Chapter One
Chapter Two - Hilltop 5105
Chapter Three - Confirmation
Chapter Four - Waiting
Chapter Five - Sunrise
It's hard to remember the first time it happened. It became something so regular, so repetative and expected. It was now normal. An expected part of daily life.
It's not like I was the only target, but there was something different about the way they treated me. The gang of friends were from fammilies that had been here for generations. Anyone with a different family name was suspect and a potential target. Usually it was verbal. I, however, was found deserving of more physical attention.
I wonder if my parents got used to seeing my face bruised? Perhaps it became normal to have blood on my clothes? Were they even surprised to get a call that I had been taken to the emergency room?
Looking back, some of it seems almost funny, from a certain point of view. I was small. Perhaps they found it fascinating that I could fit inside the lockers. It was an interesting way to get out of some classes. Trapped in a locker was far better than attending gym class. However, if it happened at the end of the day, the likelyhood of being found and let out greatly diminished. Fortunately, with enough banging, a janitor would find me and let me out.
After a half-dozen times, they got to know me, and would keep an eye, or rather an ear out. It was still embarassing. I felt pathetic. Constantly in need of saving from a geriatric, part-time, overdue for retirement.
However pathetic and depressing, those years formed something within me. Now years older, it has been confused with arrogance. Anyone who knows my story is more likely to see it as stubborn perseverence. It became an asset. Not quite a superpower, but definitely handy in surviving some otherwise less-than-adequate circumstances.
I was seventeen when I joined. Summer after graduation was short, interrupted by flight to the middle of nowhere for a few months to get torn down and built back up. I was about a hundred and fifteen pounds of youth. A few months later, my own parents hardly recognized me.
The months that followed were a blur. After basic training, I was shipped around to different military bases to attend a series of schools. Before I knew it, a year had gone by, and I hadn't noticed.
Basic training flew by. At first, I second-guessed all the choices that led me to this path. It was like living in a series of recycled movie quotes. All the yelling of the drill sergeants. Yeah, I've heard that line before, you bunch of unoriginal...
The first curveball was for my first school, I ended up on a Navy base. Army, in Marine Corp barracks, on a Navy base. Oh. What. Fun. Most of the ribbing and commentary was really intended to be positive. Hoo-rah for healthy competition.
The first day of class was a general orientation. I discovered that I was supposed to take this class last, not first. Some logistics wizard thought that there were too many students in the other classes, and thought they'd help. In reality, if done in the correct order, atrition weeded out a majority of applicants before they would make it this far.
Great. Get the hard part over first. Only, I'd never jumped out of an aircraft before, let alone over water. I practically grew up at the beach, so stupid-stubborn took over, and I convinced myself that I'd make it. It was a reality check, a humbling experience. Somehow, I made it. After six months, it was over and I was on to my next school.
San Antonio in summer. Fire ant hills in the PT fields. Poor planning and mix-ups, so waiting for weeks for class to start, with nothing to do. An opportunity for someone to create meaningless tasks disguised as work. I ended up being able to take a Combat Medic class to get out of mowing lawns and painting rocks. It ended just in time for me to take the class I was sent there for. Another few months, and off to another school.
Now, at some unknown place in the middle of nowhere. Firearms qualification in the desert. The same course of fire as in basic, but wide open. it was hard to tell which targets were in which lane. It was a gate to make sure no one accidentally made it this far. Make sure everyone is competent enough before moving further. The furthest target was only 300 meters away, and technically you could miss it every time and still pass. I didn't miss.
The next day, a new range, but a completely different rifle. The closest target was 500 meters. After spending the preceding day with an M16, this bolt action rifle seemed archaic. After the first few shots downrange, grampa's ol' hunting rifle still got it where it counts. The optic felt like cheating. The target was crisp and clear. The variable magnification made everything exagerated. I could see the influence of every breath. One of the instructors decided I needed some more attention, to help unlearn some of the bad habbits of my upbringing. I was okay, but he knew I could be better. Within a week, my shot groups were tighter, about half the size they started. It was a monumental boost for my morale.
The faint noise of radio chatter made it hard to focus, and pay attention to anything else. My home just under the ridgeline was being interupted by my own. The sergeant and I had managed to stay up here undetected for almost a week, looking down over a collection of houses made of mud. From above, this place didn't look like any place of importance. Looks can be deceiving. There was a large building that was uses as a barn for the collective. Just above, a little further uphill was a series of mud houses with sheet metal rooftops. This looked like so many other small vilages that dotted this part of the country. You could smell the poverty.
A year before our arrival, no one heard of this place, let alone pronounce the name. On the maps, it was known as Hilltop 5105, named after the only slightly noticeable terrain feature. The series of streams coming down the mountainsides made for survivable conditions. Fresh water for drinking, and adequate soil for gardening. It was beutiful, in a way. The world around us looked untouched. They went about their business. Taking care of livestock. Working in gardens. Harvesting wood for fires. Some women looked like they were teaching children to make crafts. They had no idea there were new neighbors among them, watching as they went about their days.
"Rat, you copy?" Sarge's voice crackled in by earbud. I slowly moved my hand to the remote to transmit.
"Yeah, go ahead, over."
"I'm heading over for a meet-and-greet before these clowns give us all away. Keep your eyes open, over,"
"Wilco."
Sergeant moved back slowly from his position. He made no sound.
Sergeant Bradford and I had deployed together for years. I had to think and try to count the number of deployments we had accumulated. This one, nor the previous were supposed to happen. I had been promoted and was supposed to have my own team. However, circumstances saw otherwise. A few guys decided to make the news, and for the good of the unit, punished excesively. We lost half our platoon days before deployment.