The room was spartan, a desk was built into the wall and across from it was a slight elevation in the floor that served as a bed. There were prison cells that were better furnished and the room's sole occupant knew that from personal experience. Robert Holland sat on the "bed" in his civvies with a bottle of amber-colored liquid in one hand and his new rank in the other. Sergeant Holland, again. His lips twisted in a sour grin as he took another long pull from the bottle, it could have been worse. They could have busted back to Private like the last time. Maybe this time, he'd actually try to hold on to it. On the other hand, it wasn't as if it could get any worse. At forty-three his career was almost over and with his . . . colorful record, his chances of rising any higher ever again were slim to none.
His smile faded as he remembered his last Platoon Sergeant's frustration. The man had tried and he'd meant well. God only knew that the man had meant well and if Holland had some time to think things over, things could have been very different. But fate, it seemed, had other plans and those plans didn't include Sergeant Holland.
"Damnit, Holland," and Robert could still remember the anger in the man's voice, "you've got what it takes to be a hell of an NCO. Hell, I would give my left nut to have your know-how and your ability, but you're fucking throwing it away and pissing on it. I don't care if Daddy was mean to you when you little or if Mommy took off her tit too soon. You need to man the fuck up and do your fucking job. Your guys are depending on you, for Christ's sake."
Then the Platoon Sergeant had been killed by, of all things, a negligent discharge on the range. It had been one of the Privates on Holland's lane and while that Private was currently rotting away in military prison Holland had been the one who hadn't bothered to check and see if the guy's weapon was clear. Granted he wasn't the one who released the guy from the range, but if he taken the time to make sure that Private had properly cleared his weapon then the Platoon Sergeant would still be alive and that Private would still have life and future. Holland shook his head and swore softly before he took another swig.
Holland dug his phone out of his pocket and checked his messages and for the time in a while he smiled. His wife had left a message telling him that his son wanted to talk. With a grunt he stood and shambled out of the room, just another broken down NCO who was past his prime. As always the booths were full of soldiers, civilians and contractors who couldn't wait to talk with their families. The crowd, the chatter and the unending barrage of light from kiosks blaring their vendors' wares gave him a headache and set his teeth on edge. He was grateful for the relative quiet of the commo booth and as he waited for the connection to load he checked his reflection in the screen and hoped he didn't look too drunk.
At last the connection went through and the image of a seven year-old boy with a gap-toothed grin snapped into perfect resolution. Robert swallowed, Holy shit my boy's already seven. He smiled tiredly at his son.
"Hey, buddy." He hoped he didn't sound too drunk.
The kid waved. "Hi, Dad!"
"How you been, kid?"
Robert sat back and his smiled grew as his son told him about school, friends, the new puppy and more than Robert had ever wanted to know about dinosaurs. He nodded at all the right moments and kept the conversation going, but mostly he just listened and for the first time in a while Robert felt something like peace. At last the conversation slowed and his son's grin gave way to a serious expression that reminded Robert of a puppy.
"Dad, are you gonna come home?"
Not when, but if I'm going to come home . . . probably not outside of a fucking body-bag, son. Robert did what anyone parent would do in that situation. He smiled and lied, "I don't know, we'll see."
His son looked away from the screen and Robert heard a voice in the background.
The boy smiled again, "Dad, I hope you get to come home. Oh yeah, Mom says she wants to talk to you if that's okay."
That caught him off-guard. "Um, yeah okay, bye son."
"Bye, Dad."
The boy ran off and his Mother's image replaced him on the screen. She looked older and more careworn than he remembered. Well, no shit. It might have something to do with raising a boy on her own and having a fuckhead husband who's never home and drinks too much. He ignored the thought and tried to think of something to say, but what does a man say to a women he hasn't had any contact with for years, except for the occasional message that his son wanted to talk?
Even after everything she was still the most beautiful women he'd ever seen and more than anything he wanted to tell her that. He wished he knew the words that would bring her back, but they'd both said and done things that could never be forgotten.
". . . Hey."
"Hello, Robert."