Radioman (A 2/19th Spinoff) - Complete

From the New World to the Old

She wasn't pregnant. She just wanted money, or maybe something I didn't understand.

Unlike everyone else, my parents did not write, never tried to call, and I didn't bother trying to call them. I hadn't spoken to them since I got my job at the mill at 15 and moved out. They hadn't bothered to speak to me, more interested in the fact that they now didn't have to support me and could spend that money on heroin for home and booze in the honky-tonk taverns my musician parents played in. I doubted they even knew I was gone.

That was fine with me.

When we reached Germany an average looking Air Force enlisted got on the plane and led us off. When I picked up my dufflebag I got a weird twinge of fear in my stomach, like the day a board grabbed my shirt and almost pulled me into the Widowmaker at the mill.

I looked around to see what was causing it, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary.

"This way, please," the Air Force guy said. I followed him as he kept talking. "We'll go over here to the reps from 21st Replacement, they'll give you your permanent party unit, and you'll be told which bus to board."

He waved at a set of eight OD green buses that had US ARMY stenciled on the side in white paint.

We walked past the buses, heading to where there were four men sitting under a canopy put up like you usually saw at fairs or carnivals. They had a big bulky computer, something I hadn't seen before I joined the Army, that they were typing into.

There was two guys in BDU's standing by the table the computer TV and the keyboard were sitting on. Both of them were pretty built, although the heavier built one was shorter. Both were smoking, the bigger guy with a can of Coke in his hand, the shorter one with a can of orange soda.

I stood in line and waited. The guy two places in front of me got assigned to a Field Artillery unit, the guy in front of me got assigned to a transportation unit.

"Next." The guy sitting next to the guy typing said. I stepped up and handed him my paperwork that detailed my transfer, referred to as orders, without being asked after seeing everyone else doing it.

"You're a Zero-Five-Bravo?" The guy I handed it to asked.

I nodded.

"Hey, you two, we got one for you," The guy said, turning to the two guys smoking. The shorter one straightened up, and I saw he was a PV2, a single hashmark on his collar showing he was an E-2. The bigger guy was an E-1, like me, with nothing on his collar.

"What?" The shorter one asked. He looked about a grouchy fuck and it took me a second to realize he was younger than me.

"Radio operator," The Air Force guy said.

"Great, that's the last one," The short one said. "Thanks, Airman." Despite the warmth in the guy's voice, his face was still hard, cold.

"That's him, Foster," the Air Force guy said. The guy on the computer finished typing and the massive printer started hammering out a piece of paper.

The short guy moved up in front of me, looking me up and down. "Sorry about this, Foster, but we need you." I couldn't place his accent. His nametag was covered by a dirty LBE and I noticed with a shock that he had a .45 pistol in a holster on his LBE.

He had stitches along the bottom of the right side of his jaw, still smeared with iodine and he smelled like he hadn't had a shower in a while. I noticed the legs of his BDU pants were muddy and that he the field jacket he was wearing had dried blood and mud on both sleeves.

The guy behind the table handed me three pieces of printer paper, all three saying the same thing. Before I could read them the short guy took it out of my hand, tore the bottom one off, and handed it to the big blond, who put it with several other pieces of paper and folded them in thirds.

"Let's go, new guy," The PV2 said. He turned around and started to walk away, losing his balance slightly and putting his hand out to steady himself on the wall. The big guy, who was taller than my own 5' 10" by at least four inches, dropped back, grabbing the shoulder strap of one of my dufflebags and slinging it onto his shoulder.

"Doncha pay no attention ta Ant, Private, he's a bit in a bad mood today," The blond said. I heard a fairly thick Texas accent. The guy in front waved at a group of four people who walked over and fell in with the rest of us, all of them carrying two dufflebags.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Grafenwoehr," The Texan said. "We wintered there after the barracks burnt down." He shrugged. "We're living out of our rucks and tents right now, but we're supposed to head up to the barracks today."

I just nodded. We walked in silence over to an OD green van. The E-2 stopped, putting his hand on the hood and leaning forward to vomit.

"He all right?" One of the other guys asked as the Texan opened the back of the van. He motioned at us to throw our dufflebags in the back then looked at the shorter guy, who was still vomiting.

"Yeah, he's just having a reaction to the painkillers," He said, shrugging. He moved over to the vomiting guy. "Hey, Ant, I'll drive, all right?"

The E-2, Ant, nodded, straightening up and wiping his mouth. I noticed his hand was shaking and he had a bloody nose.

"Yer nose is bleedin again, Ant," The Texan said. The E-2 swore, wiping his nose then pinching the bridge of his nose and leading forward.

"You drive," The E-2 growled.

"Barracks or Graf?" the Texan asked.

"Barracks," the E-2 said, then bent forward to start to vomit again.

Everyone else got in the van, but I moved over to where the big Texan was standing there, rubbing the E-2's back. I wondered for a second if they were gay.

"What happened to him?" I asked when the E-2 was done vomiting. He was spitting blood and saliva on the ground, his nose dripping blood.

"Drunk officer hit him with a truck," The Texan said. "Got 'is leg caught un dragged about a hunnerd feet."

"Shouldn't he be in a hospital?" I asked.

"Welcome to the 2/19th Special Weapons Groups, Private," the big Texan shrugged. "Now get in the van."