Moondust

By Bernard Conway

David Peleus, Lance Corporal, USMC, is home. Reeling from a bitter deployment to Afghanistan that took the life of a close friend, he seeks the solitude of his father's home. But instead of silence, he finds himself immersed in the lives of three strangers.
Sibyl McGovern is an aging radical from the counterculture movement of the 1960's. Benjamin Nuemiester is the head of the Lysandreia Group, an ascending private-military firm. Melissa Reine is Benjamin's reluctant protege. Each has a need of David, but their plans conflict.
As David attempts to navigate an interlocking web of motives and plots, he finds his own world increasingly encumbered by a ghostly presence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bernard Conway
• Release date: Mar 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370311958

Bernard Conway

Bernard Conway grew up outside of Chicago, Illinois and attended the University of Southern Illinois, Carbondale before enlisting in the US Marine Corps. He served with 2nd Tank Battalion and then with 1st Battalion, 6th Regiment. After being discharged, he completed a degree in history from Colorado State University.

Book preview

1

The bus approached the back gate. The credentials of the driver were checked and then it drove on through the darkness and though nothing was announced, they were home.

It was cold for October and felt colder still for the Marines aboard. They hadn’t felt weather like this in a long time and it made them tired. Few were awake for more than a moment, opening their eyes as they shifted in their seats or rubbed themselves for warmth. Exceptions were present, but few.

David Peleus was awake. The only one of his rank who didn’t have his chin turned down into his chest, out from exhaustion. Instead he was staring out the window with the side of his face pressed against the pane of glass. The bus hit a fierce pothole and his head bounced hard into the window. He swore under his breath and sat up.

He was dimly aware of the cold. He couldn’t remember when, but at some point he’d balled his fists together and crossed his ankles. He started grinding his boots against each other, feeling the uneven rhythm of the laces and eyelets catching onto to each other. Catching and sliding free.

Towards the front of the bus he heard the staff NCO’s and officers who filled up the first few rows. They were talking softly, working out the last details for the homecoming and joking with each other.

Should we wake ‘em up? one of them said.

Good God, no, another responded. Let’s try to get this zoo started as late as possible.

Is there going to be a problem if the families rush the bus?

Shouldn’t be, the families are at the battalion quad, we’re hitting the armory first. Once the weapons count is up, First Sergeant’ll march ‘em back.

There was low groaning about the First Sergeant.

David laid his face back into the window. It pressed down on his nose, reminding him of the slight sunburn he had. He turned onto his cheek, wishing he could have passed out like the rest of the guys.

He was on a day or two without sleep. He'd been up the entire layover in the hangar in Germany. Awake the whole plane ride over the ocean and the whole bus ride back to base. He checked his watch. It was just before midnight.

David glanced at the Marine beside him.

His jaw was hanging wide open, brimming with spit that already formed a couple trails down his chin. His eyes were half open and he was wheezing. He kept dropping his head onto David’s shoulder and this time, as he did it, David jerked him up.

Where are we? the Marine said, coming slowly awake. His voice was phlegmy and hoarse.

We’re back on Lejeune, coming up on that road that leads to the traffic circle, McMansion or Maynard, or whatever it is.

We’re back?

Yeah dude.

The Marine found his voice along with his thick Southern accent and repeated himself in a loud exclamation,

"Ey! We’re back! We’re back!"

David heard one of the staff up front mutter some curse words.

The bus came alive.

Are we back?

Where are we?

Are we back?

We’re back.

Dude, we’re back, wake up.

The Marines pressed to the flanks of the bus. The windows came down and the North Carolina air rushed inside.

David looked down at his boots and started rubbing his laces again. He was sure that little bits of dirt were flaking off every time they connected. They were filthy, his boots. Filthy and near ruined.

First Sergeant had told them all to make sure they were in clean uniforms for the homecoming but these were David’s only pair. He just had to make it a little while longer blending in with the crowd.

He closed his eyes tight. Most of the guys on board were from a different platoon. An administrative shuffle at the air station got him stuck on this particular bus out of the handful that were transporting the company back to Lejeune.

The Marine leaned over David to howl out the window and then put his hand on David’s shoulder.

Peleus, we’re home, man.

Fuck yeah, dude.

We’re home, man, fuck, we’re about to be done with this trash. You got a girlfriend, Peleus?

Nah, man, David said.

"Well shit, you’re gonna when you go home, go to the bar a gen’win fucking war hero- he cut himself off for a moment. Hey, be home with no fucking first sergeant."

David sat up and arched his back, cracking it.

Yeah, actually, that sounds—good, he said.

"Okay, shut the hell up and listen."

A Staff Sergeant stood at the front of the aisle.

