The Great Thanksgiving Offensive

“The Great Thanksgiving Offensive”

Corey Harland

It is documented in history, the day. The day that, to some, was a living nightmare, and to the rest…

Well, you just had to be there.

The day: Thanksgiving.

The stage: the theater itself, or to many, the Sandbox, or to the few, simply “the ’Stan.”

It was a normal day this side of theater. Donkey carts and overloaded trucks. The call of the muezzin over the adhan five times a day. Soundless faces bustling about beneath the low hum of generators and the occasional passing asset.

This time it was the sky vacuum hovering just out of stone’s reach. The name couldn’t be recalled, and even the experts simply called it “the vacuum.” It was loud, almost oppressive, evacuating the senses and drowning out thought itself.

Sometimes he wondered what the contraption’s actual purpose was.

Was it there to scan and assist?

Or was it simply designed to distract and annoy?

Only God knows, the man muttered just under earshot.

Which, with this blessed machine overhead, could just as easily have been a yell.

The man—though to many he was still a boy—was barely old enough to drink. Yet this wasn’t his first time roaming the box. The sound of distant pop-shots rang across the countryside while soldiers prepared for chow.

It wasn’t his first holiday here either.

It hadn’t been many holidays ago that he lost his first friend.

Like many things in this place, it wasn’t his last.

There were more troubles here than adapting one’s ideas about comfort and peace. There were things worse than death.

One’s self.

It was strange watching the lights get snuffed out of the living just as quickly as the dead. Sights that would settle deep in the mind and haunt dreams for the better part of an eternity.

He had been on roving guard for the better part of an hour and was starving. His battle buddy walked beside him complaining about how he was “bout ta miss Thanksgiving” and how he missed his folks back home.

The young man was from North Carolina—or “North Kackalacky,” as he called it.

Many enjoyed teasing him.

“How you from the South if the state literally says North?”

The jokes never stopped.

Not till the soldier learned to not mind his colleagues and their primitive ways.

The complaints settled softly upon memories otherwise smeared with blood and dirt.

He didn’t bother informing the younger soldier about life’s harder lessons. Hell, he was standing in one.

Yes, by choice.

But until otherwise discharged, he was stuck.

Stuck in the Stan.

At least it wasn’t the Tangi this time.

Sometimes he’d rather be there than here.

The valley had been beautiful, nestled between mountain ranges with a river running through it and streams that never seemed to stop talking.

Forever these shifts are, he thought.

At least my time here is almost up for a bit.

Should be on leave in a month.

Though by this point in life, he didn’t bank on there being a next anything.

The two continued discussing the difficulties of spending a holiday in a place that was the complete opposite of home while still finding joy among friends, peers, and leaders.

Eventually the conversation drifted toward one of their teammates who had been sent out to support another unit.

“He’s probably eating cold Pop-Tarts and ravioli straight out the can,” Robinson chuckled.

“Probably got nose-warmed boogers and drinking MRE-born tears,” the soldier replied.

Some people skipped the holiday feast altogether.

Homesickness hit differently depending on the person. Parents missed children. Husbands missed wives. Wives missed husbands. Some simply missed the privacy of traditions and rituals that no longer existed here.

Still, compared to the everyday norm, the meal was impressive.

Steak.

Seafood.

Potatoes.

Corn.

Buns and butter.

Red or blue Powerade.

All served inside a dining facility built by the very men now seated within it.

“All the food gon’ be gone before we get off shift,” his battle buddy complained.

“Aye,” he answered. “But better no meal, than one shared in poor company.”

Not the friendliest of men, was he.

Truthfully, he didn’t dislike people.

He simply preferred them elsewhere.

He didn’t mind their presence, but they could all go to hell for all he cared.

Wherever I ain’t, the thought finished.

After shift, one of the squad leaders handed them their dinner.

“Steak’s all I could get,” the squad leader apologized. “Thought about lobster, but some people allergic. Besides, it wasn’t Red Lobster anyway.”

Then he walked away.

The younger soldier immediately began laughing.

“Knew somebody was gon’ be mad.”

That evening, the soldier woke to use the latrine.

A loud growl echoed through the darkness.

The smell that followed was somehow more alarming.

Had he known the mess he was about to discover, he might have simply rolled over and gone back to sleep.

As he exited the B-hut, he noticed three suspicious splatters along the walkway.

Closer inspection revealed vomit.

Further down, beside an air-conditioning unit, appeared what could only be described as poop prints. Perhaps fingerprints. It was difficult to say.

Someone, at some point, had apparently touched their own backside before decorating the nearby vent register.

The porta-johns weren’t much better.

In fact, they weren’t anything shy of the men’s room at Walmart.

Everywhere.

Outside.

Inside.

Upside.

And if someone figured out a way—and he was certain they had—

Downside.

Returning to the tent, he was greeted by a symphony.

Trumpeting toots.

Rolling growls.

The mournful cry of a wounded tuba.

The whimsical slide of an invisible trombone.

A gastrointestinal orchestra performing through the night.

The next morning he awoke to a fellow soldier whispering his name.

The man’s face carried the sort of shame normally reserved for public executions.

“What?”

The soldier looked around before answering.

Quietly.

“I shit myself.”

The confession hung in the air.

“Y’all have,” came the response.

He paused and glanced outside.

“Well… most of y’all, by the looks of it.”

The camp had become a disaster area.

And it didn’t stop there.

Men and women were medevac’d and casevac’d.

Other units called for support as soldiers dropped from patrol rosters.

Not from a lack of courage.

Not from a lack of determination.

Not from a lack of grit.

These were people with enough grit to scratch a diamond.

No.

They were defeated by something far more powerful.

The complete evacuation of every available bowel.

The great Thanksgiving offensive continued well past morning patrols.

The soldier stood beneath a cloud of warm nicotine and surveyed the aftermath.

This is a literal shit show, he thought.