HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  Another Oorah rang out from the squad leaders and the Marines in the accompanying squads. The sound of small weapons fire in the background filled the air. With my eyes filled with sand, and my uniform soaked from sweat, I gave the signal to begin the house to house search.

  Fifteen minutes into the search and we had captured four insurgents and found two weapons caches, one large enough to supply a battalion of men. Both weapons caches were in the homes of civilians, making it immediately apparent not only that we were in the right place, but that the city had been overrun by insurgents who were taking over the homes of civilians in their attempt to blend in.

  As the Marines of third squad searched another home, an argument broke out between the occupants of the small house and the squad leader. In an effort to keep things as peaceful as possible, and to prevent tempers from flaring even higher than they already were, I stepped into the home to evaluate the situation.

  “This motherfucker ain’t sayin’ shit, Staff Sergeant. Got twenty fucking AK’s hid behind that shitty fucking bed over there, and he just grunts when we try to ask him anything. Vingelli’s got a woman and a little girl in the back, and they’re both fucking screaming,” he said excitedly as I stepped into the small home.

  The homes in Iraq, at least the ones I had been inside of, were far different than the homes in the United States. I was aware that the country also had mansions, and homes similar to Beverly Hill’s offerings, but the typical civilian home consisted of one large room where the family stayed, and a place to cook; and that was it. Some, but not all, had bathrooms. To the typical civilian in Iraq, having a rug thrown on the floor was a luxury.

  As I stepped into the rear room of the house, I found a woman and a girl who was no more than twelve-years-old being detained by two of my Marines. The woman remained quiet until the girl began to scream, then the woman would begin to plead with the girl, obviously telling her to remain calm. The scene was far from calm, and I realized as soon as I entered the room if I didn’t take charge of the situation I would have two dead civilian women in my daily report.

  “Settle the fuck down. I assume no one speaks English?” I asked of the two Marines.

  “Fuck yeah they do, but they ain’t sayin’ shit. Cocksuckers got AK’s in the front room. They’re fucking al-Qaeda,” one of the Marines responded.

  I turned to face the woman. “English. Do you speak English?”

  Both she and the girl responded in Arabic, shaking their heads as they spoke. The woman seemed nothing but concerned for her family’s welfare, but the girl seemed to have something she wanted to say, and wasn’t interested in being quiet.

  Although it wasn’t a common occurrence, women and children had opposed Marines in previous battles, shooting small arms, using grenades, and detonating roadside bombs. As sickening as it was to do so, on occasion, women and children had to be killed. In determining whether or not the person was a threat to my men, I couldn’t let gender come into play. Every person must be assumed a threat until it was determined they were not a threat. That determination came by no other than me, and was based on nothing other than my gut instinct.

  To date I had yet to be wrong.

  “Vingelli, go get the Terp. I think we’ve got a situation here, but this woman and her daughter aren’t al-Qaeda,” I said as I studied the eyes of the girl.

  Her eyes told me she was scared, but not of my men. Her fear was deeper. In my opinion, she feared the men who had left the weapons in her home. Unintimidated by my uniform and weapon, she made eye contact with me, opened her brown eyes wide, and pressed her tanned hands against the hips of her red cotton pants. She began to babble so quickly even if I spoke Arabic I wouldn’t have been able to keep up. Calmly, I reached over and brushed the dust from the floral pattern shirt she wore, and earned a grin as I did so.

  “They might not be, but the old man is. He isn’t responding to a god damned thing we ask him. He’s keeping fucking secrets. Ship his ass to Al Asad and let the CIA water board him for an hour and he’ll give it up,” Vingelli said as he turned away.

  With two of my Marines guarding the front door of the residence, and the entire family in the kitchen, I studied each of the people we detained. An entire family incapable of speaking with nothing other than their eyes, they needed to say no more as far as I was concerned. They feared the same men we were searching for and wanted to simply be left alone.

  They were one of the reasons I was fighting this war.

