Struggle in the Desert
Struggle in the Desert
PFC Virgil Charleston was in serious trouble for the first time in his young life. An angry MP, for Military policeman, gave him a shove. The cell door slammed shut with a metallic clank, and chain-link rattled in its steel framework. Virgil turned and looked back at his jailer. What a god-awful day this had turned out to be. How would he ever explain to the folks back home?
He had no idea it was about to get worse.
Just the previous afternoon, new soldiers had arrived at the temporary base near the Gulf from the States, and among them was a young man who had quickly become Virgil's personal nemesis. The man's name was Eugene. At breakfast, he had stepped in front of Virgil at the chow line, but that was only the first kick in the pants. Eugene had proceeded to take Virgil's regular place at his usual table in the mess tent. Nevertheless, Virgil had every intention of ignoring him. He wasn't able. The guy was also a slob, pigging down his ample pile of French toast a half-slice to a bite and chewing with his mouth open, a habit that had always really annoyed Virgil.
"Shut your mouth when you chew, you hog," Virgil exclaimed, as he stared downward, directly at his own food. Eugene stopped chewing and looked across the table at Virgil, who was scowling. The guy was acting like he was somebody's mom. And Eugene didn't like that. Not at all.
"Who you talkin' to, butt-wipe?" Eugene bristled.
"You, ya hog!"
A bitter exchange of angry and increasingly loud epithets followed. Only a direct order from a nearby sergeant stopped it, and it nearly didn't stop, in spite of the command.
Much to the dismay of both men, after breakfast they found themselves working together in the same supply tent. Each man quickly decided it would be easier to ignore the other, but it just wasn't going to work. Eugene had a special talent, at least, that's the way he saw it. He could whistle a tune through his front teeth. And while he worked, that's mostly what he did. Nonstop.
“Dweet Dweet dweedle dweedle dweet”...which of course, made it impossible for Virgil to ignore him.
"Would you please, cut that out?" Virgil had had just about all he could take.
Eugene looked over at Virgil, incredulous. “Hell no,” he replied, “I'm allowed to whistle if I want! All I want!”
“Listen,” pleaded Virgil as he gestured with open palms, “It really, really bothers me. I'm not asking a lot. Just stop, okay?”
Eugene did stop; for a bit. Maybe it wasn't that much to ask, and he really didn't feel like arguing. But then, he looked up as Virgil stood at the supply counter, tapping his pen nervously against an ashtray.
“So, are you gonna stop that if I ask you to?” he queried.
“Stop what?”
“That tapping. It bothers me.”
Sometimes, it would be a good thing to force oneself to go along with a co-worker, perhaps even to make a light-hearted joke of the conflict. But Virgil was young and hadn't yet been burned for his bad temper. So he just wasn't in the mood. He put the pen down, picked up a small wrench that was part of a requisition he'd been filling, and began to beat it on the counter, louder and faster than before.
“Well okay,” thought Eugene. He went back to whistling through his teeth.
Bangbangbangbangbangbangbang!
“Dweet Dweet Dweedle Dweet Dweet!”
This noisy stand-off continued for almost ten minutes. Virgil was supposed to be minding the counter, but if he did that, he'd have to stop. And Eugene indicated to Virgil with his eyes and by “shooing” at Virgil with his hands, he should do just that. Instead, Virgil ignored the “customers” and just kept rapping away at the counter with the wrench. Soon, a crowd of men in desert-camo fatigues began to gather in front of the open-sided tent, arms folded. They were at once amused, and vigilant for a possible brawl.
Availing himself of an opportunity to pull ahead in the competition, Eugene began to show off. He spread his arms wide apart, hands out, waggling his head from side to side as he whistled. “Dweeeet Dweeeet Dweet Dweedle Dweet Dweeet!!” Whereupon Virgil gave the wrench a quick whip, bouncing it squarely off the side of Eugene's head. Immediately if not sooner, the two men were rolling on the dirt floor. The objective of the competition was now to see who would be first to knock the other man's brains loose. Fists flew as the little crowd pressed closer to see over the counter.
Police whistles sounded and men shouted as MPs closed in on the fight. Eugene and Virgil were pulled apart and marched right over to the CO's office. No time was wasted.
“Pugil sticks,” the commanding officer said simply. “Give 'em helmets and let 'em knock it out of each other. Works every time.”
Five minutes later, the stage was set for Virgil and Eugene. The MPs jammed helmets on each man's head, and handed each a double-ended, cushioned club. Then they stepped back. “Go!”.
Thud, Clack, Clack, Thud, Thud, Clack, Thud Thud Thudd!!
The two men were uncommonly evenly-matched. Eugene scored the first knockdown, but Virgil picked himself up and immediately returned the favor. Virgil wanted to shove the pugil stick right down Eugene's throat - right after he knocked out those blasted front teeth, so he couldn't whistle through them any more. His primary target was the face mask. Thud, Clack, Clack, Thud! On and on it went. Ten more minutes passed. The crowd of onlookers started to jeer.
“C'mon, you two turkeys!” “Pick it up innair!” “Pretend he's a whack-a-mole! Whack 'im!”
The crowd of soldiers quickly enlarged, and money began to change hands. At first the betting was on who would win, but after almost another ten minutes, the betting turned to how long the battle would last. The CO stepped out of his tent to view the hubbub, and decided that enough was enough.
“Break it up!” he ordered the MPs. “Get those men back to their stations!”
