Jason Blum Short Story-Fiction Jason18b@aol.

com

FORM 489B

Shea heard the explosion and threw himself to the ground. The concussion of the RPG round shook his entire body. He felt his head and chest clench like a mad fist as he fought to keep his eyes open to see where the next shell would hit. Shea looked to his right and not more than 20 feet away saw one of his Marines lying on his back with both legs moving in violent jerking motions. The firefight his Marines were now engaged in with the Taliban had reached its 15 minute, far longer than most clashes. Shea had no idea how many of his men were wounded or killed. He did know one young marine begging for help to his right. Under a hurricane of bullets being fired between both sides, Shea crawled to the wounded Marine. The dirt was finding its way into the three holes that ripped into the right side of the Marines neck, just above the clavicle.
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Blood made a gurgling sound as it found its way out of the holes. His breathing was becoming increasingly labored. Shea was screaming for him, over the torrent of small arms fire and explosives, to stay awake, to hang on, and to breathe. The young Marine was fighting to sit up, to shake it off, as if he were hit by a baseball and just needed to shake off cobwebs. After mere seconds panic was setting in. The Marines eyes began darting rapidly; darker blood was flowing at a greater rate from his wounds. Two Navy Corpsman ran over to the young Marine and tried to stop the blood flow. The Marine tried to speak but only saliva, mucus, and more blood poured out. He tried so hard to shake his head, as if to just shake it off, get up, and go home. But time and life was slipping away. The two Corpsman did all they could but the blood continued to seep out from under the four hands holding down bandages on the wounded Marines neck. The fighting in Bravo sector was getting more and more intense. The Marines were laying down heavy covering fire with machine guns. The Taliban gave it right back. Both sides would not relent. A Blackhawk medical evacuation helicopter was coming in from the east

to remove wounded Marines. The Taliban saw the chopper and increased their fight. The Marines obliged their enemy and fought back with nasty ferocity. Fucking move Marine. Get to the left. Position that machine gun on their hard right. Fuck these cocksuckers. That helo has got to get in. Pour that shit on boys. Covering fire to the left behind that mud hut fire for effect. Fucking hit those motherfuckers. Suppressing fire behind that dyke. Get those Marines out of that hole. Put fire on your 3 o clock. Commands and screaming between Marines caused a coordinated chaos that could only be appreciated by veterans of war. The word fuck was heard as much as the gunfire. The chopper came in fast, landed, took on casualties and as it prepared to depart Shea could hear a voice above all others. Hang in there son, hang in, just breathe, just breathe.

Three Hours Later

Captain Mark Shea was used to the pizza oven heat of southern Afghanistan. This was tour number three for the South Boston native. It may seem odd, but by tour three he found a routine. After a patrol, whether combat or not, he would check with his Sergeants to make sure all was fine with the company. He would then make his way to his dorm like living space, slide off nearly 80 pounds of dusty equipment, strip, down to his shorts and sweat drenched t-shirt and weigh himself. He usually came back between four-seven pounds lighter. Today he was down 10 pounds. He noticed that when he was involved in a good fight with the Taliban he lost more weight. He joked to himself about starting a weight loss reality show. He would call it, Combat Weight Loss: How to Lose Fat by Being Shot at by People Who Hate You. I gotta have some kind of job after the Corps. Once off the scale he found the one chair in his room, next to the desk, and fell into it. He thought about his first tour when the heat nearly killed him. Mark Sheas parents took him to Hyannis on Cape Cod every year for two weeks. He thought he knew heat from playing in the sand and riding the ferry back and forth to Marthas Vineyard. He realized thirty years of summers on the Cape did nothing for his stamina

in Afghanistan. On his first patrol he collapsed from dehydration. The old heads or the seasoned vets from Iraq who were redeployed to Afghanistan laughed at him. Even Shea laughed.

