Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation (14 page)

The guitarist was in Charlie or Delta section. I could hear him.

The check done, I reported that fact.

“Scorpion, this is Scorpion Three.”

“Go ahead, Scorpion Three.”

“Alpha Section, operational and secure.”

“Roger that.”

We don’t bother with overs, outs, paraphrases or all that stuff we’re supposed to. Brief is good.

That done, I was damned well going to catch the show. I followed the sound toward Charlie section of the tents.

I found people gathered around Charlie Four and Five, and on the other side at Eight and Nine. So the back of one of these four tents of twelve in Charlie section was where the show was.

I couldn’t tell which tent he was in. A couple of people tried to walk back, but the guy ropes and stakes were pretty tangled, and there was some stray wire. Anyway, what was the point? It sounded just great from out here.

The LT was here, and Paul, and others I knew from either our unit or Army troops we worked with regularly. The Big Dick wasn’t, of course. He was likely at the Plant on his knees reading AFI 36 and praying for guidance.

I saw one kid take a step toward C5, figuring to go inside.

“Don’t,” the LT said with a headshake.

He was right. No one else had taken a step and didn’t want to, because if we went in that tent and interrupted him,
he might stop playing.
It was just too unique, too good and too much of a relief for anyone to want it to stop.

The kid stepped back.

The guy could
play
. Jazz mixed with blues and he just went on and on, silky and then snappy on the strings, playing his own fills and rhythm. It’s one thing on stage or in the studio with racks of gear and a mixing board, but he had a guitar and an amp.

The notes faded out as he dialed the volume down, and we all strained to hear it as long as possible. The dull roar of generators, ECUs and the remaining ringing from mortars meant we probably missed quite a bit. Still, it was what we had.

Then a strummed chord brought it all back to life with one of the greatest songs of all time.

“
You get all sweaty in the dark,

there’s a sandstorm in the park, but meantime

South of the Tigris you stop and you hold everything.”

I’ve tried playing Sultans of Swing. It really takes two guitars and a bass to get that groove. It can be done on one guitar, if the guitarist is just amazingly good.

This guy was that good and then some.

He played this syncopated, peppy rhythm, with this odd bluesy, jazzy, Arabian melody. It fit the mood, the environment and the time, and I knew I’d never hear anything like it, ever again. Not that I’d come back to Iraq even for a performance like this, of course . . . though I just might.

We just stood there and soaked it up, rapt or smiling, amazed or just oblivious.

“
. . . Way on down south.

Way on down south, Baghdad town . . .
”

No one moved, no one twitched. The oven-dry heat covered us, and my feet sweated from the still sun-hot sand, but I was not going to move. He sang and played and it was wistful and rich and American, even though Knopfler’s Scottish. This version, though, was pure American spirit.

“
Goodnight, now it’s time to go home.

Let me make it fast with one more thing.

I am the Sultan . . .

I am the Sultan of swing.
”

I had no doubt he was.

He tapped and pulled that outro solo, and I wanted him to go on for hours, days, forever, but he faded out.

We stood there, feeling the reluctantly waning heat, holding our breath and waiting. Then we heard the thump as he shut the amp off, and there was a collective sigh, followed by a smatter of applause.

Some wandered off at once. I stuck around. I can’t say why I didn’t run into the tent right then and talk to him personally, except that it seemed rude. I also hoped he might play something else. I had five-hundred or so songs on my iPod, but it wasn’t the same.

I gave up after five minutes, though a few troops stuck around longer. But heck, it had been great, he was done and I had to get some sleep. To that end, the music had helped. The RIFs had thrown rockets at us, and we’d thrown back a defiant blast of blues and rock guitar, with the percussion played on a fifty caliber machine gun. It was our score, our win, and I don’t think anyone doubted we were and would be the victors. Sometimes you get points just for sheer balls, and this had been exactly that. I was relaxed, unwound from the incoming fire and went to sleep warm and smiling.

We never did figure out who he was. There were a dozen decent guitarists on site, and several of them had axes and amps, but no one admitted it, and none of them sounded like him. I’ll never know who this guy was, and we never met, but despite that, for a half hour we shared something wonderful in a remote COB in a desolate wasteland in Iraq, and he’s my friend.

I’ll raise a beer to him when I get back stateside.

