Page 2 of Nomad
Aaron was five years younger than me with a wife and a young kid. He was one of those guys who lived and breathed this shit. I called it a “death wish,” and when I was younger, I’d admittedly had it too. Most Operators did, or we wouldn’t have signed up for the job. But the older you got, you grew out of that shit. Getting shot at and being away from home didn’t get any fucking easier.
Like Aaron and most of my brothers, I believed I was untouchable. In the beginning, stepping foot in another country used to be the highlight of my fucking day. The adrenaline rush of taking out an enemy during covert missions was addicting as shit, so I understood what he meant. Except, I didn’t have a family. That was where we differed. Only my brothers in arms would say goodbye to me when it was time for me to pay the ferryman on the way to Hell.
My parents were dead, and I had no living relatives. Now, my father didn’t keep his dick in his pants, so it wasn’t a guarantee I was an only child. But if I was alone in the world, if I was the last of the McGhee line, I was fine with it.
You couldn’t pay me a million fucking bucks to be in Aaron’s shoes. There was no way in hell I’d do what he does. I’d never understand how he dealt with being separated from his family every time we deployed somewhere with little to no contact and no timeline of when we’d return. I could never be away from my family like we are. Everyone was different. Other men throughout the years had done the same as Aaron, but it seemed like unnecessary heartache for them and their families.
“Now Sandman,” he pulled an envelope from the waistband of his pants, then slid it across the table to me, “I love my wife and my son, but she knew what she was getting into when she married me. I’ll be serving my country until I physically can’t, and they say take your old ass to the house, or I take my last breath. Whichever comes first.”
“Well, I’m a few years older than you, and I’m taking my old ass to the house. These old bones can’t take too much more of this shit. I’ll let you young bucks do the grunt work from now on.”
We laughed, something we hadn’t had the luxury of doing lately. I removed my boots from the table and picked up the cream-colored envelope, flipping it over. He’d written nothing on the front or the back of the stained covering. He’d given it to me today, after holding on to it for a long time.
I peered at him.
He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and crossed his arms over his chest. Although it seemed he didn’t have a care in the world, I knew different. He battled his demons like the rest of us.
I waved the envelope in the air to get his attention. “Man, what’s this?”
“I want you to read it when you get stateside and not one minute before.” He fixed his gaze on me and smirked, but the vacant look in his eyes unnerved me. It was like he was somewhere else, or like he had a ton of shit on his mind. “I don’t have family other than Jade and Junior. You’re the closest person to that. I consider you my brother, Sandman. You get me?”
I knew next to nothing about Aaron’s life before his wife and child. We never discussed our pasts other than them being shitty. Knowing no details, I’d assumed his childhood was as fucked up as mine. Most likely, his parents hadn’t been in the picture, like mine, from our brief conversations. However, from those conversations, there was no mistaking that the military had saved his life, like it had mine.
“Yeah, I get you. But are you alright, Aaron?” The more he talked, the more something seemed off. I thought of him as a brother, too, and wanted to help him if possible. “You can talk to me, no matter how fucked up it might be. I’ve been where you are.”
He laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“I won’t judge.” That was the truth. I wouldn’t judge. As a kid, I’d done awful shit before deciding to join the military and killed many men after. I wasn’t the best person. So no, I wouldn’t judge because I couldn’t.
“Yeah, I’m good.” He nodded, but his eyes screamed something else. No longer did they look vacant. They held fear. “It is what it is. There’s nothing to worry about, Sandman.”
He wasn’t good, and he lied to my face. Something was going on with him. I wasn’t a sentimental man. I didn’t enjoy talking about feelings and shit, but no one other than the people who’d served understood the everyday battles. If he’d open up and talk about what was bothering him, however strange, maybe the weight he carried would lift.
He shook his head, like he tried to shake the thoughts from his mind.
“Are you sure?” I tried not to push, but I needed him to talk. “I’m here to listen if you need to vent, man. We all go through shit out here. Don’t keep that shit bottled up inside. It’s not good for you or the team.”
“I’m going to miss you, man.”
He ignored my question.
I wouldn’t call him out on that shit right now, but I’d approach the subject again later. It was solid advice. Keeping the shit inside affected everyone, not only him.
“These fucking missions and godforsaken places won’t be the same after you’re gone.”
As I slid the envelope into the waistband of my pants, I attempted to shake the eeriness crawling up my spine. “I’m gonna miss your crazy ass, too. But remember, I’m only a phone call away.”
The pensive look on his face was one I’d seen on many of my brothers’ who lived one day at a time because any day might be our time and place. Shit, I lived the same way, but we didn’t dwell on it. We accepted the shit we couldn’t change, like we may not make it home to those we loved. That was a hazard of the job. However, we tried not to let that realization weigh on us because we couldn’t do our jobs if we did, which put everyone at risk. Us and our fellow Americans.
“Sure, one phone call away,” he repeated somberly, then pointed at me. “Your ass better let me know how things are going whenever you can, Sandman.”
“I will, brother.” We bumped fists. “I promise.”
“We got orders!” our Commanding Officer yelled, interrupting our depressing conversation.
Thankfully.
Goodbyes were tough, especially to someone who might not be there tomorrow. Yet, in so many words, that was what we’d done and, hopefully, it wouldn’t be our last one.
