Mile 1
A solid fist thumped hard against Staff Sergeant Stephen Lantz’ right shoulder. The unexpected jolt yanked his attention and nearly knocked him off balance and out of formation.
“Relax, Lantz. You’re going to pop a bra-strap.” Sergeant First Class Royce Mayweather, Stephen’s platoon sergeant always had a way with words. Stephen often considered it to be a misguided way, compounded by the fact that words were never in short supply around Mayweather. Spending much of his active duty time with the Fifth Ranger Battalion had honed a naturally quick wit and earned the man an advanced degree in sarcasm.
It is common knowledge that service members make significant personal accommodations for their families while their country prepares for war. For Royce Mayweather, accommodations were complicated. So he routinely left them out of the equation when volunteering for assignments which offered a taste of adventure. The fact that adventure often required unaccompanied duty was a consequence Mayweather often neglected to consider. He had passion for the military life. Passion for the Army. Passion for the training. A genuine passion for the intensity of a combat theater. But the man also loved his wife and he was determined not to repeat the mistakes of his own father. The man who’s life in a prolonged Naval special forces career was as much a mystery to young Royce as was his death.
After a dozen years, the small print on the sign up form for Army adventure began to reveal itself and the heavy toll on his marriage reached a breaking point. When Mayweather’s wife decided she could no longer be married to both the Army and her husband, she laid out all the cards and told him to make the call. Thankfully, by providing a taste of the life he loved, switching over to the Army National Guard became a compromise which allowed him to stay attached to the military while keeping Mayweather married. More importantly, it kept him sane. And here he was again, leading another platoon on their path to Army adventure. Stephen knew Mayweather’s wife was grieved over the anticipation of another deployment. There was little doubt she regretting having ever approved the “hardly-ever-deploys” National Guard, as it was known before the September 11th terrorist attacks. But approve she did and to Mayweather it was like having a hall pass on exam day.
Now, at o’dark-thirty, with hundreds of soldiers readying on a freezing tundra someone dared to call a tarmac, Mayweather was having way too much fun for Stephen’s taste. Rolling his shoulder to work out the sore spot from Mayweather’s wake up call, Stephen seethed at how completely off guard his platoon sergeant had caught him. Though the real pain came from the fact that Mayweather had left before Stephen could deliver a sharp quip without making it obvious he was breaking ranks. That was alright, there would be other opportunities. Ranger or not, the man had to sleep at some point. Thankfully, Stephen was patient and had already plotted a suitable response for his longtime but antagonistic friend.
Stephen looked down his row with a gradual but not overly obvious tilt of his head to see his men; his duty, his responsibility. Immediately to his left, Jonesey looked nervous. Stephen knew it wasn’t something he needed to address immediately. Once they were boarded on the planes to the pre-deployment training station, an abundance of harsh ribbing by Corporal Ambrose would give Jonesey the boost of confidence he needed. Leonard “Jonesey” Jones and Duncan Ambrose grew up across the street from one another and had been close friends since elementary school. They were a couple of high school baseball stars who did everything together. Both stemming from proud patriotic families, it was no great surprise to either family when a couple of weeks before graduation, Leo and Dunc simultaneously told their families of their intention to enlist in the Army. It was a race to the phone as excited mothers hurriedly rushed to call each other, causing phones to ring busy at each house. Their fathers, having seen similar phone exchanges take place over the years, stepped out onto their respective front porches and greeted each other with a reassuring nod and proud wave.
Stephen had first been concerned about the tight bond Jonesey and Ambrose shared. But in time, it became apparent that they embraced the other squad members as part of their inner circle. Ironically, the only fist fight Stephen ever had to break up within the squad was between these two best friends. To which they responded, “Sarge, what’s up? We’re just working things out.” It was a head-scratching moment for Stephen, but instinct told him to trust the years behind their relationship. He later had to suggest to his platoon leader that the two black eyes within their ranks should be ignored, unless the lieutenant had the patience for Stephen to access his severely underdeveloped creative mind in order to make up a story which would fit the scenario. Graciously, the lieutenant complied.
Private First Class Michael Hilton caught his glance from the peripheral and locked eyes with Stephen. Hilton’s lips pursed into his chiseled locked jaw. He gave Stephen a single head nod delivered on a platter of refined, steel nerves. His eyes declared, “Ready to go, Sergeant.” Stephen read Hilton’s silent affirmation loud and clear, drawing his own strength from it before responding with his own slower nod of affirmation. Standing over six feet tall, with a chest that was easily mistaken for body armor and biceps that declared his masculinity from a mile away, Hilton was a midnight version of Italian romance novel poster boy, Fabio Lanzoni; minus the wavy golden locks of hair. Stephen knew the gentle giant well enough to understand that the muscle-head impression was little more than disciplined habit formed under a father who passed along genes of solid granite and a passion for body building. Despite the man’s brawn and impressive physique, the men of his platoon knew that Hilton would bring an entire military convoy to a complete halt if he spotted an injured dog on the side of the road.
Hilton could easily be one of the most intimidating men in the company if it weren’t for his very public passion for poetry. He was never disrespected; the sheer girth of the man did well to solidify his status among peers. But bench pressing 400lbs and then quoting romanticism by the English poet, William Blake, had a way of throwing people for a curve. Stephen reasoned that Hilton liked to keep people guessing and promoted his persona as a living paradox. Like the time he had let Hilton plan the music for the family bar-b-que being sponsored by the platoon. Most people had no idea who Il Volo was, much less what the Italian operatic trio was singing about. Stephen laughed so hard he had actually brought tears to his eyes while watching anyone who built up enough courage to proactively request a change of music only needed to take one look at the strained seams of Hilton’s shirt before promptly becoming an appreciator, if not an unwilling fan. But the look in Hilton’s eyes now gave Stephen a boost in confidence. He knew Hilton’s muscles would be well used in their contribution to the war in Iraq they were departing for. The more he thought about it, the more he reasoned Hilton’s poetry could come in handy as well.
2nd Lieutenant Scott Bradley, their platoon leader, echoed out another command along with a side comment for motivating emphasis. Stephen’s response was tempered somewhat by the knowledge that after the hours of waiting and redundant safety briefings, they were about to load onto a C-130 cargo plane and then wait again while flight checklists and equipment validations were conducted. Nevertheless, young and full of fire men were motivated by the idea of “flying over there and kicking their ass”, as the lieutenant so graciously phrased it. Loudest among the voices in his squad was Corporal Darnell Waters. Young and energetic, Waters wore a gritty shell that Stephen knew to be little more than a tough guy front put on to hide the internal panic that nearly overcame him whenever the burden of responsibility was placed on his shoulders. Stephen was patient with his over eagerness and while he knew a time to push Waters would one day come, for the moment he remained content to let the young man grow at his own pace.