That’s where you’re wrong, I tell him.
He looks at me, a little taken aback, while I continue: We got your back, brother—everyone at the base. There’s a bunch of people here who’ll understand what you’re going through, ’cuz a lot of us have been in your shoes. You’ll be all right, and we’ll figure out a way to make sure you don’t get screwed. You want to talk to someone else just to clear your mind? How about the chaplain, or the combat stress folks?
Oh, I don’t know, First Sarn’t.
I pat him on the shoulder, and he relaxes for the first time and smiles halfheartedly. That opens up the space for me to enter and persuade him to take the next step, which would be to seek counseling. He listens to me patiently, but then he counters: I hear you, First Sarn’t, except that we’ve been trained to be strong, like we’re war machines or something. Then, when shit like this happens and we’re supposed to switch gears straightaway to counseling, it becomes a mind game, and that wigs me out. I don’t want to be seen as weak. What’s going to be left of me—the real me, whoever that is—at the end of it? I mean, I’m lookin’ at ending up one hell of a mindfucked individual.
Instead of answering, I pull out a cigarette and light up. It warms me instantly. I lean back against the pallet and watch the trail of cigarette smoke dissolve into the air. Then I say: Do you think I’m mindfucked, son?
His eyes grow wide.
You
, First Sarn’t? ’Course not! You’re the steadiest individual I know. You’re like a rock.
I take another drag on my cigarette.
D’you smoke, Rick?
No, First Sarn’t. Never have, actually. Couldn’t afford the habit.
I take in his face: there’s something pure and severe about his features.
In a casual tone, I say: Does that mean you would think that I’m not the sort of person who’s been to counseling?
He seems to choke on this idea, then breaks out coughing. It takes him a while to stop.
At length, he manages to say:
You’ve
been to counseling?
Sure I have. Many times, as a matter of fact, over two different periods in my life, ’cuz that’s as many divorces as I’ve been through during my years in the service.
No shit. Get outta here!
It’s the truth, soldier.
He seems to have lost his voice, because he simply stares at me. So I rise to my feet and put out my hand to help him get up. I can see that he wasn’t expecting this abrupt termination of our conversation, but I’m already brushing the dirt off my camos. He remains quite still, and I can literally hear the wheels turning in his head. Finally, I straighten up.
I take a step toward him and stand him up very straight.
There are no easy solutions to your problems, Rick. If you need help, step up to the plate and get it. Reach out to your friends, and come and talk to me some more first thing in the morning. Maybe we’ll set up sessions for you with a counselor at Battalion; they’ll have ideas to help you out. How does that sound?
I can’t thank you enough, First Sarn’t …
Don’t thank me, soldier. Get a handle on your problems so that you can be there for someone else when he needs your help. That’s only fair, wouldn’t you agree?
Yes, First Sarn’t, for sure.
Band of brothers, right?
He nods fervently.
Good. Now go and get yourself some rest. It’s amazing what a sound night’s sleep can do for the body and the mind. And don’t forget to report to me in the morning. Tomorrow’s gonna be a brand new day in your life.
Thank you again, First Sarn’t.
He puts on his ACH, and I watch as he moves off in the direction of his hooch. His shoulders still droop a little, but I’m hoping his youth will help him bounce back. As for the Suzy Rottencrotches of the world, to hell with them. They’re not worth a fraction of the quietly serving men they choose to betray and abandon.
And on that rather bitter note, I pick up my mug of Gris-Gris brew and resume my nightly round. I return to the Hescos and proceed to complete my circuit of the perimeter. I take it slow, stopping at each position to chat with the men. Eventually I circle back to the ECP manned by Duggal and Lee, except that Jackson has replaced Duggal, who’s now asleep in the dugout.
Howdy, First Sarn’t, Jackson says in greeting, while Lee looks up from his scope and shivers: It’s frickin’ cold. Makes me wish I was back in my hooch.
I smile and pick up the sleeping Duggal’s night observation device and scan the field outside. What had appeared to the naked eye as a pale, almost featureless plain, now reveals itself as a neon-green expanse, with the cart an isolated black smudge in the middle. I put down the NOD and gaze once more at the field in the steely light of the stars. It almost looks like it’s covered with snow.
