Free Scareforce by Charles Hough Page A

hotel. Is that quaint or is it pretentious? Must be the latter but have to be fair. Everything
     seems pretentiously inept when you’re not a part of it. Nothing to feel proud of because nothing belongs to you, yet.
    Your weary bunch piles out of the car, still vibrating to the rhythm of the road. Muscles tingle and creak as you enter the
     office.
    Everyone stands huddled in a pool of light, the only warm spot in the strangeness of this room. The clerk reluctantly notices
     your group and tears himself away from the quiet television.
    “Name?” he greets you.
    “Ah… Simms… Joe Simms… Sergeant Simms, with two m’s.”
    “Orders?”
    “Yeah, here. We just got here from…”
    “Reservation?”
    “What?”
    “Do you have a reservation?”
    “Oh, yes, yes, our sponsor made it for us.”
    “I’ll check.”
    Rude, but have to give him the benefit of the doubt. Probably a pretty boring job. After all, he’s just a clerk, not a welcoming
     committee.
    “Sign here and here. The TLQ is at the end of Fourth. Take this street two blocks, left at the stop sign, then right at the
     light. Building 208. No pets. One week maximum. Clean towels over there on the table.”
    You collect your towels and head for the door, trying to remember the directions.
    “Welcome to Griffiss Air Force Base.”
    Everyone turns to say thanks for a pleasant word finally, only to see that he’s gone back to the television. Gotcha. A sarcastic
     greeting is worse than none at all. Always someone who can’t stand a place. You hope for the best. This will be a good assignment,
     just as good as the last one; maybe even better.
    Building 208 is there but it doesn’t seem to be at the end of the directions. Must have misunderstood. You found it anyway
     so, no sweat.
    The parking lot is full of strange cars with a profusion of different plates in a wide variety of colors. They look like pushcarts
     from old pictures of immigrants, stuffed full of the junk that is necessary to start a new life. They are soiled with the
     mud of many roads all converging on this strange new place.
    At the door, there’s an envelope tacked by the bell. You open it after you put your little one in the single bed by the window,
     already asleep. She stayed up long enough to confirm her certainty that this would be a bad place. She sleeps fitfully, dreaming
     of the home that’s now someone else’s home and the friends that are just letters and pictures.
    The envelope unfolds a ray of sunlight in this dismal process called moving. It’s from your sponsor and it’s a genuine welcome
     from someone who went out of his way to understand.
    It ends on a happy note.
    “You guys are really in luck. Went by the housing office yesterday to check on your position on the wish list. Guess what.
     They have a house for you to look at already. Somebody canceled out or passed on it or something and you got moved up. Usually
     takes a couple of months to snag a place here. The town doesn’t have much in the way of rentals. Must be an omen. You guys
     are going to love it here.
    Give me a call tomorrow morning after you get a good rest. I’ll take you over to see the place.”
    Moves in the military are a way of life. They are accepted and expected. And in spite of this forewarning they are still one
     of the most painful things about being a soldier. To be sure, Uncle Sugar pays for everything when he moves you. But you always
     come up short. You always lose. You lose friends, you lose places, and you lose a sense of belonging that takes longer to
     get back each time.
    The military takes some of the trouble out of moving by providing you help along the way and a home when you get to your new
     base.
    Base housing is a good deal but, contrary to civilian belief, it’s not free. You lose your housing allowance, a lump sum from
     your salary that may make the house a good deal or a bad deal depending on off-base housing prices at your new location. And
     you’re always