Matt Briggs
Flag Ceremony
Sometime after I had been in my Army basic training unit long
enough, I knew how to polish my boots until the surface held a thin,
buffed glaze richer than the spay-on polish applied by the Drill
Sergeants. The aerosol shine left a mucous sheen still shiny even
after trail dirt and field dust coated their heels. I knew how to
take my time stripping down the excess, black Kiwi wax and then
applying a light touch and buffing the leather with my brush. My
brush softened after hours of back and forth blows across the boots.
I kept both pairs of my boots rotating on my feet unlike most of my
more clever bunkmates. They kept one pair highly polished,
ready-to-go. The other pair they wore. They could be instantly
ready-to-go for inspection. The problem with this was that their
polished, inspection ready-to-go pair remained unbroken. Their feet
blistered just standing in line during inspection. And if they had
to march in those boots, I didn't want to be around when they peeled
back their socks and their skin pulled away from the meat on their
heels in white, fluid filled bubbles. I kept both pairs worn and
ready and after some time they became more comfortable than tennis
shoes. Weeks later after Basic Training when I finally put on the
old pair of KEDs I'd worn to Fort Dix, the sneakers with their thin,
faded canvas felt light and inconsequential, really. They were
hardly on my feet compared to the bulk and weight and authority of
my army boots. They felt as though I wore socks. I liked the
additional height in the stacked, rubber heels of the army boots. I
liked the sound they made on the crumbling cement walkway where we
drilled.
In the sixth week of training we had a surprise inspection. After
examining us, our Drill Sergeant marched our company to some
massive, inexplicable ceremony. By the third week any real memory of
our civilian lives had faded away, and by the sixth week even the
memory of this memory had begun to fade. I came from Washington
State, from Seattle, but I regarded this fact as something that I
had escaped, as an excessive lack of control over myself. I had not
intended to be born in Seattle to the parents to which I had been
born. It took until I was sixteen to realize there was anything I
could do about it. In the Army, I followed orders, but I agreed to
follow orders and to obey the example set by the Drill Sergeants
with the understanding that one day—one day soon—I would be able to
properly conduct myself. I listened to the crush of gravel and the
skitter of the loose fragments under our feet as we left and left
marched between our barracks and into the vast parade grounds. Our
entire brigade moved in formation toward a single spot where
soldiers assembled and prepared an American flag. Other brigades
from the other side of the base moved toward the field. We all moved
down the lanes marked by the neatly ranked sycamores under the
cooling, late August sky. Massive anvil-headed clouds rolled toward
the West. The snap of the snare drum tumbled across the grass far
enough away that the tap didn't align with the flash of the stick on
the drum's white face. The soldiers unfolded the flag in a precise
turn of their hands. The flag came out. It went up, and the breeze
caught it and the entire flag billowed out and undulated over the
field, casting a shadow not quite as black and dark as the thin
slash of the flagpole. I could feel the twinge of patriotism as the
flag lay against the blue and white sky hanging over the green
fields edged with the thick, heavily topped sycamore trees. I winced
in the nearly silent ceremony with almost four thousand solders
assembled in tight, neat lines around the flag. The ritual's purpose
seemed obscure and private. There weren't any witnesses to it, just
the participating soldiers and this spectacle that provided a kind
of quiet order and dignity but also mystery since it happened
without explanation. Our Drill Sergeant didn't even explain what
would happen. He said we'd best be prepared for inspection even
though he didn't inspect us very thoroughly. I knew the clever
soldiers wearing their polished and new boots had cut deep blisters
into their feet after marching across the base to this field. Around
me, I could hear all of those soldiers in their ready-to-go dress
inspection boots moaning as inaudibly as possible. We followed
orders, and one right one left one forward command after another to
find ourselves in this quiet field with the wind snapping the flag
and rustling the tree leaves, the clouds way above us moving at a
brisk pace west. More than the staged sense of patriotism, I felt an
aligned, precise order to the world.
Matt Briggs is the author of the collections of short stories
The Remains of River Names, Misplaced Alice, and The Moss
Gatherers. Clear Cut Press recently published his novel,
Shoot the Buffalo. His work has appeared in The South Dakota
Review, The North Atlantic Review, The Northwest Review, The Seattle
Review, ZYZYYVA, Tablet, Pif Magazine, and The American Book
Review. He graduated from The Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins
with an MA in fiction. See his web site at http://seedcake.com/mt/.