Private Monkey Ghost Story

Chapter 17

It was spring, the majority of the snow was gone, and late March was warm. We'd moved out to one of the training areas, and said it was Pre-ARTEP. Our new barracks had been finished being built, and the construction workers had found the LT about 250 feet from the building when the snow melted far enough.

He'd gotten turned around and froze to death.

I was sporting Corporal rank, and nobody had bitched one bit when I was jumped two pay grades. It had taken two months of physical therapy to get rid of my limp, but I'd blown the PT test away.

I sat in the tent, listening to the radio, and calling each guard post in turn. Not bad, I was a mere Corporal, and they let me pull Sergeant of the Guard, put me in charge of the QRF, and had given me my own squad.

Nobody believed us when we told the stories in the NCO club. Everyone blew it off, called us liars, but we talked about it to each other. It drew an invisible line between those of us who had gone through it and those who had arrived after.

Smith had fully recovered. Just first degree burns on his head and hands. He constantly claimed that the building tried to get him, since "the black guy always dies" in the scary movies.

That was his claim to fame. He was black, and he'd survived.

The charges SFC Vickers had tried to press on me had fallen flat. I'd been concussed pretty badly, and the dispensary had kept me for 2 days for observation after pulling the glass out of my forearms and knee. To top it off, when his reenlistment date came up, the Army declined his services, and he was put out. Captain Bishop had never forgotten that he'd shoved me out of the way, bringing in fresh air for the fire to feed off.

Captain Bishop had made me turn in the SS dagger but had bought me a heavy-duty Gerber fighting knife as a gift. I rode in my boot, and nobody had ever told me I couldn't wear it there. Even when the platoon was at full strength, and we had a platoon sergeant and a platoon leader. Both the SFC and the 2LT had let the fact I was carrying a knife ride.

So it was in the middle of Pre-ARTEP, in late March, and it was about 0900. I'd been on duty for about an hour when OP Two called in that they'd found something, and needed me to come out there right away. I asked them what it was, and they insisted that I come out there.

Fucking privates.

I left Mann in charge of the TC and headed out there with the walkie-talkie on my belt. My M-16A1/M-203 was slung over my shoulder, and my kevlar was a comfortable weight. I only had on my flak jacket, my field jacket, my winter BDU's and my long johns. The newbies all bitched about the cold, but shit, at least I didn't need a fucking parka inside the fucking barracks.

I went out past the perimeter, and into the bushes. I paused for a second to light a cigarette. I didn't smoke, but the air was cold, and having a cigarette warmed it before it hit my chest and made me cough. I closed the zippo Cobb had given me with a snap and headed out toward OP2.

Veering around a bush, I called out to OP2 that I was heading in. Two days ago, some overzealous private had taken a shot at me when I forgot to call to them. We had live ammunition, shit, we had to with all the goddamn ammo we were guarding, but that didn't mean he could shoot at me.

"We're over here, Corporal." One of the privates said. I followed his voice and came out into the clearing they were standing in.

The three of them were standing in front of something that I couldn't see. Something in the dead leaves and winter grass.

"What the fuck are you guys doing out of the OP," I asked.

"Private Thomas came out here to take a piss, and look what he found, Corporal!" The kid's voice was high pitched.