Youngblood (4 page)

The sky had cleared somewhat. The sun slid across it, leaving crayon streaks of orange and red. Sand berms gave way to shacks made of tin. At a stone arch bearing the image of a bespectacled, snow-bearded cleric, our Stryker turned left. An eight-wheeled armored fighting vehicle the shade of caterpillar green and shaped like a parallelogram, the Stryker was called “the Cadillac of Mesopotamia” by the men. General Dynamics had designed it for urban assaults, meaning it could go eighty miles per hour with an infantry squad in the back or be retrofitted with a 105-millimeter tank gun, depending
on the mission. I preferred the more luxurious features of the vehicle, like the iPod dock.

Once the turn was complete, Dominguez spoke through his headset from the machine gun turret.

“Hog.”

“Sergeant?”

“You could learn something from Alphabet. It's good for a soldier to be quiet.”

With the sun in slow retreat, Ashuriyah had begun to stir. My platoon's four vehicles were lined up in a row like ducklings and staggered to minimize the effects of an IED blast. The smell of hot trash filled the air. We crept through the town marketplace, pretending to scan for suicide bombers, hoping instead to spot a pretty teenage girl.

Young men in jeans glared at our armored vehicles and kicked at the newly laid asphalt under them. Women dressed in black burqas shuffled from shop to shop, keeping their heads bowed. Middle-aged men hawked fake cans of Pepsi and real blocks of ice, waving at us with one hand and stroking their mustaches with the other. Children threw rocks off the Strykers' tires and yelled phrases of random, broken English. Old men played dominoes on the side of the road, so used to foreign soldiers they didn't bother to acknowledge the war machines rolling by.

Some of us waved back, some of us didn't. Some of us smiled, most of us didn't. Someone in the trailing Stryker tossed candy to the children. We weren't supposed to do that anymore, not after a unit across the canal ran over a kid and turned him to flesh pudding.

That's Chambers' vehicle, I thought. I kept picturing the look on his face when I'd asked about Shaba. What had that been about?

“You should talk to Alia,” Dominguez said. “She grew up here. I bet she could give you the lowdown.”

“That's my girl!” Hog said. “For an Iraqi, she sure can slob the knob.” A few seconds passed. “That's what someone said, anyway.”

“I didn't hear that,” I said. “Play the damn game.” It was an open
secret the outpost's cleaning lady doubled as a hooker for the enlisted guys, and if whispers counted for anything, business was booming for the forty-something. The other platoon leaders and I had adopted an informal Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy on the matter. We were well aware there were worse pastimes to pursue for soldiers at a far edge of the world.

We turned right, the outpost rising above the slums like a desert acropolis. With the afternoon siesta over, the area teemed with activity, from the sheiks at the front gate dressed in fine white
dishdasha
s to the snipers prowling the roof behind drooping camo nets.

“Why the man-dresses here?” Alphabet asked, pointing to the sheiks.

“Sahwa contracts, probably,” I said. I had deep misgivings about our alliance with the local militias, but tried to keep them to myself. “Always a negotiation.”

“Fucking Sahwa,” Alphabet said, spitting into the wind. “They killed Americans before we paid them off. I know they did. It's just, I don't know. Dishonorable.”

“Yeah, they got paid,” I said. “And maybe it was dishonorable.” Our Stryker stopped in front of the main entrance, and its back ramp lowered. Inside the vehicle, sitting on long cushioned benches, Snoop and Doc Cork woke up. The terp hopped out. “It was also smart.”

I took off my headset and followed Snoop's gangly steps through the entrance and into the outpost, clearing my rifle and stripping off my body armor. I felt another headache coming on and couldn't stop thinking about Chambers calling me Jackie. In the air-conditioned office upstairs, I filed the patrol report while the platoon refueled before heading in themselves. Outside, the heat endured.

T
hough the outpost didn't have internet—something the joes bitched about constantly; how else were they going to meet women?—we did have access to satellite phones in a first-floor storage room. After mulling over my exchange with Chambers for a couple of days, my pride finally caved and I called my brother. He'd know what to do.

