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Benning is a dump. Did Frank really used to be like them, the limp, brain-dead Second Lieutenants he’d had shoved in his face by the higher-ups, doomed to be taught ‘hand-to-hand’ at his instruction? They all looked like they had never taken a punch in their lives, these metropolitan-type stragglers. They gawk at Lieutenant Colonel Slade, like there’s nothing behind those sets of eyes. But can he really blame them?
It’s the same shit every day. The sun doesn’t show itself by the time they’re out of the barracks and into the classrooms. And they must know. They know why he’s here. Why he isn’t anywhere else, anywhere he should be. And it’s killing him inside. Maybe that’s why the half-hearted jabs are flung with smirks, and the deference isn’t as palpable in the oppressive, sweaty atmosphere.
Everyone knows Lieutenant Colonel Frank Slade is a failure, and his fallibility means that the world has ceremoniously passed him by, United States Army included. Take the ‘in’ out of ‘invincible’, the ‘un’ out of ‘untouchable’, and all that’s left is a sad man on the wrong side of 40 sitting at a civilian bar and nursing a watery Bloody Mary.
Vinnie wasn’t able to join him today. Something about paperwork. Always paperwork. Trudge through swamps lined with Agent-Orange-ravaged trees enough and you’re gonna be dealing with their corpses for the rest of your life.
— — — — —
The mousse in Frank’s hair wasn’t holding up well anymore; the strands were getting stuck in his eyelashes, blurring. Whether that was due to their proximity to his pupils or the amount of watery Bloody Marys he was able to consume to get the desired effect, it was probably time to go back to his sorry excuse for living quarters. The digital clock behind the bar struck a hazy 0200 hours.
After a stalling glance at the wooden grain of the bar counter to appreciate the unimportant pattern, Frank hobbled off of his stool and started walking. His car would have to be left in the parking lot again. They’d understand. He didn’t have any woman clinging to his shoulder to impress with its make and model anyways.
His room was pitch black, which he couldn’t stand. Drawing back the curtains helped him get a sliver of moonlight. Enough for 0200 hours. Waking up soon was gonna be hell, but he had no choice.
Did he have a choice when his superiors were giving him orders about disregarding collateral damage in Vietnam? The ones he pushed back on? When he was told to look the other way and—
Frank winced. He’s drunk. Yeah, sure, he fucked up; it’s over and done with. He’s here now, teaching hand-to-hand combat. That’s what he’s got. Fucked around and found out.
Every time he drinks his mind gets stuck on this evil snare. So he’s not ‘General Slade’? So what? Who fucking cares? Vietnam fucked everyone over in some type of way. Some more than others. More than him.
So he tries to convince himself that he doesn’t care, staring out of his shitty window at the moon and trying not to think about the rest of his wasted life.
— — — — —
Vinnie called Frank up in the morning, his schedule paperwork-free. They both had another class of sniveling rookies to handle soon, but they could fit in their customary social hour.
Grasping at straws for comfort at Benning, Frank grimaced as he took another sip of his Screwdriver. It wasn’t strong enough. Vinnie gave him a knowing look as Frank gestured for the bartender to put another one together. He’d drink his way through these easily, assembly-style.
“The kids aren’t gonna notice today?” There was wariness in Vinnie’s voice. The stress was still there. He hadn’t drunk enough yet either.
“Nah, who gives a fuck?” Frank retorted, pushing past the petulant whine in his voice. “They don’t need the miserable, clear-headed version of me there in order to throw their punches. No, just the shell. Smiling, keeping time, keeping track, and letting ‘em go at the end.”
By the end of his response, Frank was staring into the orange froth of his drink, trying to see if he could still count the bubbles. He could. He needs another Screwdriver now. Vinnie shrugged out of the corner of his eye.
“Fine with me, Frank,” he said with a sigh. Vinnie was always a loyal accomplice. Frank could count on him.
— — — — —
Frank held the lesson plan paper gingerly in his left hand and tried reading the jittery, typed-up summary at the top again. ‘Grenades’. So that’s it, then? These soggy pawns were going to be trusted with grenades now? Was this not ‘hand-to-hand’? This had got to be Benning’s sick version of elementary school field day.
The paper was getting harder to look at. The problem was solved by crumpling it up and throwing it in the general direction of the trash bin. He missed. That didn’t solve the ache developing behind his eyes. His brain felt like a crumpled up piece of paper. How many Screwdrivers did he have?
Fuck it. No grenades today, Frank decided. No, they could look at the grenades if they wanted to—the container that held some of the volatile school supplies was already there, in the front of the room—but they couldn't touch. Hell, Frank’s buzzed, drowning under the influence if he has to swear on a life, and he doesn’t want to deal with some delinquents wielding explosives without experience.
