Rain drops peppered Jinny’s polyvinyl, careened into the gutter, drowned, and evoked uninvited memories: troubled waters; a lost friend; the black money bag. It’s been a year. Why is all this coming back to haunt me now? Why did Curly’s dad want me dead? He said half the loot was his. If so, then who was he in cahoots with? Who ordered me killed? Not Ozzie, he’s in jail. Not Wheezer, he’s dead. Oh my—not the FBI: Not Bella and Mag, I hope. But why did they haul Mr. Corker away in a Southern Star Gas truck? Dear Lord, please, please separate me from this grief so I can serve my country. Please. Enough.
Docked curbside with another uniformed soldier, Jinny teetered on the block awaiting the starter’s gun to sound so she could dive in and swim across the street. “Isn’t this storm something? Just look at the river. It’s almost flooding over the curb. If we stand here much longer we’ll need a ferry.” The stranger winced and grunted as if he’d pinched a nerve in his neck but said nothing. WALK. He leaned from the curb and lifted a soggy shoe. “WAIT.” Jinny stiffened, planted her feet, grabbed his arm, and violently jerked the G.I. back from the brink. The driver of a light-colored panel truck had ignored the light, plunged by Jinny into the intersection, spewed water five feet into the air, and then floored it and fishtailed on down the road.
“Wo there.”
“Oh, my gosh. A . . . Why did you . . .?”
“Come to think of it, I don’t really know. But you just took a bath, Mister.”
“Water, I can drink.” He spat. “But a speeding car? You know you just saved my life, don’t you?” Without waiting for a reply, the soldier abruptly teased his coat over his head, looked both ways, stepped from the curb, and hastily water-skied across the street.
WAIT. Jinny sponged rain from her brow, then blinked water from her eyes and stared at the large highway sign stretched overhead. Dozens of white reflective dots pimpled from a green skin where they had collected, pussed, and now wailed like seductive sirens ready to burst: Abilene 506 miles. Fall back. Go home. Instantly, another silent voice countered: Jinny gal, stay the course, darlin’. Now’s the time to press forward, not fall back. In the twinkling of an eye the present will merge with the past. Look to today. Retain hope for a bright future. Be prayerful. I’ve got your back. Everything will work out. Only then did Jinny realize who it was that had prompted her to intervene in behalf of another soldier.
She idled until the light segued to WALK, and then, emboldened by a thankful heart, spilled from the curb and poured her soul into a song: “Doodle-oo-do-doddle-doodle-oo-do. I’m sing-ing in the rain, just sing-ing in the rain. What a won-der-ful feeling I’m fee-ling again.” (Arthur Freed and Nacio Herb Brown). She sang the measured melody in a key that unlocked her confidence and warmed her heart. No one watched from plush seats, no one clapped as Jinny, twirling her parasol, danced from puddle to puddle, exited stage right and climbed the tilted sidewalk toward the pearly gates—no, the guarded gates. A large canon glistened in the dark—poised and ready to fire point-blank at a lighted, lettered brick wall:
Fort Sill Oklahoma: Home of the Field Artillery – –
Best Fort in the Army– – Bentley Gate.
Jinny marched by, eyes right, and picked up the pace. “Hey General Howitzer, some nose job. But aren’t you aiming in the wrong direction?” she chuckled. “I’m not!” She looked ahead and up, and then she saw it. “OH MY.” Within ten steps of the guard station she abruptly stopped on the walkway and came to attention—oblivious of the guard, the rain, the traffic noise, and the people hurrying by.
Rain purged her forehead as she tipped back her head to behold Old Glory, flooded in light, soaked but unfettered. Jinny’s duffel bag dropped; she straightened; a brisk salute touched a templed forehead; she blubbered aloud the oath of enlistment taken at the Military Entrance Processing Station in Abilene: “I, Virginia O’Dwyer, do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.” TWO.
