The young man struggles through high school. His teachers had given up, his parents no longer cared. In a final act to set their boy straight, his father takes him to the local Army recruiter. The young man, eager to please, eager to do right, signs the paperwork and shakes the hulking sergeant’s hand. “You’re in the army now, son,” he says to the young man, “now move your ass. The bus leaves tomorrow morning at 0500. Move along, recruit, move along.”
“Yes sir,” was his reply.
The young soldier finds his purpose. He is a quick study on the firing range and it soon becomes obvious his future is in Infantry. Graduation from boot camp is a proud day, for he is now a Soldier. “Congratulations, soldier,” his commanding officer intoned, “now move your ass. The bus leaves for Infantry training at 0500. Move along, soldier, move along.”
“Yes, sir,” was his reply.
The young soldier watches with the rest of his platoon as the television streams live footage of one aircraft, and then another aircraft, slamming into the World Trade Center towers. He knows what this means, and feels ready. Finally, after all of his training and earning one marksmanship medal after another, he is about to serve his country. “Listen up, soldier,” His commanding officer barked, “here are your orders. Report for mobilization at 0500; you’re going to war. Move along, soldier, move along.”
“Yes, sir,” was his reply.
The young soldier, chronologically 19 but already psychologically aged by war’s constant stressors, peers down the sights on the turret-mounted .50-caliber automatic rifle. Soldier and turret moves as one as the MRAP blasts down the narrow, grimy street, taking enemy fire. Bullets fired from enemy AK-47s ricochet off the tough armor; he returns fire as fast as he twitches his trigger finger. The convoy makes it, and almost all of his buddies make it back alive. Almost. He witnessed three of his bunkmates get torn apart by a booby trap during a routine foot patrol in a market that had been void of terrorist activity for months prior to this morning. “Nice shooting, soldier,” his Squad Leader says through a lip full of chewing tobacco, “you really lit those fuckers up! Now get some rest, you go back out at 0800. Move along soldier, move along.”
“Yes, sir,” was his reply.
The grizzled soldier, now in his late twenties, knows only death and destruction. What others may call horrific, he calls a normal day on duty. His bunkmates keep asking him pointed questions about any nightmares he might be having. He goes to Sick Call where he is promptly diagnosed with PTSD. “You did well for our country, but now you need to go back stateside. Get some R&R, get your head back on straight. Here’s your orders. You demobilize at 0900. Move along, soldier, move along.”
“Yes, sir,” was his reply.
The soldier’s nightmares are becoming worse. He can no longer tell if he is awake and still in the shit, or if he is just dreaming again. Sleep comes when his body demands it and goes into some sort of weird survival mode. Subsequent visits to shrinks in plush offices, offices far more luxurious than any barracks he’s ever lived in, confirm he has severe PTSD as a result of the almost dozen rotations into various combat zones. “Your country thanks you for your selfless efforts in keeping the terrorists at bay, but I think you’ve had enough,” his shrink says. “Here’s your medical record. Take it to Out Processing at 0800. Move along, soldier, move along.”
“Yes, sir,” was his reply.
The former Soldier’s parents host a grand welcome home party. Dad is transfixed by the rows of gleaming metals pinned to his son’s Class A uniform; Mom is fixing chicken and Stove Top stuffing – her little boy’s favorite meal. He eats with the usual gusto; he is trained to eat as if it is the last meal he will get for a long time. The food is tasteless, the joy is gone. “Well, maybe you’re just tired, son,” his Dad says with a touch of concern in his voice, “why don’t you hit the rack for the night? Move along, son, move along.”
“Yes, sir,” was his reply.
Months of night terrors, punctuated by bouts of explosive and violent temper outbursts during the day, put the former soldier at odd with his parents. Their nerves are shot and their calls to the VA and smaller outreach programs for families of soldiers with disabilities provide no immediate relief. The former soldier, now a civilian, has no idea how to stop hurting his loved ones. He walks into the kitchen for what he is sure for the final time as a welcome guest in his family’s home. Mom is up to three packs a day, and Dad is holding a tumbler full of Wild Turkey. “Look son,” his Dad says, “we love you, but we just don’t know what to do with you. Maybe it’s time you found a place to live on your own. Here, call this number. This guy rents out apartments to veterans. Move along, son, move along.”
“Yes, sir,” was his reply.
The apartment is cheap and dreary, but at least it’s a roof over his head. The former soldier, still in his early thirties, pays his rent by working odd jobs as a laborer. He comes home to find a bright pink notice pinned to the complex’s front door: “NOTICE:” it reads, “THESE PREMISES ARE CONDEMNED BY ORDER OF THE CITY PLANNING COMMISSION. ALL TENTANTS HAVE 30 DAYS TO VACATE UNDER PENALTY OF FINE AND/OR JAIL TIME.” A meeting held in the grimy basement later that evening teaches the former soldier and his neighbors all they needed to know about the situation. “Look,” his soon-to-be-former-landlord says with a shrug, “This building is just a block away from a new urban revitalization project. New green spaces and places for kids to play. They bought this building so they can tear it down and create more parking. Sorry things turned out this way. Now move along, boys, move along.”
“Yes, sir,” was his reply.
The night is cool but at least it is not raining. The rain slicker he scored from a box of donated clothes, once yellow and in remarkable shape (missing a single button, and so discarded by the original owner, but the old soldier does not mind), clings to his filthy clothes in blackened, brittle strips. He wanders his old neighborhood, the one where his apartment stood, delirious with hunger. These new shops, with their brightly polished plate glass windows filled with the most delicious looking food, haunts his crippled psyche as much as any battle he had fought for his country. He stops to gaze with longing at some confectionary delight; he can actually feel a strand of saliva course through a crack in his lower lip. He is lost in the fantasy of eating such a morsel and so does not notice the shopkeeper until he feels a hard jab in his ribs. The shopkeeper wields a broom handle. “What’ve I told ya ‘bout loiterin, huh?” he admonishes. “Yer scarin’ away muh customers! Git outta here before I call the cops! Move along, ya worthless piece a’ shit, move along!”
“Yes, sir,” was his reply.
The old man is only in his early forties, but life on society’social outskirts, deep in the middle of various gentrification projects, aged him far beyond his years. He is aware that he used to be strong. He can recall a time when he did something important… for someone. The country; yes that was it. He killed terrorists for his country, and he was damn good at it. His ravaged mind slips into yet another vivid flashback so easily that he does not bother trying to parse it from whatever passes for reality these days. He rolls fitfully from one side to another, unable to find comfort on the slice of cardboard which serves as his sole protection from the blighted ground. The flashback dissipates, and he finds himself watching with hardly any interest as a nearby drug addict heats an old soup spoon with a stolen lighter. The addict watches impatiently as the concoction in the spoon liquefies. He produces a needle and sucks the terrible drug into the surprisingly clean syringe. The old man, once proud of the medals he had long since pawned for rent and food money, knows the addict got the needle from a charity that caters to helping drug addicts kick the habit and ultimately rejoin society. A ray of sunlight suddenly slants through the pylons holding the freeway 50 feet above their heads, providing light for the old man to witness the junkie jab the needle in an open wound and press the plunger all the way down. The wound, already inflamed with infection, pulses angrily in the last remnants of another bleak sundown in a forgotten corner of urban decay. Watching the addict, there, in the dirt not three feet away, the old man realizes that he is good at following orders. He moves when told to move, and now he is where he is supposed to be. He had performed his duties; he had moved along.
“Yes, sir,” was his reply to this unspoken moment of clarity.