SHORT-TIMER’S ATTITUDE
Just when, exactly, did I realize that I no longer fit in? Was it when I witnessed two fellow SPs cubbing a fellow sailor whose only real offense was getting too drunk on liberty one night while I was still at Great Lakes? I reported that; it resulted in a court-martial for the SPs involved and made me something of a pariah. I was glad to get transferred to San Diego.
Maybe it was when we finally went to war for reasons I don't buy; and I began to feel like an inanimate weapon being used to a commander-in chief whom I now see as nothing more than a snake-oil salesman. I just don't trust him. Everyone else around here speaks almost reverently of him; why can’t I? I just keep my mouth shut and wait. One more year and it’s over.
It didn’t start out that way. I joined up eight years ago. I actually enjoyed basic – the PT, the drill, the inspections, the weapons training – I had faith that even the stuff we did that seemed silly at the time did have a purpose. And for the most part, that was true. I did duty aboard the Enterprise after SP training, then returned to Great Lakes. After I re-upped for three more years, I got orders to San Diego. My wife Debbie loved Coronado; to a couple of natives of Duluth, Minnesota, it seemed almost exotic with its palm trees, beaches, the ocean, and all. Our son Mark was born in the naval hospital there just over two years ago.
I don’t know when my short-timer’s attitude started to develop – you wouldn’t expect it on a Petty Officer Second Class with eight years in – but I know what made me aware of it: Camp Williams. I hated this place at first sight. There isn’t much here except the main building housing the detention area with its bleak, echoing corridors lined with cells, mostly empty at the moment; and it’s out in the middle of nowhere. The hot, dusty little town of San Matteo nearby offers almost nothing to do on liberty. Believe it or not, it’s worse than Guantanamo Bay, where I was TDY for six months last year. I took one look at it and sent Debbie and Mark back to Duluth. It’s hard to be here without them, but this is no place for them. Of the two dozen of us here, only three have their families nearby.
The last straw came last week. A young woman was brought in, shackled and with a hood over her head – they all come in that way – and shoved into a cell. She was a dangerous terrorist, we were told; but that’s a load of felgercarb. I have seen the prisoners at Camp X-Ray and looked into their eyes – believe me, I know the difference. This woman just looked lost, frightened, and angry. I zapped her with a taser to subdue her during her escape attempt, and had to go to the head and throw up afterward.
The raid that broke her out was not to be believed. For some reason they used tranqs, or we’d all be dead. I was on duty when it went down. One of the masked intruders shot me at point-blank range just seconds after it started and that was it for me until two hours later. The latest scuttlebutt is that the woman was CIA and that the raid was masterminded by her own father, himself a legendary operative. When I heard that, I found a secluded spot behind the chow hall and laughed until I was almost too exhausted to stand upright. Good for him.
My CO is already after me to re-up for another three years. He says I could put in for a transfer to Hawaii if I wanted to. It’s expensive to live there, but my wife would enjoy it, he says. I get the feeling that he will get out of here as soon as he can himself. I just don’t know yet, I tell him.
Next year can’t come soon enough. The Navy doesn’t like losing experienced people with high-level security clearances, but I dare them to give me any static when I make it known that I’m definitely leaving. I have been keeping a journal of the goings-on around here. There have been even worse incidents than this in the time I’ve been here. Most appalling of all was the one involving a Canadian relief worker in Iraq who supposedly got too chummy with a suspected band of insurgents operating in the area. That’s a load of felgercarb, too. They gave him one too many electroshocks, and he went into cardiac arrest and died. That creepy Doctor Vasson and the corpsmen couldn’t revive him. Everyone, including his family, thinks he was kidnapped and murdered by the aforementioned insurgents. Robert Lindsey orchestrated that little cover-up too. He’s no patriot – he’s more like one of those rattlesnakes that we see around here sometimes.
I have been sending my journal home to Debbie in large manila envelopes, which she has been instructed not to open unless something happens to me. After I get out, I will work it into a detailed report to be sent to the Chairman of the Senate Armed Forces Committee. I have nothing to lose. Duluth doesn’t seem so cold any more.
