Published: 26 Aug 2019
Part V: Afghanistan
The video is as polished as any Hollywood production. In fact, it is a Hollywood production. Had there been opening credits, they would have included the name of the largest, surviving, American-owned production company. Tax advantages, cheap labor, and less regulation had led all the others to relocate to Canada or India.
There are, however, no opening credits. The video begins with a scene of battle: young, bronzed Caucasian soldiers in golden armor and red chitons – the characteristic Spartan tunic that drops to the knees, and is belted at the waist. They fight an overwhelming force of men in black armor, men whose bearded visages and swarthy skin are the stereotypic face of America’s enemies. In letters of fire, the word, ‘Thermopylae’ appear on the screen. A narrator speaks. “Thermopylae, where 480 years before the Common Era, a force of 300 soldiers held a pass against an enemy force more than 20 times their number, enabling the forces of democracy to assemble…”
The letters and the narrator’s voice fade. The camera dollies in and focuses on a place where a score of the golden-armored soldiers anchor the Greek line against a rock wall. The soldiers fight in pairs: older boys, perhaps 18 or 20 years old, hold swords. Behind them, younger boys wield spears which they thrust between the soldiers in the front line. The combination is effective. The ground in front of the Greek soldiers holds the bodies of swarthy men over which the enemy has to step in order to attack. The narrator’s voice resumes. “Among the Hoplites, the soldiers fighting here in defense of their homeland are those who pledged to one another. Pairs of young men and boys who swore not only to defend democracy but also to defend one another. In recognition of this pledge and of the bonds these soldiers formed, they were always assigned together. They trained together, ate together, and slept together. They were homosexual.”
‘They weren’t defending democracy,’ Arthur thought. ‘They were mostly Spartans, and Sparta was essentially, a military dictatorship. And there weren’t 300; there were more than 1500. They were outnumbered, but more like 5-to-1 rather than 20-to-1. That’s not taught in our schools and probably fewer than one in a hundred of today’s soldiers know the truth, and those will be too uncertain – or too afraid – to say anything. Just like I am.’
The scene dissolves to one in which soldiers, some in armor and some in loincloths, spar in a sandy arena. The camera pans across the arena and then sweeps through a sally port to rest at the bank of a river where more soldiers swim, lie on the bank, and engage in wrestling. While it is apparent they were all naked, the scene isn’t prurient: soft focus and careful camera angles see to that.
The narration resumes. “These soldiers were no different from their fellows except in their sexual orientation. They lived and served as did their mates. They earned honor for bravery and censure for cowardice. They were rewarded for service, and punished for disobedience. Wounded, they bled. Many died.”
The scene changes once more to reveal an office in the Pentagon Tower overlooking the monuments of the District of Columbia. A figure walks into the office and stands beside the window, looking out for a moment. Arthur and others in the audience gasp. Colonel Mark Warner is the most decorated soldier in the history of the Army, and is a well-known spokesman. His first medal of honor was awarded after he risked his life to save a platoon of soldiers pinned down by Mujahedeen fire. He was a first lieutenant, then. Two silver stars later, as a major, he led a unit of rangers deep into occupied territory to rescue a school full of children, and, wounded, had stayed behind to cover their escape. He’d lost both legs, then, but had been rescued by his own men who had defied orders and gone back for him.
The soldier turns and looks into the camera. “Hello, soldiers,” he says. “I’m honored to be here today to speak to you on behalf of the United States Armed Forces and on behalf of the President and the people of the United States of America. I’m also honored knowing that you are here to listen. No matter who you are, from senior officer to new recruit, from veteran NCO to 14-year-old private, you have many demands on your time. That’s why the movie you just saw was short, and why what I have to say will be short and simple.
“For many years, the American Armed Forces have recognized marriage between male and female soldiers, and has accorded these soldiers certain rights and privileges. Because the military is not subject to state laws, and because all our installations are federal property, we did not have to recognize same sex marriages conducted in states where it is legal. That changes as of 0001 hours, 30 May, 2023.”
‘That’s today!’ Arthur thinks.
“On that day, every soldier in every service, worldwide will see this video. This is a long-delayed first step in implementing the equal protection clause of the constitution. If gay, lesbian, and transexual soldiers are going to fight to defend the constitution, you should be – and you will be – afforded the protection of the constitution. You know that doesn’t apply to certain rights … like the right to preach sedition. If you feel that way, we don’t want you, anyway.
“There are some things you must know. First, our modern Hoplites will have the same rights and privileges as any married couple, including consideration for join-spouse assignments. These rules will be valid on any military installation or any place where the American military is in control.
