AWOL: Part 2 (Read Part 1 first)

Author's note: I interviewed the subject of this story last summer in Arkansas.

My hand was discolored and swollen as I walked in the nurses’ station. I walked out with bandages, pain medication…and another 30 day sick profile.

 Back to life as I knew it. Falling into formation in the morning and evening, sneaking out into town for good times. One of my buddies in profile with me was named Baker. He had a car in town. Baker had gotten injured during basic. He was going into the National Guard. He shared similar sentiments of mine. He told me he didn’t like this man’s army either, and he was going to do something about it. He was going AWOL. Another guy from Indiana overheard us and decided to join us.

 Baker was from Tennessee. We sneaked off to his car and drove toward  Tennessee, dropping off the guy from Indiana along the way. Once in Tennessee, Baker and I picked up his girlfriend and then on to Washington, D.C., where her sister lived.

 The road trip was exhilarating. The radio was blaring, and we were cruising on the open road. Baker and I bought wigs to mask our military look, and in civilian clothes, we blended in. The wind was again blowing through my hair, albeit synthetic this time. But we were free.

 That is, until we reached our nation’s capital. Baker’s arrogance got in the way of our good times as he sped erratically through city traffic.

 Police lights danced in the rearview mirror. Swearing, Baker pulled to the side of the busy street as traffic chugged around us. The policeman looked like a bulldog. He eyed us with disgust, noticing the Tennessee plates.

 “How long are you boys going to be in Washington, D.C.?” he demanded.

 “Why?” Baker wanted to know.

 “Because if you’re going to be here long, you aren’t going to make it driving like that.”

 His police radio went off before Baker could answer. He whirled and responded to it from his car.  Baker looked in the rearview mirror, watching the policeman talk on the radio.

 “Fuck him, he’s a dead man,” he said, reaching under his seat. I noticed a gun in his hand and grabbed Baker’s arm, shoving the gun back under the seat before the policeman came back. He gave us a quick, “You better straighten up your driving,” and sped off to another emergency. I was relieved not to be sent to death row for being an accomplice to the fatal shooting of a D.C. police officer.

 Baker was no good for me. A few days later, I ditched him and the wig and took a bus back to Louisiana. I didn’t want to be what the army calls “Dropped From Records” (DFR) for being gone 30 days, so I returned on the 29^th day of my absence. I had learned if you get dropped from the company you are automatically thrown in the brigade. I figured I’d be thrown in the brig as it was, but I knew it wouldn’t be as bad if I came back within 30 days.

 It was late when the bus pulled into Leesburg. I took a cab back to the army post and sneaked through the darkness into the STC company and lay down on an empty bunk amid the snores and heavy breathing of my comrades. I eventually slept a little, wondering what would become of me.

 The next morning, I fell out with the rest of my company --- in my civilian clothing. My uniform had been locked away. I wondered what the others were thinking, or how they could stifle their desire to snicker at me.

  Sergeant Jackson was a big, burly black man. Even his stare seemed to have a weight of its own as it fell upon me. I felt his presence before I saw him.

 “Well, well, well,” he said in his high pitched sarcasm. “Look who’s fell out in this man’s army formation wearing civilian clothes!”

 His eyes bulged and his scowl turned ugly. “Get out of my sight!” he hissed, pointing to the company headquarters where the first sergeant was.

 Waiting in the office for First Sergeant Johnson, I thought for sure I was going to be sent to the brig. I kept looking for the MP’s to escort me away. I pictured Johnson’s stern face looking at me like a traitor.

 He came in and asked about Baker. The guy from Indiana who’d gone AWOL with us had returned prior to me.  He had no knowledge of Baker either, but I told them I hadn’t seen him in days, which was true.

 To my surprise, I was ordered back to supply and received my military clothing and other gear. No brig. No MP’s.

 I couldn’t believe it! I was hanging out in the barracks for awhile when a drill sergeant came by. He stopped dead in his tracks.

 “You’re still here?” he asked incredulously.

 “The first sergeant told me to come back here,” I said.

 He couldn’t believe it. He told me for sure someone would be by to take me to brig soon, but something told me if that was going to happen, it would have by now.

 The psychiatrist came by. He too, was amazed to see me. “Aren’t you going to the brig?” he asked.

 “No,” I replied. “You can stick a fork in me. I’m done. I’m done with this man’s army.”

 He sat on the bunk across from me. “Smith, why didn’t you tell me, man? Why didn’t you just come to me earlier if you felt that way? Maybe I could have done something to help you, but now…” his voice trailed off helplessly.

He must have thought I was crazy, but I knew what I wanted.

 That evening, we had formation to make sure everyone was in place. I fell out in my military uniform this time. Everyone was blown away that I was still around. I could feel the stares.

 A new drill sergeant came on the night shift. His eyes popped out. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in the brig?”

 Next day, same thing. I fell out in formation. Nothing more. I waited. What was going to happen? Drill Sergeant Kernan came up that afternoon. “Come on,” he said, “The old man wants to see you.”

 My blood chilled.