The End of Something

 The End of Something

By

Steven L. Wright

            He had tried repeatedly to get an appointment. Nothing but excuses. Were they stalling? Were they afraid? Two days before departing he received the call.

            “Hey, William, Rick Ryle here. The Old Man will see you at 1945. He’s allotted fifteen minutes.”

            “Generous.”

            Ryle . . . the consummate loser. Took the credit. Never did the work.

            William Travers looked at his watch: half past four. Enough time to change clothes. Wanted to impress. Wanted to look sharp. Stopped by the barber for a trim.

            Took the steps two at a time until reaching the third floor. Total silence. Floor empty. Smouldering cigar and cigarette aromas filled the air. Half-empty mugs of tar-black coffee littered desktops. Checked himself in the mirror secured to the wall. Captain’s bars and battalion insignia aligned on his shoulders. Aviation branch insignia and ‘US’ polished and positioned perfectly on the lapels. Silver aviator wings gleamed, centred on the left breast pocket above the green and white army commendation medal ribbon. Shirt starched. Tie knotted and centred. Shoes mirror-like. Time: 1945.

            Certainly more callused than five years ago when I raised my right hand and took the oath . . . ‘against all enemies, foreign and domestic.’ The idealism of youth . . . dissolved. Respect for the profession . . . suctioned to the inner rim of the toilet bowl.  

            “I’ll see you now, Captain Travers.” 

            William walked in, stood at attention and saluted. The Old Man stood up, returned the salute. Didn’t comment about the Class ‘A’ uniform. Travers absorbed his environment. Award citations reflecting the Old Man’s military accolades arranged chronologically beneath his initial commission as a second lieutenant earned twenty years earlier. Various talisman-like items adorned the desk: fragments of an exploded hand grenade; five jars filled with what appeared to be sand. All dwarfed, however, by a two-foot-long piece of a helicopter tail boom riddled with holes. Only the bottom portion of the ‘y’ from ‘U S Army’ remained unscathed. A bookcase to the right of the desk was crammed with army manuals, aircraft -10s and government issued three ring binders. The bottom shelf contained non-fiction histories perfectly aligned. No indication of having been read or referenced.             

            “Understand you’re attending graduate school, I believe? Sorry to hear it. You’re a fine officer. Best of luck then. And . . . be kind to us out there, Travers.”

            He’d been briefed. Not surprised. Doesn’t know anything about me. What’s this crap about ‘being kind to us out there?’ Is that an order?   

            “Thank you. Yes, sir, attending graduate school.” 

            William could tell from the Old Man’s sense of rectitude that as a full colonel and brigade commander he had fulfilled the task: the right of every Regular Army officer to receive an exit interview from the highest-ranking officer within the immediate change of command. The colonel saluted signalling the interview was finished. He pulled a thick cigar from his pocket, sliced off the end and concentrated on lighting the Castro-like stogie.

            He can’t be serious. I’m at full throttle. Tower’s cleared me for take-off, runway 2-5.

            “Sir, if you don’t mind, I’ve made notes on why I’m resigning.”

            Taken aback and a bit pained after glancing at his watch, he gazed out the window before taking a healthy puff on the freshly lit cigar. Clearly agitated but the Old Man felt obligated to listen.

            “Go ahead then.”

            Travers reached behind his back and pulled from his belt several legal-sized papers folded in thirds. Unfolded the sheets and started reading. Prior to beginning ‘Item 2,’ the colonel’s forehead wrinkled, eyes narrowed. Took a lengthy draw on the cigar. Smoke circulated around the desk before meandering toward Travers.

            “Mind if we sit over there?”

            ‘Over there’ were two, oversized leather chairs authorized to brigade commanders.

            “Certainly, sir.”

            The Old Man grabbed a writing tablet and pen from atop the desk.

            What will he do with the truth?

            “Repeat what you said.”