“Despite myth and tradition from Greece, the Hoplites will not be members of a separate unit but, like persons of different sex, race, religion, national origin, and other aspects that differentiate us without depriving us of our fundamental similarities as human beings and as defenders of the United States of America, will be integrated into all units.
“Iowa, a state in which same-sex marriage is legal, will grant citizenship and voting rights to any soldier age 14 and above, and has made it easy for military personnel to declare citizenship in that state. They have also made it easy to apply for a marriage license by mail, a license that can be executed by any officer authorized to administer oaths, on any military installation in the world. Several of the New England states are considering similar measures.
“With rights and privileges come responsibilities. This is not a casual affair. Following your marriage, you will be required to prepare mutually-binding legal documents including durable powers of attorney, healthcare powers of attorney, wills, and documents dealing with ownership and division of property. If you have or are responsible for children, you must make provisions for them during joint deployment. There will be other requirements.
“The greatest requirement falls on every soldier. It is this: bias, bigotry, hatred, disrespect … none of these will be tolerated. Your enemy is not your mate, regardless of sexual orientation. Your enemy is out there.”
The picture fades to a map of Eurasia with the current war zones shown in red. Colonel Warner’s voice continues. “I’m counting on you, soldiers.”
“We knew this would happen,” Arthur says. He and Kevin lie on Kevin’s bed. The general and his lady are at a dinner-dance at the Officers’ Club. They’d gone early, to General Martin’s home, for cocktails. Arthur breaks the news to Kevin: Arthur will be leaving for Afghanistan in less than two weeks. “Lieutenant Soto will take over the recruiting program. You know that Ricky and Jon have been transferred to my outfit, so there will be two new soldiers, as well.”
“I don’t want to do recruiting. I want to go with you…” Kevin says.
Arthur hugs the boy tightly. “Kevin, I don’t want to leave you, but I must. You can’t go with me. You mustn’t go with me. You’ve got to finish high school and get your commission. And the recruiting program … you’re the chemistry and the continuity. Soto won’t know half of what he needs to know, and whoever they pick for soldiers … they’ll need your help…”
“But I’m just a cadet…” the boy objects.
“A cadet who is a Reservist and who has a Purple Heart,” Arthur reminds him. “Look, I’ll set up the first meeting with Soto and the new soldiers. You wear dress uniform, not cammies, and wear the purple heart. They’ll see it … they’ll want to know … and they’ll understand.”
Arthur calls Corporal Santos and Private Casey into the office he shares with four other Captains.
He hangs a canteen cup on the doorknob: the signal that he needs privacy. Rather than sit behind his desk, he pulls three straight-backed chairs into a circle, and gestures for the two boys to sit.
“Corporal Santos, Private Casey, we haven’t much time, so I’ll come straight to the point. In six weeks, the First Company of the Future Corps will deploy to Afghanistan. That information is classified until the official announcement. I want you two to go with us. I need two assistant platoon leaders I can count on. I know you guys. I know what you’re capable of. I know that I can count on you.
“You won’t get any special privileges because of our relationship, because we’ve worked together on the recruiting mission. In fact, you’ll probably face greater danger than others because I know I can trust and depend on you.
“Please, take a day to think about this, and let me know by 1200 hours tomorrow. Any questions?”
Santos looks at Casey. He sees something in the boy’s eyes. “Sir, yes sir,” Santos says. “Do we have to wait until tomorrow, ’cause we’re ready to say yes, now.”
Arthur stands. The two soldiers quickly follow. Arthur holds out his hand. “Thank you, Master Sergeant Santos; thank you, Sergeant Casey,” he says. He takes a folder from his desk and pulls out two sheets of paper. “Promotion and transfer orders. Your current unit will hold a promotion ceremony this afternoon. I want you to report only after you’ve sewn on your new stripes. Do you know why?”
“Sir, it will give the soldiers more confidence in us.”
“And, you more confidence in yourselves,” Arthur concludes. He pauses for a moment. “Guys? I never doubted you, but thank you, anyway.”
Arthur has tickets to the park, but he doesn’t feel like riding the roller coaster. Not only has Kevin not arrived, but it hasn’t been that many months ago when both he and Kevin had been stricken with grief by the sight of 14- and 15-year-old boys and girls trying so very hard to have one last day of fun and freedom before being shipped to a war zone.
