replied and moved onto other news. I left the television and turned on the shower.
I spent a week researching and prepping speeches. On Friday I drove the six hours to Aurora, Colorado, a suburb of Denver, for my first reservist-drill weekend. I slept at an Embassy Suites, woke up at four, dressed in my camouflage fatigues, and drove to Buckley Air Force Base. My truck was not yet registered, so I parked next to Buckley’s gate and went into the Military Police Officers’ hut to register for a weekend pass. It was a frigid Colorado morning, and I waited in a line of ten other services members who were also waiting to register their cars. The serviceman in front of me was a Marine. He was taller than me by three or four inches. His uniform was finely pressed. His shave was close. He turned to me. “You fucking believe this shit, Devil?”
“Yeah,” I said, not knowing what he was talking about. “It’s pretty cold.”
“Shit, well, it won’t be for long.”
It was already February. “How’s that?”
He turned and looked me over. “Who are you?”
“Lance Corporal Peters.”
“You Bravo Company?”
“Yes,” I quickly glanced at his collar, “Staff Sergeant.”
“Nobody called you?”
“Am I late, Staff Sergeant?”
“Fuck man, we got the call, Devil.”
“Oh,” I was stumped. “That’s . . . great.”
The line was moving. He started filling out paperwork for his car’s registration. When he was done, he walked out past me. “See you at Bravo.”
I registered my car and drove to the Marine Corps headquarters.
Tucked away in the northeast corner of the Air Base was the Marine Corps detachment, which housed both Alpha and Bravo Companies. Alpha was an artillery detachment. Bravo was an intelligence detachment. This was the first time I had visited the unit. The building was two stories high and contained a gym, a shower facility, a cafeteria, numerous offices, and, of course, a military display case. Alpha Company was downstairs; we were upstairs. We in Bravo never mingled with our lesser counterparts below.
I went to the main Marine Corps Administration office, which was situated between Alpha Company and Bravo Company. I had to check in and hand over the paperwork I had acquired during Recruit Training, MCT, and Imagery Analysis School. There was a tall Marine with a shaved head and thick mustache behind the counter. “What can I help you with Marine?”
“I need to check in, Gunny.”
“Alright, let me see that.” He pointed to my paperwork. Ten minutes later he walked back to the counter. “You’re in Bravo. It’s upstairs. You’ll want to check with Gunny Bravo. He’s a good Marine. He’ll help you with all that’s comin’ up.”
“Coming up, Gunny?”
“Shit yeah, Marine. You acting like no one called you.” He shook his head. “Get upstairs, Marine.”
Bravo Company headquarters were in disarray: Marines were running about, phones were ringing, officers were yelling. I moved to a corner. I figured it wouldn’t hurt if I disappeared until the chaos died. A few minutes later, in walked Mexico. I nodded to him. “How you doing?”
“Good,” he said while looking around. “What’s going on?”
“No idea.”
“How was your Christmas?”
“Good. Yours?”
“Yeah, it was good,” he said. “My pops and I went to Mexico to visit my grandpa. He owns a ranch in the southeast. Well, over the years my grandpa has been donating money to the local church. In return, they decided to honor him. So we went down for the celebration.”
“What did they do?”
“His money bought the church a new stained-glass window, so we went to watch ’em install it. We had front row seats, Peters.”
“Cool,” I said. “How long—”
“Who the hell are you two?” a gruff voice inquired.
I stood at attention. “I’m Lance Corporal Peters and this is Private First Class Mexico,” I glanced at the speaker’s collar, “Gunny.”
“Alright,” the Gunny said, “and what the hell are you doing in Bravo Company?” The Gunny sported a flattop haircut, glasses, and an extra fifty pounds.
“We’re new reservists, Gunny. We graduated from the schoolhouse in November. We checked in downstairs.”
“Fu—king—shit,” he said. “And nobody called you, right?”
“No, Gunny. I guess not.”
He shook his head. “Iraq, gentlemen. We’re going to Iraq. We leave on Thursday.”
interlude
“Where did we leave off?” Trent asked.
“I fell asleep in my hotel room.”
“Right. What happened next?”
“Weeks came and went. I requested leave. It was granted, and so I flew home to Portland. My mother hosted a picnic. My dad and stepmom were there. I caught up with my siblings.”
“Was it good to see your family?”
“Yeah, it had taken nearly a month, but I felt like I was home, if only for a time.”
“Did you ever . . . struggle, being back?”
“From the war?”
“From the war. Humor me. Be specific.”
I bit into my cheek. “One afternoon, while in Portland, my mother and I went shopping at Safeway. We were strolling through the produce aisle when I heard an incoming mortar. I screamed, reached for my gas mask, and jumped on the floor. I was wide-eyed and sweating when I realized that my mother was shaking me. ‘You’re home now,’ she was yelling, ‘you’re home!’ I tried to clear my head. The store’s manager came running over. It hadn’t been a mortar. Water had been running through overhead pipes to spray the fresh produce. I stood up and apologized. My mother started to tell him I had recently returned from Iraq. I looked at them both. They were far away, like looking backward through a telescope. I rushed out of Safeway and waited for my mother in her car.”
“Did she ask you what had happened? Did she talk with you about it?”
“Yeah. I told her it was nothing, that she didn’t have anything to worry about. And she said: ‘I’m your mother, Benjamin, I’ll worry about it.’” I started to laugh.
Trent was smiling, too. “Go on.”
“I told her that I wish I had an explanation,