"Shut up, the quicker you shut up, the quicker this is over with."

Silence overcame the bus.

The Staff Sergeant spoke in a long and sarcastic tone.

"We’re going to the armory to turn in weapons. We remember how to do that, riiiight? Stand there in line, turn your weapons in, riiiight? Turn in your weapons and NVGs then stand in another line and shut up. When we get everything accounted for, and the armorer gives us the thumbs up, you’re getting in formation. First Sergeant is then marching your dirty asses back. We march, march, march, lo-righty le-ho, pain in the a-hole, that whole drill back to the quad. When we get to quad, you stand there, when First Sergeant dismisses your asses, you go hug your wife, your mom, your dog, your freaking—I don’t know—thirty rack of Busch light, then grab your bags and go the hell home. You’re on ninety-six hours of liberty. MARINES, what time are we back at the CP?"

"1300 Tuesday, Staff Sergeant," the Marines chanted in unison.

"WHAT TIME?"

"1300 TUESDAY, STAFF SERGEANT!"

"Gents, this probably isn’t the right liberty to screw up, don’t be the idiot who winds up on restriction for doing something stupid like...just, don’t be THAT guy, oohrah?"

They grunted a loud affirmative.

It was past two when the company finished turning in weapons. No one fell asleep while waiting this time. Instead they sat around in circles of three or four, excitedly speaking to each other.

The lack of sleep was catching up with David. He sat alone with his back against the chain link fence that surrounded the armory’s yard. He stared down between his knees and rubbed his temples.

First Sergeant Wheaton appeared at the armory’s entrance.

"Form ‘em up!" he screamed.

David’s platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Poland, popped up from where he was sitting along the building’s wall. Poland echoed the First Sergeant,

"Hey, Second Platoon, form it up."

As the free circles of Marines assembled into their familiar platoon ranks, David shifted back into his spot in the squad.

"Hold up there, Staff Sergeant—"

Wheaton stepped in between Poland and the platoon, approaching a Marine down the line,

You didn’t shave in the last twenty-four hours, did you? he asked the Marine.

No, First Sergeant.

But, you did hear me state that every Marine will be shaved, washed, and in clean cammies n’ boots for the homecoming, correct?

Yes, First Sergeant.

So maybe you oughta’ just tell me to go fuck myself then, huh?

No, First Sergeant.

Wheaton began screaming.

"But, that is what you’re saying, right? You basically did just say, hey, First Sergeant, suck my fat dick, I do what I want, right?"

No, First Sergeant.

"Then why the fuck, couldn’t you drag a goddamn razor across your goddam mug, huh? Huh!"

Wheaton’s voice was screeching and blown out, the signature throat of a former drill instructor.

No excuse, First Sergeant.

The junior Marine’s voice was becoming rigid and mechanical in his answers.

Speak up, asshole.

"No excuse, First Sergeant."

"No excuse? No, Lance Corporal, it’s no pride."

Wheaton moved down the line, stopping in front of David.

So much for blending in, David thought.

"And you, Peleus, same thing, why’re boots so jacked up?"

They’re my last pair, First Sergeant.

"Yeah, okay, my ass, you had all the time in the world to sit around and jack off at Ellie’s Farm, but you couldn’t get your hands on a fresh fuckin’ pair of boots?"

I guess not, First Sergeant.

"You GUESS not? I swear to God, Peleus-"

First Sergeant Wheaton grumbled something about a ‘piece of shit’ under his breath and stomped onward. He chewed out a few more guys for haircuts being too long, for dirty cammies, for poor shaves, or unauthorized boots. He tore into the NCO’s for not monitoring their junior men, cursed at Staff Sergeant Poland for his corporal’s underperformance, then stormed on to first platoon to make a few corrections there.

David looked at Staff Sergeant Poland and recognized the tiredness in his face. Through heavy eye lids, Staff Sergeant Poland watched Wheaton with a hollow glare.

No pride. You come home from war, maybe you ought to have some pride in yourself, pride in the uniform, Wheaton yelled.

He continued to ramble and shout as he took his spot in front of the company and addressed the formation,

"Company! Ya-tennn-SHUN!...ra-height, FACE."

Boot heels clicked.

"Fah-WAD, HARCH."

Rubber soles rapped against the ground, beating in metered time.

The quad was the field between the battalion’s barracks and the Command Post. Now it was the sight of India Company’s homecoming. Their families had gathered under some canopy tents. They huddled around each other in hushed conversation, sipping coffee and shivering.

Ahead of the crowd, Captain Mahoney, India’s CO, was standing on a small stage and addressing the families through a microphone.

"...Your men, your India Company heroes are coming, they are coming and they are excited and ready to see you...they may smell a little, but we can forgive them for that, right?"

