Chapter 2
Christopher stands outside Mugsy Harper's tent observing some inner ritual of politeness that stops him from walking right in; never mind that the door is rolled up over the doorway and Mugsy is staring directly at him with an expression that seems to be a mixture of fond annoyance and open curiosity.
"Aw, Carrot Top, man I know you love me, but this ain't a freakin' mansion or whatever you're used to. It's a tent, for Christsakes, come in!" Mugsy bellows louder than necessary. The whole thing is a big bluff, though, since he is laughing like a fool by the end of it.
Christopher knows that his face is probably the same color as his hair at this point. Damn his ridiculously pale skin that refuses to brown up and help protect him from the horrid desert sun. There is no way that the sun on this side of the world is the same one that peeks through sheer curtains back in his bedroom in London, no matter what science says. He frowns at his friend and superior officer as he walks in to the tent.
"Geez, take yer time why don'tcha!" Mugsy tosses a cold bottle of water at Christopher, who almost drops it out of sheer surprise.
Christopher eyes the packed sand floor with hatred as he opens the bottle.
"Boy, you got some big hands there, you know it?" Mugsy teases as he settles back on his bunk, a sock wrapped over his right hand, silver needle nesting between the finger and thumb on his left.
The other soldier shrugs as he studies his hands for a moment. He can almost fit the fat little plastic bottle into a fist. He lets his mind slip away a little, thinking of the way his fingers cradle the side of Valentine's open and trusting face, the way she smiles and the way he leans in close, the softly floral scent of her skin as he takes his time tasting the skin of her neck…
"Yo! Earth to Carrot Top! At least I think this fuckin' desert is still on Earth, last time I checked anyway." Mugsy mutters to his socks.
Christopher looks around the tent for a chair. There is a blue fold-up one in the corner against the solid side, so he grabs it sits down quickly, his long legs almost forced into an uncomfortable angle. He drinks his water and waits, thoroughly enjoying the coolness on his parched throat.
Mugsy finishes darning the sock. He holds up his hand and turns it back and forth, studying his handiwork, the stitches invisible against the tan material. Satisfied, he tosses it to the end of his bunk and grabs his own half-full bottle of water from his makeshift nightstand. He takes a deep drink that ends with a belch then studies Christopher hard.
"Sergeant Tietjens," Mugsy clears his throat and switches into 'professional soldier' mode.
Christopher turns away from his contemplation of the floor and his own bare toes. "Yes, sir." He says quietly. Everything that he has done in the past few weeks rushes through his mind, from sun up to sun down. It seems like there is nothing he has done wrong or anything he should be reprimanded for; Christopher would know, the one time he slipped up and didn't follow given orders to the letter, he was the one who brought himself before his new commanding officer for a fitting punishment.
Mugsy, though, only laughed at him and called him a damned fool. He said something along the lines that if soldiers were all meant to be perfect then the army would be using robots and not human beings, and certainly not men. And, really, Carrot Top, did a spit-shine on tan boots in the desert actually make that much of a difference?
Christopher remembers frowning down at Mugsy, who stands a solid six inches shorter than Christopher and the Lieutenant frowning right back, his eyes flashing like a lighthouse ashore on a foggy night at sea. Mugsy was the first of the men to give Christopher a nickname and that small gesture not only broke the ice between them, but also helped Christopher warm up to the other men and women in the camp. Before that, Sergeant Tietjens only did what he was told and kept to himself, Christopher 'Carrot Top', however, relaxed a little and did his job even better than before.
"This is exactly what I mean, Christopher. You go somewhere, I don't know. Into your mind, maybe? And I'm sorry to tell 'ya, but you look like you've been horsewhipped and dumped in the swamp to die. You are a helluva patrolman and I don't want to lose the likes of you to something as simple to combat as exhaustion." Mugsy is leaning forward on his bunk, his hands on his knees and feet flat on the hard-packed sand. He snaps his fingers and Christopher blinks.