  To provide them with the freedom to live a life free of fear and the threat of harm would satisfy me to no end, but after five long years of fighting and seeing no progress, I had my doubts if it could or would ever happen.

  “Who’s got candy?” I asked as I reached into my pocket.

  I found one sand covered peppermint in the pocket of my trousers.

  “Fuck these motherfuckers. I say we load up the weapons and kill these cocksuckers; that little girl included,” PFC Mann said.

  I clenched my jaw, inhaled through my nose, and turned to face him. “And it’s a good god damned thing you’re not in fucking charge, PFC Mann. I’ve been fighting in his god forsaken war longer than you’ve been in the Corps, and I’m the NCO of this platoon. One more suggestion like that out of you, and I’ll bring charges against your sorry ass, is that understood?”

  He lowered his chin and shifted his eyes to the floor. “Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

  “God fucking damn. We’re here to protect people like this, not kill them,” I said as I turned toward the sound of someone entering the home.

  The platoon interpreter came into the small room, making it far more crowded than I was comfortable with.

  “Everyone out except the Terp and me,” I said as I waved my left hand toward the front room.

  “Ask the little girl who’s weapons they are,” I said as I handed the girl my peppermint.

  She accepted the candy, unwrapped it, and poked it in her mouth. As her eyes changed from worry to what I expected was the surprise of the candy’s sweetness, the interpreter began to question her.

  He questioned her in Arabic, and she immediately responded, tossing her dirty black hair from side-to-side as she spoke.

  “She says men brought them here over a month ago. They’ve been forcing the residents to provide them shelter, food, and weapons storage,” he said.

  I turned toward the girl, smiled, and nodded my head.

  “Ask her why her father isn’t speaking,” I said.

  Another line of questioning in Arabic by the interpreter, and the girl, clearly frustrated, began to cry. After a moment, she turned to her father, who shook his head from side to side.

  I pursed my lips and studied the father. As he shifted his eyes to meet my gaze, I spoke to the interpreter.

  “Tell her, hell, tell them all. Tell them if they don’t tell me why he isn’t responding, I’ll assume he’s al-Qaeda and take him to Al Asad and lock his ass up. Between you and me, I know he’s not, but he’s keeping something a secret and I want to know what it is,” I said, my eyes still locked on his.

  He alternated glances between them all as he spoke. Calmly, as he explained everything in Arabic, the girl began to scream her response.

  “Holy shit,” the interpreter said as he raised his hand and covered his mouth.

  “What?” I asked as I shifted my eyes from the elderly man to the interpreter.

  As he shook his head from side to side and lowered his hand the girl and the woman began to cry.

  “What?” I asked again.

  “The men who came here were Saddam Hussein supporters. She said they demanded they be allowed to keep weapons here. Her father opposed them.” He paused and shook his head.

  As he turned toward the elderly man and nodded his head, he continued. “The father told the men when they came that Saddam Hussein was a coward and a murderer. He went on to tell them the US Marines were going to capture and kill Saddam, and that they should surrender.”

  He til
ted his head toward the father. “They held him down and cut out his tongue for opposing Saddam.”

  I released my weapon and crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Motherfucker. Do they know where these cocksuckers are hiding? Ask the little girl.”

  “I think she does,” he responded.

  “Well god damn it, ask her,” I said as I shifted my eyes to the girl.

  A lengthy exchange followed, and the interpreter sighed heavily.

  “She does. She said she’s been following them nightly. She wanted to get revenge for what they did to her father, but she said she’s too small,” he said.

  “Tell her I’m big enough. And how many of them?” I asked. “How many of these motherfuckers can she lead us to?”

  After a quick series of questions, he sighed heavily. “Twenty. And get this. She said they’re the ones who cut the Marines throat in the street the other day.”

  I shifted my eyes toward the girl. “Is she sure?”

  “Don’t need to ask, she already answered. She’s sure,” he said.

