In 1964, Lance Corporal Pappas married sixteen-year-old Priscilla Walls of Yemassee, South Carolina. This marriage violated several taboos in the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Walls. First, although not Negro, Lance Corporal Pappas was of “color.” In 1964 in Yemassee, South Carolina, white girls, even lower income white girls, did not marry people of color. Second, Missy Priscilla, their Baby Prissy, was underage for such things; although marriage among her peers, and her parents’ peers, had occurred as early as fifteen. Third, the young man was an enlisted marine. Although Priscilla considered this a step up in life — her peers could be most kindly referred to as “lower income rural” — her parents were of the opposite opinion. Lower income rural had been good enough for her grandfather, a share cropper, and great-grandfather, a share cropper, and it was better than a “chink jarhead.” (Mr. Walls’ knowledge of the Territory of American Samoa rivaled his knowledge of nuclear physics.)
Despite these facts, the Walls signed the obligatory papers and stood before the justice of the peace with Prissy’s sister acting as matron of honor and Lance Corporal Pappas’ gunnery sergeant as best man, because Prissy had missed two periods and appeared to be in a family way.
It was now November 5, 2001 ad and retired Master Gunnery Sergeant Earnest Pappas sipped hot, black Kona coffee in his own kitchen and appeared to contemplate his Saturday San Diego Times. Intermittently he would blow his cheeks out and puff the resultant air with a gentle motoring sound.
Mrs. Earnest Pappas was clearing the breakfast dishes and from thirty-seven years experience correctly judged his mood as black. She even knew the reasons for his mood.
The reasons were twofold. Despite the fact that he had given them three good-looking grandchildren, all college graduates, had never raised a hand to their daughter, had been faithful to her and had attained for her a standard of living the envy of her siblings, he was still intensely disliked by his in-laws. The fact was unstated but obvious that the feelings were mutual. He therefore regarded her parents’ upcoming visit both with annoyance and the resignation he applied to all situations that were unavoidable. Change the things you can, don’t worry about the things you can’t. Which brought him to the other thing he couldn’t change. Age.
For thirty years Earnest Pappas had trained for a defining moment: the defense of the United States. But the war bearing down on his country would be borne upon the backs of the young men, the hale. He was just a broken down war-horse, too old to be of any use.
His, he thought, carefully concealed dank mood was shattered by his wife handing him a mailgram. It had his name and social security number in the address window and the return address of a well-known Department of Defense bureau located in St. Louis, Missouri. With a feeling of utter disbelief, under the shuttered eyes of his wife he carefully wiped off a knife, most recently used to section a grapefruit, and applied it to the envelope. Within was a multifolded document which read:
Dear Sir:
Pursuant to Presidential Directive 19-00, you are ordered to report to Camp Pendleton, CA Marine Base, no later than 2400 Hours, 20 November, 2001, for duty. Failure to report will be prosecuted under Section 15 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice: Failure to report for hazardous duty. All requests for waivers on the basis of age, civilian position, health or compassion shall be considered after reporting.
Public transportation may be compensated using the attached vouchers. These are good for air, train, bus or taxi, but may not be used to reimburse travel by personal vehicle.
Do not bring: personally operated vehicles, personal weapons, radios with attached speakers, large musical instruments or ANY communication devices to include cellular phones or pagers.
Do bring: 1 (One) week’s civilian clothing, uniforms, toiletry items, small entertainment devices, radios or music players with headphones, small musical instruments and/or reading material.
He first checked to see that it was indeed addressed to him and referred to his social security number. Then he carefully reread it as he scratched his head with the butt of the knife, a habit which drove his wife to distraction.
He blew a small quantity of dandruff off the letter, looked up at his wife and stated the obvious: “I’m fifty-seven years old!” Then he thought, re-reading the letter, Damn, I’m still going to be here when those white trash assholes visit!
12
Ft. Bragg, NC Sol III
0907 December 15th, 2001 ad
The barracks 2nd Battalion 325th Airborne Infantry Regiment occupied were temporary buildings from World War II. They were wooden fire traps and the double-decker bunks were relics of an earlier day as well, but they continued to adequately serve the purpose of temporary shelter for units preparing to embark from Pope Air Force Base. Well over the age of the senior member of Congress, until some local official pushed through a bill to replace them they would have to do.
The 325th was preparing to embark for Diess, a planet that until the previous week no one in the regiment had ever heard of. The powers that be had decided that until their departure they should be “locked down,” placed incommunicado, and thus they lingered here in “C-LOC,” an acronym that none of them could decipher.
Those with loved ones were completely cut off from communication, for no reason anyone could determine. The barracks were damp, cold and uncomfortable and they had no opportunity to train, since their equipment, including their suits, had been palletized for ease of loading. The food was miserable, tray rations morning and night with MREs for lunch. The skies had been cold, gray and sodden with rain since they left their battalion area. They faced an unknown enemy, reputed to be unstoppable, on a distant planet. And in the case of Bravo Company, Third Platoon, Second Squad, with a squad leader sunk in black depression.
Sergeant Duncan pushed the door open and slumped into the nearest bunk. His troops, grouped at their end of the barracks, looked up from a variety of tasks, some make-work, mostly recreational. There was an endless spades game between four of the squad. Two more of the squad were playing handheld computer games, one was reading and the rest were either sleeping or cleaning equipment. They waited a moment to see if Duncan was going to pass on any information, then all of them went back to the serious business of ignoring their current existence.
Duncan stared at his boots for a moment and then straightened. “The shuttles are landing this afternoon,” he said and yawned, “but we’re not loading yet.”
“Why?” asked one of the card players.
“Who the fuck knows,” said Duncan, tonelessly. “Probably for the same reason we’re in this fuckin’ icebox with our thumbs up our ass.”
“It’s like somebody wants us to fuck up!” snarled Specialist Arlo Schrenker and hurled his book across the room.
“Wadda ya mean?” said Private Second Class Roy Bittan, trumping with a four.
“Cheep, cheep, cheep,” chirped Specialist Dave Sanborn, the Bravo team leader, scooping in the trick. “He means that if we don’t get some fuckin’ practice with those suits we’re gonna be fucked.”
“F-U-C… K-E-D… A-G-A-I-N!” sang Sergeant Michael Brecker, the Alpha Team leader, covering Bittan’s queen with an ace on the next trick. “We might have done something with the equipment we’re trained with, cherry, but we’re gonna get corncobbed by the fuckin’ Posleen ’cause we don’ know shit about how to use those fuckin’ suits.”