“Are you okay, Em? Did the briefing upset you?” he asks.
It did, because I had not expected it to be this hard.
It did, because it made me think about scenarios I did not want to consider.
It did, because it reminded me that he was leaving and I had nothing.
But that is not the problem.
“Adam, why didn’t you tell me that the Fifth Group medic got shot?”
“Shit.”
Adam hits the steering wheel and I flinch. I have never seen Adam hit anything before. I know only the level-headed, reassuring Adam who I imagine must be a comforting sight if you are bleeding on the battlefield.
“Who told you?” he asks. “Was it Kate?”
“It doesn’t matter who told me,” I say. “What matters is that it wasn’t you.”
Adam runs a hand around the back of his neck and takes a deep breath, shaking his head.
“Honestly, I’m not sure,” he says. “I knew I should, I was going to, but the time never seemed right. What with you looking for a job and dealing with the deployment news already, I didn’t want to worry you more.”
“Worry me?” I ask. “Adam, I know people get injured in Iraq. I know people who have been injured out there. Since when have you had to shelter me from that kind of thing?”
“I just thought that with the deployment coming up…”
“What? That you’d start treating me like a clueless army wife? In fact, even they all knew. So it’s worse. You just shut me out completely.”
“No, Em, it wasn’t… I…” He falls quiet. He doesn’t look angry anymore. His hands wring around the steering wheel and a crease forms on his forehead.
Iraq has invaded. An invisible wall is rising between us and I scrabble to break it down. I claw at the bricks with broken nails and bloody fingers. This isn’t the way it works. This isn’t who we are.
I take a breath.
“Did you know him?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah, we went through selection together.”
He didn’t just know him, he knew him well.
“So what happened?” I ask.
“Unexpected contact while they were out,” he says.
“Where?”
“It got him in the shoulder.”
“No, I mean where did it happen?”
“Sadr City,” he says. The Shia district used to be a hotspot for clashes. The military were tied up there a lot, especially back in 2008. But we’re in 2011 now. It’s supposed to be safer.
“So that’s where you’re going?” I ask.
“I’ll be on RPC again. You know that’s all I can tell you, babe. Now can we please talk about something else?”
9
Music pumped inside the gymnasium as Anna and I thrust our hand-weights into the air and tried to move in unison, left then right, up onto the step and then back down. The song playing was by some female singer who was popular in the States at the time. I don’t know her name, but sometimes when I am in Colorado I hear the song in the car or in a store and my muscles twitch with the memory of movements from the class.
The aerobics instructor was a tiny woman called Jessica, who was the admin and logistics assistant at the US Embassy. Her dark hair was pulled into a neat bun and she wore bright patterned leggings and a black tank top, with the neon pink straps of her sports bra peeking out from underneath. She was in flagrant disregard of the rule about not displaying shoulders, but if anyone called her up on it the class would be over. Perhaps the prominence of shoulders was one of the reasons for the high popularity of aerobics on the compound.
Anna and I were positioned at the side of the hall, next to a large fan. Military personnel tended to gather at the front and back (near the exit routes) or in the centre (away from the windows). Anna and I had weighed up the risk mitigation options carefully and decided body temperature regulation took priority over safety in a rocket attack. Survival of the latter would mostly be down to chance anyway.
On the other side of the hall were a few private security contractors. These were the men more commonly found in the weights section of the gym comparing protein shakes and creatine powder, but they sometimes joined us to lift tiny pink dumb-bells in the hope of getting Jessica’s number. I remember they were all looking particularly orange that day. Rumour in the compound bar was that they’d taken too many carotene tanning pills.
My favourite person in the aerobics class melting pot, however, was Sampath, the Sri Lankan guy from Green Beans. He always positioned himself at the front of the class and never missed a beat. You could tell when he liked a song because he added in extra steps and flourishes with his hands. Once I saw him add a whole double spin into a Rihanna song. It came as no surprise when he finally admitted he’d been a traditional dancer back home. Apparently the security guys even asked him for a couple of private lessons, trying to up their game to impress Jessica.
At the end of the class, I picked up my empty water bottle and sweat-soaked towel. Anna and I gave a wave of thanks to Jessica, then headed towards the exit so we could fit in a quick shower before going to the office. Sampath caught up with us on the way out.
“Good morning, Miss Emma, Miss Anna. How are y’all today?”
His accent was a funny mix of Sri Lankan and American, having worked on military bases for so long.
“Good thanks, Sampath. How about you?” I replied.
“Good thanks, ma’am. And how is your other friend?”
“Other friend?”
“You know. The soldier man who bought you coffee when you had your smart clothes on.”
Anna raised an eyebrow at me.
“Oh. He’s not a friend. That was a meeting.”
“Ah, okay,” said Sampath, with an exaggerated wink. “Nice meeting. I must go for work now, but y’all have a good day.”
He jogged off, energised by the morning’s dancing.
“So you put your smart clothes on for Adam, did you?” Anna teased. I felt the red burn of embarrassment creeping into my cheeks as I tried to think of an excuse for my outfit.
“No, I… It wasn’t for him,” I stumbled. “We had something else that day. You know, that briefing in the afternoon.”
