Full Circle: 1978 - A Gallagher Girls Story

1978: Chapter Five

It's a rare heat for this late in the year—the kind that weighs on the chest and makes it hard to breathe. Thick and humid, the air stiff without a breeze. The sun shows no mercy and the clouds provide no cover. When he first enlisted, Matt knew that he would eventually come across any number of hard battles, but no one warned him that his most enduring among them would be that held against Mother Nature.

The weight of his mask certainly doesn't help the situation. The sides squeeze at his chin, his cheeks, his forehead. The goggles fog with sweat. His teeth grind against his own anxiety and every time he breathes, he sounds more and more like Darth Vader. It's the kind of thing that gets him thinking about the Empire, which in turn sends him down the path of Stormtroopers, and The Force, and another battle between good and evil in a galaxy far, far away.

His platoon marches downhill in rows of two, towards a flag of red, white, and blue that hangs limp at the peak of its pole. It's the very same flag that his pops fought for, and his father before him. There ain't a Morgan boy in the whole family tree that's failed to serve, and so Matt's own service is merely following through on a promise that was made long before he was even born. Sometimes it feels like he was destined to be here.

Sweat slides down his back and soaks into his uniform. The day is tinged with a warm golden glare and he wishes, more than anything, that he could jump in an icy November lake. His equipment lays heavy on his shoulders and he can hear himself breathing again. In, then out. In, then out. It's a strained, hollow sort of sound that reverberates through his jaw, and he wonders what it is that the Stormtroopers fight for.

A halt command echoes through the ranks, pulling Matt firmly back to Earth. In the silence of attention, the flag begins to wave against a barely present breeze.

At his front stands a small brick shed, painted gray and stained with rust around the doorways. Cautionary signs are screwed into the wall, spelling out warnings of irritants and fire risk. The words MASK REQUIRED can be seen three separate times from where Matt is standing, and likely many times over again from different angles. There's no mistaking what he is about to do.

In his civilian life, he never once imagined that he might willfully walk into a gas chamber. Any number of history lessons have taught him of the horrors and tragedy that accompany such a place, ingraining in him an uninhibited revulsion. His mind is filled with black and white photos of scratches and skeletons. Of barbed wire and battered shoes. It's a gruesome association that would make even the strongest men squirm.

And he knows that he should be proud—proud to serve a country that would intervene during times of such duress. Proud to act as one small piece in a militant machine that the world looks towards in times of trouble. Proud to be a part of a people who ally themselves against oppression. America didn't start the second World War, but they certainly did end it, and a part of him wants to believe in the legend of the United States.

Yet still, his patriotism feels tainted. Uncertain. He's never quite been able to lay a finger on the reasoning and, furthermore, he reckons that it doesn't boil down to any singular reason at all. Matt's lived through the March on Washington and Dr. King's dreams. He's had a father at war, as news broadcasts displayed the dead and wounded on his own television. He's seen the National Guard turn against Kent State students, and veterans turn toward anti-war sentiment, and the jailing of a once beloved Muhammad Ali. This country has given him doubts just as frequently as it has affirmed him, and it leads him to believe that if he had been given more of a choice in the matter, then the Army may not have even appeared on his radar.

Although, none of this seems especially relevant as a drill sergeant opens the door in front of him.

Rumor states that there are two phases to Army teargas training: the easy, and then the hard. Matt's learned over the past few weeks that Army Easy is very different from Civilian Easy, so he anticipates the worst as they order his half of the platoon inside.