Today is Arthur’s turn, and the park is filled with the 14-year-olds of the baby battalion – what the media, with the Army’s encouragement, has named the Future Corps. Is this truly the future of this country? Arthur wonders. Are we raising children only to be soldiers or to work in the agri-factories that produce rations for the soldiers, and food for children who are to grow up to become soldiers? He sighs, and walks from the park to the hotel.
There is an Armed Forces Network news crew outside the park; they are interviewing a lieutenant who’d not yet had a chance to change out of uniform. Two companies of the Future Corps graduated from Infantry Training two days ago. The ceremony had been covered by AFN as well as the two cable TV news channels. The cable news channels weren’t allowed to interview any of the new soldiers. In fact, they weren’t allowed to show close-ups of their faces. Children carrying rifles, munitions, packs, grenades, canteens, arms and equipment: battle rattle that weighs nearly as much as they do. Wouldn’t do to show that on national television. The interviews, the close-ups that the civilian stations were allowed to record were staged and limited to carefully selected individuals.
Arthur finds the room he’d reserved in the hotel, and waits nervously. Kevin was due on the 1000 hours Liberty Train. That time came and passed. Arthur punches Kevin’s number into his phone: no service, network busy. More and more of that, he thinks. He opens the door and looks down the hallway. A housekeeper smiles at him. “Towels, sir?” she asks. Arthur shakes his head and goes back into the room. He stands at the open window, listening to the rumbles and shrieks of the roller coasters. Those shrieks are from my soldiers, he thinks. In the next year, they will live or die based on what I’ve taught them, and how I lead them…
His thoughts are interrupted when strong arms wrap around his waist, and he smells the musk and Aqua Velva that are uniquely Kevin.
Months later, Arthur stands behind a reinforced concrete wall, and remembers. He says, half to himself, half to the soldier who stands beside him, “The first time I took Kevin out to umpire the war games, I told him there was no substitute for eyeballs.”
The soldier shifts his weight slightly. “We miss him, too, sir. He’s a good friend.”
Arthur grunts as he releases the breath he has been holding. “Thanks, Santos. How long until dawn?”
“Ninety minutes until sunrise, sir; probably another hour before the sun clears the mountains.”
Arthur raises the night-vision binoculars and looks across the landscape. The forward observation post provides a clear view of the Panjshir Valley. It is a valley through which Arthur will lead his battalion in two days. He has topographic maps and overhead photography, but he wants to see it for himself. Little cover, he thinks. And we’re exposed to whatever might be on those mountains. If I were laying an ambush, where would I put my troops? As the sky brightens with dawn, but before the sun can strike his position, Arthur studies the valley, correlating what he sees with the maps and photos. “Okay, Santos, I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.”
That evening, Arthur meets with his platoon leaders and sergeants at supper. “Soldiers, we have little time, and planning our movement tomorrow – planning how to meet our objective with the least possible loss of life is more important than maintaining separate messes for officers and NCOs.”
He pauses. “Besides, First Sergeant tells me he forgot to pack the officers’ silver coffee service.” This brings a chuckle from several of the senior NCOs; those chuckles bring smiles to the faces of the youngsters – the 15 and 16-year-old corporals and sergeants who are responsible for the lives of boys and girls younger than they are.
“You all received the results of the recon Master Sergeant Santos and I conducted yesterday. It’s on your PDAs, and you’ve had time to study it. The route I’ve plotted is direct, but not too exposed. It is exposed in places – make no mistake about that. However, it also offers quick access to shelter. There are prizes for anyone finding a hole in the route.”
One of the junior corporals taps his screen. A red blip appears on all the others. “There’s a cave, there.” He shifts the view to a 3-D image and then rotates it. “There’s a concealed path to it. If that cave isn’t occupied now, it will be before we reach the river valley.”
“Good, Corporal Aan. When and how should we neutralize it?” Arthur asked.
“When, sir?” The corporal looks and sounds puzzled. “It’s in Tribal-governed territory, sir. Rules of Engagement … only if attacked. How? Tracked howitzer would be best, but a couple of shoulder rockets would work, too.”
“Right on both counts,” Arthur says. “Let’s see what other threats there are before deciding where to deploy the howitzer.”
The discussion and planning continue until 2100 hours, by which time Arthur has led his subordinate commanders to an understanding of the plan. “Good work, soldiers. Lights out at 2300. Reveille at 0700. We move at 0830. Thank you, all.”
