On the Banks of the Wabash, War Was 2-Day Hell

Heat. Heat and dust and the smell of men in uniform sweating under the merciless sun. Dirty clouds of diesel fuel drifted across the compound. Somewhere out there, beyond the barbed wire and the minefields, Charlie was waiting.

Dan Quayle stood, squinting into the sun behind his Foster Grants. Then he saw what he was looking for.

Through the clouds of dark rolling smoke strode a figure of commanding authority. It was Sarge, back from headquarters, and he was carrying his . . . clipboard!

Sarge! Built like a tank with a cigar stuck in his stubbly jaw like a 105-mm barrel. They called him Sarge, and that was enough. Back then you knew a man by the way he walked, the way he carried his weapon, the way he dealt with fear. And there was another thing about Sarge. He was a sergeant.

But it was the heat that drove men crazy. The endless heat and the endless duty, the tension, the noise of the whining engines. All that, endlessly throughout the endless weekend. All through Saturday! All through Sunday! Two straight days of hell.

Quayle knew that a decision had been made. He knew Sarge. In war you got to know men quickly. One day they were there; the next day they could be gone in a body bag. But in the National Guard it could be even quicker. One day--let’s say it was a Sunday --they could be there; the next day they’d be back home.

Sarge threw the clipboard down as if it were a letter from the devil. The orders came loose and floated to the floor like dead birds after an air burst.

Quayle looked out the door at the horizon, where the sun was pasted on the sky like a red wafer.

Then Sarge lost it.

“You think this mission is my idea?” Sarge bellowed at Quayle. “Somebody’s got to go! Dammit! Why do they want to send a kid like . . . ?” His voice broke.

Slowly Quayle picked the orders up off the floor.

Out there somewhere was his mission. Out there somewhere Charlie waited.

His orders were clear. There was no mistake. Headquarters knew exactly where they were sending him. His was not to reason why.

“The bastards,” Sarge muttered to himself. “Why couldn’t they send me . . . ?”

But Quayle was already out the door. He loved Sarge, but this was his mission. His blood quickened, his jaw was set. He would show them. He walked into the twilight, gripping his orders. He felt like a pit bull.

In war there is no night and no day. Quayle’s face, set in the unmistakable grimace of resolve, was lit by the flashes of red and yellow as he sped toward his quest. Strange lights raced by with their messages of horror. He paid them no heed. He saw men darting through the shadows. Some came close! Some came so close he could see the whites of their eyes! But they were not his mission. Those men would die another day.

Then there was darkness. Quayle squinted into the gloom. Charlie was waiting. Lurking there, ready to give him the hot, strong answer that men seemed to seek in this corner of hell.

Suddenly, rising like a neon sign from the very pit of his soul, Charlie was there. Right in front of him! Grinning behind the steaming steel as if he knew exactly what Quayle was thinking. He knew! He knew! Quayle’s mind reeled. What did the orders say? But who could think of orders now? He saw the look in Charlie’s eyes! Yes! They understood each other as men now! He reeled and reeled! He tried to form the words. He called out and felt himself falling; he felt the warm liquid and heard himself screaming, screaming.

Later Sarge was there, telling him to be still. His uniform was still damp with the warm stuff meant to be in a man’s veins.

“It’s not your fault, kid,” Sarge said, his gruff face melting into warmth.

Quayle looked up at the ceiling fan and tried to make sense of it.

“It’s that damn Charlie,” Sarge went on. “If he’s too cheap to fix the steps in front of his diner, we aren’t sendin’ you there for coffee no more.”

Quayle managed a smile of relief.

“We ain’t goin’ to Charlie’s no more,” Sarge said. “Next time you go to Dunkin’ Donuts.”

Next time, Quayle thought. So this was war.