A smile crawled onto his face. He chuckled, opened the mini-fridge that was never remotely cold, and grabbed his one true relaxing love, diet coke. The diet coke wasnt real American diet coke, but a soda with coke colors shipped from Kuwait. The warm can had Arabic script written on it. It would do. Sitting down was one of Sheas greatest pleasures. The rest of the company were preparing for their next patrol. Marines ran around collecting ammunition, food, and water. They cleaned their weapons, read letters from home, and fought to get to the few internet stations at the FOB Stallion. Forward Operating Base Stallion had been home to Shea and the Marines of Bravo, Kilo, Echo, and Gulf companies for nearly a year. In six months they would redeploy to San Diego and begin a yearlong rest and recovery period. Shea thought constantly about what life would be like outside the Marine Corps. Sitting for an hour in his chair brought thoughts of, career changes, a possible girlfriend, his parents, the Red Sox, but most of all what civilian life was like back in Boston. Sheas mind left Kandahar for a few moments and thought of driving to a Store 24 on West Broadway in South Boston to pick up his coffee and Boston Herald. He would check the box score of the Red Sox game, put the paper down and go right to Dunkin Donuts for an egg and cheese. Then it might be to an office tower in the financial district or a job in the Seaport district. Reality set in real fast when he heard small arms fire in the background. Shea rarely moved at the sound of distant fire. His ears knew exactly how far away the firing was. Two years ago he may have ducked under his desk, not now. Shea, Shea, you get those damn reports done yet? Im waiting and Gramps is waiting. We dont like to wait Captain Shea. Major Kerwin Semblick had a way with the English language that only a Texas whore house owner could really appreciate. Fuck or damn were used interchangeably as were shit, cock, motherfucker, asshole, cocksucker, and his favorite, assbag. He was not the ecofriendly, pat on the back, how are things, casual Fridays kind of leader. He was career Corps all the way and getting to know his subordinates on a personal level was not that important to say the least.

Shea, shit, I need those reports ASAP fucking now damnit or those assbags at division will shit down my throat. Gramps is pissed Shea. You know what the fuck that means, right? No movie night under the fucking Afghan stars and a boot up all your asses, mine included. Yes, Major When is it gonna be fucking done? Immediately, Sir. Good. Shit, fuck, and all the kings merry assholes are up my brown eye for their fucking reports. For Jesus Christ sake Shea, aint it enough we killed 36 Taliban cocksuckers? Aint it? God damn, my men, you included did outstanding work today. Kilo and Echo killed and wounded another 57 of them godless bastards today to the west. It was a ham bam fucking great shit day for the Corps and what do these pencil cock mother fuckers want? Paperwork. Yes, Sir. You and your men were outstanding today. How many KIA and wounded? Two killed, five wounded, sir. Make that three killed Shea, that one kid died in the helo back to Bagram. Blead to death. Damn fucking shame, but we kicked the shit out of them sand bitches. Update the 489B to reflect his death. Yes, sir. Major Semblick seemed to stroll away with a happy, uplifting gait in his step. He yelled back, Oh, yea, Shea, meeting tonight at 2130 hrs. in the command post. We are preparing a good ol fucking bitch slap tomorrow morning on the remaining Talib fucks. Even those weirdoes from the fucking CIA are involved. This shit might make the assbag New York Times. A rare smile took over his face as he walked away. Yes, sir, he yelled. When Semblick was out of sight Shea shook his head. He liked Semblick for standing up for the men all the time and he loved the fact that Semblick talked the talk and without a shadow of doubt, walked the walk. But Shea had been in war long enough to not understand a fellow Marines enthusiasm for killing. Shea knew he was a professional warrior for his country. But that did not mean he giggled or gave high fives after killing Iraqi troops or the Taliban.

He did his job because he loved the Corps and felt the mission was justified. Killing the enemy was the mechanism to the end result of victory. The problem for Shea, as he sat back down in his chair, was that he started to think he was becoming too mechanical. War was becoming a routine job for him, like stopping at Dunkin Donuts for his breakfast sandwich. He was scared he was losing the emotion, the feeling, the ability to care about anything other than war and filling out the endless forms associated with combat that American service members had to complete. Shea opened the Dell laptop that contained over 300 reports for every conceivable situation known to man. The 489B was the one that stood out the most and was the form completed by junior offices only. He hated this form. He hated pulling it up from the document section. He hated the forms format and even the basic wording of the form.

