At the end of the 20th century, I was deployed to the Balkans.

I joined the army in 1995 after squeaking out of high school. I spent two years at Fort Benning, Georgia before being assigned to the 212th Military Police Company in Kitzingen, Germany. Germany was nice. Good food and even better beer. Then we were sent to Kosovo.

And that was fun. Something new to do. I hung out with the locals…

I drove the commander. The best job in the company. I was supposed to get out of the army. But I wanted to be a cop, and couldn’t do anything from Kosovo. So I re-enlisted, signed up for another two years at Fort Knox, Kentucky. A garrison post.

I signed up for Fort Knox for two years. I was going to get a job with some state police department after that. And I went to traffic school while at Fort Knox. And that was cool. But I had a few more months left in Kosovo. We were sent to Mitrovica. And those guys didn’t like us.

They threw rocks, bricks and bottles at us. Our riot gear was in the trunk. Locked with two padlocks.

“Drive out,” he said.

And he did. I couldn’t believe they were serious. He was.

Back at the tents, an official took my name down. Walked away.

The battalion commander walked into the tent. I stood by the heater trying to stay warm. He handed me his coin and congratulated me on being the first wounded man in the battalion.

“Thanks,” I said. I shook his hand and took the worthless coin.

I was once a member of an underground group in the army. Fuck the army. Actually, it wasn’t all that underground. We all shared the same sentiment. Everyone hated the army. But we stuck around. We had no choice.