“One more thing, LT,” Snoop said, listening to Fat Mukhtar. “He asks about Haitham. He say they are old friends, and the mukhtar has a gift for him.”
Before I could respond, another voice spoke behind us.
“Why do you talk to that guy so much? He’s just a damn drunk. Always has been.” It was Chambers. I didn’t know how to answer either of them, so I did the most outrageous thing possible. I told the truth.
“We don’t know,” I said. “We don’t know where Haitham is.”
• • •
The patrol pushed south into Shi’a territory. The muezzin escorted us there, the afternoon prayer chanting gloomily at our backs. I had too much to think about, so I didn’t think about any of it. The simoom found renewed life, blowing us kisses of hot sand and flying trash. I grabbed the hand mic from Batule’s back and told the outpost we were heading in. As I hooked the mic back to the radio, the day ruptured in gunfire.
“Contact to the rear!”
I ran that way with Batule and Snoop on my heels, passing bodies in the prone behind whatever cover they could find, eyes and rifles out. At the tail of our staggered column, in front of an appliance store, I found Chambers standing over a body, bent slightly at the waist, legs on each side of the torso, a cage fighter about to finish off a dazed opponent. His rifle was slung.
“What happened?” I asked, trying to limit my panting. Washington and two jundis were there, too, all on one knee. Washington took a long, slow drink from his CamelBak tube. Hog stood to the side, his squished face bewildered, holding his rifle like it had soiled itself.
“Barbie Kid,” Washington said, pointing to the mass underneath Chambers.
“Sergeant,” I said. He didn’t respond, and I noticed the dull shine of a sai dagger in his right hand. “Sergeant Chambers.”
“Fucker just tried to stab me,” he said. His voice was hard and flexing. He tossed away the dagger and straightened his back, moving his boot to the Barbie Kid’s chest. He pushed down with his foot, evoking a sharp cry from his captive.
“Easy now,” I said, walking next to the pair. “Talk me through this. Who was firing?”
“Hog,” he said. He kept his face down, lensed eyes staring through the ground. “Shot out a window.”
I looked across the street. Glass shards decorated the ground below an empty window frame.
“Negligent discharge,” Washington said. “No good.”
I looked at Hog, who shook his head and gripped his rifle tight. “I–I don’t know what happened, sir. I heard shouting and I turned around, thinking it was Dead Tooth, and it just — it just happened.”
“No one was hurt,” I said. “Let’s be thankful for that.”
Underneath Chambers’ boot, the Barbie Kid’s unibrow bent up and down, his good eye darting wildly. His arms shook like twigs on a branch, and he gasped for air, still recovering from the boot stomp.
“How the hell did he get so close?” I asked.
“Ran up from behind,” Chambers said. “I heard his steps and tossed him to the ground before he could take a swipe.”
“Must still be mad about his goat,” Washington offered.
While we pulled the Barbie Kid to his feet and zip-cuffed him, Chambers straightened his arms and balled his hands into fists over and over again. I looked up at the floaty orange dust. Back when I’d longed for excitement, sulky teenagers with self-designated nicknames and confusion over gender identity hadn’t been what I’d imagined. Our grandfathers had pushed back the onslaught of fascism. Just what the fuck were we doing?
21
From: William Porter
To: Jack Porter
Re: Intel?
July 1 9:05 PM
Jack—
Grant is dead. Killed himself a couple years back. He tried to testify at Winter Soldier a few days before, but the organizers deemed him too unreliable. Who blows their brains out in their childhood home for their parents to find? Jesus.
A few of my classmates knew him from Fort Hood, said he was a good dude who never pulled it together post-deployment. Happens to a lot of guys, unfortunately. (We’ll talk about that when you get back — being a leader doesn’t end when the bullets stop flying.)
Enough preaching from me.
Found Tisdale — we have some mutual Facebook friends, but none are close enough for me to inquire about him. Got his email if you want to write him or something — KenDTisdale75@gmail.com.
Any luck finding a local to write a statement? I’m telling you, that’s your ace in the hole.
Nothing really new here. In San Fran for that summer internship. So many hot women in this city, it’s ridiculous. And my apartment is above a gourmet barbecue joint. I don’t even know what that means, but it smells delicious.
Be safe, Jack. And be strong. Only a couple months left.
Will
P.S. CALL MOM AND DAD
P.P.S. Grant was born and raised in Twain country. Hannibal, Missouri. Thought you’d appreciate.
I stared at the screen in a trance. Grant was dead. By his own hand. I hadn’t known the guy beyond a name on some papers, but still.
Maybe it was because his mud huts were now my mud huts. Maybe it was because he’d once been a junior officer overwhelmed by the ambiguities of the desert and I was now a junior officer overwhelmed by the ambiguities of the desert. Maybe it was the shared relationship with Chambers, or the vision of him trying to right his wrongs at Winter Soldier, seeking absolution.
Maybe it was just the day, the moment, the headache.
I promised myself I’d track down his family when I got home, the same way I would Alphabet’s and Ortiz’s. New Concord, Ohio. Hannibal, Missouri. Tucson, Arizona. I’d make a road trip of it.
We had internet at the outpost now, in a third-floor guest room formerly for embedded reporters. Journalists didn’t come to Ashuriyah anymore. First Sergeant said they were all in Afghanistan. A green fly buzzed around my head. I waved it away, and it landed on the computer. Walls of plywood formed small cubbies, each soldier tucked into a station like a lunch box.
My watch said I was late. I refreshed my e-mail one last time, hoping for a note from Marissa. Still nothing, despite my last e-mail to her being titled S.O.S.! (JUST KIDDING). I’d wanted to know if she’d come visit Hawaii again when we redeployed. I resisted the urge to rip the bracelet from my wrist, and logged off. To calm down, I thought about partying with my brother in a city saturated with young women. It helped, a little bit.
The hallways were filled with the dissonant sounds of men at war. From the ancient, guttural cadence of bullshitting to the iron poetry of machine gun bolts slamming into place, I breathed it in and told myself to value it, to cherish it, that someday it would be moments like this I’d miss, even if the moment itself wasn’t worth missing.
On the second floor, pockets of huddled soldiers mumbled greetings as I passed. I smiled back, cracking jokes and slapping backs, presenting the image of the blithe lieutenant because I thought they needed that. Free until the next morning, most of my sergeants were playing poker in our room. I’d been invited, but said I couldn’t make it. I didn’t like gambling with my men much anymore. It wasn’t how I felt when I lost, either. It was how I felt when I won.
I turned down the stairwell and found Captain Vrettos coming up it, a poncho liner wrapped around his shoulders and head.
“Jack!” he said, grabbing my forearm with both his hands. “Was looking for you. About to start a movie. The new Civil War one.”
His eyes were cracked and bloodshot. My eyes had been red like that before, back in high school when I’d smoked too much and needed Visine before I went home to face my mom’s inquisition. Captain Vrettos looked like he could use some weed.