WAR IS HELL

(Taken from the Vicksburg Herald – July 27, 2021 – Vol. 23. Pg. 9) - John James Keaton, PFC, 101 Airborne, passed away Saturday. The body was discovered near Openwood Street in downtown Vicksburg. Police have found no motive or suspect for the shooting at this time. Mr. Keaton listed the Church of Lasting Grace as his home. Authorities are still searching for any next of kin…

The stench of the river water pierced the air as the soldier opened his eyes, rolled over, and gazed out from the small crack under the tarp. His first thought was that he had somehow missed roll.

The Mission.

As he started to rise, he noticed the specs of crusted food clinging to his hand, and he glanced down at the remnants of the Styrofoam container near his bed. Private Keaton remembered securing the rations near the dumpster, but he did not recall vomiting. He must have, though. The residue was smeared, caked all over his fatigues. He wiped his hands through his hair without thinking, trying to focus.

Start the mission. Recon starts @ 0800

These were the first thoughts of the private.

The grunt pushed back the dirty down comforter and slipped his moist socks into the stiff leather of his army boots. He laced them quickly. The camo jacket he wore was strung haphazardly over his duffel bag in the corner of the tent. He slipped it on, crawled out from his hiding spot, and rose to his feet.

No time for breakfast today.

The dew of a rain shower had moistened the dead leaves and debris that covered his home base as he glanced around. It was a good camp. The perfect spot to hide so that he could do his missions. The soldier had spent the better part of a day covering the lean-to so that it was well hidden. An untrained eye would not even recognize it was there. The private had named it Camp Keaton.

The rumble of the semi-trucks thundered over the bridge above him. The private looked up in time to see another diesel make its way across the River.

The enemy was transferring troops towards the front.

His orders had been clear.

“Assess. Monitor. Report back. Do not engage. Is that understood?”

Those were the orders. Each morning the soldier rose from behind the enemy lines to assess and report to command everything he saw. As he made his way up the hill toward the enemy positions, he formed a strategy in his mind.

Today he would scout the northwest quadrant. The older part of the city.

Private Keaton turned north and made his way past the casinos up Washington street, being careful to keep to himself. Many of the homes along the boulevard were antiquated relics. The rotting front columns leaned at awkward angles, the last vestige of a once pristine and polished community. Now, they looked more like decaying teeth, barely able to hold the weight of so much neglect. There were broken, boarded windows peppered through the homes as years of moss and kudzu shrouded their features. Their rusted iron fences and faded brick surrendered to the overgrowth as if they were General Lee giving up his sword.

Stay sharp, Dawg. Eyes open,

The soldier knew these homes by heart. He had been through them a thousand times. He knew that he could use them to rest or hide from the gaze of the enemy. Sometimes he would sleep overnight in one of them, especially if it were too risky to make the trek back to the camp.

In war, a good soldier learns the lay of the land, uses it to his advantage.

A short time later, as he rounded the corner, the private spotted an enemy patrol. Black sedan. Keaton quietly turned toward a vine-covered gate and slipped through an opening just as the car cruised by. He recorded the serial number of the patrol on the back.

He was about to head north again when he heard voices from within the abandoned home behind him. Agitated. Barking orders of some kind.

An enemy outpost.

The soldier’s military training kicked in, and instinctively, the private crept closer, careful to keep his movements quick and sure as to avoid detection. He leaned his back against the hard brick down below a cracked open window.

Distinct voices. Definitely hostiles.

Have to get closer.

PFC Keaton continued his crawl toward the back corner of the home and raised up. He forced his body to stay glued to the wall as he made his way up the steps. A half-opened back door loomed in front of him. Slowly, each move deliberate, he drew closer and peered inside. A dish of half-eaten tacos was still in the wrapper, sitting on the counter.

Evidence of hostiles. Recent.

The private slipped in quietly through the open door and tiptoed past the kitchen toward the living room.

Stay alert, Keaton.

He paused a moment to let his eyes adjust. Hardwood floors were leading to a ragged fireplace on the far side of the room. The only furniture, a small wooden table with a couple of chairs. A plain package rested on the table, wrapped in brown paper.

Suspicious. Proceed with caution.

The soldier’s training told him that the package might be a homemade IED just sitting there waiting for an unsuspecting hand to move it.

Years before in Iraq - right in front of his eyes. Charlie had reached down, and the next thing Private Keaton felt was the blast of dirt, dust, and his friend’s blood and brains smattering over his face.

The private debated his options, unsure of what to do.

