Специалист Роджерс покончил с собой в казармах на первой ночи после отпуска

The Bullshit Express A story By Eric McMillan Issue 133/134, Summer Fall 2026 August 11, 2026 Nobody gave a rat’s ass about suicide when we got home from Iraq. There were more pressing matters. The blotter report, for instance. Dudes mouthing off to the cops, getting booked. Getting crunk, popping Ambien, or choking out one-night stands in their sleep. Sheer pan-delirium: the definition for which is what happens when young bucks flush with deployment cash make sudden and irreversible life choices. Across from my CQ, the parking lot filled with tricked-out car stereos. Glock sales went through the roof. The First Sergeant and I had enough on our plates. “Sir,” he grunted, looking up at me from behind his desk, dark circles under his eyes. “Sir,” he said, “the peas are spilling into the taters.” And besides, none of the good ones were trying to kill themselves. But on his first night back after block leave, Specialist Rogers hanged himself in Charlie barracks. My buddy Dan walked into my office the morning after they cut the kid down from the showerhead, totally beside himself, asking where did we fail this guy and what should we have done differently? “It’s like sometimes I think they want to go crazy.” Dudes running around in their skivvies in the psych ward on the fifth floor of Madigan. Dudes punching glass. From a command point of view, once you give the guy a Section 8 or, hell, even light duty, suddenly everybody wants to be a nutcase. Schmidt, over in HHC, got drunk and plowed his Nissan Sentra into a semi after his girlfriend left him. Meanwhile down in Alpha Company, we had Gleeson’s mess to contend with. A real shitweasel—I busted him in-theater for huffing air cans and drummed his ass out on a bad paper discharge for cocaine. So, no surprise he offed himself. Didn’t stop the Bullshit Express from railroading straight through my company headquarters. I had my boss, my boss’s boss, and my boss’s boss’s boss, some Assistant Deputy Chief of Staff, and the I Corps Sergeant Major breathing down my neck on a daily basis, wanting to know our plan. Our plan? Same as always. Pencil-whipping, checking the blocks. PowerPoint slides. Prevention training. Twice a week we brought in the chaplain for prayers and interventions. Every Friday night I stood out on the front stoop of the company billets and preached the Gospel. Men, I said, enjoy your weekend. But don’t drink and drive, don’t beat your wife, don’t kick the dog. Say no to drugs. Wear a rubber with strangers. And if you happen to find yourself alone or depressed, really mulling things over, then do me a favor—don’t put the pistol to your temple. Do it right, I said. Angle the muzzle under your chin. Every story in this issue looks better in print. Buy your copy today. Buy Now! Eric McMillan Eric McMillan commanded a rifle company in the Iraq War. His work has been supported by the Bread Loaf and Sewanee Writers’ Conferences, and his fiction has appeared in Ploughshares, One Story, New England Review, and the Iowa Review, where he won the Jeff Sharlet Memorial Award for Veterans. He lives in Seattle, Washington.