One Night in Baghdad

(to the tune of One Night in Bangkok)

Bad puns will be the death of me. That is all

THE SERGEANT
:

Baghdad, Middle Eastern setting

And the locals don’t know that the city is getting

The creme de la creme of the arms world in a

Show with everything but Peter O’Toole.

Time flies, doesn’t seem a minute

Since the Perfume Palace had the Husseins in it

All change—don’t you know that when you

Fight MOUT it’s no ordinary venue.

It’s Stalingrad—or the Philippines—or

Hue—or—or this place
!

SOLDIERS:

One night in Baghdad, threats in each direction

The bars are empty but the drinks ain’t free

You’ll find a bomb in every intersection

If you’re unlucky then the threat’s a she

Hope there’s an angel watching over me.

THE SERGEANT:

One town’s very like another

When your head’s down over your M4, brothe
r.

SOLDIERS:

It bites, it sucks, it’s really such a pity

To be looking for insurgents, not looking at the city.

THE SERGEANT:

Whaddya mean? Ya seen one war-torn, polluted, third world town . . .

SOLDIERS:

Tea girls, warm and sweet

Some are set up in the Qusay suite.

THE SERGEANT:

At ease! You’re talking to a soldier

Whose every move’s among the bolder.

I take my shots in drinking form, buddy.

SOLDIERS:

One night in Baghdad makes a hard man humble

Not much there between despair and ecstasy

One night in Baghdad and the mortars rumble

Can’t be too careful with your company

I can feel the devil walking next to me.

THE SERGEANT:

Iraq’s gonna be the witness

To the ultimate test of military fitness

This grips me more than would that

Muddy old river or crumbling ziggurat.

Thank God I’m only fighting the war,

Not marketing it.

I don’t see you guys rating

The kind of blast I’m contemplating

I’d let you watch, I would invite you

But the fireworks we use would not excite you.

So you better go back to your tea rooms, your

mosques, your bomb factories . . .

SOLDIERS:

One night in Baghdad, threats in each direction

The bars are empty but the drinks ain’t free

You’ll find a bomb in every intersection

A little frag, a little IED

I can hear a gunship flying over me.

One night in Baghdad and the world’s all backwards

You stay sober and the bar gets bombed

One night in Baghdad as you were told by Hackworth

There’s bound to be a threat among the dun debris

I can feel a sniper behind every tree.

Port Call

Some years ago we got the word that Poul Anderson had died. I’d been a fan of his stuff since age twelve, and almost met him at a convention once. Almost. Some ugly personal silliness got in the way.

Then he was gone, of cancer, and he had no more stories to tell.

At 2300 that night an image came to me, of a decent ending I hoped he’d appreciate, and then I recalled some of the other giants—lots of the Golden Age writers, and others, all were in the same generation, and we lost so many of them in so short a time. A great many were veterans, all were inspirational, and all deserved tribute.

I did what I could, and the imagery flowed until 0300.

The ship drifted
in from the pearly mist, long and lean and talking in the language of canvas and wood. She sighed and moaned, rustled and groaned, with the occasional splash from her bows. The shape defined itself, as of a ghost materializing from the netherworld, and sheeted sails, taut ropes, and elegantly turned timber rails took form. She slowed as she flew, easing across the break from chop to harbor-calmed waters, and sought haven.

“
Ho, the docks!
” a voice called, male and firm and sure. His waving arm indicated who he was, and the dockhands waggled in return. He heaved the coiled rope, watching it lazily tumble and twist, seeming almost alive as it settled over an age-blackened iron cleat.

A burly docker looped it and took up slack, waiting for the ship to bump against the boards. He raised his brows in surprise and pleasure as the maneuver was completed; the crew were masters. The vessel seemed to slow of her own accord, and barely nudged the pads. Ships of this size normally stayed in the harbor and sent boats ashore. To bring a sloop up to even this long a pier was a challenge.

The man at the prow called to the helm, “Nicely done, Robert, as always.” He turned back to the jetty and lowered a plank.

“Thanks, Lynn,” came the reply from astern. The tall, balding steersman came walking along the side, feet skilled as only a seasoned sailor’s feet can be, and undisturbed by the still rocking motion of the wavelets under the dock pilings. He paused at a side door and rapped, opened it, and assisted two ladies over the step and to the deck. Other crew or passengers, impossible to tell apart as they all acted as if they were both, came around and helped with chores.

