One Bullet Away

“You didn’t really. I have a secret task for each of you. Your squads will be operating independently out there this week. Starting tomorrow, each of you will become progressively more withdrawn. You’ll be uninvolved, uninterested, and, eventually, uncooperative. The missions culminate on Thursday with a night attack. Confusing as hell. By then, you have to be in full revolt.”

A lieutenant asked Novack why we would be doing this.

“Feigning psychiatric casualties. Giving your buddies a taste of the chaos of not being able to trust one of their own. They’ll think you’re an asshole, but we’ll debrief it Friday afternoon with Dr. Death, and they’ll understand you were playing a role.” He glanced up at the approaching helicopters. “Here come the birds.”

I sat near the door, enjoying the cool slipstream and dreading our plunge back into the steamy woods. Our acting squad leader, VJ George, gave the two-minute warning, and I clicked a magazine into my M-16.

I had first met VJ on the pull-up bars outside Graves Hall during TBS. He had been shirtless, cranking his arms like hydraulic pistons. A lieutenant next to me had turned and whispered, “That guy’s the best athlete in Alpha Company.” Big praise in the Corps. VJ was an unlikely Marine. His parents, Indian immigrants, wanted him to go to med school, and his brother was a Silicon Valley programmer. His main interests were classical music and libertarian economics. VJ had gone to the Naval Academy, where he competed as a powerlifter and developed a distaste for military customs such as short hair and addressing people by rank. After IOC, we were going to the same infantry battalion in California and planned to be roommates.

VJ led us off the landing zone and through our first two days of patrolling. I tried to distance myself slowly from the work of the squad — carrying less of our common load of radio batteries, ammunition, and water; participating only halfheartedly in digging our defensive positions when we stopped; and abstaining from conversations and decision making. On Wednesday, just before sunset, we halted on a hillside above a gravel road. It was a bad position, visible from the road and at the mercy of a commanding ridgeline above. A voice was screaming inside me to move higher on the hill, to get into a defensive position where we would be less visible and more able to control the ground around us.

“So, Nate, I’m planning to stop here for a few hours. What do you think?” VJ crouched next to me, eyes lost beneath the brim of a floppy bush hat.

I shrugged.

“Man, I’m asking your opinion.”

He was testing me. The position sucked. He knew it. I knew it. He knew I knew it.

“Whatever. Your call.”

VJ swore under his breath and moved back to the rest of the squad, leaving me sitting alone next to a fallen tree. I could hear them speaking together in low voices. About me. About what an asshole I was. Unreliable. Self-centered. Dead weight. VJ moved the squad to a better position, and I followed silently.

By dawn on the day of the final attack, the distance between me and the rest of the squad had become personal. I could tell they were questioning how they could have misjudged me, concerned that we had orders to the same battalion in the Fleet. The squad took a security halt, dropping quietly to the ground for fifteen minutes to make sure we weren’t being followed, and I refused to go any farther. The other Marines stood to keep moving, but I stayed on my stomach.

“Yo, Nate.” A scuffed boot kicked me gently in the hip.

I looked up but didn’t respond.

“C’mon, man. We’re moving.”

I kept quiet. VJ walked back to me, half-stooped under his heavy pack.

“What the fuck, Nate? Are you sick?” I shook my head. “Then why are you being a bitch? I thought you were a fucking Marine, a fucking infantry officer.”

I no longer cared about Captain Novack or the training. VJ plucked my strings, appealing to my duty and my pride. I couldn’t let my friends down, couldn’t be seen as the weak link, even knowing it would all be cleared up on Friday afternoon. My will collapsed.

“It’s an act. Dr. Death set me up to be a psychiatric casualty. I was supposed to be withdrawn, give you guys a chance to deal with someone losing his shit. I can’t take it anymore.”

They looked as if they didn’t believe me.

“Goddamn it. I’m telling the truth. Give me some of the extra batteries and water. We’ve got a long way to go still.” I opened my pack to fill it with gear. “And VJ, that position yesterday fucking sucked.”

VJ’s smile glowed white from his dirty, black-painted face. “Good to have you back, man.”