Scrap Metal
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Baker closed his left eye and held the barrel to his right, checking if he had finally managed to dislodge any and all pieces of dirt in the slim metal tube. He grunted in exasperation as he spotted yet another small bump on one side and thrust the bottle brush roughly in it again. He had been at this particular gun since morning and it still refused to work.
“You shouldn’t have thrown it away.”
“I retrieved it, didn’t I?”
“What?”
Baker looked up from his work and met the puzzled look of his tent mate. “Nothing” he said quickly. “Just talking to this god damn piece of junk.” He held the gun up for inspection again and saw the other relax. He had been cleaning the gun for hours after all – letting out steam was normal, wasn’t it?
He held the barrel to his eye again, at first checking for irregularities then looking through it as it if was a telescope. Childhood memories came back of afternoons in summer, imagining being a pirate captain in the Caribbean Sea using empty stacked-in rolls of toilet paper to further his imagination.
It didn’t work now, of course. Everything he saw was testimony of this dirty and ugly world, this war, it’s refugees and victims. Some counted him among the latter but he refused to let himself be influenced by them. He was a good soldier and a good leader if a bit reluctantly.
He put the barrel down again and reached to his right where, neatly spread out, all other parts of the gun waited to be put back together. It’s done in a matter of minutes.
He looked up at the sound of approaching feet. Gravel churned under the heavy tread of a captain and his attaché as both men wove their way between the tents and the soldiers occupying them. Baker knew them as Captain Miller and Corporal Zanetzki and had seen them almost every day since he and his men arrived in the camp. They handled discharges.
A nervous flutter started in his gut as both men came nearer, ignoring most of the men on both sides and their hopeful glances and finally came to stop in front of the place where Baker and his companion were seated. Both rushed to their feet and saluted.
“Staff Sergeant Baker?” Captain Miller asked instead of a greeting.
“Yes, Sir.” The flutter morphed into a sinking feeling.
“This came for you from mission command – an honourable discharge.”
Baker felt numb as he reached out to receive the small sheaf of papers the Captain was handing him. This wasn’t right.
“Sir, if I may ask a question …”
“Go on.”
“Are you sure you’re talking to the right Sergeant Baker, Sir?”
Captain Miller’s gaze told very clear that he was absolutely sure he had the right man but he checked his list nevertheless. “Are you Staff Sergeant Matthew Baker? Born on the 22nd of February 1921 in St Louis, Missouri?”
“Yes, Sir.” sighed Baker.
“Then you are the right man.”
“But I’m able bodied, Sir!”
“But not able minded, Baker”, snapped Miller. He obviously was unfamiliar with soldiers protesting against the possibility of being send home in one piece and before the war was over. “The reports speak of hallucinations, Baker. You brought your men through very deep shit and we appreciate all you’ve done for the war effort but we cannot risk you loosing it in the middle of a campaign. Do you deny having hallucinations of former fallen comrades, especially of –“ He checked his clip-board. “– someone called Legget?”
Baker was not the man to lie straight into an superior officer’s face but he tried carefully rephrase the truth. “When you have fought through hell and back with your men you grow so close that even when dead your Brothers in Arms never truly leave your side.”
Captain Miller was not appeased. “That’s bullshit, Baker, and you know it. You’re leaving this evening at 1800. Gear, weapons and field-uniform are to be handed in to the quartermaster not later than 1700. What’s that in your hand?”
Baker started at the unexpected turn. “That’s my Colt M1911, Sir. A gift from my father” he answered.
“It a piece of tube and scrap metal wired together. Throw it away before someone gets hurt. Dismissed!” Without waiting for a response Miller turned and marched back to his bureau at the other end of the camp. Baker heard him mutter to Zanetzki but did not understand about what. He numbly stared down into his left hand.
Scrap metal.
He slumped back to the ground and stared numbly ahead, ignoring the disgruntled mutterings of his neighbour about jerks getting the best prices and never earning them.
His squad would continue to fight, sworn brothers in the face of the enemy, and he would return … Not home, never home, any more.
