Barracks Area
15th Forward Support Battalion Company ARea
Fort Hood, Texas
CONUS
26 September, 1991
0930 Hours
Rage still burned in my chest as I stomped up the stairs to the second floor. That son of a bitch had tried to lay his hands me, called me a bitch and a whore, and obviously pressed a man of vast accomplishments into not wearing what he deserved.
Hatred warred with rage in my chest as I reached the second floor, pushing out of the stairwell and into the T intersection, turning to face the CQ Desk. The private at the desk shrank back slightly at my expression.
"Ma'am?" He stopped me. His name was Karlson, E-1, Born 24 May, 1973, O-Pos, mild allergy to eggs with no symptoms, but needed to be noted for some stickers.
"Yes, private?" I asked, as gently as I could.
How dare that fat slick sleeved fuck try to lay his dick beaters on me.
"The movers and the MP's are here. Specialist Crawford is with them in your room right now," He looked nervous.
"Thank you, Private," I told him, turning and heading toward my room, which was down by the end of the left hand hallway. When I walked in I saw there were three movers standing there while two MP's and a Sergeant First Class were going through a photo album.
"May I help you, gentlemen?" I asked mildly.
They all jumped, turning and looking at me. The SFC stepped forward, holding out his hand.
"Sergeant First Class Placer, PRP Liaison for First Cav," He told me.
One of the MP's held up a picture. "What kind of bombshells is this?" I squinted slightly, and saw that it was Stokes, Dobbs, Lanks, Little-Bit, and my self sitting on a H-104 cluster bomb rocket pod. I could tell it was Atlas, Bunker-62, and the summer before we deployed to Desert Shield.
"It's a rocket pod, Hotel One Oh Four, standard cluster bomb six pod rocket," I said, reaching out and grabbing the picture. I stared at him, "Unless you're talking about the fact we're all nude."
That made him flush, "Pass my photo-albums to the PRP Liaison, stop thumbing through it," I told them, snatching the photo album from them.
I turned and handed it to SFC Placer. "Here. It was checked by NATO, and PRP through the whole way apparently. There's four total, spanning several years of duty at a clandestine site. I was careful not to break security."
He nodded, "Any photo albums from Desert Storm?"
I shook my head. "No. I was hospitalized the third day of the Ground War, my equipment was largely destroyed as far as I know."
He nodded at that. "The movers have a rucksack and two dufflebags and what looks like a Special Forces Aid Bag on the data sheet for one box," He said. He nodded at where they were sitting on the bed. "You apparently had a lot of stuff sent from Germany, they've got seals and PRP stamps on them."
I sighed again. "My unit was clandestine."
He nodded slowly. "A Special Weapons posting?"
"Pure. Over-strength Group," I told him. "Almost entirely self-contained, with a cover unit."
He moved over to one of the two desk, setting my photo-album down, and pulling out a pen. "Name of cover unit?"
"144th Ordnance Company, 60th Ordnance Battalion, I think," I told him. He jotted it down. "Our cover area was Wildflicken, but we were on a place called Alfenwehr."
That made him look up, his eyes wide. "How long were you there?"
I shrugged. "Since like 1986," I said. "Survived a couple of winters there."
That made him wince, "Ouch."
"Hey, Sergeant?" One of the MP's said. The SFC turned around, and the MP was looking into a box of panties and bras. They weren't folded, just jammed into the box. They were both giving the eye at me, since some of the white granny panties had brownish stains in the crotch. "We have to go through this?"
He shook his head, looking at me out of the corner of his eye, "Naw, move onto the next box."
I curled my lip in disgust at them as they pushed the box away like it was covered in hissing spiders that were on fire.
"It's just old bloodstains," I told them, matter of factly.
They still looked grossed out.
They were weak.
"Holy crap, I forgot I bought that stuff," I said when the movers brought in my stereo. Bose 901's to start with, Nakamichi Dragon cassette deck to end with.
All in the box.
"That's some expensive hardware, Chief," The SFC said.
I nodded, lighting a cigarette. "I was hoping that we'd be spending more time back at the barracks," I shook my head as I snapped my lighter shut. "Didn't work out that way."
The movers brought in a box they said was the last one. The MP's opened the large box, and stepped back. It held my rucksack, two dufflebags, and a battered SF surgical aid bag, a Kevlar vest, LBE, and a pistol rig down next to it.
"Can we go?" The movers asked.
Placer checked the inventory sheet. "For now."
