Page 15 of When in December

Standing behind him with what could only be considered a smirk under his high-and-tight haircut, which looked like a puff of black curls, was another recruit. He at least had the sense to wait until the sergeant was out of earshot to smile and look between me and Barrett—we had somehow lucked out and gotten bunks across from each other.

“Hey.” The new guy smiled, stretching his thick coating of freckles across his tanned cheeks. Soon, I’d learn that he rarely wasn’t smiling. “Warren Vassar. Nice to meet ya.” He met my eyes. “We bunking? Cool stuff. Haven’t bunked since I went to camp in seventh grade. Guess I get top.”

Immediately, Barrett smiled back at this new character with a wave across the aisle. His bunkmate was somewhere else, probably getting teeth pulled or making sure he could see out of both eyes in medical. “Joseph Barrett.”

I rolled my eyes. “His name’s Barrett. I’m Aaron. Aaron Hayes.”

Vassar dipped his chin as he threw his duffel onto the top bunk. “Got it. Nice to meet you, boys.”

For some reason—maybe it was the fact that basic training managed to bond us more than break us somehow—it wasn’t just me and Barrett anymore. The three of us made it through basic training together during the rain, shine, and the sergeant screaming at us like we didn’t have eardrums and he didn’t have vocal cords he was afraid of ruining.

Case in point, the day we were all doing one of the famous runs. Someone always ended up either puking or passing out from sleep deprivation or how hot it was. Either way, you ended up covered in a layer of sweat you hadn’t known was possible.

With Barrett leading the three of us and Vassar keeping pace at my side, he stopped.

Leaning over his knees, Vassar picked up a stick on the side of the path, turning it around like it was some kind of treasure.

For a second, I considered that he might have heatstroke.

“What the hell are you doing?” I sneered at him, reaching to drag him with me if I had to.

Barrett was turning around as he ran to keep up with the rest of the pack, peeking over his shoulder to see what the holdup was.

Unfortunately not before the sergeant did.

“Are you holding a stick, Private?” Sergeant screamed.

Vassar looked down at his hand, still holding the stick like a toy wand, and then back up to the sergeant. After a moment, he nodded. “Sir, yes, Sir!”

“Good,” said Sergeant, catching me still watching the two of them. “What are you looking at, Hayes? Get running! Now, you, Private, what the fuck is that? Vassar? You, Private, get to hold that stick for the rest of your time here in the Army. That way, it can replace the oxygen that you’re wasting!”

I didn’t know what the sergeant thought was going to happen when he gave that order. I’d already started to keep running to catch up with Barrett, but Vassar nodded harder.

“Sir! Yes, Sir!”

And Vassar laughed.

His laugh had been loud enough that when he was inside, I swore it nearly shook the entire building. It was deep and brash and never held back. It made the sergeant and anyone else all through our years of training up to special operations make him run double, train double, be as good as his humor was.

But for the rest of basic training, Vassar had run, eaten, and slept with that puny stick until graduation day.

Eventually, years later after basic and special training, all three of us ran back into the sergeant between deployments. He looked at the three of us in recognition before his eyes caught on Vassar—because everyone remembered Vassar. Only now, it wasn’t just Vassar to look at. Vassar stood with one of the best work dogs I’d ever seen in the Army at his side.

“If that ain’t the best shit I’ve ever seen,” the old drill sergeant muttered, looking at Vassar. “Congratulations. You might be the only soldier I taught with follow through. Hayes! You’d better be keeping this soldier in check.”

When we walked away, I turned to Vassar. “What did he mean about follow through?”

Vassar shrugged. “Always figured he mean to make sure every breath you take here counts.”

I stared at my friend, shocked at his thoughtful answer.

“Now, come on, you’re supposed to keep me in check,” He shouldered me, and it was back to the same old Vass.

I was supposed to keep him in check.

I’d sure as hell tried.

The final time I had heard my last name outside of a hospital room, I could nearly still hear Vassar and Barrett—I swore it was the two of them—screaming my name still, like a piercing, high-pitched ring looping through my head over and over.

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