by Patrick Jourdan
Ryan and Frank sat in their small, white pickup truck under the harsh artificial lights of Kandahar Airfield. Their legs were crammed against the dashboard, their arms dangling out of open windows. Cool air blew through the cab, creating goosebumps on the skin under Frank’s uniform sleeves. The rain from the last three days had let up, and the fine sand around them was starting to blow around again. They watched planes land and take off from the concrete airstrip fifty meters away. Their uniforms were dirty with two-day old sweat and dust.
Ryan reached into his cargo pocket and produced a pack of Marlboro Reds. He took one out, placed it into his mouth and lit it with a steady hand. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and savoring the first drag before letting his arm hang out of the window of the truck. Frank breathed in the tobacco smell with his eyes locked on the windshield. He’d never smoked in his life.
Two days earlier, they’d been on the airfield tarmac, following gurneys as uniformed medics and doctors wheeled them from a Blackhawk into the hospital. The rotor wash had blown against Frank’s hair and sprinkled it with water droplets from the wet concrete. Dark sunglasses concealed Ryan’s eyes, while Frank’s kept glancing at a limp arm dangling over the side of one gurney. He’d yelled at some curious onlookers who were struggling to peek at the commotion in shock trauma. Frank and Ryan sat on the floor and leaned against the painted brick wall watching as the doctors took two of their soldiers into surgery and covered two more with blankets. A few minutes later, Ryan picked up the phone and delivered the news to the commander: “Parks and Wilson are gone, sir.”
After two sleepless nights they were getting ready to welcome the battalion commander, the Sergeant Major, and others who had come down for the ramp ceremony and memorial service. They’d taken the time to shave before coming to the flight line in a token attempt to keep up appearances for the leadership. A thin cut along Frank’s jawline still burned, betraying his haphazard razor work.
“Maybe that’s them,” Frank wondered aloud, watching a twin-rotor Chinook touch down in the distance.
“Nope. John wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those,” Ryan said, using the battalion Sergeant Major’s first name. They resumed their watch.
Frank and Ryan had never been that close. For the last year, Frank had looked up to Ryan. He was tall, lean, and looked young, considering his age. He was an old school sapper: rough around the edges, confident. It wasn’t his first time in Afghanistan. It wasn’t even his first time in Kandahar. The slightly faded combat action badge on his uniform had been earned years ago. He was the First Sergeant, abrasive as possible to everyone, all the time. He’d regularly bring soldiers into his office, dressing them down with poetic insults. It always seemed like something a screenwriter would come up with. Ryan never seemed like he was actually mad. His lines seemed to Frank like there were being delivered from a well-rehearsed script.
Frank was never subject to the angry outbursts, “corrective training,” or even a good-natured ribbing. Frank was the XO, an officer. To Ryan, Frank was always just the XO. They never butted heads, never got into shouting matches, never had conversations longer than a few minutes. It was a separation that was difficult for to overcome.
It wasn’t for lack of trying. They’d been in Afghanistan for seven months. They’d shared meals together, lived next to each other, and worked out together every day. Frank heard Ryan talking to his wife on Facetime most nights through the thin wall between their barracks rooms as he was trying to fall asleep. Frank would get up around 4:30 most mornings, careful not to wake his roommates. He’d head to the gym before most of the other soldiers on the airfield, and every time Ryan would be in there already.They’d barely talk as they went through the motions of their daily routine. It was the strangest relationship Frank had ever had. They’d spent enough time together to be best friends but could barely find anything in common.Until a couple days ago.
This wasn’t the way their war was supposed to go. It didn’t feel like there was much of a war left now. Since they’d arrived, they only drove a short distance from their massive, populated airfield. Every day, they got emails with reports of pitched battles and hundreds of casualties happening all around them as the Afghan Army tried desperately to hold back the Taliban. But here in the heart of their American island in central Kandahar, it was calm. They’d sip their coffee and calmly plan their routes for the week. It was routine. It was supposed to be safe.