Jackson sighs audibly. There’s somethin’ about this place at night that creeps me out, he remarks. He nods at the cart. I don’t know how she can bear to be there all by herself, with the mountains loomin’ over her like that. I know I couldn’t do it.
According to Masood, they’re called the Red Mountains, Lee remarks.
Masood says the Pashtuns are downright crazy, Jackson adds.
Masood! Lee says, and snorts, but before he can carry on, I interrupt him with an observation of my own: The mountains’ name’s sorta interesting to me, given that I’m from Baton Rouge, which means Red Stick.
No kidding! Lee says, and grins suddenly. And I was born in Marrakesh, in Morocco, which is also known as Red City.
Jackson’s response to this rather surprising news is characteristically pugnacious: I thought you were fuckin’ Korean, dude.
I’m American, fuckface, Lee counters with dignity.
Well, all right, American. So what were you doing in fuckin’ Arabia?
Arabia? Where the fuck did you get that? Morocco is in North Africa, dickhead.
Fine, Africa, then. What were you doin’ in Africa?
I wasn’t doing anything, moron. Haven’t you been listening to me? I was born there. I didn’t have anything to do with it.
But Jackson isn’t one to give up easily. What were your parents doin’ in Africa then? I mean, he chuckles, besides fuckin’.
You better watch your mouth, shithead, Lee threatens.
Well …? Jackson demands, determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. What were they doing?
They were just travelin’ around, dude. They were kinda into the whole alternate living scene, smokin’ pot and seein’ the world—and the pot in Marrakesh is supposed to be pretty intense.
Korean hippies? Jackson exclaims, clearly incredulous.
Dude, you really need to check your attitude, Lee says resentfully. I mean, talk about making broad generalizations.
Whatever, Jackson says, and then giggles: So what happened? They were smokin’ pot, and you just happened to pop out like a genie?
Fuck you! Lee retorts, while at the same time glancing at me: Beggin’ your pardon, First Sarn’t.
Turning to Jackson again, he says: I was born a month premature, okay? Right in the middle of a real famous square in Marrakesh called
the Jemaa el Fna. You can look it up on a fucking map, if you like, to find out where that is. Jeez, and you thought it was in Arabia! You need some education, dude.
Fuckin’ famous square, Jackson scoffs.
At least I was born someplace diff’rent, Lee replies with a mocking smile. I mean, you never even left Embarrass, Minnesota, until you joined the army. If you were to compare the two places on a CDI scale, mine would rate, like, ten outta ten, while yours probably wouldn’t even make it past zero.
Utterly vanquished by this low blow, Jackson retreats into silence.
What’s a CDI scale? I ask.
Chicks Dig It, First Sarn’t, Lee says, while Jackson maintains a sullen silence.
Sensing victory, Lee closes in for the kill. Jackson wouldn’t understand, First Sarn’t, seeing that he’s never known what it’s like to be cool.
Jackson stands up and stretches.
Glancing at the short, squat Lee, he yawns rather deliberately. Then: Who the fuck cares, Justin? I mean, just how many chicks have you done it with? And even if you’ve scored way more babes than I think you have, what does it matter in the end anyway? Maybe a high CDI score will help you land a chick, but does that mean the sex is better because of it? And if one day that chick graduates to become your wife or girlfriend and all of a sudden starts dressin’ up like Buffy the Vampire Slayer and flies onto your fuckin’ slacker-johnny after swinging in on a trapeze, it’s still her. So much for your fuckin’ CDI scale.
Slackerjohnny? Lee growls. What the fuck is that?
It’s your limp lil’ cock, dickhead, Jackson says, before nodding at me: ’Scuse us, First Sarn’t.
I don’t think I’ve heard that one before, I comment.
I made it up, he says with a quiet pride. On the fly, like.
He turns his attention to Lee again. Just shows where your
education’s at. When it comes down to the important things in life, you know squat. I may not be educated and all, but at least ignorance is skin deep, while stupid goes to the bone.
Don’t even go there, Jackson, Lee says. You’re such a bonehead that if First Sarn’t here were to put a price on air, I’d take away all your money.
I’d rather have sex than money, dude, Jackson replies languidly. Not that you’d know the difference.
You got a girl back home, Jackson? I ask.
He gets all flustered.
In a softer voice, he says: Ah … yes, First Sarn’t. Her name’s Kimberlee. She’s an English major, he adds with a touch of awe. She goes to community college an’ all. She’s aimin’ to be a journalist.
