Marine at War

Smashwords Edition.
Copyright 2010 Merrell Michael
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For First Platoon

And Turqious

NEW YORK, IN AUTUMN

I am in New York in Autumn, and I am eighteen. I

have always lived here, and I still love it. I have always
loved it. Jess has broke up with me, and I still love it.
She told me that she couldn’t take the distance
any more. She told me that and then she told me a
noncommittal generalization toward friendship. I wanted
to fuck after she was done with college, so I agreed.
After that I saw Dad. He spoke in vague tones too, about
being a prison guard someday, like him. A pointed
remark about how I was talking about the Marines
instead of college. An overtone of blame. There is much
of that here, but this is now and this is New York and I
bury my head in the sky.
I am trying to think of Spiderman, swinging from
building to building. That is the advantage to the city. It
promotes daydreams of Spiderman. Behind him the
green goblin is chasing, throwing bombs, weaving back
and forth, I think of his rocket glider, humming, then
roaring. The rocket glider is loud, as loud as a plane.
There is a wave of pressure. There is a feeling, a feeling
of magnitude. I look around, and others are starting to
join me. To search for spiderman.
There is something on fire from one of the towers.
“Did you see that?” The man next to me asks.
“No.” I answer, truthfully.
“A damn plane. Must have had something wrong
with it. Just-bam.”
The plane flies close, and low, and the green goblin
roars, to conquer spider-man in the middle of the
building. This time I see the pressure, the enormity of it.
Of the fire that should be in a movie, a massive ball.
There are no words. I wonder, what will the television
say? A cab driver gets out, and holds up a cheap
disposable camera.
“Will you take it?” He asks. I take it from him and
look through the viewfinder. He is smiling broadly, and
his teeth are flat white squares. Behind him I see
spiderman, falling toward earth, and I wait for the hope
of a web line. There is now blackness in the smoke. And
sirens.
“No.” I tell him. “I cant.”
“You should take it.” He says. “This is history.” I
notice for the first time that he is Arabic, and I wonder
what country he was born in.
“I cant.” I say. “Im sorry.” I hand the camera back
to him. He gives it to an elderly wall street type, and the
shutter beeps. And the sight of the flash, I hear sirens.
“There’s another one.” Someone offers. “Another
one jumped. Where’s the fucking police? Isn’t that what
we fucking pay them for?
I think of dad again. I wonder if he is off shift, and
sleeping. I hope he took his pills, the kind of pills that
knock him out cold. I hope he even took a drink before
crashing like he sometimes does.
The green goblin has thrown a dust bomb. It moves
up the streets, horribly, inexorably. He laughs his terrible
laugh in my head, the laugh of the cab driver, and people
run and scream, from the destruction of New York.
 PART ONE
MARINE CORPS BOOT CAMP
PARRIS ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA

There are things we know, and things we don’t

know. Then there are the things we don’t know we don’t
know.

-Donald Rumsfield

The yellow was the crispest canary yellow of any

footprint in the entire world. The black was not really
black, it was pebbled intense charred grey of black top
freshly minted. And the Drill Instructor was everything in
the world that orbited. When he screamed, his body
became the scream, and his whole being reverberated.
And we screamed back. We were forbidden to look at
him. Yet, everywhere he actually resided was a point of
singular truth, of khaki and green that stood up by itself.
I wished then that I had gone to church. Maybe there I
would have seen clothing that was this immaculate, this
pressed.
We were taken to receive our phone call home. I
had expected this. I reached for the phone.
“GET BACK!” The drill instructor screamed. “You
fail!! No one gets a phone call!!”
 I had done something, and now everything that
came afterward went off the rails. The head shaving
came next, almost instantly. The razor blade dug into my
head with harsh jabs. I could feel blood welling up of my
forehead. The barber grunted and laughed, in his best
Sweeney Todd imitation. Then I was shoved forward, to
stand against a wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I could
see piles of hair on the floor.
Don’t eyeball anything. The Drill Instructor said.
There were six of us there, in that room. It was a
classroom. We were given papers to sign, then told to
put our heads down as a group. We all did so. There was
a clock on the wall that ticked. I did not fall asleep until
nearly an hour had passed. The fluorescent bulbs burned
through my eyelids to the retina, and I dreamed of a vast
red wave.
There was another Drill Instructor. The last one had
been black, and this one was white, with gold framed
glasses
If you have anything to confess
Now is the time
There will not be another chance
A guy with red hair raised his hand.
“I smoked weed, last night.”
He was escorted out, never to return. I was about
to spend my first night at Parris island.

RECEIVING
 My first lesson in marching was clumsy and slow. I
was put it a platoon, in what I would later think of as a
platoon, what I then had no words for other than a group.
Four long columns. A collage of jeans, t-shirts, polo
shirts. The Drill Instructor corrected us solely.
LEHEFT, RIGHIGHT LEHEFT, RIGHIGHT
NASTY NASTY RECRUITS
It was a parade of slow ants, of people trying
unsuccessfully to mimic a sort of military movement. A
smooth professional was guiding us. It was humiliating
and terrible.
I was issued, tossed rather, my uniforms.
What size? Said the Marine. My first non-Drill
Instructor look at a real Marine. I said medium, so
medium is what I received. The camouflage green. My
camies. So new and crisp when I received them. The
dark greens and browns. The khaki tan. My class A’s. And
more accessories. