Sergeant Smith sat on a bench with his back to busy Eighth Avenue. Cars and pedestrians rushed by him, creating the blur of sounds typical of a large city. His camouflage uniform still harbored dust from some unnamed hill in Iraq where two Marines under his command had been killed less than forty-eight hours earlier. Beside him was the tan duffel he had tossed into the back of the Jeep that rushed him to the hospital. Buried in the duffel, but carefully protected, was a small cardboard box wrapped in pastel blue paper and tied with a ribbon. It was a gift that could sit proudly on a dresser if daddy didn’t come back. Smith had traded a longer leave for this excruciatingly short weekend of leave so he could be home when Rachel delivered their first child. He was going to have a son, and he was overjoyed. He would swear until his dying day that thinking of his son had given him that extra burst of energy that had been the difference between two Marine funerals and three.
Smith’s forehead rested in his hands and his elbows on his knees. Anyone who more than glanced at him would have seen the unmistakable heaves of his back. Only Smith could see the drops on the concrete sidewalk between his boots. Many passed Smith and thought only political thoughts. A few imagined stopping to express their gratitude, but those were only fleeting daydreams of the pontifically patriotic. Instead, they scurried onward while conjuring a multitude of excuses. A small boy wandered toward Smith, but his mother pulled him along quickly.
There were many things that went wrong. She didn’t make it. The child? His son? No. Dead before they even started.
Smith would spend the weekend saying goodbye to the wife he loved more than anything and the son that he would never know. He would board another C-130 for the return trip with a lock of her hair taped to the back of his dog tag.
He raised his head and looked at his reflection in the tinted glass window in front of him. A tired, weathered, twenty-six-year-old United States Marine stared back at him.
Finally, he stood up. He straightened his camos and slung his duffel over his shoulder. He stared into his reflection as people and cars passed and took a deep breath. He stood tall, saluted sharply, and turned away.
Mark Partin writes in Kansas.
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11 Responses to “SERGEANT SMITH • by Mark Partin”
Comments
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November 11th, 2009 at 6:29 am
Took a long time to figure out what was going on, and then it was all his memories. Nothing actually happened in the story, it was all remembering things that had happened previously. I know some people will like this kind of story, but I didn’t.
November 11th, 2009 at 7:06 am
This story was sad but very good. Defently a good pick for today. It’s important not to forget what our soldiers go through, espically since we’re in the middle of a war.
November 11th, 2009 at 7:18 am
Very good – subtle opening, good characterization, gut-wrench twist. Thanks so much for this one. You nailed the universal irony of all life, not just war.
November 11th, 2009 at 9:20 am
A worthwhile theme that deserves exploration. That said, Sergeant Smith was a caricature, as were the people who passed him by. The last three paragraphs seemed to be aiming for a Hemingway-esque stoicism, but missed the mark, and we ended up with a cliche for an ending.
The line “a few imagined stopping to express their gratitude, but those were only fleeting daydreams of the pontifically patriotic” was a problem for me. If their pontific patriotism was Smith’s perception, this wasn’t clear from the story. If it was a blanket indictment of society by the author, it’s misplaced in such a seemingly personal vignette. From a purely technical standpoint, it’s a weird intrusion of POV shift.
November 11th, 2009 at 10:27 am
It’s very hard to crit this one because personal issues are far too close to the subject matter. I’ll just say that part of the story rings all too true; the pain soldiers and their families go through due to long separations can never be understated. On the flip side, this isn’t 1969 and these guys and gals aren’t the pariahs of their Vietnam comrades. I don’t think the appreciation of our military and servicemen has ever been higher (not since WW II anyway), regardless of what anybody thinks of the wars they fight. So that part of the story rang hollow.
Good one for today. Gets people thinking, if nothing else.
–John
November 11th, 2009 at 10:52 am
I wanted to like this one… I really did, considering Veterans Day and all. Maybe it was my experience as a vet, or maybe it was the story, such as it was. Whatever the reason, I didn’t quite connect. The POV was a bit odd, but I think the issue I am having is the story didn’t do enough. The writer left so much potential on the table.
For J.C. above… I cringe every time I see the word PARIAH associated with Viet Nam vets. Over the years I have seen it a lot. The word is accurate, by definition, but it’s not an issue with the vets. It’s an issue with the society that portrayed them that way. Some people forget that most of them hated the war as much as the society that protested against it.
~ Mick
November 11th, 2009 at 1:48 pm
*sniff* Pass the tissues, please. God bless them all.
November 11th, 2009 at 8:27 pm
It’s a worthy and timely piece; more of a scene-oriented character sketch than a story, but that doesn’t really bother me, I’ve written plenty myself.
I agree with J.C. that generally soldiers are much more respected and appreciated than in the past (I had friends who came back from Nam to that sort of thing), but there is a tendency growing (in the media, anyway) to perceive returned GIs as warped, damaged and possibly dangerous. This was I read into it.
I think this would benefit from a much longer, more detailed examination of Smith, unencumbered by a word limit.
Cheers.
November 12th, 2009 at 9:21 am
Not being American I have no sympathy for the patriotic glorification of war with which the story ends. He stood tall … what a cliché! He decides to take on the responsibility given to him – and yet he doesn’t seem too worried about losing two Marines which were killed under his command.
As for style: I love the sentence “only Smith could see the drops …”(great image). While I don’t know why we need to know he tossed his duffel into the jeep, I do like that we don’t know what is in the blue box with the ribbon. That leaves space for our imagination.
I agree with Ian that a more detailed examination might be interesting. At this length, it’s rather simplistic.
November 16th, 2009 at 11:49 am
I just didn’t get it. I don’t normally consider myself a stupid person, but if there was any point to this story, it escaped me entirely.
November 17th, 2009 at 8:13 am
IMO, This story gives us a moment of reflection, and pause, about the men and women who have sworn to defend the U.S. Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. And also, about how we pay homage to them.
As we rush throughout our day, we can easily take for granted the sacrifices that are made for our life, liberty and pursuit of happiness. Even when the reminder is sitting on a bench at a busy intersection.
Because of their oath, we have the freedom to cast stones of self-righteous judgement, never fully realizing the extent of their sacrifice to serve and protect us.