Post The Sign

94

I used the relaxation method to calm my nerves and still my mind. The checklist of a thousand lines of possibilities ended with the default action of staying aware, thinking ahead and trusting our training. It is launch time minus one hour, Drysdale joins me in the galley as we savor the aroma from the steaming coffee. I watch him through the gently rising ribbon of stream waiting for his response to our current situation. I can see that he is watching me waiting for the same. 

In the strangeness of that moment a realization chases a somewhat bitter sip of the fresh brew. There is nothing more that needs to be said. We cannot return to the proving grounds, the classroom, the gridiron or the battles of fire-fights past. Every lap in the pool, mile on the trail, hour on the trainer, instruction manual read or bit of advice said, has contributed to, and assisted in the creation of this nanosecond in eternity.  The unblinking reciprocal exchange of eye contact tells the story, it IS the story. Total commitment, loyalty and a sacred vow to do what must be done, with the kicker being, NO MATTER WHAT. There is nothing to add. 

I am indulging in the glow of this silent revelry as Saunders joins us, now cramping the space in the small kitchenette. She looks at us, nods a muted good morning and turns to the gurgling coffee urn. I watch as she fills a USMC ceramic mug stopping just short of the brim. She senses the atmosphere of the room, and chooses to allow what had conversationally begun to continue. But there was no typical scuttlebutt chatter other than the non-verbal kinesics, paralanguage and chronemics shared by the two standing in-zone warriors. 

Now numbering three. 

At last, understanding that without a pause to this special form of bonding energy we would be in a group hug, I break the powerful silence. 

‘“Post the Sign,” we used to say. 

Drysdale and Saunders look at me with raised brows.

“Before big games — and ya know what? — looking back at it now, they were ALL big games, we rendered the old saying that each of us, in order to win the day, must be willing to sell the farm, to eventually, and I think Davis played a part in this, our group bonding ritual from the trite motivational phrase of selling the farm, to saying simply, ’post the sign,' as in the FOR SALE sign, and then finally to just the acronym; PTS. It was code that only our tribe, our team, this tiny handful of crazed warrior misfits was privy to, that the sale of the family farm was a small price to pay for what could be achievable through our commitment to a united maximal team effort.” 

The galley ambience, is in full diminuendo as Satriano, now using her given street name, Vi, again, enters. She had been standing just outside the small galley space behind the bulkhead, evidently monitoring our conversation, a skill she was about to professionally, and dangerously, utilize in an hour’s time. 

She grabs a mug from a locking cup hanger, fills it and joins our circle. 

We acknowledge her with nods, each in silent assessment. This is the day, now is the hour. The irony that this first cup of coffee might be our last, is not lost upon any of us. We look at Vi as she grabs the moment, steps into the white-hot spotlight of the occasion with a move like Jagger and presents her morning toast:

“Post the fucking sign.”