The two men got as I stared into the box that was obviously shipped from Log Base Echo back to 2/19th after I'd been wounded.
My name, the rank of SGT, my last 4 of my Social Security Number, and "Support Platoon, 2/19th SWG" all spray painted in stencil.
"That we should probably check," Placer said, staring to remove the gear.
I nodded, moving over and kneeling down. Placer matched me. "What first?"
Both the ruck and the aid bag were covered in dried blood. The LBE was tattered, torn, and bloodstained. The buckles were still caked in it.
I stared at it, wiping my mouth. I could smell the desert on them. Smell the blood of myself and my friends. Smell the sharp acrid smell of something bad happening.
"We gonna need to go slow, Chief?" He asked gently.
I nodded, reaching out for my LBE and pulling it over.
One of the movers dropped my Kevlar helmet down with a clunk.
"Your unit shut down?" Placer asked.
I just nodded, staring at my Kevlar vest.
The covering was scorched, torn, blood had covered it, caked on it.
Arterial spray from Groom.
My hands shook as I lightly brushed the caked on blood with my fingertips.
"You two, get out," Placer said, waving at the MP's.
"We're supposed to stay," One said.
"You aren't cleared," Placer snapped.
The two MP's left.
"You all right, Chief?" He asked again.
I nodded slightly, exhaling smoke as I finally lifted up the LBE/Kevlar vest combination up. Sand drained from it.
I started by opening the ammo pouches. I had four of them crammed on. Two were completely empty, one had two magazines upside down.
The last had two upside down, and two upright.
"Huh, they didn't bother stripping the ammo out," Placer said.
"Yeah, they shut it down in a hurry," I told him.
"Huh, I guess so," He said when I pulled my old Colt .45 from the holster. "That should have been secured. Not sure what to think that it wasn't."
"Typical," I said. I popped out the magazine and showed him.
Still had ammunition.
"Well, no M-16, no heavy weapons," He sighed, "I'll overlook the .45. The Army's basically chucking those in the garbage right now. Give it here, I'll record the serial number and have it listed as having been released."
"Thanks," I said, placing the magazine on the desk and pulling back the slide.
It was jammed still.
I shook my head, setting the pistol down. It has jammed up on me, too much sand in it from the sandstorm we had been fighting in. I'd holstered it, and fallen back at Stillwater's orders.
I'd disobeyed him later, running out to the vehicle to run the M249 through six boxes before the RPG had hit it.
I looked at the Kevlar vest. It was singed from when Humvee-138 had exploded and I'd jumped on the back deck, running up to the ring mount and pulling Groom from it, carrying her back. Blood caked it.
Groom's. Stillwater's. Bomber's. Nagle's. Stokes'.
My own.
Stokes had been dragging me, screaming in agony radiating from pelvis, back into the building when the Dune Rider, Humvee-122, had exploded from a rocket, the drive-line hitting me in the face and smashing it into bloody screaming ruin.
I could taste the blood in my throat, smell it, and I gagged slightly as the memory shuddered and tried to become reality for me to relive.
Gurgling, grabbing Stokes' arm as she drug my backwards one handed, her other arm secured to her stomach by a sling and a cravat, both wet with blood. Agony washing through me as I tried to scream and the bones of my face ground together, the top of my jaw broken.
Trying not to drown and blood flooded my mouth.
Gagging and spitting, blood pouring out of my mouth as Stokes dropped me down next to the rest of the unit, grunting as she sat down next to me and yelled at Nancy to hold me down.
Feeling the blood slimed tube push down my throat, letting me breathe, before Stokes ruthlessly packed my jaw with cotton.
Vision coming back when Stokes wound a layer of gauze around my head, cutting out the searing white light.
Seeing Groom's dead body, twisted, blood covered, missing one of her legs, her face strangely peaceful and soft, looking so young, too young to be laying on the concrete in a pool of blood and discarded medical supplies.
"Chief Cromwell, you need a minute?" He asked gently, putting his hand on my shoulder.
I realized he'd been saying my name for a few moments as the memories hammered through my brain.
I sniffled, wiping my nose, holding up my cigarette. SFC Placer set down an ashtray and I dropped the burnt out cigarette in it. Specialist Crawford looked uncomfortable as I lit another, ignoring the fact that tears had run down my face.
I set down the LBE and Kevlar vest, and picked up the Kevlar helmet.
"Those are supposed to be turned in too," Crawford said. Referring to both the helmet and the NVG's.
I pulled off the NVG's and shook them.
