I Just...Do

“I just have a gut feeling about this plan, sir.” The soldier stood before his superior in the officer’s huge tent. “I don’t know how to explain it.” The soldier had had this gut feeling ever since he was enlisted in the Army. But he swore to himself he’d never expose it. But, now, it felt needed.

The older man scoffed. “Explain what? That you can’t even go through with something without ever thinking about it first? How about you rely on your sharp wit instead of always just going by your gut!”

“I know we’ll win. Just give me a chance. I can prove myself to you—”    

“Something you need to recognize, soldier! Do we just do, or do we know?”

“We know—” 

“To go by what we know. And your fellow soldiers and you go by what I say!” His hands clasped tightly behind his back, he had twirled fiercely around. The soldier didn’t startle at all.

 “Yes, sir!”

“Good.” Then, “dismissed.”

The soldier marched away. His best friend and roommate asked him what was wrong, and he told him to shove it. The friend growled at him to back off, chucking some of his military gear onto his already made cot beside him. His friend ordered him to straighten the ruffled blanket and sheets. The soldier glared at him. This ugly gesture sent the friend away after he jerked a finger at the bed and then stormed outside, telling the other soldiers to stay away from him. Overhearing as he cleaned, the soldier thought bitterly, I’ll never be that soldier. Sorry, Marisa and Charlie. I’ll just ring that bell tomorrow night. It’ll all go away—like a bad dream. You can accept a failed husband and father, right?

The icy-cold water’s torturous waves never ceased pounding the bald soldiers’ heads that late night. The soldier focused only on the bell on the sandy surface of the little private island, and told himself mentally he had that gut feeling for a reason. He knew what to do on the frontlines of the war. He’d sacrifice himself, whether his superior officer—the jerk—liked it or not. If he proved himself, then his fellow soldiers would congratulate him. So the soldier gritted his teeth, enduring this part of the intense boot camp training, keeping his eyes now on the black night air around him and his mind on exceeding the shouting, ordering command leaders pacing back and forth in front of them, blocking the bell’s view now and then. The chilly wind chilled him to the bone, the other soldiers’ half-heard cries of perseverance and strength to endure the toughest challenges in this Marine Corps keeping his spirits up. The soldier even grinned!

“Why are you smiling? What are you, a weirdo?” The superior’s snappish words hit the soldier just like did an icy wave from behind him. Indeed, the waves brutally him from behind the head. However, the soldier kept himself above water, letting the decorated officer see that he wasn’t just a mound of sand the merciless waves would erode again and again. He would be the best—and return home with a medal to prove it!  

After four hours of billowing wind, slamming waves, screaming, yelling, name-calling and discouragement, the superior and others tempted him to ring that bell. However, the soldier accomplished all the headache, heartache and white-hot pain of sore ankles, feet, hips and shoulders. Burning chests and stomachs didn’t affect him, either. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, the soldier’s eyes had shut even before he had hit his cot’s pillow. 

Hours—which felt like minutes—later, the groggy soldier yawned voraciously throughout the day. He stood before his superior once again in the superior’s huge, homely tent. He said he could almost smell the victory approaching. The superior smirked, shook his head and purposely knocked into him as he walked towards some maps hanging on the back of the tent, muttering about nobodies who should just go home. “Ring it, soldier. Ring it for all it’s worth. All you ever do is fail again and again and again. You almost fell asleep as we were nearing the end. Four times. You’ll have to start all over after you go home. All I need to do is remind you of all our failed missions—which were carried out by you—and you’re going to watch every other soldier snigger at you from behind your back!” He chuckled, turning around, hitting the map’s checkpoints. “Besides, for all we care, you could be home right now, eating potato chips. Because you don’t have what it takes to—”

“Sir, with all due respect, I will listen to my gut. It’s telling me what to do—”

“And this is the military. You listen to me!” The superior didn’t waste a breath. “All I’ve done is win. All I’ve done is lead my troops to victory. My troops are the best. My troops do as I say. My troops don’t just follow just stupid gut instinct because their tiny little stomachs rumbled from hunger.”

“Sir, I…” The soldier sighed. 

“Leave. Now!”

“Yes, sir!”   

On his way back to his tent, he, grumbling to himself, bonked right into someone. The mud-caked boots tapped impatiently. The soldier broke into a laugh, looking up into the eyes of his best friend. Clapping a hand on his shoulder, the other man squeezed it, ordering him to tidy up before shipping out tomorrow. “Never leave without a made bed.”      

“Yes, sir.”    

That night, as they were preparing to leave for their mission to end the war, the soldier admitted he was scared to death. His best friend looked at him, and pointed to his own forehead. The soldier wiped the beads of sweat dripping from his forehead and temple. Then he jerked his eyes away and up as leaves and twigs snapped around him. Immediately standing upright and saluting his superior, the soldiers stood at attention.

