The Eternal Engagement

Whatever happened to voluntarily reenlisting?

Two years ago, Lincoln demanded his release. If he hadn’t returned they would’ve considered him AWOL. Absent without leave was an offense that could’ve gotten him arrested. Wasn’t his government supposed to be a democracy and not a dictatorship? Hadn’t he fulfilled his commitment? Lincoln still wanted out of the hellhole madness!

“This is bullshit!” he shouted at his superior. “How you gon’ tell me I can’t be discharged?”

“You didn’t read the fine print, solider? When our country is at war, we keep you as long as we need you. And I need you here in Iraq.”

The daily desert heat was unbearable. Visible waves floated through the air commingling with the stench of death, suffocating him. Lincoln hated walking around all day with layers upon layers of clothing with a metal helmet strapped to his head. Camouflage jacket layered with heavy body armor. Trousers with side, back, and thigh pockets. An M16 strapped across his shoulder, a semiautomatic in his hand, combat boots laced tightly to his feet.

He missed wearing basketball shorts, a cutoff T-shirt, and slip-on shoes. The days of enjoying a shower—what he wouldn’t give to take a bath—were long gone. Being prepared to fight every moment of his life was mandatory. His handgun was strapped to his side. No grenade in his pocket. Needed to get one.

From Saudi Arabia, to Afghanistan, to Iraq, Lincoln walked away shaking his head. “Fuck you, man!” What was his superior going to do? Send him home? Lincoln felt more defeated by his country than by his enemy. Who was the real enemy?

Six years in when he’d only signed up for four was insane. There were many times he regretted making the decision not to follow his dream. If he could roll back time and change his mind about having joined the military, he’d be playing professional football. And if football hadn’t been his destiny, he’d be on American soil like the rest, not caring much, if at all, about the soldiers fighting the war. He could be living comfortably in a big house with Katherine. If he had a kid, his child would be five years old now. Maybe he should write Katherine and Mona letters.

Randy patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s hang in there, man. We’ll get discharged together and go home together. This war can’t last forever.”

Randy was right. But the war could last their lifetime. Thank God he had Randy Thomas. He didn’t need any other friends. Every time he tried befriending a soldier, they were either wounded or killed. Being in the war didn’t differ much from being in a gang. Neither gave the man fighting the cause—not his cause—freedom.

“I love you, man,” Lincoln said, patting Randy’s back.

Before the war, Lincoln hadn’t spoken the L word to anyone. Not his parents, grandparents, Mona Lisa, or Katherine. Didn’t know what it truly meant until now. Caring about someone who could be taken away from you in a heartbeat, now he understood the meaning of love. Had a few more people he needed to say that to face-to-face.

“Randy, man, I’ve been thinking about writing my girls. What you think?”

“Okay, that’s it,” Randy said, smiling. “Your ass is going to do that today and I’ma seal the envelopes and slap the postage on for you.”

Lincoln playfully nudged the side of Randy’s head with his fist. “Man, if I die over here, how do I make sure Uncle Sam doesn’t get the money I’ve saved up?”

“Why you dwelling on death? We can’t worry about that, dude.”

“But seriously. I don’t want the government to keep what I’ve earned.”

Randy looked in his eyes. “Who do you trust?”

“Now you talking crazy, man. You ain’t leaving me nothing ’cause you ain’t leaving me. Who else you got? What about that kid you might have? Find out if it’s true. If you really have one, leave it to ’em.”

Lincoln coughed. Randy coughed. Dust filled the hot air.

Pointing at an eighteen-wheeler driving toward them on the dirt road, Lincoln said, “Man, we’re on the wrong side. Those dudes work for American companies. They come through here every day to transport oil. They get paid seventy-five thousand dollars a year. We get thirty thou. They don’t have to risk their lives every day. And we have to deal with real threats of terrorism every fuckin’ minute. At least now we know what we’re protecting. The rich man’s future!” Lincoln yelled, running toward the truck. He chased the truck at least five hundred feet down the road. He stopped, picked up a huge rock, hurled it at the company’s name on the side of the truck.

Lincoln looked behind him. It wasn’t the rock he’d thrown that caused the blast. Just like that, a bomb exploded.

“Randy!” The attack came from out of nowhere, and Lincoln’s life went from bad to worst. He retraced his steps to his troops. Everyone except him was dead.

“Fuck this shit! I hate being here!” Why did he have to chase the truck? He could’ve died with his best friend, and the nightmare of having to live with what was in front of him would be someone else’s reality.

“Randy,” he cried, holding his best friend in his arms.

Splattered on the dusty desert next to Randy’s body was what was left of the suicide bomber, a little kid. Lincoln leaned Randy’s bleeding body against him, drew his weapon. If he saw another kid within five hundred yards, he’d shoot ’em dead. He’d shoot ’em all dead.

“Why!!!!!” he cried to heaven. Randy was his best and only white friend. The racial tension he’d occasionally experienced in Selma didn’t matter when you were fighting each day to save your life. Angrily glancing around, he saw one, two, three . . . ten, eleven . . . thirteen more soldiers were dead.

Lincoln closed Randy’s eyes, then removed his combat boots. Lincoln unlaced his own boots, and put them on Randy. “I will walk in your shoes, my brother, until it’s my turn to die.”

That could be a few minutes, a few days, a few months, a few years, or a few decades, but Lincoln wished that day would’ve been today. He prayed God had a purpose for sparing his life.