FALLING BY RICH BROWN
 
I. A child walks alone on the African plains. Her steps fall silently into the ruts that form the long serpentine road. The shallow grooves slip towards the horizon. Dark furrows worn long ago by ancient bipeds, her ancestors. Generations that walked the earth before her. Today this child, this generation, will leave her ancestor’s well-worn path – forever. A slick-white shimmer from the sun catches her eye. She steps from the sunken trail uncoiling ahead of her and ventures towards the mirage. The sun is glaring off the skulls of two impala rams lying exposed on the scorched-red earth. The child squats on her haunches and stares blankly at the rams’ twisted horns, ebony-hued and still attached to the bleached-white skulls. The horns are locked in an unalterable figure-eight of death. Like the relics of two once-great nations, the two rams had been locked together during combat. The greater their hatred for one another, the greater each animal had pulled to escape, to fight. The harder and harder they fought, the more inescapable their condition became. Finally, they fell, exhausted, upon the earth. Their hatred killed both. As a warning to others that pass this way, the conjoined skulls remained, a totem of the ultimate consequence of hate. The child picks up the twisted object. The skulls are smooth and cold. They are no longer hot with the sweat of hate. As the skulls move in the child’s hands, their death-union is suddenly and forever broken. The two skulls quickly fall away from each other and smash into the earth below. The child steps disinterestedly over their bones and continues the journey. II. I cleared my throat and eyed my young disinterested audience intently. At long last I smiled broadly and said, “I can tell by the looks on your faces that you all have lots of questions.” That’s what recruiters are taught to say to disinterested kids. “So…” I gestured toward the rear of the school room, “I will position myself at the back of the classroom to answer any and all questions you may have about the Marine Corps. I would like to personally thank your teacher Mrs. Shelton for having me here today, and, once again, I challenge each and every one of you to stop by and talk with me about opportunities that may be available to you in the United States Marine Corps.” With those final words, I stepped off the small “T” masking-taped to the floor at the front of the tiny classroom. My Career Talk at Limestone High School was over. Turning toward the prominently displayed American Flag, I walked smartly to the rear of the classroom to the obligatory claps of the English class I had just addressed. I posted myself by the back door and stood with my feet shoulder-width apart, my hands assertively clasped tightly behind my back. A florescent light bulb flickered nervously above me. Regardless of their attitude today I must make my recruiting mission this month. If my recruiters and I don’t enlist six young people, and send four of them to recruit training this month we will let our nation down. I began to silently rehearse the skills steps for handling the teenage indifference, a quality I had found germane to this generation of Americans. Mentally, I vividly recalled the Achieve Global lesson, “Overcoming Indifference”: Step 1) Acknowledge the customer’s point of view, Step 2) Request permission to probe, Step 3) Probe to create the customer’s awareness of needs, Step 3a-b) Explore the customer’s circumstances for opportunities and effects, Step 4) Confirm the existence of a “need.” A need for something, anything, to believe in. Recruiters are used to the generational-indifference. We were told we would encounter the blank stares of teenagers – The Millennials. The term “Millennials” is a marketing term used to describe the current generation. A generation of Americans raised on the instant gratification of microwaves, text-messaging, emailing and the information superhighway. A generation that is obsessed with celebrity and is no longer interested in the cultural rites of passage that most Americans take for granted. A generation that does not understand the Marine Corps intangibles: honor, courage, commitment. Therefore, I was not surprised that my recruiting rhetoric had fallen into the abyss of adolescence. A thin smile crossed my lips as the students filed past me. In return for my lengthy speech I received only a few polite nods and an occasional eye roll. The scent of pencil erasers, cheap perfume and musky post-pubescent sweat wafted past. No one said a word to me that day. They never did, no matter the school. No matter the town. I quickly grabbed my heavy, black leather briefcase, nodded at the teacher and exited the room. The locker-lined hallway that led towards the school library was particularly loud that day. Kids pushed past each other, exchanged greetings and some took great personal risk to hold hands and sneak the occasional kiss. Entering the library I greeted the librarian with a smile and checked my recruiting pamphlets. The thin glossy brochures were neatly arranged in their plastic scarlet and gold take-one stand. All ten were still there, standing erect and untouched. One more stop by the senior guidance counselor’s office to let her know I was leaving the campus and the milestone for Career Talks at Limestone High School would be complete. Recruiters live by milestones, phase-lines in mission accomplishment. Each milestone represents a check point towards achieving the mission assigned, much as it does on the battlefield. Strategy is everything. I walked into the bright sunlight and headed towards my government vehicle. I marveled at the beautiful blue skies that rose from above the autumn leaves. One leaf fell quietly from a tree and only I am there to witness its descent. The cool fall air on top of the Cumberland Plateau filled my lungs. I walked a little taller in the presence of sun light. I dropped my bags in the trunk and eased into the driver’s