After a second, he rests his face in his hands. "I think that is a correct assessment of my current condition. What would you have me do, then, Mugsy? When they ask me to walk point, I walk point whether it is two hours or ten. Better me than one of the medics." Christopher sighs wearily.
"Yeah, and that, too." Mugsy places a firm hand on Christopher's shoulder, forcing the younger man to look directly at him. "You don't have to do that to let these bastard panty-wastes like you."
"I know." Christopher mumbles. "It just helps keep my mind off things." He shrugs.
Mugsy lets out another laugh. "Uh huh. You told me about Valentine, Carrot Top. I know you are missing your girl. And, hey! Lemme be the first one to tell you that I get it, I totally do." His fingers grip tightly for a second then release as he sits back and crosses his legs.
Christopher has nothing to say. It is the undeniable truth so he shakes his head.
"Right. So you know I get it. Fine, let's move on. Unfortunately, I've got fifty or so other men and women feeling the same way about loved ones on the other side of the big pond as you Brits put it, but we all got a job to do, and it is my duty to make sure that job gets down. We are all out of here in six months, Carrot Top. You're a strong dude, you can hang out that long; but I've got to get you rested up some first."
Christopher blinks slowly, hearing very clearly the steel of the battle-worn soldier behind the paternally friendly tone of Mugsy's little speech. "I understand."
"That's great, my boy. Listen, I'm going to get you out of here for three days. R and R means exactly that, don't go out there and hump a bunch of women or men or both or get into a bar fight and get thrown into jail."
Mugsy grins when Christopher wrinkles his nose as if the thought of carousing and fighting like a grunt is utterly despicable. This time when he leans forward, he smacks the side of Christopher's face with his hand cupped so that the noise it makes is loud enough to echo in the thick, hot air.
"Yer dismissed, Carrot Top. I'll see you at oh, I don't know. Let's say zero seven hundred hours? I'll have yer ride and orders ready to go. Bring your kit with you." Mugsy crosses his arms and falls back onto his bunk, shaking the frame and making the worn springs creak at the abuse.
"Thank you, sir." Christopher mutters and gives Mugsy a crisp salute, which causes the other man to burst into laughter again. At Christopher's querying expression, Mugsy shakes his head and gestures towards the open doorway. He is wiping tears out of his eyes when Christopher turns to look at him again. He opens his mouth as if to ask a question then lets it die unsaid. If your commanding officer orders you to get some R and R, you might as well do it.
Mugsy is right, too, Christopher thinks as he walks back to his tent. Surely he could find somewhere else to spend his free time, but right now he wants to be alone and the pub tent or the mess hall will be filled with soldiers talking crap, playing cards or even watching movies. He hopes that his netbook will be charged enough so that he can respond to Valentine's email; he's got to tell her that he will be away from camp for three days and hopes she will not worry too much if she doesn't hear from him until he gets back.
In some ways, getting to see Chaldhar, the largest village nearest the camp, will at least give him something to think about other than watching for snipers and counting down the days until he can get out of this hellish place. Mugsy is right, as he always is, they have a job to do and that job comes first. After all, he volunteered for this duty. Several soldiers pass him by and call out greetings that he returns with only scant attention on who he is talking to. In some ways, it doesn't matter. Like Mugsy said, in six months they will all be out of here and since he is one of only a handful of European soldiers to be involved in this conflict at all, he feels like he cannot make too many friends because the likelihood of the others staying in touch is so slim—why fake it?
He walks slowly over the footpath worn soft by the countless tread of feet. On one side of the path there are several pathetic shrubs trying hard to survive the hellish climate: two of them still have green-going-brown leaves on them and the third is completely bare, nothing but a dried up tangle of thin branches. As he passes it, Christopher notes the abandoned nest deep in the heart of it and thinks that is what his own heart looked like before Valentine clawed and kicked and dug out a place for herself in his chest.