The families were cheering. A cheering that became a roar as the platoons came closer.

The volume was overwhelming to David.

"I see my Mom," someone muttered behind him.

"My parents are here, at the same time."

Around him, he felt the cohesion of the platoon struggle as they approached their final mark.

David stared into the mural of strange faces. He wanted the night to be over with.

"Company...HALT! Ye-yeft, FACE."

First Sergeant Wheaton was doing his best to look showy. His temper tantrum and the rest of his short demeanor were temporarily in check. He was trying to look the part of a recruiting poster.

"Mah-rines! When you receive the command, fall out and turn to ninety-six hours of liberty. 1300 Tuesday, ya butts are back in the saddle, ready to rock, UH-rah?"

"YUHT!"

"India Company, FALL OUT."

The ranks broke.

David dragged his sea bags and ILBE up to his room and threw it all in a big pile. Besides this and the standard issue of drawers and lockers, the barracks room was devoid of anything else.

He unbuttoned his cammie top and pulled it off. Then his skivvy shirt. He sat down on one of the beds, propping his feet on a seabag. His boots and socks came off. Even after all the months of stewing in it, he was very aware of how bad they stank. David stood back up and unfastened his belt. He drew it out of his trousers and flung it at the wall. Next went his trousers, button by button, until they too were on the floor.

The only article of clothing left on him was a pair of green PT shorts. His makeshift underwear. David sent them sailing in the same direction as his belt. Fully nude, he moved over to the sink and the large mirror behind it.

His vision swept up his torso and stopped in the center of his chest where his dog tags hung. He lifted them over his neck. They dangled in front of him:

PELEUS

DAVID A. A POS

USMC L

NO PREFERENCE

David considered treating them to the wall as well but instead clasped the two tags together and wound the long metal chain around them until it was tight. He set them beside the sink.

He turned his back to the mirror and looked over his shoulder.

The scar tissue ran across his upper back and onto his shoulders. This pale, taught white skin was a part of him now. Something generated from his own body. But it felt invasive. Unwelcome. A part of him that he wished he could strip off like the rest of his uniform and fling at the wall.

The metal ring twisted until a bag of chips fell out of its spot, tumbling to the bottom of the vending machine. David fished it out and left the laundry area, heading back to his room along the barracks catwalk.

Hey, Devil, put some shoes on.

David turned around. Further down the catwalk, Corporal Martinez was leaning over the railing. He was shirtless with a bottle of rum, grinning at David.

Roger, Corporal, David called back.

Dude, I’m fucking with you. Come here.

David started walking towards Martinez.

What’s going on, Corporal?

Don’t call me Corporal, we had enough of that shit the last couple of months, don’t you think?

Yeah, I guess so.

Martinez tipped the bottle to his lips, wiping the excess liquor away with the back of his hand.

So, what’s up, Peleus? No family?

No, it’s cool though, I figure I’ll see ’em on leave. Nobody here for you, Corp- Martinez?

Martinez shook his head,

Nah, my Mom has to watch my brothers and she couldn’t afford to bring ‘em all out here. I guess we’re in the same boat then, looking forward to that three weeks of leave.

For sure, David said.

Chicago, right?

Around there, northwest suburbs. You’re out of Florida?

Carol City, Martinez said.

He extended the bottle to David,

Take a swig there, war pig.

David accepted. He gave the bottle a little swirl, watching the light amber liquid slosh around inside. He took a swift gulp. He didn’t taste it but instantly felt the shapeless burn pass down his throat and settle in his stomach.

Oh, come on there, killer, take a real pull.

Martinez spoke louder, slurring his words. He was drunk.

David tipped the bottle up again and almost gagged.

Yeah, fuck yeah, Martinez said, "Fucking victory drink, yuht."

Martinez moved back to resting his elbows on the railing. He stared out over the quad, seeming to forget David was there.

I think I’m going to rack out, David said, after clearing the rum’s sting from his throat.

He handed Martinez the bottle.

That’s not a bad idea, Martinez responded.

David turned away.

Hey, Peleus.

He looked back. Martinez was still slouched over the railing.

"Sometimes there’s that shit that everyone’s thinking but nobody says, you know? The other NCO’s and I talked about it. We all know that was fucked up. All of it. Whatever anyone else says, we got you."

Thanks, man.

Welcome to the real Corps. For better or worse.

Martinez held up his bottle in salutation to David and took a long, steady drink. He coughed and spit when he was finished.

David waved to him and went back to his room.

2

There was a week and a half between when they came home and when they would be dismissed for post-deployment leave. This interim dwell time was called ‘Warrior Week’ and the company was nearing the end of it.

