Troy Ashcroft

Oklahoma

“Have you ever had thoughts of harming yourself or others?” 

Every time I face one of these questionnaires, I hover over “yes” like I actually have a choice. It’s a loaded fuckin’ question. Everyone thinks about deep throating their M9 on watch. But an admission of guilt on paper is a taboo no soldier dares commit. I have to be honest this time.

They’re trying to make me a drill instructor. Sure, I’m a good candidate, but it’s a shit job no one in their right mind wants. The hours are long and the work’s thankless and unrewarding. 

And I’d have to uproot my family’s entire life and move to fuckin’ Oklahoma.

The wife and I are still going through a rough patch. She says the Army’s taken away too much of me, and I’m inclined to agree. She wants me home more. I was downrange when she had the kid, and I can tell she resents me for it. When I am home, she says I’m not present. Not much I can do. I promised her this would be my last tour, but this drill bullshit would extend my enlistment another two years. The Army wants me to go, and what she doesn’t understand is: I don’t have much of a choice.

I thought I did before my first deployment. Wasn’t scheduled to ship out until after she had the kid. But schedules don’t mean much in this line of work. Not when there’s fighting to be done. I tried to stay, but a pregnant wife isn’t exactly a sympathetic situation. You can only try and postpone deployment for so long before you’re seen as a coward. But the choice is never yours to begin with. So I found out fighting only ever results in making enemies and always ends the same.

I’ve tried explaining to her that I don’t have a choice, but she doesn’t believe me. She thinks I’m not fighting for her, that I’m not fighting for us. She thinks I’m choosing a side, and that I’m not choosing hers. I’m put in an unwinnable scenario and I’ve lost before I’ve even engaged.

There comes a point when talking no longer makes a difference. Finding words is hard enough. I eventually learned how fruitless that labor can be. The harder I try to communicate the more frustrating it gets. I’m tired of conversations. The words shoot out into the void that exists between people and miss the mark. They never hear what you mean to say, it’s always what they mean to hear. Their perception becomes their reality and there ceases to be a dialogue between two people. In my line of work, we have a saying: perception is reality. 

So, I went down to medical and got my bloodwork done like a good little soldier. Doc told me my white blood cell count was low. I asked if that meant I couldn’t transfer. He shuffled through the paperwork and read my orders, HOT TRANSFER smeared in red across my medical record. Like the humvee windshield in Falluja. He jotted down his signature, and said it was probably nothing, then handed the record back to me without a second glance. He mentioned that cancer is the worst-case scenario and sent me off to my psych eval. 

I wished it was cancer. I’d let it progress. I’d get real fuckin’ sick. My face would get thin, and my cheekbones would stick out and my eyes would sink into my skull. I’d look geriatric as fuck. I’d barely have enough strength to eat. I’d lose all my hair and weigh 80 pounds soakin’ wet. I’d get pale, my skin’d be fuckin’ translucent, you’d see all my veins. My family’d be distraught, sobbin’ at my bedside. And, just when I was about to die, I’d muster up enough strength for one final visit. I’d stroll right into medical, still in that ugly teal hospital gown with my pale boney ass hangin’ out and I’d point at that dipshit medic and say, “Guess I did have cancer, you dumb fuck!” Then I’d keel over and die, right there in front of everyone. It’d be hilarious. 

The Mental Health sign hangs above me. Makes me think of that Private we’d found in his room before shipping off. What was his name? He’d been there all weekend before someone called us to check-in. The smell was terrible. I remember wishing he’d worn a fuckin’ diaper. Least Private Pile sat his ass on the shitter before blowing his brains out. He was considerate. I’ve got some tow-rope in my garage. If I tied it to the ceiling to do the muffled shuffle, who’d find me first?

Mr. Therapist steps out of his office 20 minutes late. He’s got grey speckled hair and crows feet. He’s wearing one of those brown professor jackets, with the elbow patches. The way he looks at me I feel like I’m on the casting couch. Somehow, he looks both distressed and too relaxed. It’s in his eyes. He got too much sleep, but it wasn’t good. What I wouldn’t give for some fuckin’ sleep. 

I know this tango. Military therapists always try to fuck you. They appear to give a shit, but only care about meeting quotas. Army signs their paychecks same as the rest of us, so if daddy Army says you’re going someplace, no amount of words are gonna stop it. 

He takes a few moments to rifle through my paperwork, carefully navigating the minefield of service disqualifiers. He has to ask the right questions, the right way, so I give the right answers. I don’t give a fuck. I answered honestly this time. If it gets me in trouble, they can kick me out. 

He leans forward in his oversized armchair and asks me how often I have these thoughts. I tell him it’s not like I’d Chris Benoit my family or anything, then I laugh to ease the tension. He stares at me silently. Finally, he admits he doesn’t understand the reference. You got Google, don’t you? I stare past him like someone else is listening to our conversation.

Light from his phone reflects off the glaze in his eyes. His stony expression doesn’t waver, and he sighs before pocketing his phone. He turns his attention back to my file, digging for more ammunition. Pulling out my orders, he congratulates me on being selected for such an honor. I laugh in his face and, for some reason, my guts gurgle. He frowns and asks me why I wouldn’t be happy to accept the position, I seem like a great candidate. I explain how I want out, that drill life isn’t for me. Work had forced a rift between me and my family, I had already missed so much of my kid’s life. One way or another my time with the Army had to come to an end. He nods as though he’s engaged. Military life is hard, not just for me but my spouse, too, he says. 

He circles back to the question about harm. You’d think that’d be a key qualification for drill instructors. That they’d want more psychos breaking in the shiny new recruits. It’s what I had. Made me tough, got me ready for the shit. What do you think soldiers do, weave baskets, and suck each other off? We’re not Sailors. Harming others is in our job description. Half these fuckers signed up to play Rambo and kill bad guys. That, and the healthcare ain’t half bad. 

He asks if anything traumatic happened downrange. Questions like this are fuckin’ stupid. Like the entire experience can be boiled down to an event. I give him a story. I had a buddy, Sanders, a logistics guy, wanted so bad to go out into the shit. One day they come into the shop lookin’ for volunteers for recon, a helo ride. Most guys are all talk and, when it comes to it, they chicken shit out, and I don’t fault em’ for it. Physical courage is a rarity earned through a reluctant crucible. Not Sanders, though. That dumbass jumped at the opportunity to go out past the wire. Bout’ an hour later we heard there was a crash. Helo wasn’t properly maintained. Flew right into the side of a mountain. Everyone cooked. They brought the bodies back. I swear to shit those fucks looked just like BBQ chicken. Fuck if I didn’t consider takin’ a bite. No valor, no glory. Just shitty mechanics and shittier luck. Mr. Therapist said that can be tough.

But that ain’t all. It’s just a blip. Words can’t encompass the experience. They’re just vessels. You just had to be there to understand. Mr. Therapist nods and turns to my file, then signs something. I ask if that’s it. He slams the file shut and hands it back to me. “You should be good to transfer,” he says. “But I recommend you talk to somebody when you get to Oklahoma."

Troy Ashcroft was born and raised in Maine. He was brought to New York during his time in the United States Navy. He is currently an undergraduate at the University at Albany. He enjoys writing fiction, short stories, and poetry. His work is also featured in the online journal ARCH. He can be found on Instagram @troyashcroft.