It was different than the war that Frank imagined growing up. They’d invaded Afghanistan when he was in second grade. He’d started ROTC during the surge when soldiers got into contact every day. He’d read the news as a cadet; stories of firefights, living in tiny outposts and holding the line against a determined and ruthless foe. Ten years ago, they would have been riding around the province in helicopters and clearing villages. They’d be doing foot patrols and meeting with village elders. Frank had imagined himself running from rock to rock, dodging bullets and yelling into his hand mic for air support. Now, he felt the closest he’d get to the real war was his books. He still read them, even here at war.
“Did you ever talk to Wilson? Like on a personal level?” Ryan asked.
Frank was slow to answer.
“No, I never did. I feel like I barely knew him. He came to us right before we left, right?”
“Yeah he’d been there like a month before you got on a plane,” Ryan said, looking straight over the dashboard as a gust of wind sprinkled the inside of the truck with flecks of dust. “I only really talked to him about one thing, which was fuckin’ cigarettes. He asked to bum one off me back in August, and I made him feel real bad about it. Then every time he came by the CP he’d offer me one. I couldn’t get him to just shut the fuck up and leave me alone.”
Frank chuckled a little under his breath and went back to watching, feeling a twinge of embarrassment that he didn’t have any stories to share. They settled back into their silence. It was always surprising to Frank that he couldn’t see stars here. Between the dust in the air and the harsh generator-powered airfield lights, the sky just seemed black. A convoy of four Land Rovers pulled out of the walled compound across the street behind them.
The way Ryan talked about the war was strange. The company was mostly younger guys, and most of them had never been in a fight. Ryan always called back to his old experiences when talking to the company. “We wear our gloves because if a fire starts, you don’t want to get your hands burned up. I’ve seen it happen. Gunners have to wear restraints because otherwise, when the truck flips, you’re gonna get crushed under the turret. Happened to a buddy of mine.” But in the war stories, anecdotes, and implied nightmares, Frank sensed Ryan missed the way the war used to be. He could see it in his face every time a patrol went without a hitch, or a soldier got wounded playing basketball instead of by a Taliban bullet, or he had to attend another meeting about end of tour awards. It rang slightly hollower every time Ryan dressed down a Private for forgetting extra batteries for his night vision, or not fastening the buckle on their helmet. The longer the deployment went on, the less his heart was in it. This new war wasn’t the one either of them expected, but it was the one they were stuck with.
On his lap, Frank rested his hand on a small, leatherbound notebook He liked it because it fit into his cargo pocket but was a little more rugged than the Army-issued green books. It was filled with scribbles and notes, most of which seemed unimportant. He would use it to jot thoughts at meetings, draw little spirals and triangles when he was bored, and keep checklists of things he needed to brief the platoon leaders and the commander. Everything inside seemed to fit snugly into each page. There was no wasted space, every line was used for something, even if it wasn’t something useful.
Two days ago, the entry was different. It had hastily scrawled notes in large, messy handwriting. Some of the lettering was smudged, some of it was in different colored ink. They were the notes of a radio operator, frantically writing all the information that was being fed to him over a small black hand mic. They captured desperation.
RTE Huskies
MEDEVAC FREQ – 59300
CHAOS 2 QRF – SP 0844 WEST GATE
AWT EN ROUTE O/S FOR 3 HRS
Cas-
1 URGENT
1 PRIORITY
2 EXPECTED → EXPECTANT
The notes went on for pages and pages, phone numbers and frequencies and time stamps as Frank sat helplessly behind his radio, struggling to keep his voice from cracking. It was all he could do while his friend died on a narrow dirt road after his truck hit an IED fifteen kilometers away. He’d grabbed the hand mic from the Specialist at the desk, desperate to do something to feel like he was involved, rather than just an observer.
Frank and Ryan both knew the second casualty well. Parks had been a squad leader, one of the best in the company. He was someone Ryan could go to if he needed something done fast. He had been one of Frank’s squad leaders when Frank first got to the company as a platoon leader. When Frank moved to the XO office down the hall, Frank and Parks stayed close. They’d been friends. Frank still hadn’t called Parks’ wife.
