Outlaw Platoon

by Sean Parnell

  The Apaches arrived overhead. Their crews detected the launch sites, could see the teams reloading for the next volley. But they could not shoot. The Pakistan Army troops on the slope were intermingled with the enemy rocket teams.

  Our “ally’s” soldiers functioned as our enemy’s human shields.

  The sight of the Apaches slowed the rate of the incoming at last. The brief lull gave us a narrow window of opportunity to escape. We seized the moment, climbed into our rigs, and sped through the smoke for the front gate. We passed the smoldering guard tower along the way even as the next wave of rockets pummeled the Alamo. The ANA swung the gate open, and we rolled for the safety of the open road.

  We didn’t slow until we reached FOB Shkin a half hour later. In the chow hall there, the men kept to themselves. Hardly a word passed between us. The different chow we’d so looked forward to had no taste. We ate without relish, then headed on our way.

  A platoon’s morale is an elastic quality. From its baseline, events affecting the men can cause it to bend in different directions. Mail gives it a boost; so does hot chow after a long day. A small gesture by a first sergeant showing that he has the well-being of the men in mind can also go a long way. A victory in combat can bring euphoria; a defeat will bring despair and doubt. We’d seen or experienced the gamut, and the men had always returned to their baseline laughing, irreverent selves after a while. It was our natural state.

  But something had happened under those rockets. We’d never felt so utterly helpless. Being unable to fight back had stripped us of our aggressive spirit. It had left us feeling impotent, mere observers of the death and destruction thrown our way.

  We raged against an enemy we were not allowed to kill, who launched its attacks against us from the bosom of our ally’s army. The Alamo had penetrated deep into the platoon’s psyche. It tipped us into a downward slide, one in which our emotional state began to lose its elasticity. We were not going to rebound from this as we had from all the other blows we’d absorbed. We were becoming numb, and that worried me.

  Late that afternoon, we returned to Bermel through the Afghan National Army side of the base. The ANA soldiers had spent the day inside the wire. We passed knots of them playing dice games and kicking soccer balls. Here and there, others sat in the dirt with vacant eyes, smoking hash. Their polyglot uniforms were ill tended. They were poorly groomed. They looked like a unit that just didn’t give a shit.

  From my turret, Chris Brown exploded, “You motherfuckers! Fight for your own goddamned country!”

  “Brown, knock it off,” I said.

  “Fuck them! We’re out every day getting shit on, and they’re in here playing soccer.”

  “Brown, come on,” I repeated. I couldn’t be harsh to him. It wasn’t the time for that, not with the state of morale the way it was. Besides, part of me felt the same way.

  We parked at the maintenance pad and dismounted. The men moved slowly, their eyes hollow. It felt like defeat.

  Sabo came to me and asked, “Guidance, sir? Order of priorities?”

  “Same as always,” I replied.

  “Roger.” He paused and added, “Happy Independence Day, sir.”

  “What?”

  “Fourth of July today, sir.”

  I had forgotten.

  “Happy Independence Day, Sabo,” I managed.

  Beside my rig, I thought of fireworks and backyard barbecues, parades and cold beer. A lifetime and half a world away, those had been the trappings of my life. Sparklers, Piccolo Petes, Lady Fingers, and mailboxes blown to fragments in mischievous pranks. Burgers served seared and steaming on buns smeared with ketchup and mustard. Bags of chips arrayed in ranks along picnic tables, flanked by stacks of paper plates and bottles of pop. Kids laughing. Adults jabbering. The soundtrack of a cocooned and contented people.

  I lit a cigarette and looked around. The men worked to prep the trucks for the morning’s mission. Nobody joked. The talk was all business and sparse at that. A couple of times, tempers flared.

  Above the operations center an American flag flew in the evening breeze. We’d returned at sunset. Our day started and ended with these moments of spectacular beauty, and normally the sight of the flag set against the blazing sky instilled a sense of pride in me. Tonight it made me feel bitter.

  I realized that my hands were shaking. Afraid the men would notice, I stepped away from the Humvees.

  This was Afghanistan’s revolution, not ours. We had fought our war for independence. With great leaders like Washington, Adams, and Jefferson, we had thrown off the yoke of terror and oppression and forged a new era. Two hundred plus years ago, they had set those celebratory tables across America upon which now rested our nation’s ample bounty.

  But who was the Afghan Washington? Hamid Karzai? Give me a break. He was little better than a war lord. There was no one. The closest had been Ahmed Shah Massoud, the leader of the Northern Alliance. We had found his likeness all over the Bermel Valley on the walls of homes and businesses. Some people even carried wallet-sized pictures of him in their pockets.

  Al Qaida had assassinated him just before September 11. It knew that if anyone could unify this fragmented and parochial land, it was he.

  The sounds of laughter from the Afghan side of the compound reached our ears. It felt like salt in the psychological wounds we’d suffered this day.

  This is your revolution. Yours. Will you give what is needed to have your Independence Day?

  “Sean, you all right?”

  I turned to see Captain Dye regarding me with concern.

  “Yeah, I’m okay. I guess we found out today why they moved FOB Shkin away from the border.”

