother or sister, Ander-man?”

“No, I’m an only child, Dinu. It was just me and my mom. My dad left us on a frigid January evening when I was only four. I hardly remember him.”

“How long you think this war lasts?” Ion looked very serious.

“I have no idea, Dinu. It’s in the politicians’ hands.”

“Ander-man, conflicts involving religions can go on for very long time. My country is proof of that. Muslim Ottoman Empire and Christian Austria-Hungary in a centuries-long tug of war; we were the rope.” Snap!

“Yeah, I agree, Dinu. Say, what do you plan to do when you get back home?”

“I try to get date with local girl named Cristina. She, very hot lady, though. Many eyes on her. She gets many offers, but refuses them all.”

“Ah, a difficult bird to bag, is she, Dinu?” Huh?

“A difficult bird to bag?” Ion asks with a puzzled expression.

“A hard-to-get date,” Jake clarifies.

“Yes, she surely is, Ander-man, but maybe she realizes that I’m not a fool like the others – not a lazy, worthless, gone-on-a-raft village idiot.” Gone on a raft? [idiomatic expression] He knows the term ‘village idiot’? Wonder where he heard or read that.

The MRAP eases off the road next to the wide, but-of-little-depth river. He looks up at the ridge and sees the support troops. Good, we’ve got cover.

“Ok, we’re here, Dinu,” Jake informs. “We can just take a few water samples from that low-bank area.”

“Sounds good, amigo.” [friend in Spanish] Amigo? Does he know Spanish? Why?

While the nearby personnel provide security from the high ground, the intrepid technicians get to work sampling the stream. Both men constantly record water temperature and turbidity while taking the water samples and recording the data in their field books. Ion and Jake quickly fill a dozen, small, plastic jars and reseal them, meticulously labeling each one, and packing them in a bubble-wrapped chest. Jake then thinks it best to take some soil samples, too, as he is concerned about toxic heavy metals. In thirty-four anxious minutes, they are back in their armored vehicle.

“Oh, just as planned, Ander-man; my guys are right over there,” Ion relays.

“Ah, yes, the special forces medical team. They’re doing great work, I hear, Dinu. An excellent group.”

“Thanks, Ander-man. I will just go back with them. Is that ok?”

“Sure, Dinu. Nice talking and working with you. Stay safe. Good luck with Cristina.”

“Here, Ander-man. Take these. You never know.”

Ion then hands Jake four syrettes.

“What’s in these, Dinu?” Is he a heroin addict?

“Soviet-style morphine, Ander-man. You will need it if you lose arm or leg in bomb blast. Believe me, comrade. The screams of a fellow soldier still haunt me. That red Jell-O-like goop. Trust me, friend, one never forgets it.”

“Ok, thanks.” Hmmm … Where to stash these? Don’t want to be accused of running drugs. That would ruin my career path. I’d lose my security clearance. Can’t let that happen. But, I may need these one day for a wounded soldier. Ah, I know – my medical case. It will fit right in, and will look perfectly appropriate. Yeah, that’s it.

They say their farewells. Then the drive back commences. Two miles (3.2 km) down the road there is some commotion. Some villagers appear to be arguing on the roadway. A minute or so later, they disperse and the road is clear again. Wonder what that was all about. No telling.

Jake moves to the back of the MRAP. He feels at ease and soon dozes off, as his task for the two-hour block has been successfully completed.

As the MRAP driver depresses the accelerator pedal, his trained eagle eyes see a white wire protruding from under a rock just ahead. He slams on the brakes. But, it’s already too late.

<BOOM>

The explosion is massive. The shock wave is valley-wide and deafening. The MRAP’s front-right corner is sent airborne like a rocket-launched stegosaurus. It flips over. And slams into the ground. Flames suddenly erupt and begin to engulf the vehicle.

Jake regains consciousness. All is silent, save for the spitting sound of burning and dripping plastic some 40 feet (12 meters) away. He is bleeding profusely from his jagged-door-frame-metal-sliced abdomen. He muses on his grave situation. Those damn ‘villagers’ were Taliban! It was a goddam IED! [improvised explosive device] My right eye is totally fucked. Do I still even have a right eye? Damn! It’s totally gone! I’m fucked. I can’t move my torso an inch. [2.54 cm] The ringing noise in my ears – will it ever freaking stop?! Is that clicking sound in my brain? Or, is it in my spine? Is my spine broken? Am I paralyzed? Sure seems like it. What is that whirring sound? Is it from one of my devices? It sounds like that boat propeller. That old Evinrude 35 horsepower outboard. That summer day on Lower Red Lake. Grandad’s cabin. Sure would love to be there now. Oh my God! I’m bleeding like Merlot flowing through mom’s ripped spaghetti sieve. Bandages won’t work. Going into shock. Where’s the blanket? Nowhere near here. Damn! The pain in my ribs is freaking awful. Yow! God Almighty! Why me?!

“Help!” he shouts repeatedly. But no one comes over. He hears a jet plane screaming by. And then sees the contrail. It seems to turn into a vulture-like drone in his mind. Never could have imagined this occurring four years ago. The risk to life and limb was part of the deal. Just thought it would never happen to me. Guess I thought I was special in some way. Always thought this only happens to some other soldier – someone else. Well, right now I’m THE soldier. And no one seems to be around. I’m done for. It’s going to end right here. Damn! This pain is so intense! Can’t take it anymore.

Jake then feels for the syrettes in his med kit. His right hand gathers them. If I’m going to die, I might as well go out on a painless high. No use suffering my final five minutes on this Earth. Do I even have that long to live? Doubt it.

He is able to inject his left arm’s basilic vein with two of the syrettes. However, as he uncaps the third one, he loses consciousness. A vivid morphine dream soon commences.

In the incredibly lucid dream, Jake is back in Bemidji with his 44-year-old mother. He is telling her that he is dying from an IED blast. She just nods as her small-frame, gray-sweater-wrapped body pendulates on an old rocking chair on the front porch of their small, rusty-metal-roofed, two-bedroom house. He tells her that thanks to a Romanian soldier named Ion, he is able to communicate with her before he passes. His mom keeps rocking. Jake then goes up to her and lightly touches her long-brown-haired head. She is dead. Jake is shocked. He wonders when she died as he enters his home. His dad is staggering up the hallway. He is drunk. Jake begins to lecture him about being so absent and irresponsible. Aloofly, his dad walks away as a crow enters the living-room scene. It begins cawing madly as his high-school crush waltzes in. He tells her, Monica, that he will soon be dead and that he wished that he would have asked her to the senior prom. She is unfazed and wanders towards his bedroom. Monica enters and closes the door. But the door instantly re-opens. A young woman, who he imagines to be Iona, walks out in her pole-dancing garb. He tells her of his fate. Iona tries to hug him but trips over Jake’s mother’s hamster cage, which for some odd reason was left on the floor. As Iona hits the floor face-first, she dissolves into the orange-ringed, oval, wool throw rug. Then it is just Jake in the dining nook. He opens an old geography schoolbook. There is a photograph of a poppy field. His left eyelid rises. As he turns his head to the right, his darkening tunnel vision sees the exact same poppy field. Just before he loses consciousness again, an image of dried opium latex on a poppy pod.