Every few years, the Team Sgt, usually in a fit of sadistic
glee, decides that there is a need to update the team's SOP. This is done
quite often and not necessarily because there are new members on the
team or that pre-mission training is about to begin (which usually, in his
twisted mind, is used as an excuse). More often than not, it is done
because: (a) the Team Sgt is bored; (b) the team dynamic is getting too
tense because of back-to-back missions; (c) there are Team, Company and Bn
training requirements.
The Team Sgt, with almost sociopathic delight, announces that
"in a few nights, we are going to go over our SOPs, just to make sure they
don't need to be modified. We'll hang out, drink some beer and hash a few
things out." He says this with an almost fatherly kindness.
The younger guys think this is a great idea. It is an
opportunity for them to provide some input and help out the team. The Jr.
Bravo spends the next few days pulling out the dusty SOP binder, blowing it off
and digging through the team archives, praying that the previous Bravo had
saved an electronic copy of it somewhere so he doesn't have to retype the whole
thing.
The Jr. Charlie helps out by pulling all relevant TMs and FMs,
reading through them so that when the time comes he can prove his tactical
knowledge in front of the whole team. The Jr. Echo and Delta go through
all the MOS specific information that they think everyone needs to know...
‘just like Robin Sage’.
The Seniors, with their breath catching in their throats, knees
going weak and memories (with an almost PTSD-like intensity) flash
through their heads, taking them back to the minutes prior to their first
combat mission. The Fox, upon hearing this, collapses at his desk and
with hands shaking like an epileptic with Parkinsons, opens his drawer and
breaks the seal on the bottle of Jack he put in there the morning after 'the
last time.'
The Sr. Bravo walks outside and, with fingers suddenly too fat
to dial his phone, he tries to call former teammates to reconnect with the men
who had been through the fire with him.
The true brilliance of the Team Sgt's plan is shown when he
whispers in the CPT's ear...saying things like “what a great opportunity this
will be for you” or “you can shape the team," and "like a potter
working with a lump of clay, you can form the team, make it your own." And
with the wisdom of the ancients, he says "This will be your legacy!”
The day finally comes. The Fox is at the end of a three-day
bender and the other Seniors have said their prayers to Crom, Odin or the
vengeful God of the Old Testament. They are prepared. They have said their
goodbyes and locked away all emotion and human kindness in the secret, special
box that's buried deep inside.
The CPT and younger guys are surprised when they walk in.
The fridge has been stocked, the table and chairs are all pushed to the
side, and the Team Sgt is finishing padding up the sharp corners, having
already rid the room of all edged or projectile weapons. As the Team Sgt
ascends to his desk, he passes the Jr's, who in the distant past of his mind,
thinks that they look like kids on the first day of school, arms full of
Trapper Keepers with red and black corvettes on the front, pencil boxes and a
snack in a brown paper bag.
The CPT, oblivious to what is about to happen, pulls a pen from
the plastic protector in his shirt pocket and looks up, wondering where the
head of the table is for him to sit down. Instead, he sees in the far corner,
the Hispanic Senior Charlie taking his Crucifix out, kissing it and then slowly
putting it back in his shirt. The CPT's head swivels to the other corner.
The Senior Delta swallows something out of a small bottle and chases it
with a large swig from a bottle that he is holding so tight, it looks like the
hand of a corpse is wrapped around it. He finally senses that something
is amiss when he sees the Senior Bravo squatting on a pile of tough boxes
and staring at him like a predator that's perched in a tree overlooking a
watering hole. His whole body is quivering in anticipation of the bloodbath
that is about to ensue.
The Team Sgt nods to the Fox, who, reeking of stale sweat and
alcohol, with the cold dead eyes of an executioner, slowly closes the door
and locks it with an ominous click.
Hours later the door falls open, crashing to the ground.
Dust and smoke are billowing out, so thick that all you can see is the
dim light from the empty fridge laying on its side. The light is blocked by a
hazy figure walking toward the door. The Team Sgt steps up out of the sunken
team room, putting on his leather jacket and non-DOT approved, low profile,
half helmet skullcap. As he gets on his bike, he yells back that he “will
see them in three hours for P.T.” and leaves... the only sound to punctuate the
silence of the night is the roar of his Harley, and a laugh that sounds as if
it came from the deepest pits of hell.
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