“Now listen,” he says. “You’ve got to stop thinking that way. You’re only coping, like all of us. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
I shake my head, too sick to speak. I can’t even begin to tell him how angry I am at myself right now. Didn’t I promise to “lay my life down for others,” and “lift the downtrodden and cast the wicked to the ground,” like Father Slattery said? But along comes my first test, the chance to turn in Kormick and protect Third Eye. And I flunk.
The rest of the week stinks. I can’t talk to Yvette because she’s back on her night convoys, so either doesn’t get in till I’m at work or doesn’t get in at all ’cause she’s sleeping at some other base. And Third Eye’s gone into shutdown and won’t speak to me or anybody else if she can help it. Once I try to get through to her by saying, “Listen, if you ever need me, I’m here.” But all I get in reply is, “Cut the crap, preachy-ass.” It’s like she’s wiped her memory clean, the way a computer does when it crashes.
But seeing her like that makes me realize something. She still has to work with those fuckers every single day—what if they’re still attacking her? What if they’re raping her over and over again? And even if they aren’t, how can she stand being with them all day after what they did to her?
When that thought dawns on me, I can’t sit still any longer. If she isn’t going to do anything about it, I have to. I won’t tell anyone what happened to her—I don’t have the right. But I can get off my ass after all and tell someone about what Kormick and Boner did to me. Yes, it’ll risk Kormick’s anger and make me mighty unpopular with the command and most everybody else, too. But if it gets the bastards transferred so they can’t hurt Third Eye anymore, or anybody else, either, it’s worth it. Anyway, it’s the righteous thing to do and the only way I can live with myself.
The question now is who to tell. I could go to the EOO, the Equal Opportunity Officer, but that’ll risk making my story public and turning the whole fucking platoon against me as a snitch. Or I could tell our platoon leader, SFC Hen-ley, in confidence. Not that Henley is Mother Teresa or anything, but perhaps he can figure out a way of dealing with Kormick and Boner more quietly. Platoon leaders have to figure out shit like that all the time.
So, soon I get back from my shift at the end of the day, I walk down the narrow alleyway between our tents and over to the NCO quarters, only a few rows away from mine. It’s a spooky walk at this time of the evening, all shadowy and gray, the tents snapping in the wind, the dust blurring in the twilight till you can’t tell whether the figures you’re seeing are soldiers, hajjis or hallucinations. I clutch my rifle, the only battle buddy I’ve got right now, my hands trembling more than ever. Kormick will probably be at the NCO tent, since he sleeps there, and the last fucking thing in the world I want to do right now is face him. But I have to risk it—for Third Eye, and for myself.
Sure enough, I see him right away. Lounging outside, smoking and shooting the shit with an officer, a lieutenant with red eyebrows and rabbit teeth who everybody calls Pat-the-Bunny behind his back. It’s the first time I’ve seen Kormick since he attacked me and the sight of him makes me sick and cold and weak. But if I run now, I’ll never forgive myself.
“Well, look who’s here,” he says as I walk up. “You come all alone, Specialist Tits?”
“Yes, Sergeant.” I can barely get the words out.
“You like breaking the rules, don’t you? Aren’t you going to salute the lieutenant?”
I salute, hoping he won’t notice my quivering hand. Patthe-Bunny runs his eyes over me, bored.
“Good girl,” Kormick says. “Now, what do you want?”
“Request to see Sergeant First Class Henley, please.”
Kormick stares at me a moment, his perfect face set hard. “What the fuck for?” he says quietly.
I hold myself stiff, looking ahead in true soldier fashion, trying not to show how frightened I am. “Sar’nt, if I can’t see Sergeant Henley, I’m going to JAG.”
JAG, which stands for Judge Advocate General, is the last resort for a soldier with a problem and we all have the right to go there, no matter how low we are on the totem pole. Saying what I just said is pretty much like invoking the right to pray.
Kormick eyes me uneasily, then jerks his head. “In you go then. Just don’t let me see your fuckin’ ugly mug for a while.”