The dockers had seen all types over the years, yet this encounter was strange by any comparison. It was an odd crew. They were mostly old, sixty or better, but with young eyes. They fitted no particular style or body shape. Slender, heavy, elfin, and blocky builds were all represented. Yet despite the obviously unseamanlike physiques, there was a radiance, a power to all their gazes and presences.

It was an odd ship. It seemed to be a luxury sloop for a wealthy man, yet boasted five twelve pound guns per side. It also had roomy holds. It resembled the small coasters that made their living running odd jobs between the ports of the west coast, but was far larger.

A representative from the harbor master’s office came by and noted the name,
Long Voyage
, recorded the names of her owner of record and captain, and the mate signed the form with a flourishing hand. The rep glanced over the scene, and asked, “Taking on cargo or supplies?”

“No cargo. Just a passenger,” replied the mate. His beard was neat and gray, and he alone of the crew wore a blue blazer and officer’s hat. The others were dressed as civilians, but in the most bizarre garb. One of them wore, of all things, a skunkskin cap.

“Who’s the passenger?” asked the bureaucrat, looking around in confusion. Others were on the pier, but none this far out and none with the look of travelers.

“He’s not here yet. Perhaps tomorrow,” was the reply. “We’re in no hurry.”

Evening, blustery and threatening and darker than the hour would indicate. A storm howled from the west, thrumming the ropes and whistling over the eaves of the cabin. Within the cabin, a different battle raged.

“John, stop editing my log!” the other John demanded. His perfect Oxford accent was strained with irritation.

“You wrote it as if those petty pirates were an actual threat,” the first said reasonably, knowing to which exact entry the other referred. “Everyone rational knows that we always have the upper hand over those miserable second-raters.”

“You pulled that manifest destiny stuff for years, but it won’t fly here. I write the log, and if I see fit to embellish for sake of a better story, that’s my prerogative!”

“Fritz and Gordy were more than men enough for that rabble! And it’s not as if three quarters of the crew aren’t aching to man the guns and draw steel at any sign of a threat. Besides, Murray negotiated their surrender quite easily.”

“Gentlemen,” the captain said. His voice didn’t rise, and didn’t need to. They both faced him. “You may be owner,” he said to the first, “but we’ve had this discussion before. The log belongs to the captain. As captain, I’ve seen fit to delegate that task. Besides, Professor John is as good as they come. Trust him.”

Nods and mutters indicated settlement, and everyone relaxed again.

“Why the hurry, Robert?” the gunner asked in mock bother. “No time for bets and I didn’t get to crack heads!”

“Gordy, you shameless land lubber, polish your brass cannon and wait for the enemy. You know I like a taut ship.” The captain grinned as he delivered the admonishment. He stretched down a hand to caress the ears of the tomcat that had appeared as if through the bulkhead and was stropping his legs, as he reached for his steaming bowl of Ipsy Wipsy stew with the other.

A heavy gust slapped the ship, rocking them sideways. Creaks from the timbers created an eerie atmosphere, made creepier by the guttering of the lamp flames. Quiet clumping footsteps from aft and below presaged the arrival of another, and a woman stepped into the cabin. Ever the gallant, the captain rose to greet her.

“Captain,” she spoke, “While I know you enjoy the vitality of a storm, and Frank likes his meteorological studies, I find I cannot sleep. May I?”

Bowing, he replied, “As you desire, lady Marion.”

“Thank you, sir,” she nodded back. She turned and reached the door, staggering over another sway from the waves. She pulled it open too easily in the buffeting winds, stepped through and reached the rail in another jerky step. The deluge sheeted down but seemed to clear her as if deflected by an invisible umbrella.

Many who work energies require preparation and ritual. The elderly lady was quite beyond such trifles, and simply raised her right hand over the sea. In seconds, the rain had subsided, the wind slackened to a slightly gusty breeze, and the sky calmed to a distant flash and rumble, clear of the ship and the harbor. She watched for a while, then returned inside, thanking the captain again as she headed below. A bark from the ship’s mascot startled her momentarily, and a crewman said, “Peaslake thanks you also, Marion.”

Turning, she knelt and scritched his ears as the huge, shaggy mutt padded over. “You’re welcome, faithful offog,” she smiled.

