Lost Patrol -3- Camp Wherever

The vehicles of our little squadron were parked around the edges of a bosque wood. That’s an Arizona phrase meaning an isolated piece of forest covering just a few acres, usually all one kind of tree. I didn’t know what kind of trees these were, but if I had to guess I’d say cottonwoods; they had that white look to the underside of their leaves.

A creek started from a spring in the middle of the wood and flowed out, heading through a well-worn channel toward the river in the middle of the shallow valley on this side of the ridge we had been confabbing on the other side of.

The men, directed by Sergeant Kemp (commander of Truck One), were setting up a camp, digging a latrine about a hundred yards from the spring and creek, and cutting brush to use to break up the outlines of the vehicles. All part of our training and the sort of thing we did on most of our ventures into the Utah wilderness.

But for four days, we had been wandering around Me-tah —I was going to call it that— acting as if all were still right with the world. Maybe they were talking too loud and laughing too hard at things that weren’t even funny, but it did look pretty normal.

Lt. Helmstead spoke to me. “If you’ve got personal items in Truck Four, pull them out and stow them in the back of Jeep One. And tell Stewart to come see me, right here.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, making a gesture with my hand that wasn’t really a salute. We didn’t salute in the unit, it would be crazy-making. Specialist Stewart had been the El Tee’s driver and I was pretty sure my popularity with him was going to take a hit.

The lieutenant stopped under one of the cottonwoods and waved me on. Sgt. Streep stopped with him and they began talking in low voices. I walked away, a bit self-conscious, sure they were talking about me and hoping they weren’t just admiring my ass.

I resisted giving it a little wiggle, one of the things I’ve had to give up for the army! My friend Carlos back home in Big Lonesome would be disappointed, but he wasn’t here.

Wherever “here” might be.

Kemp was our supply sergeant and one notch below Streep, a rank called for no reason I could discern, “Staff Sergeant.” If he owned a staff, I had never seen it. Maybe it was tiny, and he was embarrassed about it. I suppressed more giggles that could get me into trouble I didn’t need.

Then again, Cpl. Parch was the sort of trouble I did need. Or thought I did. He was commander of Truck Four, six-feet-four of meat and muscle with a quick grin and a twinkle in his eye when I caught him looking at me. When he told me I should call him Ken, I thought I would burst with wanting to giggle.

But now, I wouldn’t be riding in his truck. I frowned at the thought. On the other hand, the El Tee is no slouch in the looks department and is undoubtedly smarter than Ken, who is adorable but no giant of intellect.

I went to get my duffle out of Truck Four and give Ken the bad news. I hadn’t seen Specialist Stewart to tell him the El Tee wanted him, but I kept my eye out.

“Hey, Teddie,” Ken greeted me from the cab of the truck. “Kemp says we may be bivouacking here for the night. You heard anything?”

“Uh, not exactly, but I wouldn’t be surprised,” I admitted. “I’ve got to get my stuff, I’m riding in Jeep One, now.”

PFC Walter Lindt, in the passenger seat, leaned forward to see around Ken. “It’s those green eyes. The Loot has fallen for your charms, Teddie. Tell me it ain’t so.”

I could wish. A giggle escaped, but I chose not to answer directly. I went to the back of the truck to get my stuff, and Ken climbed down from the cab to follow me.

“No kidding? You’re riding with the El Tee? You ain’t driving, are you?”

“Uh, no, no driving.” I clambered into the back space of the truck where a lot of gear we never used was stored. Things like canned C-rations and winter coats and rounds for the 75mm recoilless rifle that fit in the mount on Jeep Two. It’s an obsolete antitank weapon that we had mounted up and test-fired only once since I had joined the unit.

Makes a heck of a noise. Like the machine guns for mounting on the trucks, we really had no use for any weapons except for some training exercises. Since what we really were was Search and Rescue, mounting all the armament we carried was just silly and likely to frighten the people we were supposed to be rescuing.

I got my bag out of the locker and collected a few things to put in it. I called it a duffle, but it was really just a soft-sided overnight bag like you might take with you out of town on a two or three-day trip. I packed it with the last of my clean socks and undies, my toothbrush, razor, comb and deodorant, and rolled up a couple of uniform blouses together with two pair of khaki pants.

I put my spare baseball cap on top of the bundle and zipped it up, careful not to catch anything in the coppery jaws. Someone spoke behind me and I turned slowly, trying not to show any expression.

Yonny Smit, driver of Truck Two, stood there scowling. He never looked happy, but he seemed to reserve his sourest expressions for when I was involved.

“So,” he muttered in his finest Pittsburgian. “Yez riding with the Old Man, now?”

“Uh, yeah,” I agreed. I wanted out of the back of the truck, but he was standing in my way. I looked past him over his shoulder, nodding as if to someone else. “Hey, Paco,” I chirped.

Yonny started to turn; he and Paco, our truck mechanic, did not get along.

I tried to slip past him while he was distracted, but he grabbed my thigh, leaning his face close to mine. “Yez have to suck his dick yet? Thass de only reason he’d let you near him, twinkboy.”

“Huh?” I winced at his grip. “He’s not cutting in line, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I returned.

While he processed that for implied insults, I managed to squeeze past him.