Authors: David Zimmerman
I stand at
attention and stare at the wall of Common Tent 1.
“We have reports,” Sergeant Oliphant says, “of you driving off into the desert after your shit-burning detail.”
The sergeant’s about as angry as I’ve ever seen him. And, believe me, this means something. This is a man I once saw tear in two a weapons manual the thickness of a small-town phone book with his bare hands during a monumental rage over proper rifle maintenance. Today his neck, which usually looks like the bottom half of a broad pyramid, has flexed and widened so far that his head appears to sprout right out of his lungs. The thumb-thick blood vessels on either side of it pulse and throb. Every word he shouts is wet with spit. For some reason this morning’s anger seems personal, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why.
We’ve been here in Common Tent 1 all morning. Lieutenant Blankenship, the captain, Sergeant Oliphant. Sergeant Guzman even popped his head in a couple of times, and now who should arrive but Lopez.
It is 1100 hours. I haven’t eaten anything since dinner and my head is pounding. The AC unit in the tent keeps sputtering out. The air is hot and thick as engine oil. A bit of grit got into my right eye last night, either while searching the perimeter wall for the door, or more likely when the latrine exploded, and now it’s swollen shut. During the last couple of hours, Sergeant Oliphant has gone over the log books from the sentry box for the last three weeks day by day and discussed every detail I’ve been a part of for the same time period.
“Where the fuck did you go, soldier?” Sergeant Oliphant pushes his face right up into mine. I find it difficult not to eyeball him back.
“Who told you that, Sarge?” I say, looking over at Lopez. He doesn’t meet my eye.
“Just answer the Goddamn question,” Sergeant Oliphant shouts. He clutches the legal pad in his hand so tightly the cardboard backing tears away. “Is something wrong with you? Having trouble understanding basic English this morning?”
Sergeant Oliphant rolls the pad up into a tube and whips it back over his shoulder like he’s going to smack me with it. Instead, he taps me lightly on the nose. A drop of sweat drips down from my sideburn to the tip of my chin. The itchy tickle it causes makes me want to yell.
“No, Sergeant,” I say. What can they prove? Nothing. If they had a witness, then they’d have said so by now. Never volunteer anything.
“No, what?” Sergeant Oliphant yells.
For whatever reason, the lieutenant has allowed Sergeant Oliphant to do all of the questioning up until this point. He and the captain sit and watch the proceedings in silence. The captain has not acknowledged my presence at all. This hearing is about a lot more than just me.
“No, I did not drive out into the desert after the burn detail, Sergeant.”
The lieutenant leans forward and looks at me, hard. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in, son?”
Son?
Son
? This man is a good two years younger than me. God, I wish we were back home in some bar, any bar, both of us dressed in civvies. I take a deep breath. I’m afraid of what I’ll say if I don’t cool down for a second.
“No, sir, because I don’t know what any of this is about.”
The captain laughs. We all look over at him and wait, but he says nothing.
“I find that very hard to believe,” the lieutenant says.
“What about the day you were late to the mission briefing? What about that?” Sergeant Oliphant asks.
“I explained it to you that morning.”
“Well, explain it again, Private. That’s why we’re here.”
“Yes, Sergeant. We did not have a sufficient amount of fuel to do the burn. I considered all of my options and decided to siphon some fuel from the truck. This took some time. Ahmed had difficulty accomplishing the task. If you don’t believe me, then ask him.”
“We did,” the sergeant says, “and he told us you dropped him off an hour and a half before you arrived at the base.”
“That’s a lie, sir. First, Ahmed does not own a watch, and secondly, he was visibly ill from swallowing fuel. I doubt he knew what time it was for the rest of the day.”
“What possible reason would Ahmed have for lying to us?” the lieutenant asks in a mild voice.
I want to pull out my hair and scream. “Every reason, sir. He’s spying on us for the insurgents.”
He gives me a blank look and lets out a long sigh.
“Lopez,” he says in a bored voice, “why don’t you explain your suspicions about Private Durrant’s behavior.”
Lopez reels off a series of places and dates, never once looking me in the eye. He’s made this speech before, maybe even this morning. I wonder if he’s been coached.