Up ahead a Military Policeman—clad in a yellow rain-slicker, his cap covered by a clear bonnet—sheltered in a small, lighted booth centered on an island between egress and ingress traffic. Shielded from the downpour, he peered through the windshield of his lighted cabin and looked like a tuna fisherman standing at the helm, steering into the waves, straining to see the lighted house on Rocky Point. As cars approached, the attentive MP stepped out of the wheelhouse, braved the torrent, looked for a window sticker, then saluted and waved the driver through—or he raised an open hand like the crossing guard at Mc Kinley Elementary back in Abilene. STOP.
The sentry saw Jinny coming up the sidewalk; his arm stiffened mechanically and he pointed toward a small, stuccoed building at her twelve o’clock. She picked up the pace, bounced forward like a gazelle fleeing a poacher, and hydroplaned to a walk-up window, shut to keep out the rain and wind. Jinny tapped on the glass three times with her high school ring.
The soldier seated inside slid open the window without looking up from his computer. He tapped the counter, and drawled, “Orders.” Jinny resisted the temptation to reply, “A Big Mack and fries to go, please.” Instead, she reached into a protected pocket, retrieved, and dropped a manila envelope in his hand. His uniform clasped three chevrons. You are Sergeant Tagg. His austere grey eyes glanced at the orders but evaded both Jinny’s gaze her increasing anticipation. The window closed. Jinny watched as her photo and OMPF appeared on the computer monitor. The sergeant fixated on the photo, lubricated his lips with his tongue, and, trying not to appear over curious, slid open the window and beheld Jinny’s fair countenance.
“Oh, yes.” His eyebrows danced, his features softened, and he almost smiled. “Getting wet out there?”
Jinny nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He kept staring. “You don’t ‘sir’ a sergeant, Private O’Dwyer. Do you have your orders?”
“Yes, sir, I mean Sergeant.”
“May I see them?”
“They are next to your pinkie.”
He un-goggled his eyes from Jinny’s face and looked at his desk. “Oh, right, right . . . son of a gun. So, you’re from Kansas.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Jinny glanced at the idling shuttle parked in the red zone fifty yards up the slippery slope.
Sergeant Tagg drummed his keyboard, looked up and again tasted Jinny’s chocolate browns, but his instructions sounded pre-recorded and almost melancholy. “All basic combat training soldiers must process into the 95th Adjutant General Battalion.” He brightened some more. “If you hurry, you’ll catch the tail end of that shuttle.” He pointed and Jinny turned to run. “Hold on, I’m not finished. At the Central Issue Point you’ll receive your uniforms, fill out vital forms, and . . . now you may proceed. Welcome to the Army and have a nice day.” As Jinny sprinted away, the sergeant stood, stuck his head through the window and yelled, “I see by your file number you’re doomed to train in Bravo Company, beginning next Monday.” Sitting down, he mumbled, “I want a transfer.”
Jinny wedged into the last seat on the last bench of the last link of the tram. She jerked the duffel up on her lap and puzzled over what Sergeant Tagg had yelled, but she didn’t look back. Next to her sat a gangly young recruit, protected by a contractor-size trash bag holed out at the top so his head could poke through. The cheap straight-jacket held his hug in place, but he coughed spasmodically and sounded like a sputtering, out of time, pickup truck’s engine–in need of a tune-up. He had no cowlick; he wasn’t blonde; his wet red hair was matted down; his freckles hadn’t washed off, but he was soaked to the skin and shaking as if he had Parkinson’s. Jinny groped in her blouse pocket until she retrieved three or four cough drops. “Here you go, soldier.” She dumped them in his pale, cupped hand. “If they help control your cough, I’ve got more in my duffel.”
The runny-nosed soldier wiggled as if he wished to be liberated from either the bag or the seat. “What do I owe you?” His contagious question masked neither levity nor temerity. He stole a first glance at Jinny and gulped. Jinny affected a lot of men that way. “Just kidding, but thank you, Miss.”
