by Jan Coffey
She was past that stage of her life, she thought, reaching the other side of the road and looking for Ahmad. She had another path to travel now.
Twenty-Seven
Bagram Airbase, Afghanistan
Airman first class Joseph Sawyer had yet to get a letter from his mother. But he didn’t really blame her. A single mother, she worked two jobs to put food on the table. She just stunk when it came to picking husbands. Twice now, she’d been dumped with an infant and no child support or help of any kind.
Joe and his friend Ron Miller, members of the 455th Air Expeditionary Wing, came to Bagram together. While Joe had left only his mother and his teenage brother back in Mobile, Alabama, Ron came from a very large family in northern New Jersey.
Naturally, Ron got mail almost every stinking day. Besides the almost daily letters, he got a care package sent to him at least once a week from his mother, or one of the sisters, or sisters in law, or some PTA people in his niece or nephew’s school.
The Miller family’s generosity was, of course, a sweet deal for Joe. Ron got too much of everything and, after he went through the gifts himself, he let Joe have first dibs on picking what he wanted.
Paperback books were a frequent gift, as were personal hygiene items. Cookies Joe could do without. Even though they were homemade, by the time they arrived they were rock hard. Salsa and chips fared better. But Ron usually invited a whole bunch of guys over, and they attacked that food like a swarm of rats.
The bars of dark chocolate were Joe’s absolute favorite. And, since he’d included a thank you note in with one of Ron’s letters home, he could always count on his friend’s family to add a few for him.
A couple of hours ago, Joe had seen Ron walking back to the containerized housing unit they called home, along with the four other guys in their squadron they shared it with.
When Joe saw him, Ron had another package under his arm.
Both of them were off-duty this morning. Usually, they’d spend the time in the gym. This morning, though, Ron was feeling worse. He’d been fighting a sore throat for few days now, but he never was one to go to the infirmary, and Joe knew better than to bug him about it.
The door to the unit was ajar, a big negative with all the dust in Bagram. It was as hot as summers in Mobile, but dry as hell and dusty as the inside of a shop vac.
Joe went in, sure his friend would be feeling better. A care package from New Jersey always seemed to do the trick.
“Hey Ron, you in here?”
The room was dark. The shades were drawn to keep out the unbearable sun, but it was still stifling in the unit. The fan wasn’t running, which meant the electricity was out again…for the third time this week.
“Christ, it stinks in here,” he muttered. “Ron?”
The way it smelled, Joe figured his buddy was in using the crapper. At one end of the rectangular room, a faux wood panel partitioned off the small bathroom. Six cots and built-in lockers lined the wall. There was no shower in these housing units. The showers were in a special unit down the row.
Joe’s gaze focused on the open mailer sitting on Ron’s cot. He crouched down next to it.
“Ron, you alive in there?” he asked over his shoulder. “Jeez, boy. You should get your folks to send you some of that potpourri shit. Man, you’re killing me out here.”
It looked as Ron had already sorted through the box. The paperbacks were stacked against the wall. Joe’s bars of chocolates were sitting in front of them, and there was an envelope in front of the chocolates with his name on it.
“Bless you good people,” he murmured, opening the envelope and reading the note. It was from Ron’s mother, inviting him to stay with them when he and Ron came state-side for their two weeks leave in the fall.
“Boy, you must have been adopted or something,” he called to his friend, pawing through the items on the bed. “Your folks are too good to have birthed a shithead like you.”
Ron’s mother had sent cold medications—bottles of over the counter stuff—vitamins, and samples of all kinds of things. Joe noticed that Ron had already opened a couple of the boxes of cold medicines and vitamins. The wraps and cotton balls were next to the carton.
Out of habit, Joe gathered up the trash. Being in the military had turned him into a neat freak.
“Are you coming out of there?” he asked. The sealed package of chocolate chip cookies at the bottom of the carton was still untouched.
A piece of trash had been dropped back into the box, on top of the cookies. Joe reached in and picked it up. It looked like the wrapper for a Band-Aid, but it wasn’t. He smoothed it flat between his fingers. The words ‘SAMPLE’ and ‘NOT FOR SALE’ were printed all over it. He read the back.
“‘Reynolds Strep-Tester Home Kit.’” Joe remembered that one of Ron’s sisters was a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company. “Huh! Good idea.”
He pushed to his feet. It occurred to Joe that he’d gotten no response from Ron since coming into the housing unit.
“Hey, Ron. You in there, boy?” he asked, walking toward the bathroom door. The smell was horrendous.
Each unit had its own self-contained sewage tank, with water brought in through a flexible hose. One problem with these units was that the small tanks under each unit had to be pumped out regularly, and it seemed like every day one bathroom or another along the rows would back up.
Joe walked toward the bathroom. The door was cardboard thin, made out of some kind of pressboard designed to look like wood. He knocked on it.
“Ron?”
He tried the door. It wasn’t locked. When he pushed, it gave slightly and then closed again. It felt like a weight was propped against it on the inside. Unless someone was in there, that wasn’t too likely.
“Ron?” he called louder.
Again there was no answer.