He starts with an incident I’d totally forgotten about. Several months ago while working a traffic patrol on the highway at the edge of Kurkbil, I tripped on a rock while waving a car through the road block and bumped into an elderly man. He was on his way to the village with a basket of eggs, and when I stumbled into him, I knocked it out of his hands. All of the eggs broke. Yolk dripped from his pants. The poor man was frightened and angry. I felt terrible about spoiling what was probably his family’s only source of income for the next few weeks, so I pressed a wad of bills into his hand, far more than the eggs were actually worth, and apologized several times. Lopez leaves out the part about the eggs, but he goes into great detail about the money and triples the amount of time I spoke with the man. When I attempt to explain, Sergeant Oliphant screams at me. Lopez goes on to describe several other times he’s seen me speaking with village men. Once, he tells them, he even saw me writing a message in Arabic for a man at the town café. In actuality, I’d been trying to learn how to write my name in script. The café’s owner, a man I’d become friendly with during my area patrols, was kind enough to correct it for me. Another time, Lopez says he observed me speaking to a young man at the FOB’s main gate for over an hour while I was on sentry duty. It’s true that I pointed out something inside the base and then talked with him for a while about it, but it sure as hell hadn’t lasted for an hour. Twenty minutes, more like. I remember that day clearly. The young man had come looking for a job. I explained that we already had all the employees we needed for the time being, but I’d speak to my CO. I did. In fact, Sergeant Oliphant had been there when I talked this over with Sergeant Guzman.
Again, I try to explain. “You were there when I told Sergeant Guzman about that. Don’t you remember, Sergeant Oli—”
“Shut the fuck up, Durrant,” Sergeant Oliphant says. “If I have to tell you again, I’ll put you in restraints and gag you.”
Lopez then tells them about his suspicions regarding the IED and my dash into the toy factory immediately afterward. I notice both the lieutenant and Sergeant Oliphant perk up at his mention of the factory. Lopez thinks this is a dead drop where I leave information for the insurgents. He believes I’ve been directing the mortar fire during the past week, that I allowed a small group of insurgents to enter the base in order to blow up the Humvees, then helped them to escape. Somehow, he isn’t sure how, he admits, since I didn’t leave the base during this time, I signaled our intent to mount a movement-to-contact mission into the Noses. The list goes on. Many of the things he tells them are so insignificant as to be laughable, but no one in the room is laughing. Throughout it all, I grit my teeth and bunch my fists. It takes every bit of self-control I have left to keep from running across the room and pounding him. Then he adds that Ahmed came to him unbidden and said he also suspected me of trafficking with the enemy. Ahmed told him I went off into the desert after our burn details, somewhere in the direction of the toy factory, and also that I’d spoken in secret with the boy prisoner. In a somewhat melodramatic conclusion, Lopez tells them I probably have a pirate radio stashed away somewhere in my tent. This, he says with an odd flourish of his hand, is his best guess as to how I’ve been directing mortar fire and leaking mission intel.
I don’t know whether to shout, shit, or go blind. There’s no way they can take this seriously. No way. But when I look around the tent, I see Lopez’s little speech has made quite an impact. The lieutenant looks absolutely furious. Sergeant Oliphant’s face has turned the color of Tabasco sauce.
I’m fucked.
“Excuse me, sir,” I say to the lieutenant after a moment. “May I defend myself against these ridiculous charges?”
“No,” Sergeant Oliphant barks, “you had your chance.”
My chance? I think. What chance?
“Let him talk,” the captain says in a hoarse voice. He coughs a couple times and clears his throat, as though he intends to say something more.
We all turn to look at him, waiting for him to go on, but he doesn’t. Finally, the lieutenant nods, but from the way he clenches his jaw, I can tell he’d just as soon I shut up.