Just when, exactly, did I realize that I no longer fit in? Was it when I witnessed two fellow SPs cubbing a fellow sailor whose only real offense was getting too drunk on liberty one night while I was still at Great Lakes? I reported that; it resulted in a court-martial for the SPs involved and made me something of a pariah. I was glad to get transferred to San Diego.
Maybe it was when we finally went to war for reasons I don't buy; and I began to feel like an inanimate weapon being used to a commander-in chief whom I now see as nothing more than a snake-oil salesman. I just don't trust him. Everyone else around here speaks almost reverently of him; why can’t I? I just keep my mouth shut and wait. One more year and it’s over.
It didn’t start out that way. I joined up eight years ago. I actually enjoyed basic – the PT, the drill, the inspections, the weapons training – I had faith that even the stuff we did that seemed silly at the time did have a purpose. And for the most part, that was true. I did duty aboard the Enterprise after SP training, then returned to Great Lakes. After I re-upped for three more years, I got orders to San Diego. My wife Debbie loved Coronado; to a couple of natives of Duluth, Minnesota, it seemed almost exotic with its palm trees, beaches, the ocean, and all. Our son Mark was born in the naval hospital there just over two years ago.
I don’t know when my short-timer’s attitude started to develop – you wouldn’t expect it on a Petty Officer Second Class with eight years in – but I know what made me aware of it: Camp Williams. I hated this place at first sight. There isn’t much here except the main building housing the detention area with its bleak, echoing corridors lined with cells, mostly empty at the moment; and it’s out in the middle of nowhere. The hot, dusty little town of San Matteo nearby offers almost nothing to do on liberty. Believe it or not, it’s worse than Guantanamo Bay, where I was TDY for six months last year. I took one look at it and sent Debbie and Mark back to Duluth. It’s hard to be here without them, but this is no place for them. Of the two dozen of us here, only three have their families nearby.
The last straw came last week. A young woman was brought in, shackled and with a hood over her head – they all come in that way – and shoved into a cell. She was a dangerous terrorist, we were told; but that’s a load of felgercarb. I have seen the prisoners at Camp X-Ray and looked into their eyes – believe me, I know the difference. This woman just looked lost, frightened, and angry. I zapped her with a taser to subdue her during her escape attempt, and had to go to the head and throw up afterward.
The raid that broke her out was not to be believed. For some reason they used tranqs, or we’d all be dead. I was on duty when it went down. One of the masked intruders shot me at point-blank range just seconds after it started and that was it for me until two hours later. The latest scuttlebutt is that the woman was CIA and that the raid was masterminded by her own father, himself a legendary operative. When I heard that, I found a secluded spot behind the chow hall and laughed until I was almost too exhausted to stand upright. Good for him.
My CO is already after me to re-up for another three years. He says I could put in for a transfer to Hawaii if I wanted to. It’s expensive to live there, but my wife would enjoy it, he says. I get the feeling that he will get out of here as soon as he can himself. I just don’t know yet, I tell him.
Next year can’t come soon enough. The Navy doesn’t like losing experienced people with high-level security clearances, but I dare them to give me any static when I make it known that I’m definitely leaving. I have been keeping a journal of the goings-on around here. There have been even worse incidents than this in the time I’ve been here. Most appalling of all was the one involving a Canadian relief worker in Iraq who supposedly got too chummy with a suspected band of insurgents operating in the area. That’s a load of felgercarb, too. They gave him one too many electroshocks, and he went into cardiac arrest and died. That creepy Doctor Vasson and the corpsmen couldn’t revive him. Everyone, including his family, thinks he was kidnapped and murdered by the aforementioned insurgents. Robert Lindsey orchestrated that little cover-up too. He’s no patriot – he’s more like one of those rattlesnakes that we see around here sometimes.
I have been sending my journal home to Debbie in large manila envelopes, which she has been instructed not to open unless something happens to me. After I get out, I will work it into a detailed report to be sent to the Chairman of the Senate Armed Forces Committee. I have nothing to lose. Duluth doesn’t seem so cold any more.