At his tent, Christopher finds that one of the other three soldiers he shares with is home. Robert Loving, Jr. is a short, barrel-chested, muscular hulk of a black man with smiling brown eyes and a shiny bald pate. His nickname around camp is Mister Clean. Christopher did not get that one in particular until Robert took pity on him and explained that Mister Clean was a big, muscular, bald, white guy that was a figment of someone's imagination (in other words, a cartoon character) used to entice women to purchase household cleaning solutions back in the 2000s. Christopher didn't really see it, other than the muscles and the bald head but he smiled and went along with it anyway.
"Hi Carrot Top, Mugsy been wearin' your ears out this evenin', big man?" Robert lazily drawls from his bunk where he is stretched out on his back, completely naked save for the fluffy yellow towel draped over his groin. Wherever you go in the universe, always remember your towel, Christopher thinks suddenly, completely bewildered as to where he's heard that line before; it had to be the last movie night he attended in the pub tent.
Robert has turned the one fan in the tent directly on his still damp body, something they all do on those rare occasions when they are solo for a bit; no one begrudges any of the others the small luxury. Christopher is sure that the man's thighs are as big around as both of his own. They have sparred together a few times and Christopher was surprised to find Robert to be a match in strength and ability. From a grudging respect of one another has grown something akin to friendship; not that Christopher would ever call it that, it is more like a mutual agreement to get along. He smiles in his tired way and Robert smiles back.
Who is he trying to fool, though? Without camaraderie and their inborn instinct to form such ties, there would be no military at all, and he, Christopher Tietjens, knows full well that all of his North American and European brethren be slaves in all but name to the constant flood of invaders from these arid hellholes of the world.
Christopher drops down on his own bunk and stretches out, realizing that he never answered Robert's question. "Not as such, no. Apparently, I am in need of some mandatory R and R." He puts both hands behind his head so that his elbows stick out on either side.
Robert grunts in acknowledgement just as the tent's other two occupants stride in. One of them, a tall, broad-shouldered blonde Canadian, grabs the fan and yanks it away from Robert and turns it so that it is blowing the air out of the tent. It is an effective maneuver though and will soon create a faint breeze that will cool them all as night comes on.
"Dammit, Jackie-boy, I was comfortable!" Robert mutters, sitting up at his elbows to glare at Jacques Remeau. Jacques grins broadly and rattles off something in perfect French, ending it with a cheeky little growl. "Si je voulais aller native J'aimerais choisir l'une des filles dans le village."
A laugh bubbles from Christopher's throat and Robert turns his glare on him. "Give it up, Carrot Top, what the Canuk just say?"
Christopher looks up at Jacques who is now on his own bunk removing his boots. He tips one over and pours out a stream of sound with a sour look on his face. "You can tell him." Jacques says in a deep, nasal tone, smiling despite himself.
"Robert, he says that if he wanted to go native, he'd pick one of the girls in the village." Christopher chuckles shyly.
Robert puts on his best put-out face as he flings his pillow towards Jacques' head. "Boy, you wish you could handle what I've got to give out!"
Jacques laughs heartily and tosses the pillow onto Robert's face as he passes by, presumably to shower. Robert throws himself back down and groans about the heat. Like himself, Robert and Jacques are patrolmen, but the fourth man sharing the cramped living space with them is an electronics and communications technician named Blain Sarta, and the only person in the camp generally considered to be quieter than Christopher. He is of average height and build, has brown hair and eyes and wears square-lensed, rimless glasses that always seemed to be perched on the bridge of his nose.
Where Christopher socializes occasionally, Sars may only be seen at a gathering once in a blue moon. He was born in Quebec and raised in the state of Michiconsin. Christopher sometimes feels empathy for him because he knows what it is like to stand out in a crowd for no reason other than the way your accent lilts to one side or the other. Blain's a decent sort, though and also has a 'girl back home.' Of course, this idea serves to bring Mugsy's assertion home to nest.
Blain gives Christopher a slight wave as he peels out of his own clothing and, like the others, flops onto his bunk. Christopher regards him for a second longer and returns to his contemplation of the inside of the top of the tent. Within seconds he can make out the two distinct breathing patterns of both Robert and Blain then drifts off himself without another thought, completely forgetting about emailing Valentine.