During Bill’s first few weeks in-country, he quickly learned what it meant when night fell in the desert; there is a key difference in the Saudi Arabian temperature. The 120-degree dry temperature rapidly drops to a very cool 45 degrees. Conditions at night, especially in the central desert region, are famous for being cold even during the summer as the vast amount of sand rapidly gives up its daytime heat after sunset.
As his squad moves southbound on Highway 4, Bill recalls the day he arrived in Kuwait and how hot it had been in camp. He distinctly remembers wanting to strip out of his camouflage shirt just to try to stay cool. However, this was nothing compared to the frigid air shortly after nightfall. During Bill’s first night in Kuwait at the battalion’s forward base camp, Bill found himself in a fighting hole, pulling what more salty marines referred to as boots post. His romantic idea of the marine corps came to a crashing halt that night as he put on every stitch of clothing issued to him, trying to stay warm.
At 2100, they exit Highway 4 onto Highway 30, making it to Staff Sergeant Gomez’s post by 2110. They then travel at thirty-five miles an hour across Highway 30, next to Messilah Beach, carefully avoiding any major debris that might house IEDs. The lack of light reflecting off the desert allows for zero visibility. In such poor conditions, it is protocol to leave the .50 cal unmanned. In case a sniper is lurking nearby, thinking he might pop off a round, all four marines ride inside the Hummer.
The stink of saltwater drifts heavily through the frigid air and down through an open manhole. The heater hums and blows at full blast, yet a brisk chill inside the cab is ever present. Bill turns to Adlemeyer, eyeing the thermos that rests in the floorboard between his feet.
“Any coffee left?” Bill asks. “It’s colder than usual tonight.”
“You aren’t kidding, brother.” Blaster sounds off without peeling his eyes from the Nintendo DS between his stubby fingers. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra in Nebraska.”
Adlemeyer, riding shotgun next to Bill, lifts the thermos and shakes the empty container. “Nope. We finished it off a half-hour ago.”
“Well, it looks like it’s going to be a cold one then.” Bill sighs for reassurance. “At any rate, keep your eyes peeled. It’s Friday the thirteenth, and I am way too short for bad omens.” He then adds, “I’m counting on you devil dogs to make sure I get back to my girl in one piece.”
“Shit, Colden. You ain’t really going home, are you?”
“Yup,” Bill says, scanning the length of the road for debris.
“You don’t think she kept those little ol’ legs closed for you, do you?”
“Secure that shit, shit-bird,” Adlemeyer warns Blaster.
“Look, I’m sure she’s a doll and all. But wouldn’t you rather be with your amigos than back home with a bad case of the clap and some other asshole’s kid? You all remember Valentine, right? Same thing happened to that poor fucker.”
“I said, can it!” Adlemeyer abruptly shouts over his shoulder without looking back at Blaster.
“You really got a soft spot in your heart for me, don’t you, Blaster?” Again, Bill shakes his head, but this time, he is smiling.
“Yeah… Momma always told me I was a real motherfucking heartbreaker,” Blaster confesses with a slick grin.
“You know, my girl isn’t like that.”
“Yeah, I know,” Blaster admits. “I’m just giving you the biz, brother. I think I’m gonna miss your ass when you rotate stateside. Fuck—who the fuck knows anymore?”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, well, who’s going keep my ass in line when you’re gone and who’s going to be my wingman? Nuke—fuck that noise.”
“In a couple months, you’ll be home too.”
“Aw… shit. You know me, Colden. I’m a sorry sack if I’m not in the field.”
“You’re a sorry sack anywhere,” Adlemeyer clarifies while scanning the highway.
“Except when me and Ma’s on a date, us two, we’re romantically inclined, ya know.” Blaster reaches up and slaps the Browning’s feed tray with the palm of his hand.
“That’s so wrong, leatherneck,” Bill says.
“Maybe, but I already put my papers in for a third tour last week.”
Bill is deathly quiet after hearing Blaster’s confession. Admitting he is a sorry sack stateside could not have been truer; however, if Blaster reenlists, it also means that Bill would be saying goodbye to a friend he has known since grunt school. Yet Bill has made up his mind, deciding against a third tour. He put in his transfer papers to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, the previous month.
Bill knew he had made too many hasty decisions in the past to escape from under his father’s thumb, and for a time, Derrylin as well. Foolishly, though, he had left Abigail behind in the aftermath. Bill has spent too many nights regretting his decision. When Colonel Lesieur approached him about an opening for an army personal training assistant, Bill immediately jumped at the opportunity. Of course, all of this meant that by the time Blaster made it back to the states, Bill would be long gone. However, Bill knew it was time to go home. If he stayed for a third tour without seeing Abigail, he was not sure where that would leave them, and he knew, deep down, he could no longer risk losing her. He needed to get back to Abigail before his luck ran out.
Bill swallows hard. “I’ll tell you one thing. I won’t be missing these freezing nights when I leave.”
“Ooh-rah,” Adlemeyer agrees.