“Thank you, Sar’nt.”
Shaking worse than ever, I step inside the tent, which is set up like an office, with plywood floors and a couple of knocked-together tables that serve as desks. SFC Henley is sitting behind one of these, staring at a computer.
I stand in front of his desk, adrenaline pumping, waiting for him to notice me. Henley is tall and upright, with a sundried face and thin white lips—he always reminds me of the first President Bush, the daddy of the monkeyface who got me into this war. Henley talks like he went to Harvard, although I don’t think he’s ever been near the place in his life.
“What can I do for you, Specialist?” He flicks his eyes up from the screen.
“Request a private conversation, Sergeant.”
He yawns. “All right, sit.” I take the chair facing his desk. “What is it now, more trouble with your roommates?”
“Request to speak frankly, Sergeant,” I reply.
“Go ahead.”
I swallow. “I want to file a complaint.”
“What kind of complaint? Someone filched your nail polish?”
I flush. “No, Sergeant. Um, it’s, um…”
“I don’t have all day, soldier.”
“No. Sorry.” I look down at the floor. “It’s assault,” I mumble.
Henley shifts in his chair. “What? Speak up, for Christ’s sake.”
I lift my head, my mouth dry. Speaking up in that place is like screaming your secrets through a megaphone. We aren’t even alone in the tent.
“This is confidential, Sergeant,” I remind him, my voice low. “But PFC Bonaparte punched me. And, and, Staff Sergeant Kormick. Um. Assaulted me.”
Henley looks at me steadily. “What kind of assault, Specialist? Make yourself clear.”
I flush again. “He tried to…” I stop. Come on, idiot, say it. “He tried to strangle and rape me.”
Those are the hardest words I’ve ever had to say in my life.
Henley holds up his hand. “Wait a moment. I need to take this down.” He rifles in a box and pulls out a form and a pen. “Date?”
“Date? You mean today’s?”
He gives me an exasperated look. “No, Brady. The date of the incident.”
“Oh.” I think back. When was it? This month? Last month? All the days have blended into one long sand-colored smear. “I’m not sure. May, I think. Um, May 28th. Or 29th.”
He puts down the pen. “Specialist, we’re not going to get to step one here if you can’t even remember the date. You are talking about a noncommissioned officer, remember, an officer with a fine reputation and a solid career. These are serious allegations. You better know what you’re saying, you better get your story straight and you better damn well be telling the truth.”
“I am, Sergeant.”
“Well, then?”
My hands are trembling so much now that I have to pin them between my knees so he won’t notice. Sweat’s running into my eyes and down my neck. Why is this so hard?
“May 29th,” I say randomly.
“All right. So what happened?”
Slowly, I tell him. Every word feels like I’m pulling my guts out through my mouth with a fishhook.
Henley writes it all down without looking at me once. “Did you report this at the time? Is there any physical evidence?” he says when I’m done.
“No, Sergeant.”
“What about witnesses?”
“Uh, none.” I can’t bring Jimmy or DJ into this, whatever they say. It’d kill their careers. And I haven’t let anyone see the bruises around my neck, which have faded to faint yellow splotches by now anyway, invisible un
der the dust and grime that stick to me like a second skin.
“No witnesses.” Henley writes that down, too. “And you want to press charges against these two gentlemen, even though you have no evidence, no witnesses and you can’t be sure of the date. Is that what this is about?”
“No, Sergeant. I was just hoping you could transfer these men somewhere else where they can’t assault any other females.”
“And have you reason to believe they have assaulted other females?”
I hesitate. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“I see.” He puts his pen down carefully on top of the report, now covered in his scrawl. “First we have to hear the gentlemen’s side of it, of course. Staff Sergeant Kormick is right outside, I believe. Go call him in.”
I stare. “You mean you’re going to interview him about this now? With me here?”
“Of course. He has a right to hear the accusations against him and to defend himself.”
“But not with me here, Sergeant! I… I can’t! Isn’t there some procedure so I don’t have to go through that?”
