by Roy Scranton
Qasim translated and the man stood indignant.
“Hey, Reading,” I said, “will you get some zip-strips?”
“Roger,” he said, stepping off to the humvees.
When the man saw the zip-strips, he relented. He herded the girls as far away from us as we’d allow, angry and alert as a riled dog. The women stared at the ground. Reading hung back by the railing so he could ogle their asses.
“Come here and open the trunk,” I said to the man. Qasim translated. The man looked at the girls, at Reading, at the van, at us. He didn’t move. “Fucking c’mere, bitch,” I shouted, and Qasim said something to him. The man came over reluctantly, watching the girls back over his shoulder, opened the rear door of the van, then scurried back.
We took our time completing the search. We poked under the sunshades, we dug under the seats. Burnett cut a hole in the rear bench with his knife. The glove box was closed so we yelled for the guy to come open it, which he did, then we had him come back again to open the engine cover.
“You wanna fuck with him?” Burnett asked me.
“Maybe. How?”
“Let’s tell him we think there’s an IED in the van, so we zip-strip him and his daughters and leave ’em sit awhile. Then we just stand around, right, let him fucking sweat.”
“Seems more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Let him cool his heels awhile,” Burnett said. “That fucking guy needs to learn who’s boss.”
“Alright,” Staff Sergeant Smith shouted from the humvees. “There a problem or you gonna get that van outta here?”
“We’re trying to score with these bitches, Sarnt,” Reading shouted back.
“Score with bitches on your own time, Private. Get that van outta here.”
I told Qasim to tell the man he was free to go, but that the next time Coalition Forces told him what to do, he better just fucking do it. Qasim translated and the man barked back at us in Arabic, spit on the ground, and stamped his foot. He loaded up his girls and drove off.
Later that night we stopped a car full of hadjis with a flat of beer in the back seat. Foster and Burnett started giving them a hard time, so the men offered us some. Burnett took the cans and passed them around, plus one for Staff Sergeant Smith and one for the LT, then let the car go. We drank and watched the traffic go by under the bridge and decided to start a shakedown.
“You give me beer,” Burnett would say, leaning in the window.
“No beer,” the hadji might say, and we’d let them go, or “Beer, yes,” and they’d hand us some cans.
After four or five successful contraband seizures, we broke down the TCP and just drove around, our buzz brushing the night to a smooth gleam.
Walking back to the barracks one day from visiting Villaguerrero at Battalion, I saw Qasim sitting outside the terp shack, smoking and drinking tea.
“Sabah al-khayr,” I said.
“Sabah al-noor,” he replied. “You speak very good Arabic.”
“Not really, but thanks. You off today?”
“Yes. I was going to go see my uncle, but he says to me… is very dangerous, Qasim, and better you not come.”
“Dangerous how?”
“My, how you say, the husband of my uncle’s daughter?”
“Shit, I don’t know. Cousin-in-law?”
“So, my cousin-law . . . is very religious and . . . he does not like the Americans. He wants you to go home, because you are not Muslim. So sometime he stays with my uncle, because . . . because. Other times he goes to family. When he stays with my uncle, I do not go. Because I work for you.”
“That must be hard.”
“Is better than Baqubah. After the invasion I go to Baqubah because my wife and mother . . . My wife . . . My mother, she is dead now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Many are dead now. Hers was quiet. Hers was at peace. She’s with God now. But in Baqubah, it is very difficult. Too many religious, Sunni, Shia, same-same. They fight. Baghdad is not so difficult. Things are bad—but bad all over, so maybe Baghdad is more good. Better.”
“Is it better now? I mean now that we got rid of Saddam?”
“Some ways better. Other ways more bad. Instead of one Saddam, now too many Saddam. You see? You need to stay, you need to be . . . on the street. You need to be very strong. It is very difficult for Iraq; we have no parliament, no Magna Carta. We have tribes, families. We have the sheikh, we have the ayatollah, we have the imam. You see? No Saddam, no sheikh, then we fight, and is why we need you to stay. Yes? You will be here a long time, I think.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably.”