“I don’t know about you. You’ll lead us into danger. My troops go by what I say. Not some scrawny piece of bacon like you. I will win—I always do.” Then he just marched away, whistling a tune. Don’t listen to him, man. The soldier’s best friend spoke silently with him. All arrogant leaders fall.      

The soldier nodded, but the other soldier told him to follow his own gut. Thought that’s what you wanted to do!

“Yeah, well, with an officer like him, I don’t know.” The soldier exhaled a huge sigh, his shoulders slumped. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “How can I show him—”

“Well, you better—before tomorrow. Or we’ll be toast—”

“You mean I will be toast.”

“What about that gut instinct? Soldiers don’t give up.” His friend stood right up. “Get some sleep. Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning.”

The soldier stared up at him, and then sighed, his eyes falling to the ground. The other soldier ordered him to remember his own gut feeling. The soldier nodded, picking up a stick and digging it into the dirt. Then he sat down and encouraged him to listen to only himself.  

Bombs exploded from every angle. Screams of his fellow injured and dying soldiers around him echoed in the soldier’s ears as he carried his gun, shooting at the enemy from half a mile away. Deafening as it was, the bombs didn’t compare to the anguished cry of his own voice as the soldier found himself smack the sandy earth, white-hot pain surging up his left leg. Almost immediately, he ripped part of his pant leg with his pocket knife. A nasty amount of blood leaked from his calf. The soldier then crawled around, grabbing his gun, shooting at any enemy dashing about in this wasteland of a sandy desert. Maneuvering through the mud under barbed wire like back at boot camp years ago, the soldier spotted his best friend shooting at the enemy field. The superior was jerking his finger towards the enemy territory, ordering the other soldiers to get with it by shooting them only on his command. The soldier rasped no, still struggling to make it to a field tent to get cured—even when the superior would see him in bed and cackle at such weakness—

“Soldier down! Soldier down!” Men’s voices bellowed throughout the explosion-infested, enemy-swarming territories. The soldier looked helplessly up at the blaring sun, wincing as he made out a couple of blurry helmeted heads. Then he gasped and cried out, his chin crashing to the ground with a thud. All blackness claimed him.

The soldier jerked awake, white-hot pain bolting through his body. He grasped his cot, wishing he’d just be taken out of his misery. Falling onto his bed, the soldier squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, and then relaxed as something cold touched his flesh. The pain was a little more bearable. Blinking, he could over at his best friend. Kneeling beside him, the other soldier recalled the superior managing to take out a host of enemy war tanks. He then proceeded to talk of the superior’s screams at every one of his soldiers to defeat the enemy with the same success. Some pointed out that the mission was too dangerous. Slapping his horse’s reigns and readying his gun, the superior ignored every warning, driving his soldiers into a deadly plot that almost killed them all. Orders barked left and right. No soldier dared disobey him. Although the enemy dispersed, the soldiers obeyed reluctantly. The superior announced their victory, but the soldiers muttered to themselves back at camp about whether they should just go their own way. First, the superior puts their lives in danger and then almost succeeded in falling right into the enemy’s trap at least four times. What kind of military officer ignores the right thing? He was their leader!

The soldier listened but cried out whenever he moved. His friend told him to stay still. Eyes bulging with resistance, the soldier got halfway up. “Don’t see the difference between—”

“You’re too hurt. You must stay here.”

The soldier rolled himself out of bed, but managed to get up onto one of his feet. He called for some crutches. “Better than this dumb bed!”

“Hold on. I got an idea!” His friend left the tent. Moments later, he reappeared with a huge parchment paper, a pen and more excitement. His eyes glowed, the soldier saw with confused wonderment. “You draw the plans, and I’ll—” 

“The superior will burn them.” The soldier lay back down. His friend chastised him. The soldier shot back that he had an injury.

 “What did I tell you? Stop letting others dictate your every move. You’ll just succumb to defeat. That bell’s ringing will be music to the superior’s ears!”

The soldier lay quietly. Even long after the friend had rolled over onto his cot to sleep, the soldier was still drawing lines and marking territories. He started growing excited at the prospect that he, the soldier, was doing that which the superior didn’t know. Soon, he succumbed to sleep. 

The soldier dashed into his superior’s tent. “Sir? Is everything alright? I heard you call for help?”

He ran over, and grabbed his chair, turning him around. But the superior was crying. He had his hands covering his face, and tears leaked down past his hands, dripping into his pants. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, sir!”