“It’s not so bad,” Nuke mumbles, thoughtlessly staring out the passenger window into utter darkness, oblivious to the conversation except for Bill’s last statement. “I can remember much colder winters in the reservation.”
Blaster looks up from his Nintendo and rolls his eyes. “Here comes another one of Geronimo’s bullshit stories.”
“Screw you, shit-bird,” Nuke stammers out.
“O’ dims fighting words,” he taunts Nuke, driving a strong but playful elbow into his side. Nuke grunts yet ignores Blaster, and Blaster’s short attention span quickly draws him back into his game. All quickly becomes silent again, except for the whipping wind swirling through the manhole from the top of the Hummer.
Nuke has always been able to spin a good story about his youth in the reservation. For the most part, everyone enjoys his stories, even Blaster, although he refuses to admit it. Bill especially enjoys the occasional tale as it helps to pass the time while on patrol. You could always tell when Nuke is thinking about home; he would get very quiet, and much like tonight, he seems detached. Most of his stories are about times when the Ojibwa tribesmen huddled together in a sweat lodge and his grandfather told tales of his people’s ancestry. Nuke once told Bill that the idea behind his grandfather’s stories is to relax the tribesmen into a meditative state while the heat of the sweat lodge cleansed their spirit. Nuke has partaken in almost every sweat session since he was thirteen, and because of this, they have all heard the numerous tales his grandfather had spun.
When Nuke speaks again, he speaks from memory and indirectly, “I remember my mother telling me I had been born prematurely.” He breaks into his story. “I guess my heart wasn’t beating right and my lungs were underdeveloped or something.”
Despite Blaster’s obvious disapproval of Nuke’s ability to spin a good tale, both Bill and Adlemeyer listens attentively while they carefully survey the road through the windshield and shift comfortably in their seats to settle in for the duration.
“The doctors told my mother and father it was because of my premature birth, and it would eventually correct itself. However, when my grandfather heard of my illness, he convinced himself that my condition was something more significant to our tribe’s peoples… a curse of sorts.”
Nuke stares into the darkness outside, transforming himself as needed to tell his story. As the cool air invades his skin from the hole on the roof, where the Browning mounted to the cradle cuts through the evening wind, words roll off Nuke’s tongue; the frigid air a constant reminder of winters on the icy lake.
“It was long ago that a young Algonquin brave Croatoan, along with his wife and child were lost deep in a snowy forest during one of the worst blizzards in Northeast American history. After their food supplies dwindled, the brave thought he could hunt for food in the forest, yet the blizzard proved to be too harsh and he would often get lost in the whiteout, only to make complete circles or remain lost and freezing for hours. In the following days, the brave danced around a mountain cave they had taken shelter in, ceremonial dances used to invoke the Manitou spirits for blessing.”
“Take me,” Nuke chants in native tongue. “Take my life, only spare my wife and child.”
The way the song rolls off Nuke’s tongue lifts their spirits, drawing them further into his compelling story. Bill grips the steering wheel and takes a quick look back at Nuke. He sits still, staring out his window into the darkness. Bill turns back to the road.
“No such answer came from the spirits, and a week later, although the brave and his wife also lay near death, their child was the first to pass away. They awoke during the early morning to find his malnourished body frozen to the ground. It was only after the child died, and the brave’s heart was forever broken, that one such spirit answered Croatoan’s invocation. It told him that if he were to eat the flesh of his fallen child, he would regain a semblance of his strength to fare through the blizzard and carry his wife out of the wilderness to safety.”
“At first, this sickened the brave, and he refused the spirit. After another day and night had passed, and although the warrior was rapidly fading, he remained resolute. It wasn’t until the following morning, when he awoke and found his young wife lying frozen next to him with her cold hand pressed against his empty belly, that his own twisting waves of pain caused by severe starvation, and the loss of his wife and child finally warped Croatoan’s mind to madness. He could no longer resist the spirit and gave in, devouring the flesh of his son.”
“Oh, what the shit, Nuke,” Adlemeyer protests appearing completely revolted. “Why can’t you ever tell a normal story like Tonto and the Lone Ranger? Fuck. You’re seriously giving me the creeps, man.”
“Yeah, that’s creepy,” Bill agrees.
“It gets worse,” Nuke warns them. “Should I continue?”
Bill stares back at Nuke without protest, although Adlemeyer looks as if he was out of sorts with the story and intrigued at the same time. Blaster looks up from his DS, easily dismissing Nuke’s story with his own play on words. “Uh… Yeah, talk about having the munchies, I’m kinda hungry myself.”
Both Bill and Adlemeyer shoot the Nintendo-wielding Marine an implausible glare.
“Yeah, I’m definitely hungry.” He drops the game console onto his lap and fishes around in the side compartment of his camouflage trousers until he pulls out a rectangular beige plastic container that reads pound cake, emblazoned in bold black letters.
“MRE menu number nine… my favorite.” Blaster grins with complete satisfaction, looking too anxious as he tears across the top of the package to retrieve the sweet golden goodness inside. “It comes with beef stew, and of course, mashed potatoes, French vanilla cappuccino, and my personal favorite—pound cake.” He then pops the entire golden cake into his mouth and begins to chew, oblivious to the fact that Bill and Adlemeyer are gawking at him.
