Youngblood

by Matt Gallagher

  “She said she was in love and that he’d love Shaba, too. Karim wasn’t listening, though. The battles had changed him. He started cursing and punching the walls, swearing revenge on his father and Shaba for destroying his family’s honor. Then he threw Rana to the ground and said he’d rather have a Shi’a peasant rape and murder her than have her marry an American.

  “The guards pulled him off and pushed him out of the house. He was screaming the entire time. We knew then a shaytan had taken him. Haitham was one of those guards, that stupid, stupid man. He said to Karim, ‘Ashuriyah is a peaceful place now. People walk freely. Even American soldiers walk by themselves.’ Karim spat on him and called him a liar. So Haitham told him how Shaba visited at night, by himself, with no armor. That is how Karim knew to set the ambush.

  “After—after Shaba was killed, Rana cried and pleaded to Allah to bring him back. She turned crazy, madder than even her brother, and wandered the desert at night, alone. The sheik had his guards lock her inside her room and tie her up, so she could not kill herself with a knife or gun.

  “What happened then? Everything fell apart. The peace ended, the war returned. Karim was killed. The sheik sent his daughter away and stopped working with Americans. Most of the servants stayed until he died, but then we had nothing. He gave all his money to the other sheiks, to pay their Sahwa. They were all he had left.”

  27

  * * *

  There were holes in Alia’s story. Little things that lingered at the bottom of my consciousness like coins in a well. Shaba couldn’t have invented the Sahwa. That started in Ramadi with the Sunni Awakening—there were books about it. And a quick Google search showed that snow had turned Baghdad white in 2008, a full two years after First Cav was stationed in Ashuriyah. Little holes that made me think there were bigger holes.

  And yet.

  “That’s too crazy to make up,” Snoop said.

  He had a point. I kept thinking about our grandpa telling Will and me that the truest war stories made the least sense. He’d been talking about World War II, but maybe this was something our little brushfire war had in common with his.

  I ate a turkey sandwich and drank coffee for lunch and thought about star-crossed love. I could see an American soldier making a play for a good-looking Iraqi girl. Even a sixteen-year-old. But I couldn’t see it as the kind of grand romance Alia told. I wondered what the real story was.

  Even though my hands were already shaking from too much caffeine, I chugged a Rip It and walked downstairs, following the sound of a low roar.

  It was Sahwa payday. Dozens upon dozens of Iraqi men twisted around the foyer in a coiling line that extended out the front door. The Sahwa were separated by clothing and grouped accordingly: some wore khaki-brown shirts with matching baseball caps; others navy-blue armbands with Iraqi flags; while still others bore black vests and jeans. Glossy orange dust pervaded the air like dirt beaten from a rug, and sweat and moisture clung to my skin. I swung my rifle to my front and waded in.

  “Molazim Porter!”

  I heard Fat Mukhtar’s deep voice to my right, remembering that I’d promised to push his group to the front of the line. Whoops, I thought.

  The large man bumped into me, leading with his stomach. The sneer on his face suggested it wasn’t a conversation I could avoid, so I waved up Snoop from the payment table and faced the angry tribal leader.

  I feigned understanding as Snoop asked why he was upset, nodding through the accusation that I’d lied about payment order. Spit danced around my head. After a minute, I tapped my watch and spoke over him.

  “First, you ever touch me with that flab again, we’ll take you up to the canal and see if you can float.” I didn’t think Snoop’s English was good enough to effectively convey the threat, so I poked the mukhtar’s stomach rolls with my index and middle fingers. He took a small step back. Every Sahwa guard in Ashuriyah was watching—I needed to be the scorpion. “Second, why honor a man who knew about Shaba’s grave? Third—there is no third. Just don’t ever fucking touch me like that again.”

  That seemed to bury Fat Mukhtar’s wrath. “It was him?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Dental records and DNA samples confirmed it last week.”

  He bowed his head and mumbled a short prayer. He looked up with earnestness. “He swears he didn’t know,” Snoop translated.