Two Hours Later

The sun slowly began to set over the Kunduz mountain range. It was cooling off nicely and conditions were ripe for a bbq if this were any other place. Shea made no progress on Semblicks orders. These past few months saw Shea reflect more and more on his life and where it was going. Could he get killed? No question about it, Shea knew he was one step to the left instead of the right away from a trip to Dover, Delaware. He leaned back closed his eyes and thought about Mark Shea versus Captain Mark Shea. He was thinking of a specific time about eight months ago when he went back to Boston for a three week rest and relaxation break. He caught up with his old friends from Monsignor Flaherty High School and decided to go out with them to Chumpys, an old dive bar, now turned hipster specialty burger eatery. Tommy and Patrick Haney, Ian Delmont, and Bryan Clay all bought Mark beers and they talked about the old stories that virtually every thirty something man talks about at a bar. But as Shea sat in his chair, his stomach tightened. That night was supposed to be the night he needed after nearly getting wounded and watching a good friend die a few months prior. The friends pestered him with questions like, How many of them did you kill? or Is it like that video game Mortal Combat? And the best one from Bryan, Dude, how fucking cool is it to shoot as much as you want?

These were not the same friends Shea knew. He loved them in high school, but now could not stand them and their idiotic questions. Shea knew they all stayed the same. Not one left South Boston. All married girls from high school, all had one to three kids, all did the same bullshit every weekend, all complained about their wives and their jobs, and two were cheating on their wives. This was not Shea. He wanted to talk about military history and current affairs, he wanted to talk about how to position a machine gun to attain the optimal killing zone, and he wanted to discuss the Talibans tactics in close combat. How could he with guys who thought war was a video game? How could he respect friends who cheated on their wives when men he commanded left their wives for a year at a time to fight? He watched how one of his lieutenants, Andrew Skelly, recently married, waited each week for a ten minute satellite phone call with his wife. No, no, Shea could not go back to that world. In fact, after only a week of leave, he left Boston. God damnit Shea! And I mean it this time. I see the laptop fucking open, but I see you taking a fucking shut eye when Gramps wants his cocksucking reports. Now Captain, I am a motherfucking reasonable asshole, but I cannot tell Gramps you fucking fell asleep. Hell put a boot up my tight asshole and use me as a dust rag. Yes Major. I will have it done within the hour. I was just trying to recount the details, sir. Shea I like you. You are a damn fine combat leader and a solid tactician. But son, dont blow smoke through my pee hole. Get that shit assbag stuff done. Yes Sir. Semblick stalked off to find Gramps. Gramps was the straw man Semblick would use to motivate his junior commanders to get shit done quickly. Gramps was Colonel Tom Brewer of Cold light, Alabama. There wasnt a nasty bone in the mans body. The problem was he disliked Semblick. Colonel Brewer never cursed, was laid back, and the white knight to Semblicks black knight. Brewer was a Baptist while Semblick thought church was a crutch for the weak. But Brewer was the only man Semblick feared. Shea knew that as did every other junior officer. So, they put up with Semblicks rants and did their work at their own pace.

Thirty Minutes Later

The 489B had to be done. Shea rubbed his chin and began filling in the fields. It was a straightforward United States government form. It described the death of an American service member in combat with acute precision. NAME/DOB/SSN/POB/RELIGION OF DECEASED was the first line. USMC ID/LOCATION OF INITIAL WOUND or DEATH/EQUIPMENT LOST/BATTLEFIELD CONDITIONS and finally a large field for DESCRIPTION OF EVENT. Shea loved that line. Description of event. What the fuck is that? Was it sunny? Did the Marine die at a picnic? The mechanical Mark Shea took over. He filled in all the fields with diligence and clarity. As he got to the narrative, he stopped. He thought to himself, Right now Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Erskin of Akron, Ohio has no clue their son, Cody Erskin, is dead. They will not know until Form 489B is complete. What if I wait another day? What if I could prolong this a week to give his parents and his new wife, Shannon, a decent normal week without knowing Cody was killed and died with strangers in a helicopter? He caught himself. He wiped away the sweat that formed on his neck and continued writing. Private Cody Erskin was assigned to 3rd Platoon, Gulf Company when his squad came under heavy enemy fire near the village of Am Shakire. Private Erskin was shot three times to the neck by enemy small arms. He was tended to by Navy Medical Corpsman and placed on a Medical Evacuation Helicopter. He died aboard flight from combat sustained wounds. That was it. Shea sat and looked at the cursor. What next? There has to be more I can write. Nope. Thats it. Is this the way it will be explained to Erskins wife and parents? Shea sat motionless watching the cursor blink for about a minute. His head began to throb. It began to pound like the cursor blinked. Shea looked up to the ceiling of his office and said to himself, So, when will they design a form for the spouse, parents, and children of dead Marines?