English major, Lee mutters. Fuckin’ pansy.
Whatever, you retard, Jackson says dismissively. It ain’t like you got a patent on intelligence or somethin’.
For some reason, this seems to provoke Lee beyond all limits of tolerance, and he puts down his rifle and rises to his feet as well.
They stand face-to-face, glaring at each other, until I intervene.
That’s enough, ya’ll, I say sternly. Knock it off.
Given the turn the conversation’s taken, I decide it would be wiser not to bring up my own hand-shaped pendant and its Moroccan origins. Instead, I return to scanning the field. There’s a fog coming down from the mountains, and it’s already screened off the slopes. It rolls toward us in filmy waves. Soon, I can no longer see the cart or anything around it.
Jackson gazes at the advancing wall and picks up his rifle.
This is making me edgy, First Sarn’t, he says abruptly. It’s kinda like when the sandstorm hit, but different.
It’s colder, Lee says, stating the obvious. Then, voicing what’s on all our minds, he asks me: Do you think they’ll attack us again, First Sarn’t?
Before I can reply, Jackson says: I wish they would and just get it
over with. This hanging around doin’ nothing fucks me up big-time. I’d rather be killin’ than chillin’, if you know what I mean. Lee nods. Combat’s a fix, man.
’Cept that it ain’t a fix for me this time around, Jackson says, his voice suddenly icy. This time it’s personal. I can’t wait to get back at those bastards for what they did to Spitty. He bends low to spit out a stream of Copenhagen juice. I’m dying to kick some serious ass, First Sarn’t. In flames I reside.
I look at them and realize that we’re all beginning to react to the same thing: the adrenaline rush that accompanies the anticipation of combat.
Well, I say calmly, our situational awareness is better now than it was before the sandstorm. If they show up tonight, they’ll stand out as warm bodies in your thermal sights, fog or no fog. Then ya’ll can go to work on them. It’ll be like target practice.
It better be, Jackson says tersely. I feel like a fucking venomenon.
I wouldn’t want to hit the girl by mistake, though, Lee says. Those tunes she played were sweet.
Tough luck, Jackson says without emotion. She got no business being in a war zone. If she gets hosed, it’s collateral damage.
There’s a sudden silence; Jackson’s voice, without having been raised, seemed unnecessarily cold-blooded. Staring at him, Lee appears to wait for an explanation, but when none is offered, he snaps: You’ve no appreciation of the finer things in life, Jackson. None at all, nada, zilch. You see that sea of fog rolling through, and all you can think of is a killing field. I see the same thing and think of how it might resemble a dream or something. That’s the difference between you and me.
Makes me a better soldier, Jackson says coolly.
Then, with more verve, he dismisses Lee’s take on things: Frickin’ dream, my ass …
But he never gets to finish because Lee suddenly tenses and says: Movement in the field!
I grab the thermal weapons sight and search the fog.
I don’t see anything, Jackson whispers. Sure you weren’t focusin’ on a tumbleweed or something?
’Course not! It was somewhere to our right. One o’clock.
I scan the haze, the suddenly sinister silence roaring in my ears. The cart stands out against the fog as a dark blur. I lean out over the Hesco and do a slow 180 scan. The roaring in my ears subsides, and I can only hear my own feverish breathing. The fog has a damp smell that makes me want to puke.
Jackson says hoarsely: Nothing. There’s nothing in the damn field.
He’s silent again, and once more I hear only my rapid breathing.
Lee cranes forward and crosses my field of vision. I lower the thermal and see that he is studying the cart. The green glow from his scope illuminates his face. He exhales heavily, and draws back into the darkness.
I don’t understand it, he mutters. I could have sworn … Wait a minute! What’s that?
What are you looking at, Lee?
Two o’clock, First Sarn’t …
Jackson gives a low laugh. That’s a chair, dude. It’s standin’ on its head. Fuckin’ wind musta blown it away from the junk pile.
Fuck, you’re right, Lee says. We gotta clean up that pile.
He sounds utterly dejected.
Jackson grunts. Sometimes I think we’re in a movie, he says. We know so little about this place, it’s unreal. We might as well be the blind men leading each other through the land of the blind. Isn’t that how that goes, First Sarn’t?