The third recruit on the bench faked a cough. His most prominent feature was a pug nose. His hair had been clipped tight, and he wore a sleeveless muscle shirt, jeans, tennis shoes and hogged half the bench. He needed a bath and a shave; his biceps resembled pool balls sawn in half. Partially hidden in the clumped fur on his chest was the tattooed the emblem of the NRA, and he was swallowing the last bite of what appeared to be a banana peel. After swallowing like a python he said, “What are you lookin’ at, girly?” He wiped his face with the back of his hand, reached toward Jinny, and demanded, “Let me see one of them suckers.”
“Dare all in my mouth,” replied the congested middle-man, fearing the big dude was speaking to him. Jinny retrieved a lozenge from her pocket, dropped it in the burly hand and watched him examine, sniff, and then toss it over his shoulder onto the pavement. A smug smile drew back the curtains on his large, yellow teeth. Saying no more, he stared ahead as the aging tractor jerked forward, reared up on its hind wheels, overcame inertia, and crawled like an arthritic centipede towing three thousand pounds of American treasure—and one turd.
A red bell high on an exterior wall clanged, you’re late. Fifty thousand raindrops later, brakes squealed, and forty necks whip-lashed. Ducking quickly from beneath three puddled canopies, anxious recruits hurried to the Central Initial Issue Point—a huge hanger that smelled—at least to Jinny—like a musty barn in Kansas. Pounding rain mixed with Coca-Puff sized hail body-slammed the corrugated sheet-metal roof and sounded like thousands of ball-bearings being dumped at the same time—or fifty-caliber machine gun fire. Jinny dropped onto a cold, dinged folding chair, back row middle, and leaned into the USARMY silk-screened on its back. She snugged the duffel close to her feet and tried to ignore the intimidating barrage pounding overhead. Silence below. Pandemonium above. Jinny droned, “Here at last. Finally, I can relax.” Wrong.
A dour staff sergeant stood at a podium, cupped the microphone with his hands, and administered mouth to mouth. “Atten-hut.” The mic was unresponsive. No one heard the command.
“Just give me a minute, Sergeant,” pled a young technician dressed in dungarees and wearing a bright yellow Geek Squad tee-shirt. He continued crouching before the amplifier, feverishly flipping switches, fiddling with connections, and worrying at glass-covered needle readouts like a candy-striper trying to save a patient on life-support by remote control.
From behind Jinny, an honor guard of four proactive cloggers took the law into their own hands and marched forward counting aloud, “1-2-1-2-1 . . .” to post colors. When the red and white of the flag kissed Jinny’s cheek she sprang to attention, jump-starting the rank and file. Feet flattened, backs straightened, and chins jutted as wave after wave arose like fans all wanting to see the baseball go over the fence. Everyone in the hangar saluted, and some, including Jinny, remembered the charred pole in centerfield and a tattered flag retired.
It became apparent to all that a kaput sound system was going to be a problem. The alpha-male sergeant couldn’t here himself think. He opened his mouth and screamed, “REPEAT AFTER ME-hee-hee-hee.” He wasn’t laughing; he had dislocated his jaw while bawling the command. His salutary salute dropped six inches, he grabbed his face, and pitched over like he was suffering from the bends—or having contractions.
Without him holding the reins, a roomful of recruits harnessed and trotted out twenty phrases as if they’d been one voice singing in the darkness, and they concluded with, “. . . indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.” One indescribable emotion—even during a thunderstorm.