            “Yes, sir. Despite having Department of the Army orders in hand, when I reported for duty the brigade adjutant asked if my orders were correct. He couldn’t find any reference to me being assigned to this cavalry brigade.”

            Still curious what he meant by ‘correct.’ A twenty-three-year-old second lieutenant fresh from flight school faking his orders?

            “Straightened it out obviously.

            “Three hours later I reported to the battalion but it too was befuddled. Didn’t know what to do with me. Assigned a non-flying position as the Class III/V platoon leader (Battalion Gas/Ammo) in charge of forty-five men. Learned the battalion – especially warrant officers and senior NCOs - considered these soldiers as incompetents. Soon learned the majority consisted of poor whites, uneducated Black men from urban ghettos and the rural South, or Haitians promised citizenship for serving in the American army. Race and education levels fuelled these attitudes more than anything else.”

            “Gave you the chance to excel.  And that’s exactly what you did, Captain Travers. Your platoon became the model for the brigade. Set the standard.”

            “I’m an aviator, sir. Needed to maintain basic flight proficiency. Ground pounding offered nothing. Held the position for fourteen months, accumulating an impressive 21 hours of flight time since reporting—fifteen months after earning my wings.”

            “Unfortunate. Truly unfortunate.”

            Couldn’t wait to fill his boots with really serious crap to wade in. Only then would he be in touch with how ‘unfortunate’ it truly was.

            “My two-hour orientation flight was conducted at night in the backseat of a Blackhawk with an in-op floor mic. Fellow passengers were part of a DAC (Department of Army Civilian) ‘party’ overseeing a We demonstrate – you react in adulation to overindulged defense contractors. Their mic switches worked. Didn’t learn a thing, sir, except, of course, training areas are dark at night. Infantry, artillery and armor units excelled at tactical light discipline.” 

       The Old Man squirmed. Captain Travers saw him writing, underlining words for emphasis. Travers felt embolden.

     “My flying proficiency deteriorated further after being appointed battalion adjutant—although a captain’s slot—I only had been promoted to first lieutenant a few months earlier. Experienced it all, sir. Three battalion commanders in sixteen months. The first was relieved of command for incompetence. Complications courtesy of syphilis finished off the second. The third, a political appointee from the Pentagon, seemed hell-bent getting his command card stamped. Regularly emphasised the importance of ‘sensing the political environment.’ An unadulterated hack.”

            “Your conclusions are overblown and ill-judged, Captain Travers.”

            He was becoming defensive. Had him by the short hairs.

            “What would you think of a leader who practiced his ‘command’ face regularly in front of a full length mirror attached to the wall to the right of his desk or formed his cigarette ashes into a volcanic mound alongside butts aligned in perfect dress right dress formation? What about the commander whose personal library comprised solely of issues of Stereo Review and a signed, first edition of Erwin J. Goldstein’s, The Sex Book? Doesn’t exactly instil confidence to follow them into battle, does it?”

            “I know those officers. Both suffered from their service overseas.”                        

            “Perhaps then, sir, they shouldn’t have been slated for battalion command.”

            “That’s not for you to judge.”

            “It is when at the expense of my professional development. I made them look good. Followed regulations and procedures and was dependable. Forced to remain adjutant for two years mainly because I could write well. Never dependant on predetermine prattle from manuals of army jargon.  And because of this, I became the ‘go to officer’ for the bureaucratic jobs—the additional duties—flushed downward from the Department of the Army, from corps, from division . . . even civilian entities on post: Drug and Alcohol (D & A) Officer, Weight Control Officer and Field Sanitation Officer.

            Thirty percent of the battalion tested positive for drug use. Enlisted unfortunates were assigned to the D & A program immediately. The six officers found positive were ignored, treated as if nothing happened. Weren’t even suspended from flying duties. Four of the six had graduated from the Hudson School for Boys and Girls so that . . .”

            “What's that?”