What would Captain want? Should he take it, have the geeks back at command open it and examine it? Should he leave it alone? Don’t engage. Just report. What if it contained plans, troop movements, supply routes?

The soldier rose up and paced for a few moments. He checked the box, scanning for any signs of a wire or detonator. He found nothing. Still, he had an uneasy feeling. He decided that the best course of action might be to take the box to HQ.

Let the officers view the contents.

Private Keaton had just picked the box up when he heard a toilet flush.

Damn. Hostiles present.

The soldier dashed for the back door just in time to see a young man with tattoos all over his face bound around the corner. His pants down below his hips. A chain dangled from a black T-shirt. The Tattoo face saw the private moving out of the living room, package in hand.

“Hell no!” The soldier heard the Tattoo face scream.

Private Keaton heard the crack of a gunshot and felt the wood of the back door splinter inches from his face.

Hostiles engaged.

The soldier was well into the backyard, cradling the box, as another shot rang out. The slug bounced off the ground behind him, kicking up dirt inches from his heels. As fast as he could, the soldier ran for his life, across the alley, slipping through an opening he had memorized on a previous recon. He scrambled around the corner of a faded shed and squeezed his way into an empty dog house piled under layers of rusted tin and rolls of chain link.

Stealth mode. Stay quiet. No movement.

As the private waited, he performed just as he had been trained. He was a good soldier.

Tattoo face emerged into the alley, his steps scraping the gravel just a few feet away. A moment later, Private Keaton heard a second set of steps racing up.

More hostiles.

Keaton looked through a crack in the shed, but all he could see was a pair of bright orange Nikes with a black swoosh on them.

Tattoo face. Orange Nike Boy. Notes for the report.

“What happened?” a low voice growled.

Tattoo face answered. “That crazy homeless guy, the one in the army fatigues, going around town all the time. He was in the house. He stole the stuff.”

“What?”

“He was in the house, man. He got the package we picked up this morning.”

Nike boy whispered. “We don’t find him - deep trouble. Which way he go?”

“Hell, if I know.” Tattoo said. “We’ll get him. He couldn’t have gone far.” The two combatants started looking up and down the alleyway, but they never once found the rabbit buried in his burrow.

The soldier waited, barely moving. After about thirty minutes, Private Keaton slipped out from his hiding spot and made his way uptown toward the command center, carefully cradling the package inside his jacket. As the soldier reached the back door of the command center, he wondered about the package, but pushed the thoughts out of his mind. He would report to the Captain.

Father Timothy, aka the Captain, met him at the door of the church.

“Hey, soldier. You doing all right this morning?”

Private Keaton gave a quick salute and nodded. “Yes, sir. Report from the recon, sir! ”

Father Timothy smiled. “Good work, soldier. Let’s have the morning brief.”

The soldier pulled out the brown-wrapped package and laid it down. “I believe this may be valuable, sir. Thought you would want to examine it.”

Instantly, the color drained out of Father Timothy’s face. “Private. Where did you find this?”

“496 Washington, sir. Abandoned house. Red Brick. White round columns. I can confirm that the residence is being used by hostiles, sir. I saw this on a table in the living room. Made a smash and dash to secure it.”

“Yes.” Father Timothy was visibly shaking as he reached for his cellphone. “You stay, right here. I have to make a call to headquarters. In fact, better yet, why don’t you report to the mess hall, private. Tell Ms. Marley I said to plate you up extra, okay?” The private did as he was ordered, leaving the package with the Captain.

Before long, Captain Tim walked into the mess and made a beeline for the private.

“That package was crucially important, Private Keaton. Pure grade heroin. I have passed on your intel to command.” Father Timothy said.

Good work. Mission accomplished.

“You probably saved countless young lives. I’m putting you in for a commendation.”

Private Keaton nodded, smiling. He felt a warm feeling in his gut as the hot coffee went down his throat.

Recon successful. Enemy plans thwarted.

The soldier finished his meal and headed out the back door of command. As he turned down the street to the south, he didn’t notice the gray sedan pull up next to him. A tinted window came down, and the Tattoo face shook his head back and forth.

“You shouldn’t have done that. Blue, get him in the car. We take us a little ride.”

Nike boy got out of the car and headed toward the soldier. As he emerged, the private noticed a gun pointed right at him. This time there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. He had no choice.

Captured. POW, Only rank and serial number.

As he got into the back seat of the car. He began repeating his name and his serial number. Just as he had been trained.

“John James Keaton. Private First Class. 101 Airborne Division. Serial number 2485869.”

War is hell.

This was the last thought of the soldier.

Private John James Keaton never felt a thing as the bullet shattered his forehead.