“You know, Blaster,” Adlemeyer interjects, turning his eyes back to the road, “one out of four marines in a squad is an unbalanced flipping retard. You might want to take a look at the three guys next to you. If they seem like they’ve got their shit screwed on tight, you’re probably that asshole.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Blaster spits, still trying to break down the cake in his mouth. “It’s just some Native American mumbo jumbo bullshit.” He raises both of his hands quoting the politically correct term Native American with his fingers. “Doesn’t mean shit, won’t ever amount to shit.”
“Regardless, dumbass, I’d like to hear the rest of the story,” Adlemeyer scolds him, and then shifts his eyes over to Nuke, acknowledging he should continue.
“It’s okay. I don’t have to finish,” Nuke offers.
“Seriously.” Bill looks back. “Ignore him. I want to hear the rest of it even if he doesn’t.”
“Whatever. Like I care.” Blaster picks up the game console and instantly immerses himself into the game.
Nuke begins to recount where he left off. He stares outside into the dark void of the highway until he is able to wrap his mind back around the story. A powerful gust of cold air carrying the scent of seaweed wafts upward onto the highway and down inside the Humvee.
“It was the very night that his wife had passed when he finally allowed himself to eat his son’s entire body. His humanity replaced with a madness that swiftly robbed Croatoan of his soul. As the spirit had promised, the young brave grew in strength; however, not until after the consumption of his wife did he regain enough strength to walk out of the deep forest and back to civilization. It has been said that during that dreadful morning, he even cracked open their bones and sucked out their marrow…”
Nuke looks over to Blaster, waiting for another crack; golden crumbs dust the shit-bird’s flak jacket. He returns to the darkness. “In the end, my grandfather said the brave was never apprehended or held accountable for his crimes. Some say his hunger grew so enormous that he eventually disappeared into the wilderness and perished. Others say he is still out there somewhere, riding the wind, constantly searching for food.”
All is quiet inside the Hummer. Completely perplexed by Nuke’s story, Bill mulls over the details while continuing to scour the highway, avoiding wreckage and debris. Blaster remains wrapped up in his game, and Nuke stares out blankly into nothingness as if pondering a darker significance to his tale. The story seems to weigh deeply on Nuke, probably more than any of them were truly ready to believe. It is as if something stirred deep within the young Ojibwa; something trying to claw its way out to the surface from distant memories, perhaps. Whatever it is, it wants to escape being a memory altogether.
Needing answers, Bill breaks the silence. “I don’t get it. What’s the catch? I mean, why did your grandfather think your sickness would have anything to do with that story?”
“Since Croatoan was supposedly a direct descendant of the Ojibwa bloodline, some of our tribesmen believe the Algonquin brave cursed our tribe with his terrible act. Grandfather says that our people need to act carefully as we are more susceptible to the curse. Grandfather is extremely superstitious when it comes to tribal legends. He took my disorder as a sign of the curse’s return.”
“Yeah, but you’re obviously fine. I mean, nothing ever became of it right?” Adlemeyer asks.
“My mother was never as superstitious as my grandfather. But with me being born so ill, she’d become concerned and fed me some of her healthy blood, thinking it would correct my disorder, and I would get healthier much faster.”
“Your mother fed you blood… like actual human blood?” Adlemeyer’s shocked expression catches Nuke off guard. He gives Adlemeyer a quick lighthearted smile to avoid misleading Adlemeyer with the gruesome details of an already mortifying story.
“Just small drops, it was nothing too Bela Lugosi. She just wanted me to grow up healthy. You have to understand, my people have simple ideas and strong tribal beliefs.”
“I always thought my wild-ass backwoods upbringing would make great coffee table material, but you have to go one up me with tales of cannibals and… and vampires.” Blaster looks away from the game screen, visually checking the open space between Nuke and himself. “That’s a lot of shit to swallow, Cochise.”
“It was a long time ago,” Nuke says defensively. “I suppose grandfather’s story was just that—a story.”
“What about your blood disorder? I mean, you couldn’t pass the corps’ physical if you were that sick.” Again, Bill seems perplexed.
“I don’t know. I just seemed to get better as I got older. I guess my blood cells finally corrected themselves like the doctors said they would.”
“You guys got me sitting next to a freaking cannibal?” Blaster says without emotion completely enthralled with his game. Without looking up or over to Nuke and while shifting himself to the left and right as he tries to dodge whatever is on his game screen, Blaster then adds, “You know, come to think of it, I thought someone was munching on my junk the other night while I was in my rack.”
“Screw you, shit-bird,” Nuke quickly shoots back, and Bill and Adlemeyer laugh at them both.
“Shit-bird,” Bill sings out.
“Shit-bird,” Adlemeyer chimes in, matching his tone.
“Congratulations, Cochise. You just made this dark creepy highway a little creepier.” Blaster nudges Nuke’s ribs, and again, Nuke grunts.