“That might be them,” Ryan said while exhaling smoke and flicking the finished cigarette into the air.
On the runway, a C-17 had just touched down and was making its way to the hangar. Its massive grey frame moved gracefully across the tarmac, a movement that had been repeated constantly over the last two decades of war.
“We still have some time while they offload,” Frank replied, straining his eyes trying to make out the black lettering of the plane’s tail number. He began nervously fiddling with the button of his cargo pocket. Ryan took another cigarette out of the pack and stuck it between his lips.
“You know what you’re gonna say?” Ryan said through a half-closed mouth as he sparked the lighter.
“Yeah, I think so.”
They knew that when the door to the hanger opened, the visitors would come out with somber stares. They’d likely offer support, checking in and asking how they were holding up. More than anything they’d want to go to the younger guys and mourn with them. They wanted to grieve together, and that was what worried Frank and Ryan.
While they sat waiting, the soldiers of Second Platoon were a mile up the road in the company motor pool, hard at work loading their equipment for tomorrow’s mission. They were checking radio fills, tying down medical bags, and loading magazines. Their NCOs were going through each truck, inspecting gear, and rehearsing the basics. Their platoon leader was poring over maps at the company headquarters, coordinating with the other patrols, ensuring the mission would go smoothly. They were busy, but more than that they were focused. They’d had their day to mourn, now they were back to work. The last thing they needed at this moment, seven hours before they had to leave, were old friends coming back into town and wandering into their compound gate to reopen their wounds, starting the grieving process over again.
Frank opened his notebook to a dog-eared page that he’d written on earlier that day. His notes, organized again after the earlier chaos, contained a bulleted list of the speech he was going to give to the new visitors. It was important that he told them before they met up with the rest of the company. His eyes quickly darted over the page. He’d already rehearsed the speech to himself at his desk. Refreshing it again was more of a way to pass the time.
More minutes went by. In the distance, they watched as the side door of the plane opened and people got off, carrying light rucksacks and M4s. They’d flown in body armor, everyone was bulky. They saw the familiar stout frame of the battalion Sergeant Major, and the complementary lankiness of the battalion commander. Frank felt a pit of anxiety start building in his stomach. He hated giving speeches.
“I never lost anyone before,” Ryan suddenly said, breaking the silence again. He turned and looked over at Frank, reaching up to pull the partially burned cigarette out of his mouth. As he pulled it out with two fingers, Frank saw his hand tremble.
That was a surprise. In all the stories about the last time he was here in Afghanistan, things he’d done, friends he’d seen get blown up, it’d seemed like there was nothing he hadn’t seen. Frank’s books were about soldiers like Ryan. It was why he seemed to be handling it so much better than everyone else in the company, keeping everyone’s minds on their work.
“Yeah?” was all Frank could think to reply, trying and failing to come up with the right thing to say.
“Yeah. It’s the first time it’s been someone I’ve been responsible for, you know?” Ryan answered, his voice cracking. He swallowed hard before placing the cigarette between his lips again.
Frank had seen the grief in the eyes of the younger guys in the company when they’d heard the news that Parks and Wilson had been killed. They’d lost their friends, their roommates. Their grief filled the halls of the company headquarters and the barracks rooms. Men hugged each another and shared memories and cried and laughed, and it was understandable, beautiful. But not for Ryan and Frank.
The grief they were allowed to show was measured, deliberate. They hugged the soldiers. They shared their memories, listened to the guys swap stories of the time Wilson almost broke his leg falling off the headquarters roof, or the time Parks had accidentally yelled at the division commander for not wearing his eye protection. But they could never stay. With a subtle head nod they’d step off to the side and talk about when they could get someone to clean out the destroyed truck, or who was going to carry the heavy metal coffins at the ramp ceremony. They had to plan for the thing they now dreaded: sending the guys back out for another patrol.
