Now that ain’t workin, that ain’t how you do it.
Let me tell you, them guys are dumb.
We might get some shrapnel in our little fingers.
They might get a fifty up their bum . . . ”
More small arms fire drowned him out, but I could sense applause from other bunkers, and from the diehards who’d stayed in their tents. It was just the ultimate middle finger to these frothing nutjobs. Whoever he was, he just plain rocked.
“ . . . who’s got to move these generators?
Who’s got to move these uparmored humveeeeeees?”
I was just chuckling over that when—
Bang!
Everything bounced and shook, and the air slapped me. Holy crap.
The music stopped.
I heard the young woman say, “Oh, no!”
My ears were ringing, but after two decades of working with this gear I could troubleshoot by ear.
“PDP is down. Power Distribution Panel.”
Sure enough, a few seconds later there was a loud click, a buzz that lasted long enough for someone to walk back into a tent, and . . .
“I want my, I want my, I want my IEDs . . . ” and we all cheered again.
“We’re all clear,” the LT said. “Someone bagged the bad guys.”
One of the things I appreciated was that he never called them “Hajjis.” I have Muslim friends and try not to toss generic epithets around. RIF—Rabid Islamic Fu . . . Fundamentalist—is fine. It’s a little more specific.
The compound lights came back up, casting a glow into the bunker. I stretched and waited. There were at least three people between me and outside, and I was in no hurry. Once people were out of the way, I rose carefully, watching my head on the roof, since I had left my Kevlar and body armor in the tent. Unless I had to work under fire it could stay there, too.
Paul was waiting outside.
“You want to check the Alphas and I’ll check Bravo?” he suggested, referring to two blocks of tents. Those were the electrician’s job, but we’d help out anyway, and the four Mechanical guys might need help swapping out some ECUs. Something was probably broken. If not from this, from “normal wear and tear” which happened every few hours. Fucking Arabia. I hated it.
“Sure, let me drop this crap off,” I said, holding up my now sandy towel and kit.
“Alright.” Paul nodded and headed toward Bravo section. He had a multimeter and a screwdriver with him, all he needed. He was a nerdy little guy, and should have been at least an E6 instead of an E5. He was a wizard with equipment, always calm and collected. I loved arguing my science versus his Creationism. I didn’t have to agree with someone to think of them as a friend.
I banged my feet off on the pallet in our vestibule, not that it would get rid of sand, but it might at least slow it down. I reached through my poncho/privacy screen/light curtain and tossed my stuff on my cot and the towel on the floor. There should be a couple of Motoralas around here somewhere. Yup, there was one left of four, in a charger at the front. I grabbed it, turned the knob until it beeped, and went back out, slinging my carbine and carrying another high-lumen flashlight. Those things got ubiquitous in a hurry.
The guitarist wasn’t singing, but he was playing something long and galloping, a rock/blues solo that just went on and on. I wanted to hear it up close, but duty first.
Across the way, I wove my way down over the tangle of cables and commo wire, slipping in the sand, listening for problems with the ECUs—buzzing contactors, compressors rattling, flapping V-belts, anything and everything that might, would go wrong. I looked for impacts that would have blown cables or connectors, or frag that might have sliced them, or blasts that could have tumbled stuff over or otherwise damaged it. Nothing. As usual, the insurgents made up for their lack of competence with their lack of courage, had fired a few badly aimed shots and split.
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, brother.
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.
Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation Page 12