Four makeshift phone stalls had been jammed into the room. Alphabet was using one, hunched over with his back toward the door. He didn't realize I'd come in. I sat down in an empty stall and started dialing, breathing in more stale bleach than air. Will picked up on the third ring.

“Yo,” I said.

“Jack!” he said. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just calling to catch up.”

A deep sigh blew over the connection. “You know calls are usually bad news.” He sighed again, though this one was less pronounced. “So. My little brother a war hero yet?”

“Hah. Not quite.” Captain William Porter, Commanding, West Point graduate class of 2002, had pulled two of his soldiers from a burning Humvee during the Battle of Baqubah in 2007, earning a Silver Star. “Just lots of meetings about a water filtration project. Things have settled down a bunch since you were over here.”

“That's what the news says. Keep alert, though. Don't drop your guard.”

“Yeah.”

“Chin up, man,” he said. “Who better to deal with guerrillas rising against empire than a descendant of Irish rebels? We were bred for this shit.”

“Yeah.” I bit down on my lip, not ready to prostrate myself in front of him and reveal weakness. “How's Stanford?” I asked. He was in his second semester of business school. “Enjoying it?”

He laughed. “Glad you asked. Got our goon on the other night.”

Will started bragging about his latest conquest, something I wouldn't have cared about even in person. He hadn't been like this growing up, but time and war had changed him. The principles of his youth had walked off with the former friends and exes whose names we couldn't mention anymore because they'd incurred his Old Testament wrath, and returned in the form of army values like LOYALTY and HONOR.

I'd once asked about this potential inconsistency in his worldview, after a Thanksgiving meal that'd brought us home to Granite Bay. He'd quoted Walt Whitman: “ ‘Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.' ” Then he'd switched over to Dr. Dre: “ ‘I just want to fuck bad ladies, for all the nights I never had ladies.' ”

“Ladies?” I'd laughed. The badass terrorist-killer was still an awkward romantic at heart. He'd been unable to bring himself to say “bitches” in our mom's living room. I'd kept laughing until he punched me in the chest.

Back in Iraq, hot whispers and quiet sobbing were coming from the other side of the plywood wall separating the phone stalls, and my attention drifted that way. I listened for snippets of Alphabet's conversation while my brother's voice continued blitzing the receiver, their words slowly intertwining.

“Met this group of undergrads,” Will said.

“How could you?” Alphabet said.

“A senior, I swear. Naughty little thing.”

“We were supposed to get married.”

“Short, brunette, curvy.”

“Drunk. What kind of excuse is that? Why were you even out with other guys?”

“She said we needed to find someone for her friend.”

“Tell me everything. What you did. How you did it.”

“All about it.”

“Why.”

“Barely remember what happened.”

“Tell me why.”

“Needed an ice pack for my bottom lip the next day.”

“Why!”

“Wild one.”

Alphabet slammed his phone down and left the room, white as a root. I made a mental note to check on him. Dear Johns always meant suicide watch.

“So that was my weekend,” my brother said. “Speaking of, how are things with Marissa?”

Marissa was the last thing I wanted to talk about, and not just because I didn't know how things were with her. So instead I explained my walking, talking leadership challenge, focusing especially on how Chambers felt about counterinsurgency.

Will was unimpressed. “You need to get rid of him,” he said. “I had noncoms like him. They're cancers. Cut him out, it's that simple. Talk with your company commander yet?”

“Captain Vrettos is overwhelmed by all the Sahwa stuff. He'd just tell me to ‘drive on' or something.”

“What about your platoon sergeant? Sipe. He's the senior enlisted on the ground. He should be all over this.”

A green fly had made its way into the phone room, hovering near the ceiling. I slid off a flip-flop and put it on the table. We'd been keeping a running tally, companywide, and I was tied for third place with twenty-four confirmed kills.

“Nice guy, but he's checked out,” I said.

“So this Chambers guy is essentially the senior noncom in the platoon?”

“Pretty much. And the guys really respond to him.”

I braced for a lecture about establishing authority, but surprisingly,
Will held back. He seemed too concerned for reproach. “Any soldiers have your back?” he asked.