  “What’s done is done,” I said, grinning at my own little lie. “They’ll be first next time.” It was unofficially official: that next time would be the last time we’d pay the Sahwa. Then it’d be the Iraqi military’s responsibility. “A hallmark of progress,” the PowerPoint presentation had called it. Even Captain Vrettos hadn’t been able to keep a straight face.

  Fat Mukhtar rubbed his hands together. I expected an Arabic idiom that resembled “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.” He didn’t say that, though. Instead he said something I didn’t understand. Snoop made him repeat it. When he did, the terp blinked and blinked before turning to me, aghast.

  “The mukhtar say a fatwa has been put on your Muslim soldier. For disturbing a wake. A death sentence fatwa.”

  I knew what a fatwa was, though I’d believed only Iranian ayatollahs could issue them. The Cleric, whoever he was, had declared it on Ibrahim, Saif, and any of the jundis who’d unearthed the bones at Abu Mohammed’s. The bounty for their deaths was “large.” Why just them? Because the rest of us were infidels, Fat Mukhtar explained. “You don’t know any better. They do.”

  “Don’t worry, Lieutenant.” Fat Mukhtar’s face rose into a fleshy grin. “There are thirty thousand, maybe forty thousand people in Ashuriyah. How many will listen to the fatwa? Very few. Your man has nothing to fear. You know what happened the last time an American soldier tried to be one of us. You will keep him safe.”

  I thanked him for the information and staggered away, not sure whom I needed to alert first. Names cycled through my mind, though only one kept reappearing: Saif. I elbowed my way to the front table, a rickety white foldout. Saif sat in a chair behind it, counting out dollars and crossing names off a list. The fatwa filled my mouth like poison, but I couldn’t spit it out until the Sahwa guard being paid walked away. Behind Saif stood a ring of jundis and soldiers from my platoon, all armed. Dominguez, on the far right of the upside-down horseshoe formation, waved to me. I cut through a gaggle of midtown Shi’as in blue armbands and asked how things were going, trying to act normal.

  “This? Bullshit, but standard bullshit,” Dominguez said. “Just another day in the green machine. I need to talk to you about something else, sir.”

  “Send it.”

  He looked to his left and right and dropped his voice. “This split-platoon shit is bad juju. Us in the day, we’re doing one thing. The guys at night? Totally different Iraq. I’m hearing things from the youngbloods.”

  That goddamn word again, I thought. Even Dominguez is using it now. But it wasn’t Chambers’ word, I reminded myself, it was the army’s. So I just asked Dominguez to explain himself.

  He shook his head. “You know, sir. Rumors.”

  “You want to check things out? It’d be too easy to get you on a night mission, if you want.”

  He furrowed his brow, chipmunk cheeks sagging. “No, sir,” he said. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

  I said I’d check things out, more out of fear of Dominguez’s judgment than anything else.

  “You’re the platoon leader. The head motherfucker in charge. Don’t let him push you around.”

  In his own way, Dominguez was pushing me around, too. I walked away, exchanged knuckles with a few jundis, and took a seat next to Saif, now between payments.

  “I’m thankful for your men,” Saif said. “They brought order. Arabs, we hate lines.”

  “Fatwa?” I hissed. “A fucking fatwa?”

  He rolled his eyes and called up the next Sahwa. “It’s nothing,” he said. “A scare tactic.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re used to this
. What am I supposed to tell Ibrahim?”

  He arched a bushy eyebrow soaked in sweat. “Whatever you think is wise, Loo-tenant. Things like this are why you’re here. You’re the officer. He’s just—what do you all call them? A young blood?”

  I snorted and began plucking my eyebrows the way Captain Vrettos did when he became overwhelmed. I was losing control of things again. Meanwhile, Alia’s story kept tugging at me. And what was going on in Ashuriyah at night?

  Saif counted out dollars for the last of the midtown Shi’as, a skinny teen in desperate need of braces. Fat Mukhtar and his khaki browns were next, a long, grim face with a flattop among them. Dead Tooth’s older brother stared at me, hard.

  The skinny guard slinked away. I put up my palm, signaling the escorting jundi to hold the line. “Saif, I need a favor.” I’d made a decision. A couple, really. “Between us.”

  He bobbed his head slightly.