            “West Point, sir. The West Point Protective Association (WPPA) made its presence known whenever one of its angles stumbled from their cloud.”

            The Old Man remained silent.

            “About twenty percent of the battalion failed to meet the standard height/weight ratio forcing me to run the fat boys an extra two to three miles after morning PT. The three battalion commanders, owners of appreciable girth and max gross tension on shirt buttons themselves, never joined the battalion for PT. Never took the required PT test twice a year per Army regs.”

            “Didn’t think it necessary to be playground supervisor. Guess I should have.”  

            “Then field sanitation, sir. Company commanders didn’t appreciate me writing up their faults. Couldn’t grasp or simply ignored that men urinating outside tents in the morning wasn’t sanitary, or not having potable water close by their company’s slit trench to wash up after disposing of heavier matter. An army travels on its stomach. There’d be no manoeuvring, certainly no flying if bacteria infected the battalion’s GI tract.”

            “Wasn’t privy to any of this. Never heard complaints.”

            “You wouldn’t. My directives came from a civilian agency. The commanders couldn’t fudge it. If the battalion failed, I’d be reported and verbally beaten around the head and shoulders. The ‘politically sensitive’ battalion CO, however, found little difficulty fudging gunnery results.”

            “Falsified readiness reports?”

            “Another additional duty was serving as battalion gunnery officer three times in secession. Became acquainted the first time. Mastered the intricacies on the second. Perfected them on the third.”

            “That task should have been divvied out to other junior officers. Should have spoken out.”

            That infernal cigar’s obviously rolled with something besides tobacco. Telling you now because I’m resigning and checking out.

            “Twenty of twenty-five attack helicopters in the battalion were operational. Fifteen arrived at the firing range three hundred miles away. Of those fifteen, ten had weapon systems that functioned, forcing pilots to be filtered in and out of aircraft to retain currency. At the end of the five-day exercise one aircraft’s weapons systems functioned and also capable of flying. And yet . . .”

            “Good, God!”  

            “. . . The commander signed off on the readiness report that the unit’s status was A-1. Fit to fight, to use the pejorative. A total lie and fabrication.”

            “That’s criminal. Putting us at risk. The whole brigade.”

            “Worse on the personal level, sir.”

            “More?”

            “After two ARMS (Aviation Resource Management Survey) inspections I discovered the company aviation standards officer had hidden my flights records and those of another lieutenant in charge of the motor pool. Zero chance of us receiving a check ride by the inspectors. We didn’t exist. If our records had stayed in the cabinet and were selected we would have flunked. Failing to achieve basic flight hour minimums also would have been uncovered. Even you, sir, would have taken a hit for that one.”   

            The Old Man got up, walked over to an antique cabinet and secured a half empty bottle of Scotch.

            “Could I interest you in a glass, Captain Travers? Will take the sting out of digesting lies and deceptions. That’s my fervent hope anyway.”

            “No, sir, thank you. Celebrating later this evening.”

            Travers knew ‘celebrating’ was the wrong word choice immediately after uttering. The Old Man screwed the cap back on the battle, turned and gave Travers a scowl that could intimidate the meanest of men. He returned to the leather seat with a tumbler three-quarters filled. Rested the glass on the arm of the chair. Looked out the window. Despite measured swallowing, Travers sensed the Old Man was struggling.

            “What’s happened? What have we become?”

            Travers remained silent.

            “That’s not rhetorical, Captain. What have we become?”

            He didn’t define ‘we’ so I took it as all-inclusive.

            “I accepted the scholarship and to serve five years, sir, because I desired something finer. Being a career army officer offered the chance to achieve a higher ideal. Something beyond the ubiquitous materialism of American society that’s only amplified by the greed and the drugs and sadly, the highly praised provincial ignorance . . . of contemporary events, of American history, even basic civics. Being an officer in the ranks, I’d be joining the cream of the nation—those chiselled from the same marmoreal stone. Couldn’t have been more wrong. The officer corps merely reflects society. Learned there’s no escaping the systemic deception Americans hold about themselves and the nation. The army couldn’t serve as a bulwark and certainly wasn’t a refuge. The deception seemed more potent, more intense, in fact, because the numbers were smaller, the regulated environment more intense. Tried repeatedly to convince myself the deception hadn’t infiltrated the army but gradually was proven wrong.”