“You weren’t wearing smart clothes in the briefing though,” she pointed out. “In fact, none of us ever wear smart clothes for that briefing.”
She was right. I knew that my smart trousers would have caused questions in the office, so I went back to my room and changed straight after seeing Adam.
“Sometimes we do,” I argued feebly. I was digging myself into a hole. “Also I spilled some coffee on my blouse.”
“Sure,” said Anna, clearly enjoying seeing me squirm. “So why didn’t you just change your blouse then?”
“Er, I don’t think I had one that matched the—”
“Oh, come on, Em!” Anna stopped walking and raised her hands up at her sides. “This is me! Seriously, just admit you made an effort. He’s a handsome guy. I would have done the same.”
I had been hesitant to tell Anna about my meeting with Adam at first. Although she claimed to be over the Ryan episode, I knew the betrayal still stung. But when I finally gathered the courage to tell her about meeting Adam and explained about Ali and Ameena, she was supportive.
“I’m glad Adam wants to help them,” she said. “God knows we could do with a few more soldiers treating Iraqis like humans, even if he is only doing it to get in your pants.”
We got to our accommodation block and trudged up the stairs with tired legs.
“So have you heard from him since the Green Beans meeting?” she asked.
“No. Not really, it was only last week. He got in touch with a couple more questions, but just application stuff.”
“Really?” she asked, with an eyebrow raised in a sceptical arch. “Application stuff? Is the woman even on our system yet?”
“Well, no, not yet,” I stumbled, “but he had some queries.”
“Sure. I bet he did.
”
It wasn’t completely untrue. Adam had been in touch with a question about the references that needed to go on the application form. I didn’t need to tell Anna that the conversation had then drifted a bit, that we had discussed where I should go if I ever visited the States, how much he would like to go to London one day, what a coincidence it was that we both liked reading Tim O’Brien and how bored we were of chow hall food. But it was just chat, that was all. As I reminded myself, soldiers weren’t my type.
Incoming. Incoming. Incoming.
We were sat in the office when the alarm sounded later that morning. Chairs pushed back. Stiff wheels scraped against the floor.
Incoming. Incoming. Incoming.
“Get down,” a voice shouted. We knew the drill. Away from the windows. Under the desks. Get flat. But you couldn’t get flat under desks, not really. So we got on our knees, curled up into balls, strained our necks as we ducked our heads down instead.
Incoming. Incoming. Incoming.
THUD. A hit. One… Two… Three…
I saw Anna’s foot in the tangled mass of extension cables where our computers met. I wondered if the electrics were safe. There was a thick line of dust on the power outlet where the cleaning hadn’t reached. Was it a fire hazard? What a thing to be noticing, I thought, as we were…
CRACK.
The C-RAM sent out a round to hit the incoming rockets mid-air.
Incoming. Incoming. Incoming.
“Fuck.”
“Anna?”
“Yes?”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
THUD.
“Shit. That felt close.”
“Fuck. Yeah.”
Incoming. Incoming. Incoming.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
“Stay down!” the voice yelled again. “Keep your heads down!”
I pulled my chin in tightly against my chest and concentrated on breathing in, breathing out. My heart beat, beat, beat in my ears. It had been a while since they’d been this close. It had been a while since they hit.
Listen. Wait. Breathe.
The waiting seemed endless. People began to shuffle, move around. My left leg cramped, so I shifted position and pummelled my fist into the side of my thigh.
Listen. Wait. Breathe. Then the speaker system.
This is the Command Post. All clear. All clear. I say again. All clear. All clear.
Movement. Footsteps. Cursing.
I reached out my hand to Anna.
“We’re fine,” I said. “We’re fine.”
One of us laughed. It might have been me. Then the voice again.
“Is everyone okay? Right, get up. Let’s do accountability.” It was the same voice that had yelled at us to stay down.
I crawled out from under my desk and our office manager Nigel began the accountability check, working his way quickly through a list of names. I waited, ready to answer. It was like being at school and waiting for the teacher to say your name in the register, except during accountability you prayed that everyone was present.
“Anna.”
“Here.”
“Emma.”
“Here.”
“Hana.”
Nothing.
“Hana?”
Beat. Beat. Beat. My heart quickened again. Another spike of adrenaline ran hot through my blood. Where was Hana? Beat. Beat. Beat. It felt like an eternity passed.
“Where the fuck is Hana?”
“She’s over here,” said Mohammed, crouched down by a desk. “Hana, it’s okay. You can come out.”
Hana emerged slowly. She was covered in dust and had streaks on her face from where she’d been crying. Hana was from Anbar Province, but things got bad there and she didn’t have much family left. That’s why she didn’t like loud noises. Mohammed and Lina tried to comfort her, whispering in low fast Arabic. Hana nodded and adjusted her hijab. Nigel finished the accountability check. In our office everyone was present. Safe. Unharmed, physically at least.
Anna held out a hand in front of her. It was shaking. I held out my hand. It was shaking too.
“I think that’s the closest they’ve come,” she said again.
“Yes.”
“Tea? Smoke?”
I nodded yes to both.