  “Vingelli!” I shouted.

  Vingelli rushed into the room. “Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

  I lowered myself into a crouched position and reached for the girl’s hand. After a few seconds, she reached out and gripped my hand in hers. Her eyes lowered to my free hand, studied it, and slowly shifted back to meet mine.

  “Get on the radio and find the LT. I need him in here immediately. And get first and second squad’s leaders in here. I want the entire first squad guarding the front of this house, and the second squad at an oblique to the rear, by the alley. Anyone tries to get in, and I mean anyone, I want them detained. If they oppose, kill ‘em. And no one gets to this girl, is that understood?” I said, attempting to refrain from sounding excited.

  “Yes, Staff Sergeant,” he responded.

  “And get me as much candy in here as you can,” I said as he turned away.

  “Candy. Roger that,” he said.

  It sickened me to think of what was currently going on in the country, and what atrocities had been happening for years before our arrival. The ethnic cleansing of families in the north, mass graves filled with women and children, and the torture of civilians for opposing the ideas or actions of savage leaders was common.

  The attacks on the United States soil started the war and brought me to Iraq, but as the war progressed and I was exposed to more and more locals, the thought of making the country a better place for people like the three before me was what kept me there. I was quite sure my ideas, beliefs, and mental support system was different than most of the other Marines, but for me, it kept me fighting for something I truly believed in.

  “With all due respect Lieutenant, I’ve been in this motherfucker since it started. If we don’t get them out of here and protect them, they’ll be killed five minutes after we pull out,” I said.

  “We don’t have the ability to protect them,” he said flatly.

  “We do have the ability,” I said, raising the tone of my voice slightly. “It appears one of us doesn’t have the desire.”

  He shifted his eyes from me to the girl and back. “How do you know she’s telling the truth? She’s what? Ten years old for Christ’s sake?”

  “Kids and drunks are the two most truthful motherfuckers on earth, Sir,” I said.

  He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not a good enough reason.”

  I fixed my eyes on his and glared my best don’t fuck with me glare. “I’ve been shot six times. Six, Sir. I’ve survived two bomb blasts, killed four snipers, and fifteen other insurgents who were trying to kill either me or my Marines, while you, Sir, were humping your desk. The only fucking reason I’m standing here alive right now is because I know things other Marines don’t, you included. The girl is telling the god damned truth.”

  As he narrowed his eyes the muscles on his jaw flared. “Humping my desk, Staff Sergeant?”

  I tightened my jaw and shifted my eyes to meet his.

  “That is correct, Sir. Humping your desk. I understand rear echelon Marines are needed, but it’s the front line Marines, Sir, who are required to live and breathe this shit. And no one who’s spent the last five years sitting behind a desk with their cock in their respective hand is going to tell me right from wrong on the front lines,” I said through my teeth.

  “War hero or not, Staff Sergeant, I could have you demoted for speaking to me in that manner. I am an officer, and need I remind you, although you are a non-commissioned officer, you are an enlisted Marine, not an officer. You will address me with respect, and you will…”

  “How many times have you been shot? How many battles have you fought in? How many Marines did you hold in your arms while you waited one motherfucking minute too long for a Corpsman or a medevac? How many of your officer brothers died, Sir, in your god damned arms? Shit, Sir, how many times have you even fired your fucking weapon?” I interrupted.

  The muscles in his jaw loosened, and he stared back at me blankly, remaining silent.

  That’s what I thought.

  “I’m not sure I can trust an Iraqi girl to…” he began.

  I shook my head from side to side. “My reputation is on the line, Sir, not yours. Radio the Battalion Commander, Sir. Advise him this girl can lead us to the men who murdered the Marine sniper unit. See what he says. If you don’t want to radio him, don’t. We’ll pull out. But be advised, Sir. My daily report will be accurate, truthful, and detailed. And in it, Sir, I will not only detail the girl’s message to the Terp, but mine to you – including your denial of my request to find the men who murdered the six Marine snipers, Sir.”

