Hatton chuckles, nodding. The “Post Exchange” back at the supply depot isn't much more than a large tent, but it still has a few creature comforts from overseas. “Yeah, I am. Why, you want more on your tab?”
I'm up to two hundred dollars on my tab, but it's not even the amount I'm getting for combat zone pay, so it's worth it. “Sure. Forty bucks, whatever snacks and other pogey bait you can grab, distributed to second platoon.”
“Same story, sir?” Hatton asks. I'm sure some of the senior NCOs know, but the official story is that my little gifts are 'care packages' from home. Sadly, while the deployment rate has gone down, so has the public's interest in the troops. Other than a few packages from groups back at Fort Drum, nobody's gotten anything, and honey roasted peanuts just aren't cutting it for some of these boys who haven't been more than a phone call away from their families in their entire lives.
“Same story. Carry on.”
“Molon labe, sir.” It's the only thing that took some adjustment for joining Alpha Company—the Spartans. Captain Stephens is a big history nut, and he insisted that the company adopt the classic statement. He says it’s for esprit de corps, and I'll say it seems to work. They’re a good unit and good troops.
I head back to the company area, running the rest of the headquarters section while Captain Stephens takes a visit out to the third platoon area. It's a different job, being the Executive Officer. As platoon leader, I was 'the man,' responsible for combat decisions as much as I was bureaucratic decisions. Now, my main job is to keep Captain Stephens clear to be able to do all the command decisions and make sure that the Headquarters Platoon runs smoothly. At the same time, though, I need to make sure that the different Headquarters sections all have what they need to do their jobs, which is more complicated than just running a single-purpose platoon. I'm enjoying it and the challenges involved. It's stretching.
At about four in the afternoon, Captain Stephens comes back, walking up the road. The mountains we're patrolling in are too rough most of the time for our Humvees, so we're doing a lot of walking, old school style two-and sometimes even three-day-long patrols from our company firebase. Our Hummers are all down the road in their own security perimeter along with one of our heavy weapons sections. “How's third platoon, sir?”
“Enjoying some Snicker bars someone sent them,” Stephens says with a smirk. “We're the most loved company in the country right now. All those care packages.”
“Thank Bob Hope, sir,” I answer, scribbling on one of the forms that I have to complete for Battalion S-3. “He's a great man. Does a lot for the troops.”
“Yeah, even if he's dead. By the way, on the way back, I got a message over the radio net. They're having us rotate back to the battalion area. Seems the old man thinks that Alpha's done a bang-up job, and it's time for us to have a few days off and some hot chow and a shower while Charlie gets to enjoy the local goats.”
“They do make good cheese, sir,” I reply with a laugh. “You should have tried a couple of pieces the last time the locals brought some by. We only had to trade two sets of gloves and three bucks for a whole five pounds.”
“Gloves,” Stephens says, shaking his head. “Too bad they get lost in combat so easily. Remind me when we get back to have Hatton requisition some boots for the troops as well. If the locals happen to want to trade for them, all the better.”
I rub at my face, amazed at how refreshing a lukewarm shower and fresh blade shave can make you feel in a cool twilight. I'm officially off duty for the next twelve hours, something I haven't had in a month, and I wonder what I'm going to do. I see the Morale, Welfare and Recreation tent and head over, seeing if maybe I can snag a computer for checking my email. The battalion relief area isn't much, just a spot on the edge of the town that is at the center of 2-21's area of operations, but it does have showers and an MWR tent. I'll take it over dust and goat's cheese any day.
There's a line, but it's only ten minutes before I sit down and open a browser. There are three emails, one from my parents, one from Pete Lemmon, and one from Lindsey. I check the ones from my parents first. Nothing much. They're just keeping tabs on me, wondering how their son is doing, and my snail mail letter will take care of that just fine. Pete's keeping me up to date with Bragg, and it's with just a little bit of glee that I read that Captain Bradley ended up rear-ending a Colonel two weeks ago.
I open Lindsey's email, and I'm shocked, re-reading it three times. In a rush, I go over to the guy running the tent, a Staff Sergeant from Headquarters Company. “Hey, can I set up a video call?”
“Calls gotta be screened by the battalion commander, sir. And coordinated with the other side. What's up?”