Battle

Battle

The Desert

My backpack shifts on my shoulders as I walk. My foot sinks into the loose sand of this area with each step. The sun bears down from on high, seeking to punish all below. I can see the base Commissary in the distance, although the haze the heat throws up from the ground breaks up the building's outline. The opportunity for more water is tantalizing. The sound of each foot crunching against the sand lulls me into a day dream. I skit passed familiar snake holes, wary of their habitants, but knowing that they will stay in the ground during this time of day. Anyone who is smart is under cover in the 130 degree summer afternoons. I am 14, and think myself smarter than I am. I plod along, sometimes losing myself in the fantasy of fighting on the battlefield as a knight. The sage bushes prove to be inept foes, but they are numerous. I become aware of how close I am to the store, and how I must look to passing cars, so I stab the length of rebar that served as my faithful sword into the desert soil. Sweat has covered my back, legs, and face from exertion, and I crave hydration. As I walk into the Commissary, I pause in bliss as the cool air of the store's interior washes over me. I drink deeply from the water fountain. I'll do it all again tomorrow.

The Rifle

Our heels click in unison, each person in formation timing their stride to 120 beats per minute. Our uniforms differ only in sizes and individual awards, all black with a maroon ascot and beret. We are Tomahawk Company, out of Marysville-Pilchuck High School, and we are precise. The Drill Team Commander, another student known more commonly as Rick, calls out commands and we snap into each movement in response. Each of us has our own M-1 Garand rifle, which mostly rests on our right shoulder. Mine is serial number 456516, it weighs 9.75 pounds, and it had an effective range of up to 800 yards. It has since been welded so as to be useless as a weapon of killing, but during a drill competition, it serves as an extension of my arms. We perform the requisite standard maneuvers, such as Present Arms, Column Left, and Parade Rest. We are given permission to begin Exhibition Phase. This is the real joy of competing. We spin our rifles around our bodies with practiced ease, showing off through helicopter spins, Statue of Liberty catches, and something we call the Meat Grinder. We finish our routine, euphoric internally, but robotic externally. We are given permission to exit the drill deck and celebrate our excellence only once dismissed. I don't put my rifle down until we reach our bus. Regionals waits ahead for us.

The Office

Ed walks into our shared office and tells me that the state has set a date for the audit. I was in the middle of drafting a memo about medication assistance procedure, but I stop to meet his eyes. The look of dread must match my own. He slumps into his chair and asks if we have anything else to do before they show up. I think for a minute, and a couple of possible issues spring to mind, but they aren't problems yet. We've done all we can, and I tell him so. The poster on the wall of Darth Vader seems to mock the validity of my assessment. Ed nods and lets loose a world weary sigh. I'm convinced that he took classes on how to sigh. I go back to writing my memo as he frets over the checklists I wrote two months ago. Next to every gap in documentation, every med error, every hole in policy, one of my checks marks stands firm. Sometimes, I wonder if he's forgotten that we've come through three of these biannual state compliancy audits before with flying colors. I also wonder if he still sees me as the 22 year old that had the stuff to apply for a management position. Hell with that, I've become a well-oiled machine. My program has the highest morale, highest employee retention, and highest client satisfaction. I wrote several of the procedures to clean up documentation company-wide. When supervisors in other programs can't handle something, I handle it. Karen once told me that I was "good under pressure". I thought she made the understatement of the week. As Ed's boss, you'd think he could take her word for it. My memo finished and copied, I wave goodbye to Ed. I don't have time for worrying, I've got a program to run.