He has experience, though. He’ll handle it. Do some show and tell. That’ll take care of the lesson plan that the higher-ups had the gall to send down through the figurative mail shoot this week.
Vinnie was standing by the open box that had ‘DANGER: EXPLOSIVES’ written all over it, twirling a no. 2 pencil between his fingers. Still some dexterity there. Hopefully he wasn’t sober enough to veto Frank’s lesson.
“Hey, Vinnie,” Frank tried, the beginning of his sentence already slurring together. Vinnie stopped twirling his pencil and looked at him, bemused. The Second Lieutenants were filing in, their conversations already too loud for Frank’s pounding brain. “I’m thinkin’ it’s demonstration day.” He left it there. Vinnie looked confused for a second at the cryptic suggestion. Only for a second.
“Oh, Frank, you can’t,” he moaned with condescension in his voice as he realized what was being implied. He sounded exhausted, like he’d thought he’d heard it all up until this moment.
This is why Frank had to do this. Had to do something to create a little bit of breeze in this stagnant hell he’d made for himself. He stumbled over and pried the lid off of the box. No effort to stop him from Vinnie. Good old Vinnie.
“It’s a show; we need a show!” A sing-song voice had found its way out through his drunken vocal chords. “Gotta do this, show ‘em how it’s done. Nice an’ quick. Nice an’ easy.” The audience was almost fully-formed now, with some of the rookies eyeing him with concern. Concern? Hell no, after this it would be respect. What he’d always fucking deserved. “Hand ‘em over, Vinnie!”
Frank was getting impatient now. He couldn’t stand this classroom full of blank-slates that would soon turn the wrong way and take the wrong orders and enter the long, bland, destructive line of ‘yes’ that he’d tried his damnedest to resist. He flinches. He shouldn’t think about that.
“You good?” There’s uncertainty in his accomplice’s voice. “Sure about this?”
Frank’s fine. He forgets to say it aloud. No more reaction from Vinnie. Now he’s here. Now he’s got the grenades. What can he do with them? Why isn’t Vinnie handing them over? Frank stumbles over silently. He’s aware he’s being gaped at by the now-full classroom.
“I… I got this. This is… it’s good. Give ‘em.” Fuck, he’s barely coherent.
Grasping at the contents of the open box, the balm that the feel of those smooth, shiny, perfectly-shaped grenades is on Frank’s mind needs to be bottled and sold. He watches how his fingers smudge over the bumps and ridges of the dark green ovals, transfixed.
A pencil falls in the background. Second Lieutenants. The spell is broken. Frank scrambles up again with three grenades clutched close to his chest.
“Okay-okay-okay, showtime.” Everyone and their mother used to juggle grenades back in Vietnam. Frank shouldn’t be thinking about Vietnam or mothers, but the juggling bit is sticking with him. He can probably get a couple rounds in. No, he definitely can. In fact, that’s all he can fathom doing right now. There’s no room for anything else in his past, present, or future. He wills himself to focus on the three lumps of smooth ceramic in his clutches. Playing around is all he’s got.
“Watch this,” he roars. The pins are in, he sees as he begins to toss them rhythmically. No matter what, it’ll be fine. He’s hearing exclamations of worry from the seats before him but he doesn’t give a shit. He’s focusing on getting a nice pace, from one hand to another. And it’s easy. It’s like riding a bike. He can tune everyone out. That’s easy too. And it’s too easy.
The pins. The pins… they gotta go. With a scowl he snatches the third grenade out of the air and all three are stationary in his grasp. The world turns back on. Vinnie is in his ear.
“Okay, Frank, you had your fun. Where’s the lesson plan?” Wordlessly, Frank gestures with his elbow towards the trash. Vinnie purses his lips and goes to pick up the ball of paper that had bounced off of the bin. When his back is turned, Frank makes his decision.
Pulling out the pin, how bad can that be? It’s small, it’s quiet; no one notices as he makes the knee-jerk motion. His hands are shaking. They weren’t ten seconds ago. The pin falls to the ground and he sluggishly kicks it away. He’s disgusted. He can’t look at where it ended up. He can’t believe he’s doing this.
“I’m-not… not done yet, Vinnie.” And he tosses one up, then another, and then the third that doesn’t have the pin, and for a moment it’s methodical and he feels at peace in a way that he hasn’t in years. He starts to laugh manically.
The third grenade hits the floor.
He looks at it. Vinnie looks at it. The Second Lieutenants look at it.
It explodes.
— — — — —
After.
When he’s cleared to return home from the hospital. When the trial deems him medically retired and sets him up with disability pay. When his family finally leaves him alone. When he’s in the guest house belonging to his niece. He goes to bed. The moonlight is spilling in through the window and onto his pillow.
Frank just can’t see it this time.