The hangar side door opened, spilling a patch of warm light onto the concrete. Out trudged eight figures, looking sleepy. It was late, they’d want to get to the bunks that had been set aside for them. Among the group were old members of the company, people who knew Parks and Wilson and the rest of the platoon that got hit.Frank and Ryan glanced at each other. Whatever emotion had been in Ryan’s face was gone, replaced with the same impassive look that had kept the company on task for the last few days. The pit in Frank’s stomach was gone, his mind clear again. After a final pause, they opened both doors together, stepping out into the night. Ryan sucked in the last of his cigarette, then crushed it into the gravel under his boot.
The new arrivals gathered in a half circle, waiting to be told where to go. Some of them dropped their bags on the ground, tucking their hands into their ballistic vests and letting their rifles dangle from their slings. Frank walked up to them, tucking his notebook into his cargo pocket. Ryan stood just to the side.
“Thank you all for being here,’ he began, voice steady, just like he rehearsed at the desk. “It’s been a hard couple days, but we’re glad to have y’all with us to send Parks and Wilson off right. We’re happy you’re here.”
“Let me bring you up to speed on where we are right now,” he continued, feeling himself fiddle with the button on his cargo pocket again, and hoping people wouldn’t notice.
“Right now, Second Platoon is getting their trucks ready to roll, the same way we always did before we got hit. I want to make sure y’all understand that right now, the guys don’t need your sorrow. They don’t need to be focused on what happened the other day. They need to stay focused on what they’re about to do tomorrow.”
“Again, we are very glad you’re here. For you, your time to grieve has just started. But understand that we’ve had our day, and now we’re back in the fight.”
Frank stopped and looked around at the faces, making eye contact with each. Everyone held his gaze, understanding what it was he was telling them. The Sergeant Major and battalion commander stood behind everyone else, their faces passive.
“Let’s get you guys to your rooms,” Ryan said after a moment. Everyone gathered their things.
Ryan handed the truck keys off to the Sergeant Major. He and the battalion commander would stay in the nice quarters. The rest of them began the long walk back to the barracks where the company lived. Frank caught up with an old friend from his platoon leader days. The other soldiers chatted amongst themselves.
Frank saw Ryan walking a few paces behind everyone else as they drew closer to their barracks. He dropped back to walk with him for the last hundred meters. The silence between them returned.
Frank and Ryan stood outside the barracks as the new arrivals filtered in. When the door closed behind them, Frank leaned his right shoulder on the wall of the barracks building, listening to the drone of the generators. He heard helicopters in the distance.
“We should go check on the mission prep for tomorrow,” Ryan said. Frank slowly nodded, staring at the rocky ground under his feet.
In seven hours, they’d be back at their posts. Frank would be at the company command post, moving a small pin on a map as Second Platoon drove the dusty roads outside the wire. He’d listen to his radio operator receive reports and pray they would be routine situation reports and not 9-Line MEDEVACs. He’d nervously button and unbutton his cargo pocket and find ways to pass the time, showing to everyone else in the room that this was just another day. Ryan would be down with First Platoon, getting them ready to go out again. He’d pretend to be angry with NCOs, dole out his unique insults, and get the still-shaken soldiers ready to clear routes. The war would keep going, the way it had for almost twenty years. They’d keep the machine running.
Next to him, Ryan produced his pack of Marlboro Reds. He opened the top, shook out a cigarette and lit it, savoring a long first drag while he looked up at the black sky.
“Can I get one of those?” Frank asked, the words feeling alien coming out of his mouth.
Ryan tapped out another and handed it to him, then held his lighter over and sparked it while Frank inhaled, replicating what he’d seen Ryan do. It didn’t taste like much to Frank, but he savored it too as he watched it flare in the darkness. Maybe they could grieve a little longer.
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Patrick Jourdan is a former Army Engineer and Paratrooper. He went to Afghanistan in 2019, before leaving the Army in 2022. He is currently a graduate student at Georgetown University in Washington D.C. and lives in Arlington, VA with his cat. This is his first published short story.
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