Steven Thomas Howell
Stories (5/0)
Love and Rockets
INCOMING. INCOMING. INCOMING, said Giant Voice. PFC Tullis made himself small in the low-slung concrete bunker alongside the 105mm howitzer position on the eastern edge of the FOB and prayed Lord Jesus please get me out of this country alive.
By Steven Thomas Howell3 years ago in Serve
The Grove
The boy whips a green hickory nut across the shaded yard, and Dog—a hundred and ten pounds of furred muscle— launches after it. His little sister laughs at the rooster tail of sand thrown by the dog’s hind feet. The boy shushes. The little girl claps both hands over her mouth.
By Steven Thomas Howell3 years ago in Humans
Tea Time
It’s Friday morning at 3am. I woke about two hours ago from a dream that I was riding in the back of a CH-47 Chinook helicopter. Another passenger watched impassively as a large wasp was trying to sting me. I swatted at the buzzing insect, in the dark, with a hat. When I woke, by heart was beating double-time. Isn’t a wasp dream supposed to mean something? How about when it’s combined with the military images that usually appear in my dreams? Have I just revealed some terrible truth about myself?
By Steven Thomas Howell3 years ago in Humans
Parade Field
I’m standing at parade rest on the 25th Infantry Division parade field. I’m one of about 5,000 participants in the Operation Enduring Freedom-5 Farewell Ceremony. Somewhere out there in that huge, colorful group of civilians is my family, looking for me in the sea of desert camouflage on the field. The brilliant sunlight bathes us in heat and light. I smell freshly mown grass and my own sweat. Wispy clouds brush the tops of coconut palms as they pass overhead in their own good time. My toes are numb. The Division Commander, Major General Olson, speaks at a wooden podium adorned with the green tarot leaf and lightning bolt—aka the “electric chili pepper”—that represents the “Tropic Lightning” Division. He’s mercifully brief.
By Steven Thomas Howell3 years ago in Serve
Look Away
Neck deep in the grave, Sam Watkins paused at the clatter of an approaching supply wagon. Covered with sweat and caked with red Tennessee soil, he had dug without a break for most of the late August morning. He leaned the spade in a corner of the rectangular hole and scratched his dark beard, listening to the sounds of the world above. He wanted a chew from his knapsack, but decided he couldn't afford the moisture it took to spit.
By Steven Thomas Howell3 years ago in Serve