III

In a cramped and dark barracks room, where Sergeant Randy Ditty had lain sleeping, the television news burst forth in alarm: “Thousands Wounded! Hundreds Dead! Gwangju Burns!?”

Randy awoke, sweating. Images on the television cast fiery lights across the room. His eyes flickered between shadows until he was certain he was alone.

Groggily, he followed the beige walls of his bedroom unit. Passing through the hallway door, he nodded at the guard on Charge of Quarters duty. The guard yawned and nodded back. CQ duty typically lasted 24 hours, from 6AM to 6AM, and the nightly news was programmed for 1AM.

Randy felt like he could sleep a few more hours, but he was hungry. He sauntered to the floor’s rec room. Swiping his thumb on a Digi-Print Scanner, he eyed the vending machine's contents. “Tch.” They were out of Milky Whey bars again. He would have to message Supply in the morning. He tapped his feet as the machine verified his thumbprint. "Maybe it failed to read?" he wondered, swiping his thumb again. “Sniggers, Granilla, …”

Steps echoed forth from the hallway and Randy took position. The CQ Guard rounded the corner and opened his mouth to yawn. Reaching its peak, he shut his eyes tightly and, from stealth, Randy slapped his back.

“Ow!” The CQ Guard awoke, stumbling. “Di- Sergeant Ditty?”

“Him and no other,” he replied, helping the guard to his feet. “Sorry.”

The CQ Guard stammered, “No- tha- thank you! I was falling asleep out here!” After an awkward silence, he added, “… is just so boring. And it’s….” He trailed off. Another awkward silence. “I’ll just keep- just, make my rounds.” He quickly added, “I-if that’s okay! Sergeant… ?”

Sgt. Ditty glanced at the soldier’s nameplate, “HYUNTAE.” Ignoring Hyuntae’s awkward stares, he moved deftly towards the vending machine and punched in “B40” for a Three Buccaneers bar. It stuck. Half angry, half hopeful and assaulting the machine, he glared at the private still standing in the doorway, as if daring him to say something.

Hyuntae reached reflexively into his bulging pockets, removing a handful of Milky Whey bars. He gestured Sgt. Ditty to take them.

Sgt. Ditty, red-faced at his own behavior, stomped towards Hyuntae and removed a chocolate from his outstretched hands. “As you were, Private.”

The vending machine whirred, finally dispensing the Three Buccaneers bar. It fell, mangled, with a thud.

Sgt. Ditty returned to his room and locked it. Leaning against the door, he slumped to the ground. “I should say sorry,” he thought. He was not at all tired anymore and his body still ached from the mission he had just returned from. Yet, rising to the bathroom to pee, he took two sleep aids with water.

Bedsheets clung to the corners of his mattress. Stretching them to cover himself, he crawled inside. “Alw-‘s a nightmare,” he grumbled. Fatigue addled the mind until, sleeping, it rested on a quote: “He had my handkerchief.” Because, if anything, he preferred nightmares to reality.