Where the dead lay

FORTY-FIVE

The strapping young man got the first Whopper of the day when the breakfast menu switched over to lunch, backed it up with a chicken sandwich, and despite his pronouncement that he “never eats this shit,” wolfed them with a monster Pepsi. Then he walked down Scatterfield Road and entered the United States Marines recruiting station there.

Sergeant Fred Kilgen’s eyes got big when the kid walked in. It had been a slow day, hell, a slow time altogether with the latest press the war was getting, but now he felt like a buyer at auction sizing up a prime Angus beef calf.

“I want to join,” the kid said. He was salty as hell, that was for sure, from the spiky hair right on down to the wiseass T-shirt that read “Jesus Didn’t Tap.” They were gonna love him in basic.

“Sure,” Sergeant Kilgen said, getting out his sheet to start writing down the particulars and trying to look cool about it. “Where do you live?”

“I stayed at the Motel Six last night. That’s where I’ll be until this is done.” The kid didn’t mention the cell phone and car he’d dumped after his half hour drive to Anderson.

“How fast you want this to happen?”

“I don’t even want to go home.”

“Well, okay,” Kilgen said. This was the kind of signing that would help him “make his mission,” as they said at the productivity briefings. “We’ll contract you here. Then you’ll head down to the MEPS in Indy for processing. It’s a two-day thing-don’t worry, we’ll cover your room and board. You’ll do your medicals, your ASVAB-that’s your vocational exam. There’ll be an Initial Strength Test, which, to tell by looking at you will be a layup, and you’ll be a shipper.”

“Head off to boot camp?”

“That’s right. Next stop Parris Island,” Kilgen said.

The kid just bounced his head along to the information. He didn’t have any of the usual questions: How long? How much money will I make? Do you pay for college? Do I get to fight? Will I have to fight?

“Now, you got your high school diploma or GED?” Sergeant Kilgen continued, bracing for the usual hurdles.

“I can get a copy,” the kid said. The sergeant didn’t know it, but the kid figured he’d work one up on a computer at a Kinko’s or use his brother’s.

“Couple of standard questions. Ever do drugs?”

“No.”

“Ever been sick?”

“No.”

“Are you gonna change any of your answers for the doctor?”

“No.”

“Outstanding. Welcome aboard.” Sergeant Kilgen threw a laugh that sickened him a bit over the last part, and he had a strong stomach. “So you sure you don’t want thirty days? Go say good-bye to the folks?”

“I’ll send ’em a fucking postcard from Afghanistan or wherever the hell else you put me.”

The recruiter nodded. “Good idea. And you’re gonna want to check that language, son.”

“Got it.” The kid nodded.

“Name?” the sergeant asked, his pen poised to write.

“Kenneth Schlegel,” was the answer.