I marveled at Trux’s ability to prepare such a varied program, featuring everything from a guitar duo to a rap/dance troupe, in such a short space of time. So far, we’d heard a twenty-two-year-old intelligence officer sing in a Michael Jackson falsetto; a short-tempered Midwestern sergeant recite love poetry; and, of course, Gunny’s rendition of “The Penis Song.” Next up onstage was a captain and first sergeant. They gave a flawless performance of “Sweet Home Alabama” on acoustic guitars. An encore was demanded and so the unlikely duo launched into Green Day’s “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life),” with altered lyrics. The audience chanted the chorus in unison: “But for now, this shithole is our home.” I found myself singing along.
As Trux took back the microphone, I contemplated the night ahead: the floor mat and the freezing sleeping bag; the inevitable 2:00 A.M. gas alert; the fuzzy 5:00 A.M. wake-up. And then the stale breakfast, the fear, the boredom, and the day made up of segments and routines. Then Trux said: “And now I’d like to introduce you to the real stars of our talent show: the media representatives!”
The crowd cheered and booed simultaneously.
Rifles ka-clacked.
Someone shouted “Semper Fi!”
I turned to look at Nelson. He winced and shrugged his shoulders.
“Come on, boys,” said Trux. “Join me onstage…”
13
SHOE-KOO, MCKOO?
Before we go any further—and before things start to get really ugly—I should probably tell you what happened at the talent show. Trux, being a gentleman, didn’t go through with his threat to haul the embeds onstage. Instead, we were asked to stand as he introduced us to the Marines. Through the gloom, scores of dirty orange faces peered at us with a mixture of curiosity and hostility. The only reporters they’d ever seen, after all, were in the movies; and most of them were scumbags. Likewise, the only Marines we’d ever seen were also in the movies; and they were mostly scumbags, too. “Please give a big Camp Grizzly welcome to Chris Ayres, from The Times of London,” said Trux. There were low cheers and, I couldn’t help noticing, a couple of boos. A solitary rifle ka-clacked. I hoped I wouldn’t end up in a Humvee with that Marine. “Chris is from northern England and his favorite band is Portishead,” Trux continued, making it up as he went along. I wished he’d chosen something more macho, like Limp Bizkit or Rage Against the Machine. I also wished I worked for an American newspaper. To most of the Marines, being interviewed by The Times of London meant nothing. “Why are the folks in London interested in us?” they kept asking.
That night the Marines were in a better mood. In the hooch, everyone was humming the captain’s version of “Good Riddance,” writing letters to their families or girlfriends, and complaining about Gunny’s “Penis Song.” The good humor wouldn’t last long. In fact, this would be my last night at Camp Grizzly. I’d never again see Living Service Area 5, or 1st Lt. Joe Trux.
It was 3:04 A.M. when a captain from the 2nd Battalion burst into the hooch, flipped on the overhead lights, and yelled: “Go! Go! Devil Dogs, let’s go!” I reached for my glasses and squinted up out of my sleeping bag. I checked my Xtreme 19 digital camping watch: The date was Tuesday, March 18, 2003. The captain—a tall black man made entirely from skin and muscle—was already in MOPP-level two. He was also wearing a camouflaged armored vest with a hunting knife and 9mm pistol strapped to it. I wondered what he expected to kill with the knife. From my position on the floor, it looked big enough to disembowel a camel.
“Oh no,” I muttered, trying to shake myself awake. It had been seven days since I’d arrived at Camp Grizzly and I was getting used to the routine of Scud drills, MREs, infrequent bowel movements, and cold showers. I’d almost forgotten that war correspondents, at some point, had to go to war.
“That’s it then,” said Trux, already half dressed and slamming rounds into the chamber of his M-16. “This is for real.”
For the first time I realized that Trux, like me, hadn’t fully believed the war would happen. He’d probably convinced himself, like I had, that it was all part of a diabolical White House plan to mess with journalists’ heads and scare the French. But we were wrong: The president wasn’t bluffing.
I looked over at Nelson from the Boston Globe. Somehow, he’d already gotten dressed and packed his rucksack. He was fizzing with nervous excitement. I might have shared his enthusiasm if I was covering the war from the nearest five-star hotel to the action, as journalists are supposed to do.
“Let’s giddyup, folks!” said Nelson.
Giddyup? What the hell was wrong with him?
“This is a training exercise,” deadpanned the captain, who was still standing in the doorway of the hooch by the light switch. His right leg, I noticed, wouldn’t stop jiggling, as though it had a battery in it.
“My ass this is a training exercise,” said Trux matter-of-factly.
“Two other things,” said the captain, ignoring him. “The president will address the nation at 1:00 A.M. zulu time—that’s 4:00 A.M. local—and we have orders that all hands should grow a mustache.”
The men nodded blearily; no one asked why.
Then Trux exploded: “Grow a mustache?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” said the captain slowly. “A mustache. The general says we’ve all gotta grow one.”
“What—now?” asked Trux.
“Just do it, first lieutenant,” came the reply.
Covered in sand and reeking of stale body odor, I pulled on my hiking pants, stained T-shirt, and black tracksuit top. My body felt ruined. I knelt down and began the tedious routine of rolling up my sleeping bag and ground sheet, then fastening them to the back of my rucksack with plastic clasps. When I was done, I heaved my blue flak jacket onto my back, put on my helmet, and stumbled outside to smoke a cigarette. It was 3:30 A.M. Within minutes my shoulders were aching from the weight of the Kevlar, which felt tough enough to withstand a small thermonuclear blast, never mind a sniper’s bullet. I began to wonder if it was worth the pain.
Nothing prepared me for the noise outside. It was though hell had gone on tour and was making a one-night-only appearance in Camp Grizzly. The regiment’s two thousand vehicles clattered and groaned in a terrible symphony, like the cogs of a gigantic, murderous machine. For miles around the desert glowed from the fake dawn of a thousand floodlights. I coughed, shivered, and smoked as a ten-ton truck rolled past the hooch. It was carrying two bulldozers, each one the size of an office building. I assumed they’d be used to tear holes in the demilitarized zone that separated Kuwait from Iraq, creating a “breach” through which the American tanks could pass. The “DMZ” stretched 125 miles from the Saudi Arabian border to Umm Qasr—Iraq’s only port city—and then onward another 25 miles to the Abd Allah Estuary, which eventually opens out into the Persian Gulf. The DMZ, I had been told by the Marines, was currently being “guarded” for the Iraqis by a 775-strong Bangladeshi infantry battalion. I imagined the Bangladeshis, like inept nightclub bouncers, trying to stop 150,000 Americans from crossing the border. If they had any sense, they would have booked themselves into the Kuwait Marriott by now and ordered up the prawns and Wagyu-Kobe beef.