Virgil was seething. Sweating hard, breathing deeply and chest pounding, his adrenalin was flowing at the max. So when an MP pushed him backward, Virgil blindly let him have it on the side of the helmet with his pugil stick. Thud, thudd!! Unprepared, the MP went down, but quickly got up and planted a hard fist in Virgil's mid-section. Then two more MP s relieved Virgil of the pugil stick and dragged him off to the stockade.
Eugene stood and watched all of this, realizing that if he'd been the first to be pushed, he might well have done the same. But Virgil was the unlucky one, and that made Eugene the winner. And being the winner under any circumstances, felt damn good. He pulled off his helmet, looked around and then headed back to the supply tent.
And this was where we came in. Virgil wasn't feeling sorry for what he'd done, he was feeling sorry for himself. He'd been a good soldier to this point, he had always followed orders, and for the most part, he'd gotten along with everyone. He knew his father, ex-military himself, would not begin to understand. And it was all because of that son-of-a-bitch with too much space between his front teeth. He sat down on the bunk, leaned forward and placed his hands over his head.
The “win” wasn't going to help newcomer Eugene much at all. Back at the supply tent, Eugene was scrambling to get things done. Now he needed to complete the duties of two men, he was wearing some seriously sore spots from the pugil-stick battle he'd just been through, he was thirsty, and he hadn't expected the heat to be this oppressive. So when Virgil's best buddy stepped up to the counter and began to deliver a new verbal assault, it was not a welcome thing at all.
“Got any soft spots from that fight, there, Yooo-jean? Maybe you'd like to try somethin' with me. Tell you what I think, they should've given Virgil a knife. That would've made it a lot more interesting.”
The remarks kept coming, and were obviously intended to pick another fight. Eugene had no intention of giving him that. What changed it, was the repetition of remarks that questioned, shall we say, Eugene's “pedigree”. Across the counter he delivered a lightning-fast punch to the face of his would-be assailant, knocking him cold.
An MP was right nearby, watching. That fight had been a little too intense for it to be over. Now he had another arrest to make. Eugene was conducted immediately to the CO.
“Stockade! What did you bring him here for?? This crap is over,” roared the angry CO.
How wrong can a man be?
The stockade ordinarily wouldn't have been set up for a temporary installation of this size. They had the materials, but generally wouldn't have expected it to be needed. What changed that was the capture of a local man who had been caught red-handed assembling detonators for IEDs, improvised explosive devices. The temporary base was the closest place to deliver him for holding, and three cells had been assembled from sections of heavy steel chain-link in steel frames. Ahmed would be held here until transfer to a prison could be made.
But now, all three cells would be occupied. Ahmed had been placed in the center cell, Virgil had been placed on his left and now, Eugene was on his right.
“Ha!” exclaimed Virgil. “Couldn't stay away, could you?” Each of the two men glowered at the other across the center cell, completely unrepentant.
It didn't take long. Eugene stretched out on the bunk and began to whistle. “Dweeet, Dweet Dweedle Dweet Dweeet! Dweedle Dweedle Dweet Dweet Dweeet!”
Virgil jerked to attention, and looked all around for some way to respond. His belt buckle! He quickly stripped his belt from his trousers, and started in on the heavy metal frame of his cell. Bangbangbangbangbangbangbang!
An MP had been posted outside the tent that was covering the little stockade, waiting for assurance that things would stay quiet. Obviously they weren't. But this was hilarious! He hurried off to collect some witnesses, so they could enjoy it too.
Soon a small crowd had gathered about the stockade tent. The whistling and the banging didn't stop, even for a moment. Some sat down, some stood, and once again, money began to change hands. Anything to stave off the boredom. Trucks came and went, chow time came, and gradually, the bloom came off the rose, so to speak. The little crowd began to disperse, and after a while, chow trays were brought for the prisoners. The noises stopped for a while as they ate, and while each prisoner was conducted to the john.
But, much to the dismay of Ahmed, the whistling and banging started right up again. It went on, and on, and on, even as twilight settled over the surrounding dunes and an otherwise peaceful scene.
The CO walked easily over to the stockade tent to hear it for himself. Addressing the smiling MP, he stood shaking his head, and said simply, “Amazing.”
“Sir, the 'banger' is using his belt buckle to fight this battle, should I take it?” the MP asked.
“Hahahahaha, what, and leave him defenseless?”
“How long are you going to keep them in there, sir?” queried the MP.
“As long as it takes for that bullshit to stop, and then some,” he replied. “If it takes till we all get to go home, so be it. Maybe we'll just leave 'em here! Listen, we're far enough from any action, there's no need for a guard to be posted here. We have guards at the perimeter.”
He stood for another moment, obviously in thought.
“It's kind of strange, isn't it? This dynamic, right here, is the very essence of conflict, everywhere in the world. It's completely selfish, stupid and ridiculous. And destructive! I mean, it's one thing to defend yourself. But to your enemy, it never looks like simple self-defense. And it's the same everywhere. People almost never think about what they're saying. Or how their actions will be perceived. Hm.” He paused, looking down at his feet, his chin between two fingers. “Maybe it's getting to be my time to retire.”
The CO turned and strolled slowly back to his quarters.
A myriad of stars twinkled brightly in the desert night sky, scorpions scurried about in the deepening darkness, and activities at the base slowed for the night.
Bangbangbangbangbangbangbang!
“Dweedle Dweedle Dweet Dweet Dweeet!”
A stressed-out Ahmed, builder of bombs, cried out, “Aieeee! Americans are so intolerant!!”
Bangbangbangbangbangbangbang!
“Dweedle Dweedle Dweet Dweet Dweeet!”
“Aieeee!”
Laughing, the MP walked away, leaving the three men to their own private hell.
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