Third Platoon’s Caucasians, Hispanics, African Americans, and “Others” came from all parts of the country. There were practically no deferments from the draft, so they came from every socioeconomic class. But the representatives of their generation were more alike than any other soldiers that America had fielded in its history. In an interconnected world, they had melded into a uniform blend. And one attribute shared by the forty-odd teenagers was that none had ever killed a living thing. There was not a single hunter or outdoorsman among the teenage urban- and suburbanites.
Stephie had her first beer and smoked her first pot on her sixteenth birthday. On a walk down the beach, she ran into some juniors from her high school, who were drunk on the six-pack they’d bought at a nearby convenience store. Stephie stopped to cheer their game of beach football and stole sips of their beers until Conner Reilly, the coolest of the cool, finally gave her one. She was the only girl around. The sun shone off their chests and backs as they killed themselves to win a meaningless game. “Whoo-hoo!” Stephie shouted, pumping her fists in air as each team scored in the back-and-forth game. She somehow missed the end of the game and didn’t know who had won, so she kept her mouth shut as they collapsed on the sand around her and the cooler, and lit and passed around a joint. She already had a buzz on from the beer, and when the thin, twisted joint reached her, she took a toke and coughed the smoke out. They laughed. The next time it came around, she held the smoke in despite growing red and almost choking.
“You know they’re out there,” said Conner Reilly, nodding at the Gulf, as soundless coughs still wracked Stephie’s chest. Conner was tanned and tall — on the basketball team — but had green eyes and long eyelashes like a fashion model. He also dated the best-looking girl in school, Stephie reminded herself, who would crush Stephie, socially, if she perceived any threat, which she couldn’t possibly. “Bullshit,” replied Walter Ames. Walter’s father was black, and his mother was white. Walter defined the word cool. Stephie felt cool just being around him, and she wondered if any of the boys would acknowledge her Monday when they went back to school. “They’re too busy invadin’ Japan,” Walter insisted, but Conner was unswayed. “China’s got bases,” he said, rocking forward in the circle and drawing a map in the sand, “on those islands up and down the coast of Africa!” Conner’s islands looked like freckles on his hand-drawn sea. With her finger, she completed the sea’s smiley face. In very close proximity, Stephie studied the homemade leather bracelet that Conner wore on the hand that jabbed at the sand. What if he decided to give me his bracelet, she thought, because… She couldn’t imagine why he would do such a thing, but she was content to fantasize about showing it to her friends. “Je presente… Conner Reilly’s bracelet.” Without realizing it, her eyes sank closed imagining the sweet life that would surely follow. “My dad says we’ll be, like, at war some day,” Conner insisted. Stephie looked at him, and the most amazing thing happened. He looked back. They all disagreed with him, including Stephie, who just wanted to fit in. “We’re, like,” she said, “total… isholashunishts!” The boys laughed at her because of the long word she’d used and because of the way she had slurred it.
They marched about a mile down the beach before they came upon a body. It had washed up on the shore and was covered in seaweed. You couldn’t tell much more than that from the road. They took a break as the LT checked his map showing minefields, then sent two men out onto the beach. The soldiers recoiled in disgust and returned to report to the LT, who called a report in to the CO. Word quickly spread that it was a U.S. sailor who’d been in the water a long, long time. Men returned to the corpse, sunk a piece of driftwood into the sand, and tied a white towel to the upright marker.
“Must’ve been from the Straits of Havana,” Animal said. He was sweating profusely and rested his heavy, vintage M-60 in his lap as he mopped his face with a towel. He and Massera were from weapons platoon — not a numbered platoon — thus they, like the missile team, were outsiders.
The ultimate insider was Stephon Johnson, who knew everybody in every unit. He had advance word of just about everything important because of the network of contacts that he always touted. “I hear there was 30,000 squids ’n jarheads on those ships. That Chinese wolfpack had a hun’erd subs in it, just waitin’. Bodies been washin’ up all the way over to Texas.”
“And there are five million Chinese soldiers in Cuba,” Stephie said in the low tones everyone else had assumed. Nobody said a word in reply.
By the end of Stephie’s sixteenth year, her life had changed in two ways. Stephie had a steady boyfriend — Conner Reilly — and her stepfather had lost his job. “When is Dad’s company gonna open up again?” Stephie asked as her mom straightened her hair before a date. Rachel Roberts feigned a smile. She always labored over Stephie before each date as if dating were Stephie’s mission in life. “They can’t get the parts that they need,” her mother explained, “out of Japan, you know, because the factory was destroyed. And they can’t ship anything to Europe because of the Chinese embargo.” She wouldn’t look Stephie in the eye. “But there are blockade runners,” Stephie suggested, “that go back and forth to England.” Rachel curled the corners of her pinched lips but shook her head. “So Dad’s, like, unemployed?” Stephie asked, trying not to let the fear show in her voice. Her mother nodded as she straightened the choker that Stephie wore, but ever more vigorously avoided eye contact in the mirror.
There was a long silence. “Why did you and my real father break up?” Stephie asked. With a shifty eyed, criminal look, her mother said for the thousandth time that her stepfather was her real father. Stephie sighed. “You know what I mean. You’ve never told me. Why did you break up?” Her mother replied that it was personal. “Well,” Stephie laughed, frustrated, “I know it’s personal!” She huffed. “Does it have anything to do with Aunt Cynthia?” Stephie asked, taking a stab. Her mother angered, as always, on mention of the aunt that Stephie had never seen, and abruptly headed for the door. “I mean she’s your sister and you, like, never even talk to her!” Her mother wheeled on Stephie with surprising fury. “I said it’spersonal!” she snapped, then ran from the room.
We must be really messed up! Stephie fretted until Conner rang the doorbell. When Stephie headed downstairs, she heard her mother sobbing behind closed bedroom doors. I did that, Stephie thought guiltily.
“All right, let’s form up,” came their platoon leader’s voice over their earphones. They headed in column further down the beach. High in the sky overhead were criss-crossing jet contrails. These weren’t the lone white tracks made by commercial airliners. They came in the twos and fours made by flights of war planes heading out to sea. Stephie eyed them repeatedly — concerned that some might be Chinese — and Collins twice admonished her to keep her “fuckin’ eyes on the fuckin’ ground.”