Joe pocketed the trash and put both hands on the door. He gave a hard shove. The door opened a couple of inches and slammed shut. There was no doubt in Joe’s mind that someone was leaning against it. Most likely, that someone was sitting on the floor, since the top of the door gave easier than the bottom.
“Shit, man. Open up. You need help?”
Joe stepped back and looked at the door. Moving across the small living space, he yanked open his own locker and pulled out a small mirror he had taped to the door. Going back to the bathroom, he put a shoulder to the door, holding it open at the top and sliding the mirror through the opening.
He angled the mirror and saw Ron on the floor, his head tipped forward onto his chest.
“Ron? Christ, Ron? Say something.”
Joe knew the right thing to do would be to run out and call for help. Instead, he gave the door a couple of hard shoves and put his arm through.
When Joe touched him, Ron slumped sideways, his head cracking on the toilet on the way down.
“Christ, boy! What happened?” Joe didn’t know where the extra burst of energy came from, but the next thing he knew, he was ripping the door off its hinges.
“What’s all that racket in there?” a voice called jokingly from the doorway.
Joe recognized TJ’s voice. He lived two units down. “Get in here and help. Something’s wrong with Ron.”
Instantly, the man was beside him. A moment later, the door was lying on the floor by a bunk.
“Pull him out,” Joe ordered. “Grab that leg…Watch his head!”
Each man took hold of a leg, and together they pulled him out of the small bathroom.
“I never knew how goddamn heavy he was.”
They laid him flat on the floor.
“What the hell?” TJ blurted out, immediately backing away.
Joe looked at Ron’s face for the first time. The skin had a purple hue. There were raw, open sores on his neck, on his face. A foul-looking fluid was oozing from his nose and mouth. He smelled like a week-dead dog.
Even as Joe looked at it, the skin seemed to peel right off Ron’s flesh.
Twenty-Eight
Kurdistan, Northeast Iraq
Austyn was perfectly happy with the new arrangements. As he’d discussed with Faas Hanlon, he would need to put more control of the mission in Fahimah’s hands once they reached Halabja. Traveling with the Peshmerga, just meant the transition had started a little earlier than planned.
Ahmad turned out to be a better ride and escort than they had before. Two cars were taking them to Halabja. Four Peshmerga soldiers were split between the cars. The vehicle Austyn and Fahimah were riding in—along with two of the fighters—was an older SUV, a 2002 BMW X5, and much nicer than the old van Ken had been driving. This one also had working air conditioning. The other car leading the caravan was an old military four-wheel drive that looked like it had risen from the ashes of some scrap heap.
Austyn had been told that one way of going to Halabja from Erbil was through Kirkuk. But because of all the daily violence in that city, they were going from Erbil to Lake Dokan to Suleymaniyah to Khurmal to Halabja.
Fahimah had translated for him that this was slightly longer but more scenic…and safer. So far, Austyn wholeheartedly agreed. The view was beautiful. The well-paved road snaked through mountains carpeted with touches of greens.
His only complaint was the driving. If it weren’t somewhat bloodcurdling, the entire situation would be comical. Both of the Peshmerga fighters liked to gesture with their hands as they spoke. There had already been a few instances of the driver talking and gesticulating energetically. They would be off some cliff by now if the soldier in the passenger seat hadn’t reached over to hold the wheel or make an adjustment. He did it all calmly, though. Obviously, this was the way everyone drove a car. Luckily, there weren’t too many cars coming along the opposite side of the road.
“What are they saying now?” Austyn asked, seeing the Peshmerga fighters smile as they talked.
The two sitting in front only spoke Kurdish, and they never seemed to stop talking. The man behind the wheel was older. Fahimah said he was the one who had told her at the checkpoint not to be afraid. Austyn liked both of them. They were very pleasant and polite…now that they knew he was no threat to Fahimah. Anytime they said something over their shoulder to her, they’d follow it with the word tarjomeh…which she told Austyn meant “translate.”
“One is telling a joke to the other,” she whispered. “I need to wait for the punch line.”
The two men burst into laughter a moment later. Austyn saw Fahimah smile and shake her head.
“Tarjomeh, tarjomeh!” they both called to her.
“You need to realize that jokes in Kurdish are quite different from what you Westerner are accustomed to,” she told him.
“How different?”
“They are racist. They are slanted against whatever ethnic group that they dislike.”
“So I assume this one was an Arab joke?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Tell me.”
“Tarjomeh,” the driver encouraged, looking in the mirror at her.
“He’s taking his eyes off the road,” Austyn reminded her.
“Okay. But remember, I am just repeating it,” Fahimah reminded him again.
He could understand her reluctance. Her extensive education, her years abroad, the time that she’d spent teaching, all must have reinforced her innate sense of tolerance.
She shook her head one more time, as if she couldn’t believe she was actually relaying the story.
“All right. Two policemen in Baghdad…they were Arabs…came on duty and went out on their usual route through the city. A short time later, while they were in a park eating their lunch, before taking their naps, they found two American Tomahawk missiles that had never exploded. One said to the other, ‘We should take them to the American base and get the reward.’ So the two policemen loaded the missiles into the back seat of their squad car and drove toward the base. After an hour of driving, the second Arab said, ‘Tell me something, what will we do if one of these missiles explodes in the car?’ His friend thought for a few minutes and said, ‘I’ve got it. We’ll say we only found one missile!’”