Heard only by the sergeant, his technician muttered, “We’re go to ready. Uh, we’re live, sir. No, no, wait!” Too late. The sergeant’s stressful hyperbole hissed through the microphone, raced through the cord, amplified fifty times, and reverberated in a hundred directions. It even upstaged the thunder, and every anguished soldier within two hundred feet stopped his ears too late:
“IT’S TIME TO GET YOUR PICTURE TAKEN-TAKEN-TAKEN-TAKEN; AND NO, YOU CAN’T POWDER YOUR FACE-FACE-FACE-FACE. ROW TWENTY-FIVE ON MY SIGNAL PREPARE TO FALL OUT OUT-OUT.” The panting, hound-dog-faced tech had fallen to the floor, stopped wagging his tail, covered his ears, and submissively rolled over on his back, unable to figure out how to muzzle the harmonics.
Staff Sergeant Bellingham stepped back from the microphone, squared his jaw, executed a crisp left-face, and, like a mechanical railroad crossing arm, gestured toward the middle aisle. “This here’s the gauntlet. It runs from where that female soldier is standing tall at row twenty-five to where I’m temporarily deployed. The fire department calls this a no-parking zone. That’s why it’s painted red. Some of you already dropped gear on the gauntlet, so pick it up. Here’s the drill. Follow instructions.” He swiveled ninety-degrees and faced the assembly head-on. “Everybody on my right flank raise your left hand. No, soldier, your other left hand. There you go. Now prepare to exit your rows to the left, starting from row twenty-five. Got it? What the h _ _ _ are you doing, son?”
A skinny soldier had excused himself five times for stepping on toes while he sidled his way to the gauntlet where he pulled up, brushed himself off, faced forward, and timidly raised his hand. The sergeant boomed, “You just set off my silent alarm, newbie. Why weren’t you paying attention? Atten-SHUN. I haven’t finished giving directions, son, but since you aren’t potty trained, what do you want?” Thunder clapped; Jinny bristled; lighting lashed out. ENCORE.
“Soldier, I can’t hear you?” Nor could anyone else. “What is it? Speak up.”
Knowing he couldn’t out-holler the storm—the one outside or quell the one brewing in his gut—the sorry recruit reluctantly shuffled forward. He stopped, saluted from atop his eyebrow, cupped his hands around his mouth, and whispered something. The Sergeant didn’t whisper. He didn’t know how.
“‘RIGHT FRANK??’ NO, hot-dog, I didn’t say ‘right frank.’ Anyway, you turned left.” Raucous laughter gagged up like it had been choked to death when the sergeant slapped the microphone. Jinny didn’t have to seize up. She felt sorry for the soldier. Even the rain seemed to observe a moment of silence by stopping mid-flight, but not Bellingham. “YOU. Get up here. Cower at attention right there and remain mute as a mosquito until every soldier in this bleepity-bleep-bleep hanger has been processed, grown old, died, and gone to wherever they got reservations. Everybody else line-up single file in front of the cameras. Pose like you are glad to be in the armed forces of the United States of America. We’ll take two shots—one across your bow; the second—a head-on. Fall out.”
Jinny stood tall and tried to mask her dis-ease as the camera focused andclick, clicked. She ruminated on the fleeting impression left by the sound, Click-click. Misfire-misfire.It was disconcerting and not the last time she’d hear the metallic rejoinder. Not by a long shot.
TEXT MESSAGE. 28 Dec.
Mama! Arrived safely. I meant to check in with you before I went to bed but fell asleep LOL! Good morning! Today I may be interviewed by the FBI… like on a TV! Sorry for the shock but wanted you to hear it from me before you read it in the newspaper. Was accosted by a drunk on the bus during a stop in Wichita. Luckily 2 female FBI agents came to rescue. They were annoying, but I’m grateful now. I’m fine.! Don’t worry about me. Can’t say more until the FBI investigation is complete. Sorry! Anyways, I’m good, everything is fine. I graduate from BC in 9 weeks… thank goodness! Can you come?
Love you! 💟
Oh, and what was that about Uncle Albert’s “situation”???
One more thing-what is Conner’s APO? I haven’t heard from him… have you?
We’ll talk later. Not sure when they’ll restrict phone service at FS, but soon.
Love you! XO 💋