  “I guess so. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you any indirect.”

  Thank you, PakMil assholes. Allies, my ass.

  “You sure you’re okay?” he asked again. “Your hands are shaking.”

  “I’ll be all right, sir,” I lied. “It was just rough having to take it for so long and not being able to shoot back.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder and shook me gently. “If you need anything, let me know.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Unspoken was, We’re infantry. Handle it.

  After checking in at the operations center, I started to walk over to my hooch. Mountains of paperwork awaited me there, and I was dreading the amount of time it would take to get done tonight. I’d have to forgo chow again.

  Along the way, I noticed that a few of the men had pulled our dogs from their wire enclosure. I wished I could see who was out there, but in the night I could make out only their shadows. Part of me longed to join them.

  The oldest two dogs, Zeus and Jumper, dashed around them, eager to stretch their legs. We also had five pups, all roughly four or five months old. They barked and bayed as they danced happily from one soldier to the next. Soon they were squirming in weary arms, the men sharing subdued laughter. Maybe there were still remnants of our old selves after all. We just needed some help recovering it.

  Those dogs gave us a small connection to the life we’d had back home. On a night like this, I was grateful that they were there for my men.

  I walked back to my hooch and stepped into the hallway. Sergeant R. Kelly was singing away in his creepy falsetto. At least he’d started early tonight. Maybe he’d wear out and give us a break. I shook my head with frustration and went to my door.

  It was ajar.
/>   Cautiously, I pushed it open. My room was dark, but I could see a figure standing beside my desk.

  “Who’s there?” I asked harshly. It was not unknown to have stuff stolen on base. Had I interrupted a thief?

  “It’s just me, sir.”

  “Cole?” my voice betrayed my astonishment.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I clicked a light on. He was holding a plate of cold cuts and a mug of coffee.

  “You’re the one?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “Just doing my part, you know, sir?”

  My reaction caught him off guard. He retreated to humor. “No worries, sir. I figure the one thing I know is how to eat and serve food. Besides, if I can get the LT as fat as I am, he won’t be able to keep me off patrol!”

  This selfless kid had been anonymously boosting my morale for months. Now, when I caught him, he just laughed off his gesture.

  “Thanks, Cole.”

  He placed the food and coffee on the desk and slipped past me for the door. “Hey, sir, do me a favor. Don’t tell the men. They’ll think I’m a kiss-ass.”

  He vanished before I could reply.

  I stood and looked at the open doorway for a long moment before sitting down to eat Cole’s meal. If briefly, it lifted my spirits.

  Then R. Kelly launched into a new riff, and my struggling mood collapsed. If he kept that up, there’d be no sleep, even with my headphones on. To drown out the buzzing in my ears—and R. Kelly—I’d taken to listening to movie themes and classical music on my iPod. It gave me enough white noise to disengage my brain for a while. I looked forward to that tonight.

  First the paperwork. I flipped open my laptop to power it up. The movement sent a little air current flowing through the room. It rustled the paper hanging on the plywood wall to my right. The movement caught my eye. A few months back, I’d received a care package from my family that included a picture my cousin Freddie had drawn for me. I’d laughed when I pulled it out to find what he’d created.

  I looked at it now. Green grass along the bottom edge. A sun in one corner with pencil-line rays radiating out. A helicopter hovering in the background. In the middle, he’d drawn me, a rifle-armed stick figure with a helmet, smiling beside an American flag. He’d scrawled across the scene, “Thank you, Sean!”

  I thought of Freddie running amok, a bundle of energy and excitement, dying to start the family fireworks display. I ached to see that again. I could almost taste the burgers and beer, smell the fireworks, hear the easy banter shared with my blood.

  Those are dangerous thoughts.

  Hot summer days in T-shirts and shorts, standing at the start of a Pirates game at PNC Park. Americans from all walks of life covered their hearts with their hands as the celebrity du jour belted out “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Twenty thousand voices cheering the last line: “And the home of the brave.” It was the place of my grandpap, the gathering point for the Parnell family that transcended generations. How many games had we been to together over the years? The fresh-cut grass, the hot dogs and brats, the sun warm on our faces as we cheered our childhood heroes on.

  Heroes. I’ll never see them that way again. I’ve seen who real heroes are. And they don’t wear cleats on game day.

  I’d always assumed the day would come when I would sit in those stands and share those moments with my own son, my own daughter. I’d feed them junk food and babble in their ear about the infield fly rule, stealing bases, strike zones, and arcane statistics.

  The thought of that day never coming filled me with dread.

  I did not want to go out tomorrow. Fuck the bullets and rockets and RPGs, mortars and eight-inch knives awaiting our necks. Why risk all we have waiting for a nation whose warriors refuse to give their last full measure in their own defense?

  I needed to be home; the separation suddenly felt like an oozing wound.

  Get control of yourself.

  I could not pull my eyes from Freddie’s drawing. Only six, he had carefully sculpted every letter, and I wondered who had helped him with the spelling. Where had he sat as he worked on this for me? Had he decided to do it on his own, or had he been prompted by someone in the family?