I go through Lopez’s accusations point by point, explaining how he’s held a grudge against me since the moment I arrived. I tell them the story of how I punched his half-brother, Sergeant Reyes. That he has a motive. The captain laughs at this, masking it with a cough. Sergeant Oliphant gives Lopez a puzzled look. I explain that Ahmed is only trying to cover his ass, that this whole thing has been turned upside down. It doesn’t make any sense. What motive would I have for giving up my friends? I even volunteered to go on the probe mission. The lieutenant stirs uncomfortably after this comment, so I push it a bit further. Then I mention the door in the wall. But only in passing. I know it doesn’t sound very reasonable after the snafu last night. Finally, I urge them to search my tent. I tell them they won’t find any contraband items. No girlie mags, no liquor, and especially no pirate radio. Christ, I hope nothing’s been planted.
“We do not need permission to search your tent, Private,” Sergeant Oliphant says.
“If you’re looking for a reason for all this, the obvious person to speak to is Ahmed, Sergeant. It seems—” I almost say insane. “—like he has a motive and a means for doing all of this. I’ve been trying to tell you about him for a long—”
The lieutenant holds up his hand. “All right, you’ve said your piece.” He looks at the inner flap of the tent. “Sergeant Guzman, bring him in.”
Sergeant Guzman and Ahmed duck through the flap. They’ve been just outside. Ahmed heard my entire speech, I’m sure of it. He catches my eye and holds it until he passes me where I stand at attention. At least he has the balls to face me.
“Guzman,” the lieutenant says, pointing at me. “I want you to take this man to his tent and go through all of his belongings in his presence. Search everything. If it has a lock, make him produce the key. Pay careful attention to anything that looks like a radio or looks like it could store one. Police the surrounding area for recently disturbed ground.”
“Sir,” he says and salutes.
The lieutenant and I look at each other. He’s making a decision. That much is obvious. About what isn’t quite so clear. Maybe it’s only a matter of degree. How severely he’s going to punish me
“We’ll discuss this further, Durrant.” The lieutenant crosses his legs, making sure not to spoil the sharp crease of his pants. “This isn’t over. Not even close. If you do anything, and I mean
anything,
that could be considered suspicious, I will put you in a cell until I can have you shipped back to HQ for a court-martial. Do not leave the base. Do not use the telephone. Do not even go near the perimeter. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed,” Sergeant Oliphant shouts.
I salute.
The captain folds his arms and snorts.
Sergeant Guzman puts
on purple latex gloves and searches my tent. He works slowly and methodically. Rankin and I watch from outside, silent, along with the two newbies Howley and McCrae, who had arrived on a helicopter earlier in the morning. We ignore their questions. They make a wager about whether the sergeant will find booze or spank mags. I can see this task makes the sergeant uncomfortable. His mouth is grim. I’m sure something has been planted in the tent. The only question is what. When Sergeant Guzman emerges with a hard look in his eyes, I’m certain he’s found something.
But he says, “You’re clean. I knew that bit about the radio was bullshit.”
“Thanks,” I say. My relief is enormous.
Sergeant Guzman walks away without responding.
Rankin flicks my arm and points. A group of men have assembled near the mess tent. I immediately assume the worst. My eyeballs throb, as though someone is squeezing them between a thumb and finger. I follow Rankin across the parade ground and inside the tent. It’s only Hazel, passing out the mail that arrived on the helicopter. This is the first time I’ve heard him speak since the night Boyette died. He curls a finger at me as we enter the tent.
“Durrant.”
I trudge over, expecting him to fuck with me. Somehow the latrine bomb incident has gotten out. Rankin swears he didn’t say a word. I believe him. And this makes it all the more difficult to figure out who might have been involved. My eye was swollen at breakfast and so the whole base has taken to calling me Stink-Eye. Hazel’s lips make a sad, strange smile shape, and I get ready for whatever feeble joke Private Brokedick here has been working up in his head all morning. Instead, he tosses me an envelope. It’s pale blue and thin. Something small and heavy shifts inside when I shake it. I know what it is. I know who it’s from. I know without reading the address. Rankin questions me with a look. I wave it off and leave.
The sky is the color of skim milk and the air is still and hot. In the desert, diffuse light hurts your eyes more than bright sunlight. I squint behind my new designer sunglasses and look for a quiet place. The whole base shimmers in the early afternoon heat. I sit down in the shade of the motor-pool wall, turn the envelope in my hands, and smell it. I consider burning it. I’m not sure I want to read it. Not right now, not today. Maybe not at all. Shit. I tear it open anyway.