“I’m going out to check the situation,” Nigel said loudly. “No one leave until I’m back.”
Anna went to the tiny kitchen at the back of our office that had a kettle, a small fridge and a coffee machine. She offered the rest of the team tea on her way through, but no one accepted. It was the British response to stress. Hana was on her phone trying to cancel the meeting she had in twenty minutes, but the phones lines were down. It’s what normally happened after an attack, but I never found out whether the lines were just overloaded by the sheer quantity of calls or whether the military jammed communications intentionally.
I opened the bottom drawer of Anna’s desk, the one that didn’t fall out, and looked for our emergency packet of cigarettes. I found it wedged under a pile of papers, some desk cleaner and a half-eaten Cliff bar. I opened the crushed cardboard box. Three left.
I didn’t smoke before Iraq or after. I didn’t smoke in Iraq, not often anyway. Attacks were the exception. I opened the back door of our office building and sat on the step. It was dirty, but I didn’t care. I was coated in dust from the floor anyway. Anna joined me with two large mugs of tea. The air around us was quiet, but there was the sound of sirens somewhere else in the IZ, keeping us on edge.
I lit Anna’s cigarette and then my own, trying to steady my hands long enough for the end of the cigarette to glow red.
“At least they didn’t interrupt pool time this week,” I said. The joke hung restless in the air, unable to find somewhere to settle. I drew slowly on the cigarette and held the unfamiliar smoke in my lungs for a second. I felt momentarily lightheaded. I exhaled and coughed.
“That one felt close,” said Anna for the third time.
“It was,” I replied. “Closest one I’ve felt. I think I heard the zip before the thud.”
By the base of the step I spotted a flat sand-coloured stone. I picked it up and turned it again and again in the hand that was not holding the cigarette, digging it into my palm. My nerves were receding but I felt charged with something else. The muscles of my cheeks started to tighten as if to smile. What was it? Elation? Exhilaration? I shoved the stone into my pocket. Anna saw.
“Another one for the jar?” she asked.
A door shut loudly and we both jumped. A man came out of a warehouse building near ours and leant against the wall, lighting up his own cigarette. The post-attack smoking habit was common. He raised his eyes and nodded in greeting. I recognised him from the compound, but I wasn’t sure what the people in that building did, even though it was barely metres from our own.
“You guys all okay in there?” he asked, gesturing towards our office with his chin.
“Yeah. You?”
He took a long drag on his cigarette before answering.
“One down on accountability. Hopefully he just went back to his room or something stupid.”
We nodded.
“Fingers crossed,” I said, then felt foolish for invoking such a trivial symbol for luck. The Iraqis in the office would have known what to say. They would have had more powerful words for a situation that was doubtlessly more familiar to them. But not me. Interlacing my digits for luck was the best I could come up with for the unknown fate of an unknown man.
“Any idea what happened?” Anna asked the man.
He sucked on the cigarette again and lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.
“Rocket attack,” he said. “No damage this side, but apparently one hit over by the US Embassy gym.”
“Shit,” I said. “We were there this morning.”
“So were a lot of people. Lucky it wasn’t earlier.”
The Iraqis wouldn’t call it luck, I thought.
They would call it the will of God.
“Casualties?” I asked.
“A couple by the sounds of it.”
I wondered who it could be. There were a lot of people in the International Zone, but we were all connected in one way or another.
He dropped his cigarette and crushed it into the ground with the toe of his boot.
“You ladies have a good day. Stay safe.”
“Thanks,” said Anna. “You too.”
“Hope your guy shows up,” I said.
“Appreciate it.” The door of the office building shut. Anna lit the third cigarette, which we passed between us.
“Fuck,” she said. “The gym. Shit. I need a drink. I wonder whether the bar will be open tonight.”
“It’ll be full if it is, but there’s wine in my room too.”
“I hope Brad will be around.”
“The Air Force guy?”
“Yeah.”
There was always something hedonistic about the International Zone in the aftermath of an attack. People drank more. Danced more. Shared other people’s beds. We had existential crises and bathed in the relief of being alive. We wanted to touch, feel, forget.
There was movement inside the office. Nigel was back with an update.
“Only one hit. Quite lucky really. It was outside the gym, so the blast wall took a lot of the impact. Could have been much worse.” There was that word again.
“Did you hear anything about the casualties?” asked Anna.
“One fatality and a few injured.”
“Do you know who?”
“Too early for them to say officially, but I overheard someone mentioning one of the Sri Lankan KBR workers – maybe one who works at Green Beans.”
“Sampath,” I breathed.
“Who?” asked Nigel, confused.
“Sampath. He’s…” I paused. A friend?
Anna put her hand on my shoulder.
“No, we don’t know it’s him, Emma. There are tons of other Sri Lankans around.”
“Actually, that name does sound familiar,” said Nigel. I was silent, but Anna did not want to listen to him.
“No, it can’t be. He was going to work when we saw him this morning. He wouldn’t have been there. It isn’t him.”
I tried to tell myself it couldn’t be true. Sampath belonged to a different Baghdad, one of aerobics classes and morning lattes. He was not part of the fighting. He could not have been a victim of this.
Pieces of Me Page 6
