all god's orphans

MacDunn drove Wes a few miles down the interstate before taking a nondescript exit and heading south at the top of the ramp. An old filling station sat, boarded up at the intersection, but other than that solitary structure, there was nothing here but trees. The two-lane highway stretched itself over rolling hills, cutting a path through thick trees on either side.

“Where are we going?” Wes asked, suddenly getting nervous about riding in a car with strangers.

“Our base.” MacDunn replied. “This is the back way.” Wes started calculating his “tuck and roll” options for bailing out of the car, but realized it was pointless.

“If you guys are planning to murder me,” Wes began. “Just do me a favor and make it quick.”

“Deal.” MacDunn chuckled. Holt simply shot him a look.

After several miles, they turned right and headed deeper into woods. The highway became a county road, and not long after that, a gravel road. Tall pine trees rose up on both sides, thick enough that they were almost at the gates of the base before Wes spotted the welcome sign. “Welcome to AGO November.”

Past the sign, two school buses were parked perpendicularly on opposite sides of the dirt road. Presumably, they could be pulled forward, front-to-front, and create a barrier for vehicles. A small guard shack had been erected to one side, made of a tiny construction trailer, and electric fencing ran into the woods in both directions. Beyond all of this, there was a large clearing in the woods that had been filled with large Army tents, construction trailers, and the center held a scaffold that was about thirty feet high. On top, a single sentry stood, surrounded by floodlights that were aimed in all directions. They entered the base and turned immediately left. A large part of the field had been turned into a kind of motor pool where several dozen black SUVs, along with various other vehicles were arranged in neat rows with another small construction trailer nearby.

MacDunn led Wes to one of the trailers and ushered him inside. The walls of the trailer were covered in wood paneling and a stern looking man in his forties sat behind a desk, entering information into a computer.

“Sergeant Monroe.” Called MacDunn. “Another recruit.” Monroe glanced up from his work.

“Have a seat.” He told Wes. MacDunn and Holt left him there without another word. When Monroe had finished what he was doing, he opened a drawer and removed a black binder filled with various forms. Retrieving one, he slid it across the desk to Wes, along with a pen. “This form indicates that you are under no physical duress and are volunteering for service of your own free will.” Wes glanced down at the paper. Across the top, a header declared. “United States Army – For Official Use Only” with an eagle spreading it’s wings. “Sign and date at the bottom.”

“What happens if I don’t?” Wes asked, actually trying to not sound like a dick and failing.

“Under executive order 141-80, all civilians are to register for service.” He replied almost wearily. “If you refuse military service, you will be assigned to a support role. Trust me, you don’t want to be in a support role.” This was one of the few times that Monroe had looked him in the eyes and he could tell that the man was not joking. Wes quickly signed the form. “Congratulations.” Monroe told him. “You are now a conscript private in the US Army.”

“Thanks.” Wes replied with very little enthusiasm.

“Oh, it’s not so bad.” Monroe consoled him. “If you do well, keep your nose clean and stuff, you could be eligible to join the operations battalion. That’s where the fun happens.”

“What kind of fun?”

“Y’know, blowing things up and stuff. Increased freedom. Better pay.” Wes liked the idea of that and he took the rest of the papers he was offered, signing the ones that required signing neatly piling up those that didn’t. He was given a field manual and an Army Ranger book on survival, along with a photocopied version of the Uniform Code of Military Justice with the word “REVISED” in bold on the front. As he stood to leave, he took a look at the flags behind Monroe. There were banners for each of the armed forces, and one that he didn’t recognize. It had a white field with a dark blue corner that held broad red stripes, from what he could see. Unfortunately, it was hanging at strange angles and he couldn’t tell exactly what it was.

Monroe led Wes to one of the tents. Inside, there were twelve cots to either side and an aisle down the middle.

“This will be your platoon.” Monroe said. “Personal items are to be stored under your rack. Do you have a weapon?” Wes shook his head. “You should probably think about getting one.”

“You’re not issuing me a gun?” Monroe laughed.

“I’m sure they’ve got one you can have, but honestly, I’d ‘acquire’ one the next time you’re out on patrol. It will probably be better than what they have here.” A young soldier of about seventeen stepped inside the tent and immediately froze.

“I’m sorry, sir.” He said reflexively. Monroe waved him off.

“You don’t call me ‘sir’, private.” He said with a kindness that caught Wes off guard. “That’s only for officers. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” He caught himself. “Yes, sergeant.”

“What’s your name, private?”

“Buck.” Wes couldn’t imagine a better moniker for this yokel.

“Buck, this is Wes. I want you to show him the ropes and get him a uniform.”

“Yes…” Buck caught himself. “Okay, sergeant.” Monroe left them there, and with that, Wes was officially in the Army, which he found strange.

“C’mon.” Said Buck happily. “Let’s get you some cammies.” Buck led Wes through the camp and gave him the basics. The women and children section was to the right side of the gates and was somewhat off-limits. The mess and laundry tents were near there and weapons were stored in one of the lockable construction trailers. Wes followed him around feeling more like he was at a summer camp than a military base. He quickly noticed that Buck had a hard time shutting the Hell up. The entire time he was giving Wes the dime tour, he scarcely stopped talking to take a breath. That ordinarily wouldn’t have bothered Wes much, but he could only understand roughly one out of every three words that exited Buck’s face. He was a proper “good ole boy” whose teeth never seemed to touch when he spoke. It was like he was chewing on some invisible rawhide dog toy. Wes smiled through gritted teeth and wondered what was for dinner.