opinion in the battalion, Jake knew his men weren’t mindless animals. Some of them had done bad things to end up in the Kodiak platoon, but they were still human beings. And Parsons, a notorious and willfully insubordinate soldier, and not remotely gay, had formed an unlikely and close friendship with Peter Harris, a homosexual.
Harris’s Army career was doomed and he’d been called every slur possible after the Sergeant Major had found out his “condition,” but he had jumped at the chance to serve in the Kodiak platoon. Over time, Harris earned the respect of the platoon. He’d earned it by showing everyone that he could outdo them at any task. For those who still doubted him, Harris used his fists to prove that he could take on all comers. Even Sergeant Olsen gave him a wide berth and wouldn’t dare say anything disparaging to his face.
But of all the soldiers in the Kodiak platoon, Doc Ramirez hurt the most. He’d seen some awful things in his life but the look of Harris’s lifeless eyes trumped them all. Any remaining vestige of Doc’s innocence disappeared that night.
A troubled sleep, followed by nightmares.
“Dude, wake up.” A southern voice filled Jake’s ears. His cot shuddered violently.
Jake didn’t open his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He was still so tired.
“Man, come on. Wake up!” the voice said again. Jake’s cot shook again.
“All right. All right. I’m up. Stop kicking my bed,” Jake groaned.
At the foot of his cot stood Captain Wesley Parker, the battalion personnel officer. Wesley was frowning, but that didn’t mean anything because Wes always frowned when he had to do work.
“Wes, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Jake asked, yawning. He looked at his watch; it was 9:15. He’d been asleep for less than two hours.
“You and the platoon are scheduled to fly to Bagram on a flight leaving at 1800 hours today.”
“Today?” Jake asked, “We were slated to fly out of here like next week.”
“Yeah, that was before you guys got all those medals,” Wes said. “The division commander doesn’t have time to come down to Salerno to award them, so he’s having you flown to him.”
“Well isn’t that sweet of him,” Jake replied.
“Oh, you haven’t even heard the good part yet,” Wes said, taking a seat on a nearby cot.
There was a five-second pause. Wes was waiting for Jake to ask him about the “good part.”
“Okay, I’ll bite, what’s the good part?” Jake asked, feeling around for his flip-flops.
“Central Command got a copy of the UAV feed and Apache gun camera footage with the radio audio and the bosses up there upgraded your award to a Silver Star for Valor,” Wes said, as he handed Jake two folded pieces of paper.
Jake unfolded them; the top one was a scanned, signed copy of a DD Form 638 Awards Recommendation Form. Under the recommended award, it said, sure enough, “Silver Star.” Flipping to the second page, Jake noted that the award had already been through the final approval authority, General Dan Richards, Commander of all NATO forces in Afghanistan.
In the comments section, under the general’s signature, there was a handwritten notation from the man himself:
“A skilled officer and combat leader. He is a lethal battlefield asset and an inspiration to other young leaders.”
Jake let out a long whistle. He had never read sweeter lies.
“Pretty fucking awesome, right?” Wes said.
“To put it mildly,” Jake replied, still staring at the general’s signature.
“Here’s the deal,” Wes said, getting back up. “You fly to Bagram at 1800 today, go see the battalion liaison NCO there and he’ll get you and the boys a place to stay. The award ceremony won’t be until 1600 tomorrow, but they want you there at least two hours ahead of that so you can do a rehearsal at division headquarters. The distinguished guests will arrive and pin you and the boys. Once you’re done, the platoon is being bumped up to the first
Harris’s Army career was doomed and he’d been called every slur possible after the Sergeant Major had found out his “condition,” but he had jumped at the chance to serve in the Kodiak platoon. Over time, Harris earned the respect of the platoon. He’d earned it by showing everyone that he could outdo them at any task. For those who still doubted him, Harris used his fists to prove that he could take on all comers. Even Sergeant Olsen gave him a wide berth and wouldn’t dare say anything disparaging to his face.
But of all the soldiers in the Kodiak platoon, Doc Ramirez hurt the most. He’d seen some awful things in his life but the look of Harris’s lifeless eyes trumped them all. Any remaining vestige of Doc’s innocence disappeared that night.
A troubled sleep, followed by nightmares.
“Dude, wake up.” A southern voice filled Jake’s ears. His cot shuddered violently.
Jake didn’t open his eyes, pretending to be asleep. He was still so tired.
“Man, come on. Wake up!” the voice said again. Jake’s cot shook again.
“All right. All right. I’m up. Stop kicking my bed,” Jake groaned.
At the foot of his cot stood Captain Wesley Parker, the battalion personnel officer. Wesley was frowning, but that didn’t mean anything because Wes always frowned when he had to do work.
“Wes, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Jake asked, yawning. He looked at his watch; it was 9:15. He’d been asleep for less than two hours.
“You and the platoon are scheduled to fly to Bagram on a flight leaving at 1800 hours today.”
“Today?” Jake asked, “We were slated to fly out of here like next week.”
“Yeah, that was before you guys got all those medals,” Wes said. “The division commander doesn’t have time to come down to Salerno to award them, so he’s having you flown to him.”
“Well isn’t that sweet of him,” Jake replied.
“Oh, you haven’t even heard the good part yet,” Wes said, taking a seat on a nearby cot.
There was a five-second pause. Wes was waiting for Jake to ask him about the “good part.”
“Okay, I’ll bite, what’s the good part?” Jake asked, feeling around for his flip-flops.
“Central Command got a copy of the UAV feed and Apache gun camera footage with the radio audio and the bosses up there upgraded your award to a Silver Star for Valor,” Wes said, as he handed Jake two folded pieces of paper.
Jake unfolded them; the top one was a scanned, signed copy of a DD Form 638 Awards Recommendation Form. Under the recommended award, it said, sure enough, “Silver Star.” Flipping to the second page, Jake noted that the award had already been through the final approval authority, General Dan Richards, Commander of all NATO forces in Afghanistan.
In the comments section, under the general’s signature, there was a handwritten notation from the man himself:
“A skilled officer and combat leader. He is a lethal battlefield asset and an inspiration to other young leaders.”
Jake let out a long whistle. He had never read sweeter lies.
“Pretty fucking awesome, right?” Wes said.
“To put it mildly,” Jake replied, still staring at the general’s signature.
“Here’s the deal,” Wes said, getting back up. “You fly to Bagram at 1800 today, go see the battalion liaison NCO there and he’ll get you and the boys a place to stay. The award ceremony won’t be until 1600 tomorrow, but they want you there at least two hours ahead of that so you can do a rehearsal at division headquarters. The distinguished guests will arrive and pin you and the boys. Once you’re done, the platoon is being bumped up to the first
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