“A long time, I think,” he said. “Many things are very bad now. Water is very bad. You see . . . how do you say, sewer? Yes? The sewer when we patrol? Very bad. Electricity very bad. Economy bad. Shops are open but there is much . . . Some things very expensive. Small things. Also security very bad, very dangerous, especially for woman. A woman cannot go out from the house. My uncle, his daughters make him crazy. For why? Because they cannot go out. Two men to go out of the house, and the woman have to wear very much hijab, and the man have a gun. Very dangerous. Very bad. In Baqubah is worse. I work with the American there, like here, but Baqubah very small. Everybody . . . how you say . . . everybody all up in each other’s shit. So I cannot work in Baqubah, because they say they kill my wife and family. But in Baghdad is okay. Sometimes they try to shoot or kidnap. But they know my face only. They don’t know who is my family, where I live, and when I go to my uncle, I am very careful. My . . . cousin-law, he does not know, but if he did, is safe. Not okay, but safe. Because family is number one, yes?”
“Are you glad we came? Are you glad we got rid of Saddam?”
“It is no good to be glad or sad of God’s will. We live. We die. God’s will. What do I say to you, Specialist Wilson? Are you glad you came?”
“I’m glad we made it this far.”
“Yes. This far.”
“Yeah . . . Well, I should go hit the gym. It was nice to talk with you, Qasim.”
“Okay, yes. Very nice to talk with you, Specialist Wilson. You see, we can all speak together, Iraqi and American. Friends, yes? But soon I must go from Baghdad and return to Baqubah. My wife is sick. I think you will not see me for many weeks. But someday we meet again, insha’Allah.”
He gently shook my hand, then touched his heart.
“Stay safe, Qasim. Salaam a-leykum.”
“Leykum a-salaam, Specialist Wilson.”
arabs, much more so than westerners,
express emotion
in a forceful, animated and exaggerated fashion
We woke up Porkchop and Geraldo. “Get up, fuckers. You’re relieved.”
“Where’s Sergeant Gooley?” Porkchop asked, blinking.
“Sergeant Reynolds is SOG.”
Reading took off his Kevlar and set it on the Jersey barrier. His buzz-cut hair glowed a sickly brass in the fluorescent light, a field of bruised pennies.
“Where Sergeant Reynolds at?” Geraldo asked.
“He’s right behind us,” I said.
“Aight. We out.” Geraldo took his rifle and stepped off down the road. Porkchop followed and they met Staff Sergeant Reynolds at the clearing barrel, where he watched them clear their weapons.
When there was a pause in the radio traffic, I picked up the walkie-talkie: “Red Steel Main, this is Red Steel India. Radio check, over.”
“Red Steel India, this is Red Steel Main, roger out.”
Staff Sergeant Reynolds came up, glowering at us with his bug-eyes. “Reading, I want you to have your Kevlar on at all times,” he said.
Reading turned his face away as if he hadn’t heard.
“Now listen up, men, you need to make sure you police this AO. There’s cigarette butts in the dirt back ther
e. This is a high-visibility area and the sergeant major’s gonna come through. And get inside the guard shack, too.”
“Hooah, Sergeant,” I said.
“Now what do you do when you open the gate?”
“One of us goes up and the other one covers him.”
“Right. Now, if you’re gonna open the gate, I want both of you up there, one to handle the door and one to watch outside. Somebody could shoot an RPG right through there. That’s what I’d do, if I was them. I’d come by in one of those pickups and send somebody to knock on the door, and when you opened the gate, I’d shoot an RPG right through. Bam! Then what? Huh? You gotta think tactically. Now, what do you do if somebody comes over the wall?”
“Shoot ’em!” Reading barked.
“Right! Then call it up.”
“Nobody’s coming over the wall, Sergeant. It’s like fifty feet high.”
“That’s what you think. That kind of complacency is what gets soldiers killed.”
“Roger, Sergeant.”
“And when the ICDC come through, I want you to check each one. Don’t let the other hadjis do it. They could have bombs hidden anywhere.”