“My vehicle crew. But they're all joes. And the Doc. There's Sergeant Dominguez, but he just got his stripes a couple months ago.”

“That's fine. You have eyes and ears in the ranks. Use them.”

“Okay.”

“Listen, Jack, this kind of thing could prove problematic. ‘War is war' assholes were great for the army when I deployed, but they're only trouble now. We're not going to kill our way out of Iraq, you know that. If you don't rein him in, something could happen that sticks. Like, professionally.”

“That's why I called. What should—what would you do?”

I took a swipe at the fly, midair. I missed. It buzzed furiously in response.

“Go to higher. You on good terms with the battalion commander?”

“The Big Man? Think so. He's always slapping my shoulder and telling me to keep it up.”

“Good,” he said. “If you could find some piece of hard evidence about this old murder, a witness or something. Someone reliable, not the drunk. Then go to the battalion commander, explain that you aren't accusing anyone of anything, but you think it's best he be moved to another unit until the issue is resolved.”

The fly circled the plywood wall and landed. I let it crawl for a few seconds until it stopped moving. I needed to be quick. And firm.

“It's not a matter of whether he actually did it. It's a matter of finding someone reputable who says he did.”

“Got it,” I said.

“Good. Keep me updated. And call Mom and Dad, or at least e-mail them once in a while. They're worried. Won't leave me alone because of it.”

“How they doing?” I looked under my sandal and found number twenty-five. “I know I should call more, but when I do, it's always—I don't know. Like, I tried to tell Mom about the poverty over here. She
kept telling me to fight to stay compassionate, which, no offense, isn't a concern right now.” I swallowed. “You know?”

My brother loosed a sharp laugh. “Think about it. They're children of World War Two vets. They met at a hippie protest. Now they're two-time military parents. It's complicated for us? It's complicated for them.”

“Hell of an American story,” I said.

“Something like that,” he said. “Just stick all the bullshit into a compartment in the head. Lock it away. You'll have time for it once you get back.”

“Cool.” I didn't feel like talking anymore, and I needed to think about things. “Hey, I gotta go. Talk soon?”

“Sure, Jack. Be safe. Be strong.”

I hung up and shook fly guts off my flip-flop. Crossing the first-floor foyer, I stepped outside onto the smoking patio. Translucent camo nets were draped from the overhang, forming olive walls of faint light, like we were shrouded in a castle of seaweed. The walls swayed with the wind. I remembered why I didn't come out here often: the rectangular patio always smelled of wet cigarette. A pair of sergeants from third platoon sat in lawn chairs with cigars in hand and rifles in their laps, talking about midnight raids from previous deployments. Beyond the concrete blast walls ringing the outpost came the sound of a scooter backfiring, causing both sergeants' heads to snap up. Then they each laughed and accused the other of being a fucking pussy.

I chewed over Will's counsel. It seemed a little cold. But some situations call for pragmatism, I thought. The sergeants went back inside with playful salutes, and the streets went mute. Droning prayers from the large mosque to the north proved my only company. For once, I didn't mind them. I took in a deep breath of wet cigarette and watched the green camo nets ripple slowly with the wind, marking time.

M
an oh man, LT, is first squad pissed at you,” Hog said.

I laughed from the back hatch, watching our headlights strike through the countryside dark. The road air was brisk, and I tried not to swallow any kicked-up gravel.

“Because they're pulling outpost security tonight instead of third squad?” I asked. “Seems silly.”

“Don't mess with a man's schedule over here, sir. It's bad juju.”

Dominguez was right about that. But I wanted to talk to Fat Mukhtar without Chambers there, so I'd switched things around. Given his hostility to meetings with locals, he hadn't fought me on it. He'd just said, “Enjoy the chai, sir,” through a mouthful of dip, snuff bits covering his teeth. Then he'd gone back to reviewing Sipe's plans for the sentry shack at the front gate.

Our Strykers pulled up to Fat Mukhtar's. Two of his guards, wearing khaki button-downs, pulled aside razor wire so we could pass. Palm trees lined the entrance to the compound, part of a small Sunni hamlet west of Ashuriyah, one of many in the area we referred to collectively as the Villages.