Garage Doors at War Part I

   
    The Unauthorized Biography of Patrick Cole

        In Kuwait, I sort of accosted him in the emptying mess tent before our first training patterns. My first time out with my unit. Cole’s rep from Afghanistan is all ice-cold excellence, ruthless killer. Everyone loves him.
        “You Sergeant Patrick Cole?”
        “Yes, sir.” He’s older than me, taller. His eyes are remarkably black in his Nordic-pale face.
        “I’m Nate Jamison, you’re my point man.” I grin and stick a hand out.
        “I am aware of this. I am Team Leader One of Bravo Company, of which you are the Lieutenant.” His expression adds, “you retard.”
        “Right.” I laugh a little, take my hand back. “Were your parents robots or something?”
        “Doctors.”
        “Okay.” Uh. “See you out there tomorrow.” I just leave him standing there, closing the garage door behind me. I'm screwed.
    . . .
        Our first open conflict comes after our first training pattern ends in three KIAs. Parker makes a good dead guy, but I’m angry.
        “Sergeant Cole, you were not to break formation.”
        He stares me down, then placidly points out how we could fan out with cover to retrieve the humvees that were left behind while remaining within the Rules of Engagement.
        He’s right.  It’s genius. “Good work,” I say, in front of my men.
    . . .
         After we rolled out of Camp Mathilda and started trekking north to Baghdad, I expected him to thaw a little. Second day out, I approach my point vehicle to pass along the change in ROI.
         “Yo, El Tee!” Ureña waves from behind the wheel. “We’re trying to guess why guys joined up. We all know you a military brat, so that’s boring. But Harvard here? Went to Harvard.” He slaps Cole on the back, whose expression doesn’t change.  
        “I joined up to get strange,” Ureña continues, “psycho Parker here asked about shooting people. Harvard, I bet you saw the dress blues commercial with the dragon. That commercial got so many  guys.” He sounds delighted. “Now look at us. Parker has gotten to kill exactly no one, I’m in the world capital of Drought, and my boy Harvard is rolling around Mesopotamia looking for dragons in a MOPP suit and shooting rounds at garage doors.”
         “He should have taken a sword into battle,” I say. Why would he leave Harvard to come to this  desert to get shot at?
        Cole just looks at me.