            “You can’t fault the army for that.”

            He was clever but I was cleverer.

            “No, sir. Correct. Can’t separate them. Fickleness is a hell of a thing to die for though.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “Civilians laughed and mocked you when in uniform. Years later the clichéd prattle of Thank you for your service, couldn’t leave their mouths fast enough. Remember, sir? Believe their patriotic quotient is limited to choking up to Lee Greenwood’s, Good Bless the U.S.A. A nationalistic-like orgy everyone embraces. Dying for my country suddenly had lost any sacrificial appeal.”     

            “Are you that cynical or are you making this up as you go?”

            “I’m that cynical . . . and, no, I’m not making it up, sir. That’s why I wrote it down. That’s why I pressed for this meeting. I won’t derive anything from it but . . . you should.”

            The Old Man held the glass in his left hand and stared at Travers. Not cowed, Travers reciprocated. The Old Man cleared his throat.

            “Although mired in muck and surround by self-serving, unethical officers, did you accomplish anything you’re proud of?

            “Three things, sir.”

            “Enlighten me then.”

            “Graduation from Flight School. After completing the ten-month course, where you’re mentally and physically tested every day, I knew I could handle anything the army threw my way.”

            The Old Man held a brief smile.

            “And the other two?”

            “Served as a Casualty Assistance/Survivor Benefits Officer. When the major at division handed me the information packet, he spouted off a few racial epithets about who I’d be assisting. Didn’t elaborate and I didn’t ask. Learned I’d be helping the widow of a career soldier, a master sergeant, who had fought in World War II, the Korean War and assigned as an advisor during those early confident days in Vietnam. When I arrived at the home I was greeted by a petit woman of Japanese origin nearing eighty. Her English was scant but I could tell she was incredibly appreciative I’d been assigned to oversee her husband’s affairs. She insisted I call her Midori, not Mrs. Alexander. She showed me her husband’s picture: an American soldier wearing his dress blues uniform adorned with several medals and combat services stripes. And . . . he was Black. Had met in Japan during the post-war occupation and formed a unique relationship during their fifty-five-year marriage. Had to endure probably one hell of a lot of abuse similar to what the major had mouthed-off earlier.”

            The Old Man nodded slowly.

            “Months later, while walking into the post dry cleaners, Midori spotted me, came over and hugged me: Ahhh . . . lieutenant no more. You captain, Captain Travers. We exchanged pleasantries and wished each other well.”

            “Understand her admiration and respect. Would make me feel good, too. Proud.”

            “The third is more self-serving, sir.”

            “Endemic nowadays, I’m gathering.”

            “After promotion to captain I was assigned to the battalion’s Tactical Operations Center. Obviously an important job but essentially another non-flying position. How could I coordinate field tactics when I had experienced so little of it in the cockpit? Pure nonsense. With twelve months left to serve, I made connections with a civilian entity on post: To assist in researching and writing the history of the corps and the division since 1945. Thought it perfect preparation for graduate school. Would cleanse my brain of any accumulated rust.”

            “Can’t agree with the political, self-serving nature but impressed by your manoeuvring.”

            “Suppose I drew from my time as battalion adjutant. ‘Sensed my own political environment’ and crossed the finish line.”

            “Ballsy. I’ll give you that.” 

            “Days after beginning the assignment, received a special request from the commanding general (CG) demanding immediate action. Several hundred documents had been declassified of a former adversary, specifically the tactics and operational equipment it had used in the Arctic. The CG wanted the four page analysis completed in five days. The civilian supervisor assigned me the task.

