DREW CAMERON

©Drew Cameron

LIVING WITHOUT NIKKI

It doesn't seem so foreign at the time, at least not until she's gone. Part of my uniform in Iraq, an essential component was my M16A2 gas-powered magazine fed rifle with an M203 grenade launcher. Two hundred and ten NATO certified humane 5.56mm rounds. That is seven magazines, the basic combat load. They realized that a bullet is more effective if it maims rather than kills. That the target, another human, is better neutralized if the metal stays in their body. This way, other combatants will have to tend to the wounded, a more expensive and energy demanding situation then throwing a body in a hole. Nikki was her name. They encouraged us to develop a relationship with our rifles. Our companions, an extension of our bodies that defines our effectiveness as a soldier, a methodically trained killer is our rifle. She was always with me, always within reach. In my hands at the ready when I was on missions, one in the chamber, ready to switch from safe to semi-automatic. A few pounds of pressure on the trigger to let her speak. On my back, strapped and unloaded when walking around camp, but I always had a magazine in my pocket. Under my cot at night, nobody would touch her without my noticing. Sleeping with the strap wrapped around my arm I would nestle her against my side for extra comfort some nights. I was meticulous and thorough when I cleaned her every day. Making sure to remove all of the sand and carbon from every corner, crack, chamber and crevice. She became a part of me, a mutual relation, as I was a part of her. One of the first things I did when I returned home was give her up. They took away Nikki and locked her away. You feel lighter walking around without your rifle. Sometimes a sudden panic strikes when you think that you've left her unattended. "Oh, wait..." we only see each other occasionally anymore, and I sleep alone. I don't like guns anymore, but I still miss Nikki.

BLOOD BADGES

I was a private in basic training when I received my first blood. We qualified on our rifles and that night the Senior Drill Sergeant lined us up. He told us of the importance of our accomplishment, that we had earned it but still had yet to receive our honor. I stood chest out, a soldier on each side grabbing my arms. He grinned before he pounded the metal sharpshooter pin into my chest. It felt good. None of us wore our shirts that night and we compared our uniformed skin. My next was when I was promoted in the field on deployment to 29 Palms, CA. My platoon was especially bored so everyone got a chance to drive my PV2 rank into my collarbone. I received my PFC and Specialist rank the same way - always taking the opportunity to bestow the honor on my fellow lower ranking soldiers. I was promoted to Sergeant in Iraq. The rest of the NCOs who felt the need gave me a firm handshake and a collar pound. Welcome to the corpse - gauntlet style. My upper chest was a scatter of trickling blood and penetration. It always healed quickly, even without care. I still wear that rank; I let them pound it so deep that I may never pull it out of my skin.

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