“No way,” Reading said. “Hadjis fucking stink.”
“Roger, Sergeant,” I said. “We’ll take care of it.”
“You know these ICDC,” he said. “They’ve taken an oath, but they could still be Fedayeen or al-Qaeda or who knows what. Just because they’re on our side doesn’t mean you can trust ’em. One ICDC with a hand grenade would jack up your whole day. What would happen if they got into the chow hall? Check, and double check.”
“Shit, I wish they’d blow up the chow hall,” Reading said.
“Roger, Sergeant Reynolds. We’ll search each one ourselves.”
“Okay. You guys already set for breakfast and everything?”
“Roger, Sergeant.”
“Make sure you do your radio checks.”
“Just did, Sergeant.”
“Okay. I’ll be back in a couple hours, and I expect this AO to be straight.”
“Roger, Sergeant.”
“And Reading, keep your Kevlar on. Carry on, men.”
We watched Staff Sergeant Reynolds walk away.
Reading giggled. “In the case of an all-out assault, I’m gonna shit myself and throw it at ’em. Take that, hadji! Shit bomb!”
It began with a knock at the gate, prom-prom-prom. The sliding rusted metal door, thirty feet wide and twenty feet tall, trembled from the pounding.
“F’tal bob,” I said.
Reading snickered.
The two ICDC stared at him.
“F’tal bob, motherfucker!” I shouted, pointing at the gate, pointing at the younger of the two hadjis.
The light was a clear yellow-gray, the sun a white smear still low in the sky.
The younger hadji got up and picked up his AK and started walking out toward the gate.
“See who it is,” I said.
“You,” Reading said back, not looking up from his Game Boy. “I’m in the middle of a level.”
“Fuck your level. Go see who it is.”
“Why you such a bitch, Wilson?”
“Because I hate freedom, motherfucker. Go see who it is.”
“Whatever,” Reading said, pausing his game and setting it on his chair. “Don’t touch my game.”
“I’m gonna kill your fucking Metroid, is what I’m gonna do.”
Reading flipped me off and walked around the barrier, putting his Kevlar on as he went.
“Hey, John Wayne. Forget something?”
Reading turned back at me, scowled, and shook his head. He came back for his rifle, picked it up, and went back toward the gate. The ICDC had unlatched the gate and was throwing his weight against it, sliding it open with a rumble and a creak. Reading held his weapon at the ready.
A hadji in civilian clothes stood outside the gate with a gym bag. Thin and scraggly, with messy black hair and a large mustache, he wore a checkered work shirt, track pants, and sandals.
“ID,” Reading said.
He pulled out his Iraqi Civil Defense Corps badge and showed it. Reading checked the badge against the man’s face and nodded, directing him inside.
“Come here,” I shouted, waving him forward. I stood, picked up my rifle, and slung it at the ready. I nodded to the older ICDC sitting smoking against the shack wall. “Check his bag,” I said.
He lurched up and went around the Jersey barrier and when the hadji came up he took his bag and poked through it.
“Pat him down,” I told the older ICDC. I pointed at the one in civilian clothes and spread my arms and legs. “Search, search,” I said.
The one in civilian clothes mimicked me and the older one patted him down.
“Turn around,” I said to him, swirling my finger.
He stared at me.
“Turn around,” I shouted, swirling my finger again.
He turned to face the gate. The older ICDC patted him down.
I swatted at the Iraqi’s ass and said, “Check here, yeah.” I cupped my groin. “Check his package.”
He shook his head and grimaced, but I repeated my order, so he stuck his hand between the other man’s legs and batted it around.
“Mota dudeki,” I said. The hadji in civilian clothes laughed.
The guard stepped back, scowling, and tapped the man on the shoulder, who turned back around grinning.
“Go on,” I said, pointing down the road at the ICDC barracks. Meanwhile, more hadjis had showed up for their shift, and Reading checked their IDs and lined them up. I gestured the next one forward. First one by one, then in twos and threes, then one big gaggle, and at last the last stragglers.