Henley leans over his desk, looking at me hard. “Soldier, in case you forgot, we’re at war. The cohesion of our unit is of paramount importance, and my job as platoon sergeant is to preserve that cohesion. We have a common enemy, and that is the hajji. We can’t waste our time or diffuse our energies on internal strife, and especially not on whiny snivelers like you. Now, either you pull together with your comrades like a real soldier, or you at least have the grace to give them a fair shot. I don’t know what your problem is, but I’ve heard enough about you already. Now call Staff Sergeant Kormick in or shut the fuck up and go away.”
I pull myself upright on the chair and stare right back at Henley’s prune of a face. His words make me so angry they drive away my fear and fill me with outrage instead. The same outrage that made me lift up my rifle and point it at Kormick’s balls.
“Sergeant, not one of those things you hear about me is true. Kormick and Bonaparte are sick maniacs, as everyone knows, and if you won’t do anything about it, I’m going to the EOO and JAG and I’m not going to shut up till somebody listens.”
Henley sits back and runs his eyes over me slowly, just like the prisoners do all day long. “I see. Well, I’m happy to file a report to the proper authorities for you, Brady, if that’s what you want. But I have another report here, from Staff Sergeant Kormick himself, as a matter of fact, that you should know about. He reported to me, on May 30th, not the 29th, actually, that while you were on checkpoint duty, you followed him into the shack, threw your rifle in the sand and behaved, shall we say, in an indecent manner.”
Henley folds his hands on the desk, his face as blank as the desert, while I stare at him in shock. He goes on.
“Sergeant Kormick, who, I might add, is a fine and dedicated soldier, kindly declined to press any charges in the hope you would not repeat this unacceptable behavior. But he did enter it on the record in case there should be a reoccurrence. He also mentioned that you committed other infractions that could come up if necessary, including insubordination. Therefore, as happy as I am to accommodate your wishes, you should know that any further action on your part will be met, at the very least, with charges of destruction of government property—you don’t treat your weapon like that, Specialist—and indecent behavior, all of which will lead to trial by court-martial. This information will, of course, be given to JAG and the EOO. Now, do you still wish to fetch Staff Sergeant Kormick and bring him in here for an interview?”
I can’t speak.
“Need time to think about it, Specialist?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” I whisper.
“Then get your ass out of my face.”
Dear Katie,
Hello, sweets, I hope you get this before the end of June. I’ve been thinking of you so much I had to write again. I had this amazing dream I need to tell you about. You better read this alone, now! No horny soldiers peeking over your shoulder, OK?
Well, we’re skinny-dipping in the lake at midnight, nobody around. Our limbs are glowing white from the moon, the water looks black. We swim a ways out, moon shining a silver path across the waves. An owl hoots. We’re not cold at all cause we just drank a bunch of tequila. And then I swim up and pull you close to me and soon we’re making love—remember? Cause when I woke up I knew it wasn’t a dream at all, it was a memory.
I love you so much, Katie. I want you back so bad. I
pray every day that you keep safe. With all my heart, Tyler
P.S. Did you have a chance to listen to my CD yet?
I fold the letter up tight and shove it to the bottom of my duffle bag, along with his untouched CD. His words make me feel exposed and humiliated and sick. They make me want to puke.
Dear Tyler,
Thanks for your letter. I don’t have time to write much now, but could you not write stuff like that anymore? You never know who reads our letters before we get them, there’s no privacy here. If anybody saw what you wrote, I’d never hear the end of it.
Thanks,
Kate
Now I can’t sleep. My head keeps screaming all the things I wish I’d said to Henley but didn’t. Burning, furious sentences shouting inside my brain. I should have known that he’d close ranks with Kormick and buy all his lies to protect his own kind and his own fucking career. But why am I letting him intimidate me like this? Why don’t I report Kormick anyway, no matter what he says about me? I picture myself at a court-martial, giving noble speeches about how all I want is to protect the good soldiers by rooting out the bad. See myself as a martyr being marched off to prison with my head held high because I’ve followed my heart and my faith. Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. When you get up tomorrow, I tell myself, you better get your head out of your cowardly ass and fix this mess.