  “I need to know where Rana lives,” I said. “If she’s still alive. But it’s important no one else know.”

  “I see.” Saif tapped his chin and considered. “My men need laser sights for their rifles.”

  “And?”

  “And Americans keep extras in storage, but only Iraqi officers get them. To find the sheik’s daughter, ten laser sights would be most helpful.”

  “You serious?” Something like a wrecking ball crashed through my gut. “Those things are crazy expensive. What happened to being partners, not allies?”

  He shrugged. “Even partners make trades, Loo-tenant Porter.”

  “Three.”

  “Five.”

  “Done. But it’ll take me a week or so, my supply connection is at Camp Independence. You know I’m good for it.”

  After a moment, he nodded. I patted him on the back and walked away from the table, fleeing the bitter, red-cheeked stare of Dead Tooth’s brother, now pushing to the front of the line. Saif motioned the next Sahwa forward. The Son of Iraq walked up with a reckless smirk, a need in his step that could never be replicated by someone who’d known a full stomach and a warm bed his entire life.

  Once through the crowd, I moved up the stairs, tottering a bit. Rather than face the Mother Hajj and Pedo bin Laden, I studied the ten smiling children in front of them holding the tricolored Iraqi flag. All of them had two dots for noses, not unlike the disfigured girl on the Sunni Strip who worked at the falafel shack. Halfway up, the low roar in the foyer rose sharply. I turned around and watched a pair of midtown Shi’as in armbands push and shove with Sunnis in khaki brown; it looked like some of the Shi’as had arrived late and attempted to cut the line. There was shouting and fist shaking, and more Sahwas on both sides packed in close to join. I smelled the loose flesh of violence, all hot sweat and young rage, and fingered the ammo magazines in my pocket. Dominguez and two tall jundis stepped into the center of the throng and charged their rifles, restoring temporary order. Saif stood on the table brandishing a fistful of dollars to try to maintain it. From the center of it all, Fat Mukhtar laughed and laughed.

  This is the legacy of Shaba and the sheik, I thought, in all its twisted, messy ambiguity. None of the Sahwa had been allowed to take a weapon inside the outpost, be they Sunni or Shi’a, sheik or guard, old or young. Allies or partners, I figured, would still have their guns.

  At least we had meant well. Or something.

  I continued upstairs and moved into our boxy, windowless room. Chambers was asleep in bed, resting for another night mission. I poked his shoulder and avoided looking at the black skulls on his arms.

  “I’m coming tonight,” I said.

  He smacked his lips. “Sure thing.”

  “Awesome.” I breathed out. “Any idea what we’ll be doing?”

  “Yeah.” He sat up and cracked his neck. “While you were talking to the cleaning lady, battalion got a tip from the Rangers. Passed along the location of one of Dead Tooth’s sleep spots. It’s raid time.”

  My chest seized up and my mind turned to cream. He knows, I thought. How? Don’t ask. Don’t blink. He’s probing. Acting like he knows more than he does. Be cool, Jack, I told myself. Be cool. A raid? I don’t want to go on a raid. This is all Dominguez’s fault. How. Does. He. Know?

  “Looking forward to it,” I said.

  I turned away, hell-bent on getting to a Porta John to think things through. I was halfway out of the room before getting called back.

  “One more thing, Lieutenant.”

  I stayed in the doorframe, like we’d been taught to do in elementary school in case of earthquake.

  “Drug tests came back today. Few guys pissed hot for Valium. Washington. Tool. Some others. Must be getting it from the jundis. Your buddy needs to rein in his boys. Busting them all down a rank, which means Washington loses his fireteam. You cool with Hog taking his spot? Kid’s fucking ready.”

  “Hog? He’s great, but what about that negligent discharge a while back? During the sandstorm patrol.”

  “He’s been counseled,” Chambers said. He balled his fist twice, flexing his forearm, then stopped. “Onetime mistake.”

  “I’m fine with it, then. See you tonight.”

  “Looking forward to it,” he said.

  28

  * * *

  Hey, Will. It’s me.”

  “Little bro! Good to hear from you. Everything okay?”

  “I guess.”