The sun was up now, the morning chill burnt off.
Soon two new ICDC in ill-fitting fatigues and old boots came to relieve the two at the gate. The old shift handed over their AKs and secondhand flak vests and the new shift took up positions in the cheap white plastic chairs.
“Well, that was exciting,” Reading said, returning to Metroid.
I took off my Kevlar and dug through my backpack. I pulled out a Maxim and an FHM and a Harper’s, and the ICDC leaned toward me staring. I gave them the Maxim and kept the other two for myself.
It went like this: report for guard mount at 0750, then you’re on duty in the sun till 1400. Then you clear your weapon and walk back to the barracks and sleep until 0100. You get up in the dark, get ready, and make it to guard mount at 0150, pull duty until 0800. The sun’s come up. Then you go eat breakfast, jerk off, and sleep until 1300. Guard mount 1350, on duty till 2000, clear your weapon, walk back to the barracks in the dark, think of some other life you lived once, sleep, get up at 0700, back to guard mount at 0750, and the cycle repeats. Light, dark, dark, light, night day whatever.
Reading played Metroid in the doorway. I sprawled on the cot inside the shack, drifting in and out of consciousness. The two ICDC sat outside in the night, smoking and looking at body-spray ads in FHM.
“Shit, man,” Reading said.
I ignored him.
“Shit, I’m so bored, I’m bored of Metroid.”
I lay still, pleading with God to make him silent.
“I know you’re awake. When you think we’ll get off this shit?”
“Let me sleep, fucker.”
“All you fucking do is sleep.”
“That’s because I don’t drink all those fucking Red Bulls.”
“Shit keeps me alert. I’m a killing machine!”
“You’re a fucking talking machine.”
“Shit, man. Shit! When you think we’ll get off this?”
“Never.”
“We gotta get off sometime.”
“Nope. Never. The unit’s gonna redeploy to Germany and they’re gonna le
ave us here to guard the ICDC gate. We’re mission essential. We’re the tip of the goddamn spear.”
“I wanna go out on patrols like the other guys.”
“So tell Lieutenant Krauss you wanna go out on patrol.”
“He’s pissed at me because I shot up that house.”
“You shot the shit outta that house.”
“There was a dude with an AK up there, I swear.”
“Yeah, he was up there fucking your mom.”
“Shit. Whatever. He was up there.”
“That’s why you got taken off the SAW?”
“Yeah.”
“Dumbass.”
“What’d you do to piss him off?”
“I don’t fucking know, man. I read a book one time. I just fucking do what I’m told.”
“Well, you musta done something.”
“Maybe he wants me to watch your dumb ass, make sure you don’t shoot up the gate.”
“Whatever.”
The radio popped: “Red Steel Main, this is Red Steel Fifteen. Be advised we got a vehicle stopped across the road.”
“Roger that, Red Steel Fifteen.”
“Hey, that’s our tower.”
“Red Steel Fifteen, this is Red Steel Seven. Monitor the vehicle. If it stays longer than five minutes, call us back.”
“Roger, Red Steel Seven. Stand by.”
I sat up and grabbed my Kevlar. Reading paused his game. We looked at each other, reaching for our rifles.
“Red Steel Seven, this is Red Steel Fifteen. The vehicle has left.”
“Roger Red Steel Fifteen, Red Steel Seven out.”
I dropped my Kevlar and lay back down. Reading dug through his backpack and pulled out a Red Bull.
“Hadjis coming,” he said. “Ali and Ahmed.”
“Ali Dudeki?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
The two hadjis came in. Ali was tall for an Iraqi, with a stubborn, mischievous face. He made a game out of grabbing guys’ nuts, though ever since Porkchop hog-tied him with zip-strips and left him like that for an afternoon, he was less inclined. Ahmed was shorter, a hunchback, and some kind of NCO—he was always harassing the guards, berating them, checking their AKs. With us he played the clown, shouting the handful of obscenities he knew in English over and over. Ali seemed to be Ahmed’s sidekick; it was clear the hunchback ran things.