The tent is hotter than ever tonight, which doesn’t help, and noisy as a frat house, too. A bunch of guys are playing dice down one end, gambling away their paychecks, and they aren’t exactly being quiet about it. And the prisoners are hollering and chanting their spooky Arab songs. I lie on my cot, staring at the droopy ceiling, sweat crawling over me like bugs, my head banging and clanging with the racket inside it and out. It feels like somebody strapped me down on an electric stove and is screaming in my ears and cooking me alive all at once.
When dawn releases me at last, I make Third Eye come with me to the latrines. The Sand Queen graffiti is gone, thank God—somebody’s scraped it off, most likely Jimmy. But almost every day something obscene is up there about females, words or a crude pornographic drawing. I will never understand how guys can act like your brother one minute, then hit on you or write shit like that the next. What makes them do it?
My plan is to get Third Eye alone so I can ask her to join forces with me against Henley and Kormick. Even if she doesn’t want to tell them about the rape, maybe she can at least report harassment. But as we struggle through the thick sand and our sleepiness, I look over at her screwed-up face, tight and wary, and I see how hard she’s working at shutting out the pain. And all my courage drains away.
Back at the tent, everybody’s buzzing with news because a huge escape tunnel has just been found under one of the prison tents. Seems the detainees have been digging it for weeks. DJ tells us it stretches from the tent all the way to the wire, underneath the berm and out into the desert, its exit camouflaged with cardboard and burlap. Pretty damn smart, we have to admit. Not only that, the bastards smoothed the inside walls with the milk rations we give them, and put little flashlights in there and air holes so they don’t suffocate while they’re escaping. It was only discovered because some satellite photos happened to show changes in the color of the sand.
“I can’t understand it,” Jimmy says to me when we talk about it later on my tower. “Our guys go in there all the time to do inspections. They throw the detainees out of their tents every morning so they can rummage through
their shit. And they find plenty. Homemade knives, drugs. But they never found that tunnel. Why?”
“I guess you can hide anything in the sand,” I say listlessly. I’m still so sick over my interview with Henley and my umpteenth fuckup with Third Eye that I can hardly speak.
Jimmy glances at me. “You okay?”
“Just tired.”
“Here, want some chips? Barbecue, isn’t that your favorite?”
“No thanks.”
We fall quiet then, gazing out at the prisoners drooping around in the sand.
“See that man?” I say at last, pointing to the jerk-off. He’s lurking near the wire under my tower, as usual, waiting for Jimmy to leave so he can whip out his dick again. “That’s the one who threw his shit at me. He jerks off in front of me almost every day. Wish I could get my hands on those ragheads sometime, instead of sitting up here like a doll on a shelf.”
“You could.”
I look over at Jimmy, who’s glaring at the man himself now. “What do you mean?”
“I could get you inside the compound if you want.”
“Oh, I don’t know. What’s the point? I see their ugly mugs enough as it is.” But then I think, you know, it would be satisfying to punish that guy. Just once. Show him that I’m not the pathetic piece of female flesh he clearly thinks I am. Show him who’s boss. “Well, okay,” I add. “Why the hell not?”
What I don’t tell Jimmy is that more than one man’s jerking off at me now, and throwing their shit, too. I don’t tell him because he can’t do anything about it. Anyhow, he’s heard enough of my stupid damn problems.
“I talked to Ortiz, by the way,” Jimmy says a few minutes later. “He can meet you after his shift if you want. He told me they had a riot over at the boys’ tent last night.”
“Anyone get hurt?”
“Not that I know of. I think Finley—the girl in Pat-theBunny’s squad? I think she got her head cut open or something. Nothing too serious.”
“No, I mean the prisoners. Any of them get hurt?”
“Oh. I don’t know. Ask Ortiz.”
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