Casey’s platoon is dug in, hunkered down, and under heavy fire. “Hold your fire!” he orders, and hears the order relayed down the line. “Anyone have comm?” His own PDA had intercepted a bullet. Fragments of the hard plastic case had penetrated his hip. He picks out the biggest ones, and slaps a pressure bandage over the oozing wound. Word comes back down the line: his assistant platoon leader has satphone, and he is in contact with brigade. “Tell brigade we’re pinned down by small arms fire. And tell everyone, ‘Sock Hop.’”
‘Sock Hop’ is a strategy to conserve ammunition while keeping an enemy at bay. The M1G rifles are put into single-shot mode. Soldiers are to shoot only when they have a clear target. Extra ammo clips are passed to soldiers who are sharpshooters or who have a good defensive position or a clear field of fire. Casey listens as the tempo of the battle changes. Minutes later, the Mujahedeen fire pattern changes, too.
“Brigade said to hold on, sir. They’re assessing.” That isn’t the answer Casey wants, but it is better than nothing. At least they know, he thinks.
The Mujahedeen fire increases in frequency. They’ve been reinforced, is Casey’s first thought. Then, a characteristic ‘whistle-thump’ tells him worse news. They’ve brought in a mortar! There it is. One more shot, maybe two, and they’ll have it ranged. Then, they can just walk the rounds down the ravine and kill us all.
“Martin! Fitch! ‘Rock and roll.’ We’re going to take out that mortar. Say when ready.” Casey and the two named soldiers return their M1Gs to double fire, load fresh magazines, and load five grenades in the lower launcher. Casey jacks a round into the chamber of his side arm. Traditionally an officer’s prerogative, this side arm had been a gift from his company commander when Casey had been made platoon sergeant. Ricky, Arthur, I’m sorry I don’t have a way to say goodbye, but I have a bad feeling about this… Martin and Fitch’s, “Ready, platoon leader,” tatters that thought.
“Grenades only on the mortar and only when in range. Martin, go left and up that gulley. There’s bound to be a bad guy at the end. Surprise him; don’t let him surprise you. Fitch, the gulley to the right. Same thing.” Casey outlines his plan in a few words. Both soldiers nod their understanding. “Go,” Casey says.
Martin surprises the Mujahedeen at the head of the gulley and puts a bullet in his head. A second Mujahedeen manages to shoot Martin in the left arm before a pair of bullets from Martin’s M1G send him to paradise. The two Mujahedeen on the mortar panic and are trying to lift it when five grenades, fired in a span of 0.75 seconds, blow them and the mortar into dust.
Casey comes under heavy fire. He rolls onto his stomach and lays down covering fire. Shoot at me! he demands silently. Don’t shoot at my soldiers!
Casey feels each of the five grenades explode and sees the mortar destroyed. An hour later, he feels, rather than hears, the welcome triple-beat of Cobras, and feels the vibration as their Gatling guns rake the Mujahedeen positions.
Casey hadn’t felt the sliver of PDA that penetrated his body and nicked his hepatic artery three hours earlier. Why do I smell cinnamon, he wonders, and dies. He doesn’t hear the heavy lift helicopters arrive to take away his soldiers – and his body.
“Santos, you decent?”
“Sure, come in.”
“Ten-…” Arthur waves his hand and cut off the call to attention before it could form.
“Sergeant Breen, may we have a minute?” he asks. The NCO who shares Casey’s shelter leaves the tent.
“Ricky,” Arthur says. It is the first time since deployment he has used Santos’ first name. “Ricky, Jon’s dead. I’m so sorry.”
Santos pales. His mouth opens. His eyes widen. He would have fallen had Arthur not reached him, held him, held him tightly with his arms wrapped around him. Santos buries his face in Arthur’s chest. Arthur feels the boy’s sobs shake both their bodies. “Shh … Ricky … shh…” Arthur whispers. He feels Santos stand on his own, but Arthur doesn’t release his hold on the boy.
Tentatively, and then more strongly, Santos wraps his arms around Arthur. His sobs stop. “Thank you, sir…”
“Arthur … tonight, I’m Arthur,” Arthur says.
“How did it happen, Arthur?” Santos asks.
“Come, sit on the bed,” Arthur says. “He died a hero. He led two soldiers to take out a mortar that would have totally destroyed his platoon. The three of them were the only ones who had a chance of reaching the mortar. He sent his men through protected areas and took the more dangerous center, himself. He was pinned down, and he couldn’t get back to his position. He died before the evacuation. That’s all I know, now.”
Santos listens through tears that course down his cheeks. He sniffles and sobs. When Arthur finishes speaking, Santos takes an olive drab handkerchief, blows his nose, and wipes his face. “Thank you, Arthur. Thank you for telling me, yourself….”