But his voice was that of his own. The soldier was looking at himself. It was weird. The soldier stepped back firmly. “Sir, I’ll…” His voice was that of his superior’s! The soldier shook his head. But the superior just cried and cried, shaking his head, apologizing for the failed missions. Finally, after smirking and growling about weak, inefficient soldiers, he jerked around, marching away. Crying out that the stupidest, weakest soldier alive under him had just lead his soldiers to utter defeat, he took to his own tent. Looking in his desk’s mirror, the soldier cried out, shocked. He was the superior— 

“No!” The soldier yelled out into the night air after jerking up in bed, shaking in cold sweat. His friend immediately roused. He asked whether he was okay. A shaky breath caused the soldier to stutter yes, and the friend told him to go to sleep.   

The soldier reported his nightmare to his friend that morning. His friend cracked up, vowing to never reveal this dream to anyone. The soldier smiled, shaking his head. No. He’d fire me on the spot. But before his friend let him go, he walked up to him, clasped him on the shoulder and eyed him. "Never let anyone make you become them. You are stronger than that." The soldier nodded, these words streaming through his mind.

The next day, the soldier lay on his cot. And the next. And the next. Months went by. Finally, the soldier lifted himself by both metal bars, and dragged himself, crutches or no crutches, outside his tent. Spotting the superior only feet from him, he cried out, falling to the ground. The superior whisked around, eyes bulging confusedly at him.

“Please,” he rasped, “I need help! I need—” The soldier didn’t even care that he was almost begging this man for crutches. He’d complete the mission and win the war before the superior could figure out whether he was going to be officially sent home.

“What is it?” The superior told a soldier something, and the man left respectfully. While he was laying on the ground, the soldier heard a trace of fear in that man’s voice. Soon, others’ voices had filled with terror, but the superior’s crazy demands were fulfilled. Seething at this lunacy, the soldier crawled outside the tent and toward some boards planked down on top of some wooden boat. Grabbing them, the soldier made makeshift crutches, hobbling along. He found himself with the superior, and it seemed all time had stood still. Every soldier, he had noticed, was standing there, looking at both of them. The older man’s grey eyes bored into the young man’s green ones.

“You, sir, are not fit to be limping around on these stupid wooden things!” The superior kicked at one of them, and the soldier instantly went down. Then he got up, and once again faced his opponent. His enemy.

“Sir, with all due respect, please order your troops with dignity. Placing them in—”

“Telling me what to do is not going to solve this war.”

The superior, having walked away with his hands clasped behind his back, turned around on a heel. Sticking a hand in the air, the superior sent it back, smacking the young man in the face. The soldier staggered but managed to keep his balance, actually adjusting the wooden planks so he stood straight and tall. But the superior only laughed and then walked away, discouraging him like never before.

That night, the soldier told his friend to gather everyone around him. When he had given everyone orders, they all cheered quietly. The soldier happily went to bed that night, wincing from the pain, but glad the other soldiers were listening to him! The next morning, the soldier had successfully used his wooden planks to get himself up and ready. He was only going to stay in the vehicle. He laughed to himself as the soldiers around him soon confused and angered the superior. Soon, he couldn’t help it—a huge gale of hysteria belted from him. The superior stopped his orders and marched up to him. Glowering at him with a jutted chin, the superior’s eyes then flickered with victory as he held something up to the soldier. “This,” he kicked the soldier (who turned serious and stood straight up), and showed his map of drawings, tearing it apart, “isn’t yours anymore. I’m the captain. I’m the superior. I’m the winner!” Shredding the soldier’s plans, the superior mounted his horse, screaming out random orders. The soldiers looked hard at him, a tinge of doubt pulling at him. Still, the superior thought he was superior.     

The soldier didn’t dare sigh in front of his best friend. As he looked around, he saw the soldiers obeying every command he had written on that map. Victory swelled in front of him. He was right! He was going to win this war.

Soon, the hospitalized soldier learned that the war had ended. In his room, balloons and ‘Get Better, Soldier!’ decorated the place with rose pink and gold. A wheelchair sat beside him.

“I’ll wheel you out!” His best friend said.

One of his fellow soldiers grinned, grinning wide. “He’s our new leader now.”

But the soldier balled his fists, a tsunami of doubt reemerging. The superior had never shown up to congratulate him, giving him a victory medal to decorate his uniform. His best friend mentioned he had died fighting in enemy territory, absolutely refusing to retreat after that bomb that had blown the soldier’s legs off had been hurled towards his soldiers’ tents. The soldier lay there that night, tears of frustration running down his ruddy cheeks. He needed the superior to be humbled! To see for himself how cruel he was to him. To kiss his victor’s muddy, bloody, blown-up legs.

The soldier looked down at his amputated legs. He needed the superior’s broken spirit to bow to his own completely innocent one. The soldier told his best friend to throw that wheelchair away. He’d use those wooden planks as crutches.

The friend laughed. "Yeah--right!"

The soldier smiled bigger when his wife, daughter and he all hugged each other at home.