  The meat sizzling on the grill fills the backyard with blue-gray smoke. The smell is indescribable, a direct line to our inner caveman. Each lungful feels like home.

  I inhaled, but all I smelled was stagnant air made foul by too many men living atop one another.

  I couldn’t face the paperwork tonight. Somehow I’d find time in the morning to get it done. Instead, I opened my e-mail account and read the few waiting messages. Nothing of note. No word from home tonight.

  I started to write my dad, but the words didn’t come. How could I describe a day like this one? What phrases did I have that could possibly convey what a rocket barrage does to the human mind?

  No. Tonight I would not burden my father, even with words inadequate to the experience.

  My eyes returned to the drawing.

  I reached up and pulled it off the wall. With one last look, I folded it in half and placed it out of sight.

  “I’m sorry, Freddie,” I whispered.

  When I climbed into my bunk a few minutes later, I realized that my hands had ceased to shake.

  Twenty

  Last Fair Deal Gone Down

  Mid-July 2006

  Heya, LT!” Chris Cowan beamed at me. Uniform clean, eyes bright, all chiseled brawn, he looked like he’d just stepped off the set of 300.

  “How was home?” I asked as I went to shake his hand.

  “Handshake, my ass!” He wrapped an anaconda-sized arm around my neck and drew me into a headlock.

  “Ow! Goddammit, Cowan!”

  “Great ta fuckin’ see ya, sir,” he said as he squeezed my neck. Chris was well known for his steel-trap headlocks. Nobody he liked escaped this treatment, and he’d been nicknamed “the Constrictor” for it. Since coming to the platoon, he’d also ensured that he led the way on every patrol. For Cowan, being on point was a deep source of pride, and the men respected him for his willingness to always take the most dangerous position in our formations.

  He let me up and handed me my hat, which had fallen into the dirt. “Home was home. Got drunk a lot. Glad to be back with Michelle. Now I’m glad to be back with the men.”

  We chatted and walked to the chow hall to grab dinner. Since the rocket barrage at Alamo, the platoon’s morale had flatlined. Perhaps Chris’s return could revive some of our spirits. It was good to have him back. Before he’d left, he and I had spent a lot of time lifting weights together in our makeshift FOB gym. I’d found him to be highly intelligent and his sense of humor more sophisticated than I first realized.

  Soon Pinholt, Pantoja, and Greeson would be back, and the platoon’s heart would be intact again. We also expected Echavez, our Mark 19 gunner extraordinaire, and our Russian warrior, Nosov, to rejoin us soon from Helmand Province. While down there, they’d seen considerable combat. Khanh had taken a serious bullet wound to the head in one fight and was in Germany now getting treated. Last we’d heard, blood clots had formed in his brain and the docs were very concerned about his prognosis.

  After dinner that evening, I stepped outside to check in at the operations center. We had a mission in the morning, and I needed to go over a few things with Captain Dye. But on my way out of the chow hall, I ran into First Sergeant Christopher, and the two of us paused to talk over some business.

  Behind us, the Mail Bitch, back in our area again, exited the chow hall. She’d been hanging aro
und the FOB all day, for what purpose nobody seemed to know. As far as we could see, she hadn’t brought any mail with her. But she was an E-6, a staff sergeant, and that rank shielded her from most questioning. At that level, NCOs are supposed to carry themselves with honor and integrity.

  A dog started barking; a woman screamed in fear. First Sergeant Christopher and I spun around to see Zeus challenging the Mail Bitch. He looked sickly, and despite the attention of our medics, his condition had deteriorated until we were all worried about him. The Mail Bitch backed away, wailing “Get it away from me! Get it away!”

  Cowan materialized next to the dog, and he stopped barking. Of all the soldiers on post, Cowan had developed the tightest bond with our brood of canines. He spoke softly to Zeus, then led him back to the kennel. Cowan and our executive officer had built the dog pen with wire framing pulled from discarded Hesco bags. It was actually quite ingenious.

  “That mongrel attacked me,” said the Mail Bitch, her fear gone and replaced by outrage.

  Oh shit.

  First Sergeant Christopher went over to deal with her. I didn’t want anything to do with that scene, and besides, it was out of my jurisdiction, so I beat feet over to the operations center to get an update on our next mission. When I got there, Captain Dye briefed me on the area he wanted Third Platoon to patrol in the morning. Then he gave me the latest intel on what was happening around Bermel. I took notes and was soon so absorbed in planning for the next cycle that I forgot all about the Mail Bitch.

  The next morning, we headed out on patrol. We were out for several days again, sleeping in the field. The enemy eluded us this time. It felt as though we were playing a shadow game with Galang’s replacement. Ever since the end of June, the enemy had made themselves scarce, though our Prophet spooks still heard them chattering. I couldn’t help but think they had gone to ground to study the last fight to learn from it and develop new tactics. It would fit the pattern, that’s for sure. Perhaps they were off rehearsing their next operation, just as we did on the rare days we spent on base.

  We returned to Bermel exhausted, filthy, and eager to stuff something other than MREs into our stomachs. The men serviced the trucks, cleaned their weapons, then headed for chow.