Austyn couldn’t help but laugh. The two men in front, although they didn’t speak English, were in stitches at what appeared to be the end of the joke.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Don’t encourage them.”
“Why?”
“Because they probably have a hundred Arab jokes each up their sleeves.”
As if on cue, the younger Peshmerga started another one. This one was a short one, and both men burst into laughter afterward.
“Tarjomeh,” they chanted at Fahimah.
She tapped the driver on the shoulder and said something to him sternly.
“Baleh, khanoom.”
“What did you say?” Austyn asked.
“I said that this will be the last one.”
“There’s no harm in this,” he said smiling at her.
“Right now, maybe not. But when they start telling jokes that are otherwise inappropriate, I’m the one who turns eighteen different shades of red.”
He nodded in understanding, holding back the comment that she was already turning eighteen shades of red. And actually, he thought, she looked quite beautiful in all those shades.
“Okay, tell me this last one.”
She gathered her hands on her lap. “Two thieves broke into an Arab’s house. The Arab woke up and asked them, ‘What are you looking for?’ The thieves told him, ‘Money.’ Hearing that, the Arab jumped out of bed and responded, ‘Wait a second, I’ll help you.’”
Again, there was a burst of laughter from the men in front.
The passenger made another casual grab at the wheel since the driver was laughing so hard that he’d closed his eyes. Austyn looked at the thin, foot-high guardrail that was the only barrier between them and what was probably a thousand-foot drop off the side of the mountain.
He tore his gaze away from the road when an argument broke out between the two fighters and Fahimah. Austyn didn’t think it was anything too serious, though, as they were smiling and Fahimah had her teacher’s voice on.
They started chanting. “Yek. Yek. Yek.”
“What do they want now?” he asked, totally entertained.
“Yek. Yek. Yek.”
“They are reneging on their promise.”
“They want to tell another joke?” Austyn asked.
“No, they want you to tell them an American joke.”
“Okay, I can do that.”
“Oh, God,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Seriously, I’m a good joke teller.”
“Only one,” she agreed reluctantly.
“Yes, ma’am,” he told her. “Give me a second to think of one.”
“Keep it clean,” she warned him.
Austyn decided to use some one-liners. “This is all one joke. Just translate after each line.”
She nodded.
“Do you know what a redneck is?” he asked.
“A redneck.” She thought and then nodded. “No education. Lives in the woods. Not very bright.”
“Right. Okay, here we go…you know you’re a redneck…Tarjomeh,” he reminded her.
She did as she was told. Her translation of redneck took a couple of minutes, and the two men in front nodded politely.
Austyn continued. “You know you’re a redneck if the only tooth you’ve got left is the one you’re wearing on a chain around your neck.”
She simply stared at him.
“No, wait a minute,” he said. “I’m not remembering that one right. It had something to do with your hound dog’s tooth.”
She looked at him. “You know, most these people live in the mountains. They’ve never seen a dentist in their lives, and if they ever have seen one, it was for the sole purpose of having their teeth pulled.”
“I’m sorry. That was insensitive,” he said, feeling the heat rise into his scalp. “Okay, try this one for them. I’ve got it. You know you’re a redneck when your dad walks
you to school because you’re in the same grade.”
Fahimah smiled and translated. They were some nods and polite smiles. She didn’t have to say anything more.
“Okay, I’m done,” he said quietly.
The two men in front started making noises, motioning to him to continue. “Come on, you can come up with more,” she spoke to him gently, as if she wanted to make sure his feelings weren’t hurt.
“You know you’re a redneck when you keep your food stamps in the ice box.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what a food stamp is.”
Rather than explaining it to her, he decided to try a new line. “You know you’re a redneck when you and your wife get divorced and you’re still cousins.”
Fahimah shook her head again. “There are a lot of marriages in the same tribes and families among the Kurds. They won’t find that funny,” she lowered her voice. “In fact, you might insult them.”
“I’m not doing too well, am I?”
“You’re doing great,” she said encouragingly. “It’s just a different humor.”
“Do Kurds love their mothers-in-law?” he asked, remembering another line.
“No. Not always. There are a few jokes about that.”
“Then try this on them. You know you’re a redneck when you're always looking to find your mother-in-law's picture on the back of a milk carton.”
“Why would they put anyone’s picture on the milk carton?” she asked.
“Missing people’s faces...” He shook his head. “If you have to explain it…it’s not funny anymore. Guess I won’t be going on the comedy circuit anytime soon.”
She bit her lip, trying to hide a smile. “Well, perhaps not in Kurdistan, anyway.”
Jokes forgotten, the driver pointed straight ahead and said something to Fahimah. The other man said a few words as well. Looking in the same direction, Austyn caught a glimpse of blue waters ahead.
She turned to Austyn when the two men finished. “They were telling me about this famous resort at Lake Dokan.”
Along the way, Fahimah had told him about Dokan being a beautiful resort town northwest of Suleymaniyah. The man-made lake was a large reservoir.