  “What’s up? No offense, but make it quick. Lady friend stayed the night. We’re headed out to all-you-can-drink brunch.”

  “Oh. Sounds fun. It’s just that, well, shit’s hitting the fan and I was hoping to—I don’t know.”

  “You get that local to write a sworn statement about your platoon sergeant yet?”

  “No. And. Well. Things are different now. He—he saved my life.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a long story.” I smacked my lips. “He pulled me to the ground in a firefight.”

  “Why were you were in that position to begin with?”

  “Because I wanted to get shot. For fuck’s sake. You think I did it on purpose?”

  “Sorry, sorry. Old habits die hard. Once a combat leader, always a combat leader. But you’re okay?”

  “Yeah. They gave us a medal for the firefight. Well, some of us. It’s fucking stupid.”

  “Oh yeah? Which one?”

  “Army Commendation Medal with Valor.”

  “Nice. Still no Silver Star, though.”

  “Yeah. Okay. You got me on that. They’re all shit, anyways.”

  “What’s all shit?”

  “Any stupid piece of tin given out by old men to trick young men into perpetuating bullshit myths.”

  “Slow your roll.” He clucked his tongue. “Know you’re stressed-out, and probably operating on zero sleep, but soldiers died for those pieces of tin. It’s not the awards. It’s what they represent.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You talk to Marissa recently? I don’t think you want to hear anything I’m saying right now. A woman’s voice would do you some good.”

  “About that.” I laughed. “She told me not to call or write anymore.”

  “The hell?”

  “It’s my fault. Probably. I don’t know.”

  “She’s a good girl. Smart. Honest. You guys have had all sorts of ups and downs, and always manage to find your way back to each other. It’ll happen again.”

  “Fuck her. She wouldn’t know what it’s like over here.” I left out the part about not telling her what it was like when I’d had the chance. “She probably wouldn’t even care if she did.”

  “What what’s like?”

  “All of it. Like another platoon accidentally shooting up a car because they thought it was a bomb but it wasn’t, it wasn’t anything but people.”

  He sighed. “Man, listen. I’m sorry you all had to deal with that. I really am. But, well. It’s war. Shit happens.”

  “War? Weren’t you listening? It was an accident.”

  “I’m trying to be p
atient, Jack, but you’re making it really hard. Pull yourself together. Look within and ask yourself if you’re doing everything you can for your men. For your mission.”

  “Shit. It’s good enough for government work.”

  “Come on. Don’t get snarky. Is this about the firefight? I’m sure you did fine. Besides, physical courage doesn’t matter the way moral courage does. You know that.”

  “Here we go again. Spare me, please. If you were actually God’s gift to the army, you’d have stayed in.”

  “You know what? Fuck you. You know how difficult it was for me to leave.”

  “Fuck me? Fuck you. I called you thinking you’d know what to do, not just lecture me.”

  “Do about what? Your kill-team sergeant? Sounds like you don’t even want to get rid of him anymore, which makes me question just how much you looked into things at all. Or did you just want to get rid of him because he tested your leadership and you didn’t know how to respond? Man up, make a decision, and live with it. That’s the job.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “And call Mom and Dad. But only after you get some sleep and chill. They’ll freak out if they hear you like this. I’m going to brunch. I love you. Be safe. Be strong.”

  “Be safe? Be strong? What does that even mean?”

  “It means what it means.”

  I hung up before I could tell him it meant nothing.

  29

  * * *

  Why is the sky blue?

  As first squad kicked in the door, I thought of the old, pointless joke from ROTC, the one the Vein liked to drill into us when we got lost in land navigation or fouled up a tactics quiz.

  Because God loves the infantry. That’s why.

  No blue sky on a night raid, though.

  Stacked against the side of the one-room hut, backs against a speckled wall of adobe, we communicated through hand-and-arm signals. We’d smeared war paint across our faces in swirls of black and brown and green. Night vision goggles hung from the front of our helmets over our eyes, just bulky enough to give our heads a slight tilt to the side of the dominant eye. Mine tipped left because I was a creative at heart. Shades of green ebbed and flowed before us, a hallucination of formless shapes and sizes that distorted the warm summer night.