A burly man with thick sideburns and a halo of gray hair hurried past her and above with a telescope clutched in his hands. He didn’t acknowledge the change in weather, instead muttering about coincidence and mythical beliefs and the superiority of science as he set the device on its tripod and began to scan the heavens. He called over his shoulder, “Edgar! Doc! Mars is up!”

“Right there!”

“Coming, Isaac!”

“So when is this passenger of yours arriving?” asked the pier master. The strange ship had been here a week. While he wasn’t anxious to see them off, interesting and well-behaved as they were, he was perplexed by their claim of only waiting for a sole passenger.

“Soon,” the mate replied with a nod and a glance at his watch. It was full dark now, the Moon rising over the eastern mountains. “Soon,” he repeated, and dropped the timepiece back into his pocket.

Midnight. It was cold and damp, the air thick and heavy across the still city and harbor, as it always was this time of year. Two figures strode along the dock, feet clattering on the aged gray and splintered timbers. They were far out from the shore and near the end of the stained pilings where the sloop waited. One man was tall and square, dressed in dark clothes and pea coat, left hand gripping a worn leather bag, sword held firmly under his arm. His lanky, narrow-chinned escort wore a black cloak and a suit, with three Chinese characters embroidered on his tie.

“Is this it, then?” the taller man asked of his guide. He wasn’t sure where he was or why, or who this strange robed person was who had called him from his house at this late hour, body racked with pain as always, with a suitcase and his sword. His memory was quite hazy at the moment, but he was unafraid. He was somehow sure it would all make sense shortly. And the man was familiar, in a way.

“Right here, sir,” was the agreeable reply, with a gesture. “Please come aboard.”

Nodding, he stepped onto the plank, placing his feet cautiously. Perhaps not cautiously, but thoughtfully. His stride was one of familiarity; he’d done this some years before, but not recently.

He headed for the cabin, preceding his guide. He paused to stare at the proud, tall masts, sheeted sails lashed smartly to the yardarms, ropes tight and sturdy. It was a good new ship, its apparent age an illusion. He approved of what he saw, and resumed his pace.

His body betrayed curiosity, but no concern. As the cabin door was opened, he saw and smelled the oily glow of the lamps. He stepped through and descended the treads. They were firm, didn’t creak, and were another hint as to expert care of the vessel.

The crew waited below, some dozens of them. Many wore swords, a few pistols, others carried assorted apparatus, a handful wore the robes of those who worked spiritual or planar power. The nearest were clearly visible, the others fading into the warm gloom.

“Ladies,” he said, “gentlemen. It appears I’m expected.” He looked at the faces gathered around him. There was no answer immediately, but there was a tense eagerness behind the polite stares. “I see,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. The faces were familiar, as was his guide’s, now. “I know where I am, then,” he said at last, smiling gently.

“Welcome!” they chorused. Hugs and handshakes and cheerful greetings broke the solemnity, and not a few tears flowed.

The tears were followed at once by steaming mugs of grog, whisky, ale, mead, and Irish coffee. Music was struck, and the tableau and silence disappeared in the mounting roar of what was almost a wake.

Almost.

It dawned a clear, crisp morning, promising a fine, breezy day. Gleaming cumulus lazed across the azure dome of sky. All hands gathered on deck as the planks were pulled, the ropes cast loose, and the dockers shoved the ship clear. Eschewing the offer of a tow out, the captain shouted orders and crew swarmed to hang royals and topsails. He watched them, reminiscent of so many spiders, and turned to the newest crewman. “So how’s your health?” he asked, imperiously but with a grin that gave lie to the attitude.

“Quite excellent, actually,” was the response. The tall man breathed deeply of the salt air, revitalized and surprised by it. The pain had vanished as if it never existed.

“Then man the sails!” came the order.

“Aye aye, Captain!” was the immediate reply, with a huge grin.

He turned as the captain called again, “And Poul?”

“Yes, Robert?”

“Welcome aboard again. Now let’s get out to sea where we belong,” he said. Turning, he bellowed, “Lynn, plot us a course for Hawaii. I need some warm nights to shake off the Frisco cold!”

“Can do. Doug, what’s the least likely direction to take?”

The
Long Voyage
turned eagerly at her master’s touch, seeking again the deep water, deep skies, and solitude she was built for. As she cleared the harbor mouth, the new crewman yanked loose the ropes on her forward mainsail, and it tumbled billowing into place, the motto sewn to it in bright gold thread, “TANSTAAFL,” challenging the wind.