seat, and adjusted the seat belt so that it did not damage the ribbons pinned to my uniform. I drove down the street to the local gas station, pulled alongside the pumps and caught my reflection in the mirror. A new gray hair appeared amongst a sea of chestnut. My blue eyes looked tired in the rear-view mirror. Then I see Roy. Roy was an ageing World War II Marine that lived in the area. Roy’s service in the Pacific had been honorable. He had returned home to a career as a police officer, followed by service as a well respected bailiff in Judge Campbell’s court. Roy was a true believer. He believed in the dream of America. To me he was much more than just an old man pumping gas. “You puttin ‘em in Sarge!?” I shrugged my shoulders slightly and replied, “We’re doing okay Roy. How bout you?” “One day at a time,” Roy studied me. His eyes seemed to look within, “You alright?” “Yeah, just looking forward to the weekend,” I lied. “Somethin’s on yer mind.” I took a deep breath. “I just got done with a high school talk. I’m spent. Seems serving your country is the last thing on these kids’ minds.” Roy’s face lit up and a big grin gave way. “Ah, Sarge! You wait, if we are ever attacked again these ole boys will be lining up.” “Roy…” I shifted nervously on the balls of my feet. I began to feel the agitation growing within me, so I took a deep breath and attempted to reign myself in. My years spent as a canvassing recruiter and then as a recruiting sub-station commander, where I had been told daily not to call someone’s house again, or to just plain “fuck-off,” had left me with a poor impression of the nation’s youth. “…if there were Russian T-72 tanks rolling down Wear’s Valley these kids would run for their lives.” Roy’s gaze became intense and the corners of his mouth pulled tight across his wrinkled face. “You’re wrong. They’d come to America’s rescue. I hope you never live to see it, Sarge.” As it turned out, I would live to see it. It was late August, 2001, only weeks before the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. III. Tuesday September 11, 2001 began quite normally for me. I had recently turned over control of recruiting sub-station Cookeville to Gunnery Sergeant Houston. After a cup of coffee I took my daughter to school. I would drop off Caroline and then stop by the office to pick up a few things. Houston was still getting moved in, so I would help run the office today, to give him a break if he needed to finish moving into his new house. While turning into my daughter’s school, the car’s radio reported that an airplane had just crashed into the World Trade Center. As an amateur pilot, I imagined the most likely scenario – small single-engine prop, flying in a fog bank, misjudged the control tower’s directions and smashed into the side of one of the mammoth towers – end of story. The truth was much more complex. I arrived at work just before 9:00 a.m. The Navy recruiter stood in my office carrying on an animated conversation with one of my Marines. From the parking lot, I could see him through the plate glass windows of my storefront office. His white-uniformed, big-bellied presence was never a good sign. “Good morning Chief” I said, as I walked through the door and into the office. “Mornin’ Guns. Heard the news?” The Chief blurted, his eyes wide with excitement. “What news?” I said, and casually looked down at one of my Marines, Staff Sergeant Black. Sitting at his desk, Black looked at me and then the Chief. I braced for the story of how, “The Marines of Cookeville had sullied the reputation of the United States Naval Service.” The Chief looked briefly puzzled at my question and quickly replied, “The plane hitting the World Trade Center!” I let out a sigh. The Marines of Cookeville hadn’t sullied anyone’s reputation today. My shoulders visibly dropped. I began walking back to my office by stepping disinterestedly around the Chief. “Yeah, I heard.” The Chief followed close behind. “Can you believe it?” “Can I believe what?” “That a damn fully loaded jet would fly into the World Trade Center? Not a cloud in the sky.” The Chief’s revelation was not what I had expected. I sat my briefcase down beside my desk and turned to face him. “What?” “Yeah!” IV. We turn on the television in our office. The newscasters are reporting multiple hijackings. The gaping whole in the side of the north tower is billowing smoke across the Manhattan skyline. My Marines and I are standing side-by-side, silent, aware something ominous is brewing. A second plane flies into view and disappears inside the steel jacket of the south tower. A shower of plate glass and an orange fireball slices through the torn metal skin. Within moments another plane slams into the Pentagon. There’s no mistaking it: We are at War. Within minutes of the attack on the Pentagon the telephones in our tiny rural recruiting office had begun to ring. My Marines rushed to answer them. “Marines, Staff Sergeant Black speaking.” Staff Sergeant Black scribbled something on a notepad lying on his desk. “Yes Ma’am.” He looked at the Pool Board on our wall that lists all the young men and women waiting to ship to recruit training. “Is he home Ma’am? I mean can I talk to him?” Black scribbled something. “I understand. Thank you Ma’am.” Black hung up the phone and looked at me. SSgt Black looked pale. “We just lost Jeremy – his mom says he’s not shipping on Monday.” “Roger that,” I tried to mask calm in front of my Marines. Sergeant Martin hung up the phone and turned to me. He looked defeated. “You ain’t gonna like this Boss.” “What’s up?” My chest tightened. “That was my one-and-only appointment for today. He just called and cancelled on me.” “Okay.” I feigned a cool exterior pose, but my insides seethed with rage. “Well let’s get on the phone and find us another one. We got to make mission this month.” Our mission just got harder. The phone rang again. Black answered the phone. “Come on Brother.” Black put a hand on his hip. His face flushed and