They rattled.
"Yeah, don't think it matters. We'll log them for turn-in anyway," Placer said. I handed them to him, and glass tinkled as the shifting of the metal made the shattered pieces of the lenses fall out onto the floor.
"Bullet impact to the right side of the casing," Placer mumbled, writing it down, "Serial number largely illegible."
My Kevlar helmet had tears in it, deep enough to expose the fiberglass laminate. I worked a fingernail under a blob and popped out a flattened 7.6mm Soviet round that dropped on the floor.
"That almost broke my neck," I said softly. I stripped off the torn, stained, singed, and blood caked helmet cover and elastic band then handed the helmet to Placer.
"Severe ballistic and shrapnel damage," he said, shaking his head.
My hands were shaking as I pulled the rucksack up to me.
The side was ripped open, spilling out a damaged used MOPP suit, desert and woodland BDU's that were scorched, stained, and caked with blood and worse.
I went through the pockets, crying, emptying them out.
Morphine stickers. Atropine. 2Pamchloride. Chemical testing strips. Decon strips. An MRE. Tampons. Pads. Underwear, badly stained, the white turned dull gray from hand washing in contaminated water and dried in the smoke from the oil well fires.
A stuffed bear, the size of a closed fist, holding a plush heart with "I LOVE YOU" on it.
It was unmarked. Unstained.
I held it close and cried, rocking back and forth on my knees, curled over the bear that Grammy had won me at the State Fair the day she died. Little Donny had survived Desert Storm unscathed, and just seeming him overwhelmed me.
Both men left me alone for long minutes till I snuffled and handed it to Placer.
"I think this passes," He said, his voice thick. He turned and set it on the desk. "Are you ready to continue, Chief?"
I nodded, going back through the ruck.
That's when I found it. I'd forgotten about it.
A camera no bigger than my hand, just a little thicker than a AA battery, and a handful of round plastic cases.
"Is that a camera?" Placer asked.
I nodded, holding it out to him. "I'd forgotten."
My hand was shaking so bad that SFC Placer had to grab my wrist and gently pull the camera from my fingers.
"Property of 108th MI, Delta Company," He said, reading the engraving. He looked at me. "Used to document enemy documents and positions?"
I nodded. "My crew sergeant had it. I remember him shoving something in my ruck right before he slapped my helmet and sent me into the facility," My hands started shaking again and I busied them by lighting a cigarette.
"Any idea what might be on it?" He asked. He set down the plastic cases. "Twelve wheel style photograph canisters, according to label, 24 pictures per disk." He scribbled.
"Everything," I told him. I swallowed back a lump. "Pictures of the facility we were to take, pictures of the oil well fires we drove through, pictures of the other facilities and photo documentation of Iraq's chemical and biological weapon program and its destruction at our hands."
"This is going to have to come with me, Chief," He said.
I nodded, "I don't know why it wasn't taken already."
"Any pictures of the rest of your team?" He asked.
"Say 'Fuck Saddam'," Stillwater laughed, raising the camera. I laughed, my arm around Stokes' and Nancy's shoulders. The day was bright, barely and breeze, and the mud had hardened back into sand in the heat of the day.
"Yes," I said.
"I'll see to it that any unclassified pictures are returned to you," He said softly. "You should have them."
"Thank you," I said softly. I set aside the ruck and grabbed the first duffle.
Nothing much beyond uniforms and gear. All of it dirty from six months of living out of the back of a truck in the desert. Oddly enough, I found a single pair of panties and socks in a plastic bag with a dryer sheet.
I'd looked through my gear a dozen times of that last pack.
The second one, when I dumped it, I froze, staring at it.
Not the blankets, or the shelter half, or the sleeping bag.
The uniform.
Woodland BDU's. No nametag, no patches, just US Army and a badly sewn on caduceus patch on the right and left shoulders.
The fabric was torn, bloody. Slit up both sides on the pants. When I lifted them, sliced open panties fell out, the crotch bloody.
My uterus and vaginal canal had been badly bruised and swollen when my pelvis had fractured. I'd bled out my vagina while the medivaced me out.
Holes in the cloth. Half the sleeve torn away. The collar covered, caked in dried blood.
"Specialist, put that uniform in the box," Placer ordered, his voice carrying the snap of command.
I put my face in my hands, sliding my fingers under my sunglasses, and wept, kneeling on the floor.
Sergeant Placer sent Specialist Crawford out.
And sat with me till I stopped weeping.