The Eternal Engagement

One year in, three to go.

Being in the military wasn’t that bad. He’d been promoted from private to private first class, soon to become lance corporal. Physical workouts were easier than football practices. He’d packed on a few extra pounds, all muscle. Mostly his biceps and thighs were bigger. He liked his new body, but not more than the females he met when draped in his dress blue uniform. Being a Marine had its perks.

Lincoln became fascinated with all the weaponry in the Marine Corps arsenal, especially the M16 rifle. His quickness and precision on the football field—running, dropping, rolling—aided his ability to hit a moving target five hundred yards away while kneeling, crawling, or standing, in daylight and in darkness. During his basic training, he’d scored 220; that qualified him as an expert shooter. In some instances, he was more skilled at shooting than the E4 and E5 Marine gunners.

The sergeant major entered the room. They immediately stood, slapped their hands to their sides, and saluted. Sergeant Major held a stack of papers in his hands. He called out one name after another, then said, “Men, it’s almost time for you to show what you’re made of. In three weeks, you’re all going to Saudi Arabia. I’m approving a one-week leave so each of you can go home and say good-bye to your families.”

The way he’d said good-bye sounded permanent. In many ways, Lincoln’s leaving Selma after graduation was his good-bye.

A year had already ticked away. This would be his second deployment. Glancing at his orders, he read six months. Being in Saudi Arabia would be new and hopefully more fun than when he was in Okinawa. With the exception of confiding in his friend, Randy Thomas, Lincoln kept his personal life private. He’d hit it off with Randy during BT because they both played football in high school and they were the only two shooters in their unit who ranked above the marksmen and the sharpshooters.

“You going home, Lincoln?” Randy asked, then started singing “Sweet Home Alabama.”

Where was home for William Lincoln?

Chicago, where his I-don’t-give-a-damn-about-that-boy parents lived? Or Selma where his know-it-all grandfather was born and raised. All his life, someone told him what to do or what not to do. Being in the military gave Lincoln a solid foundation and a new group of dictators.

“Nah, man. I’m good. I’ma stay here,” Lincoln said.

“Man, this here entire section on base is going to be a ghost town. Why don’t you call your grandparents? Go to Selma. See those two females you keep talking about all the time. Get your spill on, you feel me. Drop some seeds. Fertilize those fields,” Randy said, bobbing his head. “And take some pictures, dude, because Randy don’t believe you telling the truth about having fam in Alabama.”

Sometimes, Randy called him William or Lincoln, but most of the time he called him Alabama. That was cool. Long as he never called him Bama.

There were lots of truths that Lincoln had shared with Randy. But he’d never said, “Man, the longer it takes me to call or write Mona Lisa and Katherine, the easier it gets not to.”

He wanted to know if Katherine had had his baby, but at the same time he didn’t. What good would it do for him to be away from his child for years? Holding pictures instead of holding his kid and the woman who should be his wife? His mind wouldn’t be on destroying the enemy. He’d be consumed with the enemy annihilating him. Worse, what if he died and his family became a gold star family before he ever laid eyes on his baby?

“I’ll go home when I get out.” Maybe.

“Then in the meantime and in between time, Alabama, you’re going home with me. Ever been to New Orleans, my brother?” Randy asked. Not waiting for an answer, he continued, “You’re in for a real treat.”

Lincoln laughed. “There’s a first time for everything.”