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What War was That Again?

Peter Gregg Slater

    Hoping for a pleasant Saturday afternoon nap, Martin Gaston instead found himself in a stressful dream. British Redcoats were charging towards the Connecticut Militia’s position behind crude earthworks. Sheltered there, Martin rammed a ball into his musket and fired, to good effect, but the gap was immediately filled. In a minute, the Militia would be overrun. Then, before Martin’s astonished eyes, the British front lines exploded.
    When did the Militia haul up artillery? Martin glanced over his shoulder, looking for the gargantuan cannon that has had such a fearsome effect. Amidst concealing tall bushes, a Sherman Tank was rotating its turret in search of fresh targets. Confounded, Martin was staring at this monster when a catchy tune sounded. The British military band had marched onto the field to bolster the panicking Redcoats.
    Jolting awake, Martin peered at his Android, muted for his nap, and then towards the corridor and the merrily ringing landline. He rose from the couch in the den and, with groggy effort, made his way to it. The area code and name on the ID screen were unfamiliar—probably a sales call—but he lifted the receiver anyway.
    “Hello,” he muttered in a very old man’s rasp.
    “Greetings,” chirped a young-sounding woman. “Is this Martin?”
    A grudging “Yes.”
    “Marty, my name is Amanda, calling for Ultimate Health Products. We’re doing a special promotion this week for our prostate supplement, Pro-Prostate. If you have prostate problems, it will cure them. If you haven’t, it will prevent them. Pro-Prostate is twice as effective as our competitors’ products and has none of the side effects that can be so embarrassing to a man.”
    Martin’s eyes glazed over. He was trying to get back into the dream to see how the Militia was faring. Maybe the British also had armor.
    Amanda babbled on. “Now, Marty, I am sure you are wondering why a woman is selling a guy’s product. The reason is that we have skin in this game too.” She paused a beat, with a suggestive little laugh, to let the line sink in. “The good news is that you can buy a three month’s supply of Pro-Prostate today—regularly priced $99.99—for only $79.99. If you’re a policeman, fireman, or a veteran, we offer an additional month’s supply at half price in recognition of your service. Do we have a deal, Marty?”
    “Young lady,” Martin croaked, “I’m ninety-two, almost ninety-three. I am a—”
    “That’s amazing!” Amanda interjected. “You can be confident that Pro-Prostate works at any age.”
    “Let me finish! I’m a veteran. Marine Corps. A captain. Disabled. Part of my left leg was left in North Korea, courtesy of a hand grenade. I don’t have much mobility and getting to the phone is damn difficult. I only picked up because I thought it might be my friend whose wife is in the hospital. Don’t you telephone sales people ever consider the hardships you can cause? Have you no scruples? No shame? . . . You sound like a bright girl—why aren’t you in a real job?”
    Silence on the line. Martin was about to hang up when he heard, “I’m so sorry, so-so sorry. . . My grandfather served in Vietnam and he’s told me horror stories.” Amanda lowered her voice. “Actually, I’m a veteran myself. . . . I’m not supposed to disclose personal information, but I want to be open with another vet. I was in Iraq with the 187^th Infantry Regiment, 3^rd Battalion, a Sergeant.”
    Martin, interested, responded, “Not in combat though.”
    “Not directly, an MP in maneuver support. But in 2005, the Humvee I was in ran over an I.E.D.—.”
    “I.B.B?”
    “I.E.D.– an improvised explosive device. Basically, a home-made bomb. I was the only one in the vehicle who survived. . . . Sort of.” Amanda’s voice broke. “I lost both legs, part of one arm, plus some cognitive damage. This is one of the few jobs I can do.” She was crying now.
    With as soothing a voice as he could muster, Martin offered consolation. “You had even worse luck than me. It’s damn hard, I know, damn hard. . . . What was that price you gave?”
    Amanda, largely recovered from her meltdown, repeated the offer.
    “I’ll tell you what,” Martin said, “Let me have an eight-months supply.  . . . No, make it a year’s worth. Anything for another vet.”
    “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Amanda blurted. She told Martin the cost, which was $359.96, took the credit card information and ended the call with a “God bless.”
    Slumped low in her chair, Amanda knew that she was going to feel bad tonight. But now was not the moment. Bursting out of the chair like it was on fire, she raced across the call center to her supervisor, whom she double high fived. “A whole year!” Amanda exclaimed, bouncing up and down. The supervisor smiled conspiratorially. “And what war was it this time?” he asked.
    A thousand miles away, Martin, feeling quite virtuous, returned to the couch and considered whether to try to re-enter the dream. He needed to know how it would end for the Connecticut Militia. The dream was crazy enough for a Spitfire to dive out of the clouds and strafe its Sherman.
    Martin’s wife appeared in the doorway holding an Evian water. “Hey, sleepyhead,” she said, “it’s time.”
    “Right. Fix bayonets!”
    “Stop it! Now! You know how that creaky voice always freaks me out. Save it for the spammers.”
    “I need to keep in practice.”
    His wife sighed. “Then play to the bathroom mirror.”
    Pecking at an app on her iPhone, she asked, “So what war was it on this last call?” Before Martin could reply, she found what she wanted and announced: “We’re scheduled for a five mile run. . . . The course with the big hills. . . . Fast pace.”
    His wife took a sip of the Evian, hitched her Nike shorts, and began to stretch. “Go change,” she commanded. “Mach schnell.”

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