  He inhaled a long slow breath through his nose, studied me, and eventually exhaled through his mouth. My fuck off glare didn’t change one bit.

  “Get me a radio in here,” he shouted to the Corporal guarding the door.

  He left the room and spoke on the radio in private. Five minutes later, he returned with a whole new attitude. I stood in the corner of the room facing the door, holding the girl’s hand in mine. With her mouth full of candy, and her mother and father waiting for a response from the Battalion Commander, I shifted my eyes to meet the Lieutenant’s.

  His face stern and his eyes fierce, he shifted his gaze toward each Marine in the room. “Be advised, we are to protect this family at any and all costs. Staff Sergeant Jacob, advise the family they will not return to these quarters. Search the premises thoroughly and secure the weapons. After the family gathers their personal effects, escort them out the rear of the residence and to the vehicles. Any effort to detain this family is to be met with deadly force. Staff Sergeant Jacob, that little girl is your responsibility.”

  “Aye-aye, Sir,” I said.

  I turned toward the interpreter. “Tell them what he said. Tell them we’ll protect them, and they’ll more than likely be given a new life in the United States. And tell the father I’m sorry for what he’s gone through, but tell him I’m personally going to make sure I make the men who did this to him pay for what they did.”

  As the interpreter began to speak, I gazed down at the girl. Her mouth filled with candy and her eyes filled with hope, she listened intently as he explained what we were going to do.

  “Tell them that I appreciate their courage,” I said.

  As he explained what I said, the little girl squeezed my hand and smiled. I didn’t speak her language, but I didn’t need to. Her eyes told me all I needed to know. She trusted me.

  She trusted me because I placed trust in her.

  Two days later, using a map we prepared based on the information we received from the little girl, we captured the insurgents responsible for killing the Marines in a raid of their hideout. Two of the insurgents were killed in the mission, one of which was killed for resisting, but only after he admitted to cutting the tongue out of the mouth of the girl’s father. The remainder of the men were detained, interrogated, and eventually sent to a P.O.W. camp.

  No Marines were injured an
d I was offered a promotion based on my intuitive nature, stellar performance in the field, and quick thinking. The promotion would have all but assured me free passage through the remainder of the war without being harmed.

  I denied the promotion.

  Because real Marines don’t hump desks.

  Chapter Two Hundred Forty-Seven

  Fall 2012, Wichita, Kansas, USA

  Twelve years after the war started, and only after the last infantry Marines were shipped out of Afghanistan, I returned to the United States. With a chest full of medals and a soul full of pride, I landed at an airport and was met by no one other than a man trying to sell me cell phone service.

  There was no celebration, no parade, and no welcome home banners. The aisles in the airport were not lined with appreciative citizens. No one shook my hand for playing a large part in keeping the country free of terrorists. Not one person patted me on the back for the pieces of shrapnel I would carry with me for the rest of my life, or for the bullet holes my body was riddled with.

  After giving my country and the residents in it all I had to give and watching so many of my Marines die attempting to do the same, I felt as if the country wanted to believe the war didn’t even happen.

  I knew better.

  I lived with the recollection of it every moment of every day.

  I did my best to put the war behind me and focus my attention on the one woman who supported me unconditionally throughout the war, my wife. My escape from the day to day difficulties associated with civilian life was riding my motorcycle, and I soon found comfort in riding in a motorcycle club with a few old friends and some men I never met, but quickly grew to trust.

  Teddy reached up, wiped the bottom of his beard with a napkin, and turned toward Erik and then to face me. As he placed what was left of his hamburger onto his plate, he cocked one eyebrow and leaned into the edge of the table.

  “This fuckin’ hamburger’s the biggest son-of-a-bitch I ever seen. I fuckin’ swear, how in the hell can an establishment sell a burger like this for five fucking bucks and make money?” he asked, shifting his eyes back and forth between Erik and me.