I turn toward the office and wipe the sweat from my forehead as I walk to the door.
I'm sure all men who leave the service have their doubts and fears. I bet a lot of them feel as aimless or uncertain as I do right now. But I'm not sure how many of them have no one to go home to. My parents are gone and I have no siblings. No wife or woman to speak of, and no home to return to.
It's all new for me now. I'm not sure how to feel about that.
"Gunny," Corporal Jones says, offering a hand to shake as I walk through the office door. "We're sure gonna miss you around here."
I shake his hand and eye Margaret, one of the civilian contractors who does paperwork. She's probably waiting for me, ready to get my signature.
"I'm gonna miss this place too, Corporal. Don't go giving my bunk to a greenback. And make sure if anyone takes that locker, they fix the latch." It's a standing joke. I took the locker with the sticky latch on purpose after hammering a guy's face into it during a spat one week into the gig. Corporal Jones was set to reprimand me and let it slide, and I've owed him one ever since.
"Stay in touch, Gunny." He walks out, leaving me to stalk over to Margaret.
Signing the paperwork is easier and faster than I figured. I'll still have three years of active reserve duty, which I took voluntarily to keep this door open in case I want to come back. But this might very well be the last time I set foot on any military base for the rest of my life.
When the papers are signed, I head toward my truck with that same hollow feeling in my chest. I don't know how long that's gonna last, but I hope not long.
I pause beside the truck when I hear boots hitting pavement behind me.
"Gunny!" someone shouts, and I turn and see three of the younger guys heading across the lot toward me in their utilities. Dawson's in front with Mick and Torres behind him. All threeof them look anxious, like they thought they'd miss me or something.
Dawson gets there first and sticks out his hand. "Heard you were rolling out today."
"Looks that way."
He shakes my hand and takes off his hat, using it to mop the sweat off his forehead. The kid came in green as grass four years ago and nearly washed out after his first field exercise. Now he's one of the better men in the unit. Funny how time does that.
Mick folds his arms. "Feels weird seeing you leave, Sergeant."
"Yeah?" I ask.
"Yeah. You were here before all of us. Who's gonna knock us around when we fuck off?" He chuckles, and I grin at him. He's not wrong. I do get after these guys a lot.
Torres nods toward the seabag as I sling it into the bed of my truck. "Thought there'd be more stuff."
I glance back at it. "Most of the important things don't fit in a bag." My entire life can be summed up to what's in that bag now. Reilly's right. It's depressing.
Torres scratches the back of his neck and looks over at the truck. "Still feels wrong seeing you leave with just that."
"Better than hauling around junk I don't need." I've lived on base, worked on base, even eaten on base every day for thirteen years. I had a bed in my parents' house when they were still alive, but that all got sold off at auction. Wherever I go, I'll be starting fresh with new furniture and belongings.
Mick smirks. "That's because you live like a damn monk."
"I've seen your barracks room," I tell him. "One more pizza box and medical would've condemned it."
Dawson laughs while Mick flips me off. They are the same idiots, and it falls into the same routine every time.
I think that's what gets me more than anything. Tomorrow, this place will keep moving like I was never here. Reveille still goes off before sunrise. Somebody still gets chewed out for being late. The younger guys still crack jokes during cleanup and bitch about chow like it's poison.
The machine will just keep going.
But for me, life will stand still until I figure out what direction I'm taking.
Dawson clears his throat. "Reilly said the security firm's still happening."
"That's the plan."
"You serious about wanting us after we get out?"
