At twenty-eight years old, Sergeant Chris Messer was almost the “old man” of Second Platoon, younger than only a few others. After enlisting in the army in February 2003, he pulled a tour in Germany and another in Iraq with the 26th Infantry Regiment before his reassignment to Fort Drum came through in July 2005. When the 2nd BCT deployed to Iraq in late August 2006, he left behind his wife Amie and his one-year-old daughter Skyle. With him he carried a haunting premonition that he would never see either again.
No amount of gentle coaxing by Sergeant Montgomery or the other men of the platoon could knock that dark conviction from his mind. He seemed resigned to his inevitable fate. Although his turn toward fatalism left him stern and distant, prone to long talks with Chaplain Bryan and quiet time with his Prayer of Salvation card until the lettering was almost worn off, he remained the good soldier and NCO he had always been. Duty came first.
Messer was First Squad Leader. PFC Nathaniel Given was the squad’s SAW gunner. Neither realized just how inextricably linked they were to become on the afternoon freckle-faced Given, nineteen, breezed into Inchon to the congratulations and good-natured ribbing of his fellow platoon members.
Back at Fort Drum, Given had been one of Sergeant Montgomery’s “problem children.” Since then, he had gone from one of the worst soldiers in Delta Company to one of its best. A three-star general visiting the war zone selected him out of the entire company as an example of what a good soldier should be and personally presented him the coveted unit coin, inscribed with the 10th Mountain Division logo. The tall young Texan was walking on air when he returned to Inchon from the awards ceremony. Even stepping in a minefield pile of IA feces failed to dampen his spirit or trigger his quick temper. He wiped off his boot but not his grin.
Messer was sharpening his machete while seated on the ratty old sofa with Brenda the Bitch at the other end. He got up to shake the private’s hand.
“Nate, you done good,” he said.
“I have to thank you and Sergeant Montgomery,” Given replied, proudly displaying the coin. “I must have been a real fuckup at first.”
“You’ve made up for it, soldier.”
“That means something coming from you, Sergeant.”
Some of the other soldiers dragged him away laughing to play cards. Second Platoon was on downtime. Messer sat back down on the sofa with his machete. PFC Chiva Lares pushed Brenda out of the way and sprawled next to Messer to clean his rifle and talk about his girlfriend back home. The two soldiers had been tight since Delta formed at Fort Drum.
“Talked to Amie?” Lares asked as preamble to light conversation.
Messer concentrated on his big knife, not responding. His lean face looked lined and stiff, his eyes hard and focused.
“Chris . . . ?”
Messer looked up. “I had the nightmare again, Chiva.”
“It doesn’t mean anything, Chris.”
“This time it was more real than ever. It was like I was outside myself. You know what I mean? I was here, right here, looking down at myself on the ground. Chiva, I didn’t have my legs. Both of them were blown off and I was dying. I don’t know what to do about it. I can’t tell Amie, Chiva. I’m never going home again, but I can’t tell her that.”
Lares didn’t know what to say. They had been through this together before—nights when Messer couldn’t sleep because of nightmares and climbed up to the roof to sit, rub his Prayer card, and stare at snapshots of his wife and daughter in the starlight. Days when he didn’t seem quite up to going on. Lares could always tell when his friend had had one of his dreams by the torment in his eyes.
None of his previous nightmares had been as graphic and specific as this one.
“Chiva,” Messer said, “I have a feeling it’s going to happen soon.”