When the Smoke Clears

Our eyes stayed down, looking within the confines of our trays, but we still had to look around, steal a glance once in a while. I looked up at the same time across from me a big corn-fed boy tried to check out the scene. It was our first meal after having been taken to the actual start of Basic training last summer.

Later that day, back in the barracks, the kid and I started talking. He was 19, from North Dakota, a town of about 40 people. He had a thick accent endemic to that part of the country, never really smiling, never looking angry. The only time I could tell he was angry was when he closed his mouth completely. Otherwise the humidity and allergens of Missouri made his nose constantly stopped up and he breathed through his mouth.

We were only supposed to address each other by last name. It was easy to remember each other as well since it was already emblazoned on our uniforms, but I tried to learn people’s first names. "Cody," he announced.

During the initial formations we tended to stand near each other. I always aimed for the back, 4th squad. Easier to stay under the radar. But he was a lot taller than me and the drill sergeants wanted the formation rows to be slanted, not sporadic from right to left, so we would be split up by one or two people.

When it came time to designate permanent battle buddies for the rest of the cycle, he was hopeful, me with a big city name attached to me for some reason, he with a small town name. It wasn’t to be, though I don’t regret my battle buddy. He was even younger and we were the only two battle buddies who never fought.

My official battle buddy and I were put into our own room with a third person. Most people were in large bays. We were lucky. That third person eventually moved out, but Cody moved into the room right next door to us with his battle buddy.

Most evenings when we had our half an hour of "free time" Cody would be in our room writing letters. Or he would be in his room writing letters. He had a girlfriend who cared for him and parents who, understandably as I grew to know more about him, thought the world of him. He admitted it was strange once in a while, when he really thought about the fact his father and I were almost the same age. He was a fast runner, one of only 10 in the company I could not keep up with on the long runs. Heavy, too, as I learned when I had to fireman-carry him across a field.

But he had very little tact. He was far from the most popular person in the platoon. He was a capable soldier but still pretty young when it came to leadership. I got along with him well. anyway. He knew I respected him, not just liked him. Even after I was dumped into the perpetual position as platoon guide for what became 5 weeks, Cody would try to help me out, doing tasks around the barracks. Sometimes he’d slack off, wanting to write another letter. The boy was prolific. But all I would have to do is ask him to pitch in, help me out. Help us all out.

I think all the young men and most of the women in Basic cried at one point, finally being worn down, broken down. Cody was no exception. It usually happened right after he got off his 10 minutes of phone time with his family on Sunday. He’d sit on my bed, tucked in the back corner, and get it out of his system.

After we graduated, Cody continued on with his training while I went home, but I stayed in touch. On the back of our graduation photo where so many wrote the trite words about keeping in touch always, etc., Cody only signed his name, put a smile and "Pretend Battle Buddy." But we kept talking over the last year anyway. We were making plans to meet up this winter on my trip to training out west. It would be about the time of his 21st birthday and he’d have an officer buying him, a specialist, a quality beer.

Cody died this week, just a few miles from his house, in front of several of his friends.. A 15-year old driving with her 15-year-old friend lost control of her SUV and killed him.

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