Warrior Week had been set up as a buffer between the constant pressure of deployment and the total freedom of the leave block. They worked half days, mornings mostly, attending a regimen of classes on post deployment issues, mental health, the warning signs of instability. Signs to look for in one another. But towards the end of the week the weight of the briefs decreased and drifted into the more mundane and administrative issues.

Two days from the end, David had not heard one word.

The whole company was crammed into a large room in the battalion Command Post. It was a former squad bay that had been furnished with long rows of desks and dubbed as the classroom. A projection screen ran a PowerPoint presentation on something to do with skin conditions. Some Navy corpsman was bumbling his way through a speech.

On the desk in front of him was a notebook. It was open but the only markings he had made in it were the date at the top right margin and a large ‘X’ carved into the sheet with the ball of his pen.

The guys to his left and right suddenly began to shuffle and stand. David realized the corpsman’s speech was done and they were on a twenty-minute break.

There was a certain smell to dirty cammies. The hallway was full of it. It was only made worse by the rolling showers that were moving in and out of Lejeune all week. The rain water seemed to activate a well of stored odors in the fabric and caused the Marine to smell something like a wet dog. Though it had been expected that their free afternoons would be spent reigning in their hygiene standards to garrison protocol, few bothered. They were on the cusp of freedom and they all knew it. Camp Lejeune would still be there after leave, just the same as it always was.

The hallway echoed with loud voices, laughing and excited. Over the last year and a half some of the faces had become familiar to him, but he still didn’t know too many of the guys outside his own platoon.

David pushed past the crowd and trotted down a staircase. Hsu and Diaz, two of his platoon mates, were standing at the bottom. This was sight he wouldn’t have seen before the deployment, a junior guy like Hsu talking so easily with a senior man. Hsu met eyes with David and stuck out his fist. David bumped it.

What’s good, Pel? Hsu asked.

Getting through, David answered and kept walking.

He made his way outside. More Marines were gathered in the shade of a warped oak tree, smoking around a butt can. Martinez saw him and hailed him over to a circle where he stood with Dillinger, Huey, Ortega, and the corpsman who attended to Ortega.

What’s up, kid? Martinez said as David approached. They slapped hands.

Sergeant Ortega asked who was there and Huey told him it was Peleus.

Loving that death-by-PowerPoint? Ortega asked David.

Though Ortega tried, he didn’t manage to face David straight on.

Loving it, David replied.

Most of Ortega’s face was masked behind his large, dark glasses that wrapped from ear to ear. He tilted his head down and to the left while listening, trying to focus his good ear towards David. As he did, he frowned and the skin of his face contorted around the ditches of scar tissue. The pale pinkness stood out against his usual deep bronze color.

What brings you over here? David asked Ortega, and then repeated the question louder and directly into his ear.

"Medical records, ‘course, no one at the BAS seems to be around. Shocking for the docs, right? Ah, but you’re alright, doc!"

He slapped the corpsman beside him on the shoulder.

Thanks, ‘preciate it, Sergeant, the corpsman responded.

Sergeant Ortega had not returned to the platoon. His blindness and deafness meant he was being medically retired. He spent his days at the Wounded Warrior Battalion, setting up the rest of his life. But he had been by often in the last week to visit with the guys. He was always with the young corpsman that helped him get around.

You doing alright, Peleus? Ortega asked.

I think I’m okay, David responded.

How’s your back healing up?

It’s coming along.

Good, that’s good. Well, Doc, let’s try again.

After Ortega departed with his corpsman, the rest of them stood around and talked for some time. When a sergeant called out for everyone to start heading back inside, the crowd began a slow meander for the door.

David did not return to the classroom. He followed the rest of them into the Command Post but cut out at the top of the stairs, heading for a bathroom on the other end of the building. The whole company in one room? No one would notice him missing.

He was at the urinal when First Sergeant Wheaton came in. Neither had expected to see each other. Wheaton folded his arms over one another and fixed eyes on David.

David finished pissing and buttoned up his pants.

The First Sergeant hadn’t moved. David didn’t acknowledge him but instead walked to the other side of the room and began washing his hands. Wheaton was becoming angry.

Part of David wanted to laugh, another loathed the moment he knew was coming.

He ditched the spent towels into the garbage and made for the door. Wheaton grabbed him by the collar and pushed him back into the room. It caught David by surprise and he stumbled. Wheaton power stepped towards him.

"Okay, asshole, what time were you supposed to be back in the classroom?"

Wheaton was short but he knew how to use his stature for leverage, pushing up under a taller guy like David and pressing into his center of gravity. David rocked back onto his heels and leaned away.

Ten-thirty.

He consciously omitted the First Sergeant’s rank and for that, saw