“Ricky, there’s no way I couldn’t do that…
“If you want, I’ll call General Eck … get you a compassionate discharge.” Santos shakes his head, firmly.
“Okay, how about time off … home leave … uh, funeral…”
Santos shakes his head, again. “Thanks, Arthur.” He smiles. “We called you Arthur, privately, since the second recruiting trip, you know. It wasn’t disrespectful … it was because we … we both love you, you and Kevin.” He pulls himself back to the present. “No leave, no funeral. After the autopsy, they’ll cremate him. That’s what we wanted. He’ll … he’ll be sent to Arlington, and there will be a space in the columbarium reserved for me next to him. That’s been taken care of.
“But thanks. Thanks for offering, thanks for caring. Uh, will you tell Kevin?”
“Of course.”
Santos stands. “Thank you, Captain.” It was as polite a way as he could think of to tell Arthur he needed, now, to be alone.
PDA MESSAGE: From Capt Andrus to Gen Eck. Cpl Jon Casey died in combat. When should I call Kevin to tell him?
PDA MESSAGE: From Gen Eck to Capt Andrus. Now. Use Control to my home number.
Arthur presses the CONTROL PRECEDENCE button and then the 17 digits of the general’s home phone number, and braces himself for what he knows will be an unpleasant conversation.
Medical Examiner Facility_____, Israel
The lights dims briefly and then brighten. The tray of the Magnetic Resonance Imagery scanner begins its slow crawl through the tunnel. On the tray, lying on his side with one leg tucked under the other, just has he had been found on the battlefield, lies the body of an eighteen-year-old boy. He is still dressed in full battle rattle; only his M1G and its ammunition have been removed. The practice of performing an MRI scan and autopsy of dead soldiers began in Gulf War II in the early 21st century. The data gathered are provided to the designers of body armor and to the designers of the UAV that is the favored transport and fighting vehicle of the infantry. Lessons learned from earlier wars made both body armor and the armor of the Urban Assault Vehicle better and saved lives. Still, soldiers died, and those who died became younger and younger.
The draft age had been lowered to 14. Despite the government’s near absolute control of the news media and despite a well-orchestrated propaganda campaign, members of the anti-war movement had managed to create enough opposition that an Executive Order lowering the draft age to 12 is put on ice. The government is prepared; an earlier Executive Order lowered the age of emancipation to 12, and military recruiters are quietly informed that no 12-year-old is to be denied enlistment, should he or she so desire.
The tray of the MRI scanner delivers its cargo to a pair of soldiers waiting with a gurney. They lift the body onto the gurney and wheel it into the next room where a team removes equipment and clothing. Personal items go into a tray to be processed by the Mortuary Affairs Office; issue items go into a bag to be sent for reprocessing. The boy’s body is lifted onto a stainless steel pan where it is sprayed with water by people wearing plastic aprons and masks. Dirt, blood, fecal matter, and other body fluids go down the drain.
The body, still wet, is rolled onto its back. “This one’s ready, sir,” one of the soldiers says. A figure dressed like the others approaches. His hand holds a scalpel; his assistant stands beside him with other instruments: a bone saw, retractors, large knives.
“I will never feel clean, again,” an autopsy tech says to his partner. He stands in the shower.
“I know,” his partner whispers. “I know.” He slides his hands over his friend’s body, carefully washing away blood and less easily identified stains they’d gotten from Casey’s body.
As registered next-of-kin, Santos receives Casey’s autopsy report. The regimental medic explains the jargon. “Casey was dead the instant the first bullet hit his PDA and the splinter nicked this artery. He just didn’t know it. When he sacrificed himself to take out the mortar he didn’t know – he couldn’t have known – that he was already dead. There was nothing that could have been done in the field. There was no way of knowing that anything needed to be done. Even if he’d been evacuated minutes after the first bullet hit, it’s unlikely that the damage would have been discovered.”
Two weeks later, Santos receives the first of the newest model of PDA. The case is made of a sturdier plastic, but one that will crumble rather than splinter if struck by a bullet. Each time these new PDAs are powered up, the screen flashes a message:
In memory of Sergeant Jonathan Casey, US ArmyCombat Infantry BadgeMedal of HonorMay 18, 2003—March 22, 2024
Speculative Fiction. While not exactly Sci-Fi, such stories tell the tale of our world from a “What If” viewpoint. Can you spot them all? Let David know: David dot McLeod at CastleRoland dot net. He deserves your feedback.
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