            “Probably couldn’t handle the pressure. Only too happy to pawn it off.”

            Or . . . he considered it an excellent primer for graduate school.   

            “Days after submitting the report I received a memo signed personally by the CG: Exactly what I wanted and needed: Thorough analysis of salient points. Excellently written. Well done, Captain Travers. I’ve kept that one for my files, sir.”

            “The CG’s of another era, Captain Travers.”

            “The nation doesn’t produce leaders like that anymore because that America no longer exists.”  

            The Old Man scribbled on his notepad. A long silence ensued.

            “I’ve heard this clarion call before . . . of disillusionment . . . of disappointment. Three times to be exact. At the installation prior to being posted here. The scenario . . . almost verbatim. Didn’t take the concerns of the three young captains seriously though. After hearing your revelations this evening, realize I should have paid closer attention. Wished I had. But that’s hindsight. Paid attention this time. You’ve sounded the alarm. A warning shot that should concern not only the army but the nation . . . but I don’t have the prescriptive answer.”  

            “Nor do I, sir, except . . . except . . .”

            “Go ahead. You aren’t shy, Travers.”

            “What’s occurring today is unsustainable, sir. Fundaments are askew. The nation needs a paradigm shift. Society now accepts a litany of unethical or illegal behaviour so long as there aren’t consequences. A spiral descending into emptiness.”

            “How’s it rectified then?”

            “Don’t have answers, only concerns. Seedlings are being planted that over time will become a strangling vine, choking the essence . . . the very idea of America.”

            “Your optimism is overwhelming, Captain Travers.”

            “There are things we learn that take a lifetime to acquire, sir, but usually that knowledge must be paid for heavily. I’m fortunate, came to me early in life.”

            Travers thought he’d said enough. Needed to bring it to an end.

            “Thanks for accepting my request for the interview and for listening, sir. Probably not what you expected.”

            “Sure wasn’t. Now I’ve got a plate of hard-ass gristle to digest or discard. Well, anyway . . . good luck then in civilian life. And as I said earlier, be kind to us out there, Travers.”

            “Be nice to think so, sir.”  

            “I . . . understand.”

            Travers stood up and saluted a senior officer for the last time. The Old Man returned the salute and held out his right hand.

            The next morning while gathering his flight gear to return to central supply the phone rang.

            “What did you tell the Old Man last night? Jesus, it was hell in this morning’s meeting.”

            “Told the truth, Rick. Being army from the anus up, you should appreciate that. I feel for you but from where I’m standing . . . can’t reach you. Sorry. Outa here.”

            Travers hung up the receiver. In his young life he never had felt so complete. He’d fulfilled an obligation. That’s all he expected of himself.     

*****

            “Mr. Travers . . . Mr. Travers?”

            “Yes, yes, I’m sorry . . . just reminiscing. The past intrudes at the most inconvenient moments, doesn’t it?”

            “Journalists are gathered in the conference room, sir. Your publisher says whenever you’re ready.”

            “Thank you, Nancy. Thank you very much. Better crack on then.”

            William Travers never relished meeting the press. Wasn’t shy, quite the opposite. Thoughts and words came easily to him. He just didn’t appreciate when ‘philosophical opponents’ altered the context that led inevitably to unintended meanings. Years ago, he challenged them to correct the published record. No longer. Didn’t give a damn. He walked slowly down the hall into an ornate conference room.   

            “My publisher’s informed me I’m at your benevolent mercy for about twenty minutes. Shall we begin the inquisition? Your first question.”

            Hands raised immediately. A woman in the front row, who only partially had committed her hand, looked inquisitively at Travers. She caught his eye.

            “Ms. Carpenter, would you like to ask the first question?”

            “Certainly, Mr. Travers. Thank you. The title of your fourth and self-admittedly last novel is The End of Something. Should readers consider it a cryptic metaphor describing the current state of America?”