The engagement ring is wrapped in pink tissue paper and tied with white ribbon. I drop it in my shirt pocket and chew on my lip. What I really want to do is shout at the top of my lungs. I want to hit somebody. I want to level the whole base with a bulldozer. She sends the engagement ring here.
Here
. She couldn’t even wait a few months. Damn Clarissa. I roll a cigarette and light it. Something in the tobacco smells like burnt hair. Even so, I suck in as much smoke as my lungs will hold. My fingers make damp marks on the thick violet stationery she likes to use. The paper has a very faint smell. Mandarin oranges. I unfold it. Two pages. Back and front. Big looping letters in green ink. Her handwriting makes me angry, and I haven’t even started to read the letter.
Dear Toby:
I hope you’re doing alright. I hope things are going OK. Ugh. I might as well get to it. I’ve tried to write this six times and the first few sentences always sound like bullshit. I hate starting letters. Especially this one. Look Toby, don’t get me wrong, I like you. I like you a lot. We had some good times. When I look at your picture, I still want to kiss you, make love to you. That’s all fine. That’s good. But it isn’t something to get married over. When I got knocked up, it seemed like we didn’t have any other choice. I mean, that’s what people do, right? You get knocked up and you get married. At least in Savannah. At least in my family.
My parents hate you. You know that. And even they agreed we’d have to go through with it. But that’s not what this is all about. Not all of it.
When you left, everything changed. The whole thing seemed different.
You know,
US.
Our relationship. It didn’t change right away, but pretty soon after. I started thinking about what getting married and having a baby meant. I haven’t had a chance to do shit with my life. If all this had happened later, then maybe it would have worked. Maybe if I was old, like 27 or 28. But right now I don’t know who the hell I am or what I want to do with my life, so how the hell could you? I’m not the same person you knew at all.
I know this will hurt you. It’s shitty, I know, to lay this kind of stuff on you while you’re off fighting a war. It’s all fucked up. But I can’t pretend like nothing’s wrong, that we’re all peachy. I tried to tell you on the phone, Toby, but it’s so hard to talk that way. Sometimes when we talk on the phone I’m thinking is that really him? Is that really his voice? Oh Toby, I really do miss you. I really do like you. I know I said I loved you before you left, but now I’ve been thinking about it, I’m not all that sure it’s true. But I do like you. I like you a hell of a lot. I just don’t love you. Not marriage love, not baby love. I know this is going to hurt you. You have every right to hate me. I probably would if I were in your place. I’m sorry.
Please believe me. I can’t be a mom. I can’t. I really, really, really can’t.
Can you understand that? Or are you too much of a man to get it? All you have to do is pay the dinner check, squirt and go to sleep. I’ve got to drag this thing around inside me for nine months and then squeeze it out like the biggest shit of my life. I’m not ready. I don’t want to be a mom. I don’t want to live in a crappy apartment and wait for you to come home from some shitty job you have to take because we have to have money for diapers and milk. I’m so sorry, Toby. I’m so sorry, but I just can’t keep the baby.
The other thing is I met somebody. He isn’t THE one, but he’s a nice guy and smart. I work with him. It’s probably hard for you to understand this too, but I can’t deal with all this shit alone. I have my friends, and Sarah, of course, but it’s not the same. I thought about keeping all this about the new guy to myself. It’ll just make Toby feel worse, I thought, but then, and maybe this is selfish, but then the guilty feeling I had kept coming up and up and up. It wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t tell you. So I did, and now you can shout, Fuck You, and tear up the letter. I know I would.
Most of all I’m sorry about the baby. By the time you get this, it will all be done with. I’ve already made an appointment at the clinic for next Tuesday. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone because I knew you’d try and talk me out of it and I just can’t deal with that right now. I just can’t. I’m really sorry Toby and I do like you even though it might not seem like it to you right now.
Keep your head down,
Clarissa
P.S. I sent a mix CD in another envelope.