then turned soft. “Don’t do this to me Jeff…” He listened silently. His head swung heavily from his large frame and then he fixed his eyes on the wall behind me and said, “You’re going to be a computer programmer Jeffrey! You’re not going to be on the ‘front lines!’” At last Black hung his head and ran his fingers through his short dark hair. Defeated he replied, “Okay – well stay in touch.” Black couldn’t even look me in the eyes when he mumbled through his sigh, “We’ve lost another one?” Six young people, four of them we were going to send to recruit training – this month our mission will go unaccomplished. We will be letting our nation down… With Black’s words hanging in the air, at 9:41:15 a.m. on September 11, 2001, Jonathan Briley, stands leaning against a broken window. He has lost hope. He will not be rescued today. He will never see his wife Hillary again. He leaps headfirst from his window on the North Tower. His flight to the ground below and his God above are photographed and sent around the world. He is falling and I feel my faith falling with him. “Roger.” I turned slowly from Black to make the annotation on our Pool Board. While writing, I grind my teeth until I think they will shatter. On September 11, 2001, the phones continued to ring in our offices and the offices of the other services. Regardless of the branch of service, these calls all ended the same way: “I want out of my contract.” Dejected, the Army, Navy and Air Force closed their offices early on September 11th and headed home to find comfort with their families. Only the Marines of Cookeville remained at work, determined to try and pull their applicant pool back together, if only by shaming them into honoring their oaths to “support and defend.” Occasionally however, we received a call from an old veteran who wanted to know if he was too old to, “Re-up.” They always were. The current generation of disinterested, self-centered, fear ridden Americans – The “Millennials” – have revealed themselves. Then I see Roy. He bursts into our recruiting office with a big grin on his face. He’s moving at a low crouch and his eyes are wild with excitement. His cap is quixotically cocked back on his head and he seems younger today. “Where are they Sarge!” “Where’s who?” I reply coldly. “The boys comin’ in to sign up!” Roy looks around the office. His old blue eyes searches for something that was absent that dark September day: Honor. “Roy…” I can tell this is going to hurt him, “I told you this is not the same America you grew up in.” “What?” Roy’s smile falls away and his jaw hangs slack. His hair whitens. “Roy, all of our appointments have called-in and cancelled for today and tomorrow. Most of the kids we have waiting to ship have called. Most of them are backing out of their commitments. It seems their oaths where only words. They don’t want to go to war.” I am angry. I want my words to hurt Roy. I am ashamed, but I want him to see what I have seen for years. And that is that ours is a not a nation, but a collection of personalities. A raging current of juvenile cowardice cleverly wrapped in a cult of celebrity. Roy stumbles to the couch in our office and collapses. Now he is falling with me. Roy and I hold hands with Jonathan Briley and join him on his descent. Roy wipes the sweat from his hands and then digs in the pocket of his overalls. He pulls out a handkerchief, wipes his nose and begins to speak in soft, even tones. My Marines and I gather about him. “It was Sunday.” He glances up at me. “December Seventh was.” He looks away again. “Anyway, we had just returned from church and Daddy was listening to the radio. My brother and me were bringin’ in fire wood and Momma was puttin’ supper on.” Roy looks at his hands, wipes his eyes with his handkerchief, and says, “My Daddy drove us down to the square here in Cookeville. The recruiters used to be up there over by the courthouse. Where we’re sittin’ now was farm land. For as far as you could see there was cars lined up that night. Men of all ages waitin’ to get in to see them recruiters on Monday morning. It took us a day or two of sleepin’ on the couches of strangers to finally be seen by them recruiters up there. Hell, the Police worked round the clock to help herd in the boys that wanted to enlist.” Roy motions in the air with his hands, clears his throat and adds, “They had the roads blocked off for at least a mile in every direction. Pretty ladies would come out and give us slices of warm corn bread and fried chicken. It sure was something to see.” He wipes at the corners of his mouth and says, “They took me and my brother. Said my Dad was, ‘Too old for service.’ He died fore me and my brother got back from the Pacific. I never saw him again.” Roy looks up at me. His eyes lock on mine. “You say nobody has come by today?” “No, Roy. No one has come by today. And no one will come by today. Your country doesn’t exist anymore.” As soon as I say the words, I am sorry that I have hurt Roy. I didn’t want it to end this way. But what other way can there be for dreams to end? Roy shakes his head and stands. He steadies himself against a desk, pulls on his cap and walks slowly out of my office. Roy leaves our office carrying my dreams with him. Our fall to earth is over. The twin towers and our once mighty nation are now only a memory. V. I imagine being alone on the African plain. Just off the old rutted path, I find the discarded skulls of two once mighty impala rams. The two old sovereigns are abandoned, forgotten and alone. I step over the two old angry skulls in the desert. I heed their warning. I have lost faith in struggles. I join hands with a child walking just off the trail. We smile warmly at each other. We are unconcerned about the passions of old angry rams. We are not angry. We are not happy. We are indifferent. Together we continue the journey. R. Richard Brown, an active duty Marine Chief Warrant Officer, lives in Beaufort, South Carolina and works aboard MCRD Parris Island.