Chapter 2.1: The Digi-Cucumber Strikes Part 1

I never saw myself ending up here. I figured I wouldn’t be doing anything completely normal, sure, but nothing like this.

The funny thing is, both Cavendish and Wood are from my neck of the woods. I saw them at MEPS, joining the military, while we went through the final checks and paperwork before shipping out to boot camp. We took the same long, all-nighter bus ride down to Parris Island, South Carolina. I even saw glimpses of them during the thirteen weeks we were there. Thirteen really feels like an ominous number now.

I didn’t see much of them, however, as they were in 4th battalion, the women’s Marine Recruit Training Battalion. Meanwhile I was in 1st battalion. And after seeing them again at MCT, it was months and months before meeting them at our current unit. I spent a good chunk of time in Florida for my MOS, military occupational specialty, school, and some time in Texas as well before finally getting to my duty station in the fleet. At Camp Lejeune, of course. Most usually end up at Lejeune, Pendelton, Hawaii or Okinawa, with other duty stations being far less common.

Hey, it beats 29 Palms. Patrolling the Mojave is enough to almost make you wish for nuclear winter, or so I’ve been told.

I myself thought I did a reasonably good job of settling in, and fitting into my role at my new unit. It was interesting work, if you have the disposition for it, and I like to think I did. But you never know when the green weenie will rear its discolored head to fuck you over. It wasn’t anything I did wrong, it wasn’t anything anyone else did wrong. It merely happened that I was the only one not engage in any duties, training or otherwise, when a request came down from higher up. It’s unfair in a way, how such small twists can have long-lasting effects on the career of someone eighteen-going-on nineteen.

It happened when I went to the company office one morning after PT, physical training, and breakfast. I was waiting for my team leader when a shout came out from the back office.

“Shultz, I was waiting for you. Get in here!” Shit. What the hell could First Sergeant want from me? I didn’t think I did anything wrong, but you never know what slight you might have been witnessed doing. Was it walking with my hands in my pockets? Stepping on the grass? Who knows? I don’t slack off any more than the average LCpl, so it can’t be anything too serious.

My worry was made all the worse by the look of sympathy on 1stSgt’s face as I entered his office. Anger is usual from someone at an E-8 pay grade, annoyance is common, but open sympathy? That’s enough to put anyone with common sense on-edge.

“Close the door and take a seat.” He ordered. I complied, heard in my throat.

“So, how do you like it here?” He asked.

“It’s a very interesting job, first sergeant.” I answered, trying not to come across as too motivated or too inclined to slacking off. Overly motivated Marines get stuck with more work, while those who get caught trying to avoid work likewise get stuck with more work. The trick is to try and find the perfect middle ground. Do a middling amount of work, perform a middling amount on the PFT. Hell, even my haircut is a medium fade. Not the most stylish of haircuts but miles better than the stereotypical high and tight Marines are infamous for.

I was suspecting all my efforts to be middling may have been all for naught.

“So here’s the deal.”The brief attempt at small-talk was over. It’s probably best not to drag whatever this is out anyways. Just get to the point. Getting bad news can be like removing a band-aid. It’s far more painful to drag it out than to just rip it off and get it done with.

“While you were at swim qual last week you missed the start date for the next training course. We have another group getting ready to deploy with a MEU, and the rest are supposed to be going to 29 Palms for training. As your luck would have it, you’re the only one free in the battalion who fits this request we have.”

To the point, I think? It surely couldn’t be good, but I had the feeling like I was missing something.

“I’m sorry 1stSgt, but what exactly-”

“You’re PCS’ing.” Permanent change of station. Moving somewhere else. A long and drawn-out process of changing units, changing bases. And a lot of annoying paperwork.

“I’ve only been here a couple of months, 1stSgt.”

“Another unit needs an analyst to fill a billet. They said it’d be best if hey were young and unmarried since it’s a remote duty station. You fit the description the best, like the billet was tailor-made for you.”

“I have always been told I was born under an unlucky star.”

It was my kooky new-ager aunt who always say it. Rather, she uses the term “auspicious” and a few other nonsense words to say the same thing in oh so much more pseudo-scientific words. I’m just assuming she’s trying to soften the blow of my fated misfortune, writ large across the night sky.

“That seems about right. Here’s a copy of your orders, though it should already be online. You have a week to pack your things, the flight should leave from Cherry Point.”He handed over a folder, with a sheaf of papers. I opened it, looking at the top one to figure out where the hell I was going.

The location was simply listed as “Camp Kramer.” I had never heard of it, though I’d hazard a guess it wasn’t a Seinfeld reference. No other details were listed, like where the hell was it or what the hell I’d be doing there. I know my job is supposed to be in intelligence, but what the hell? It was never supposed to be anything this sketchy cloak and dagger.

“Uh, 1stSgt? I haven’t heard of this base.”

“Neither have I.”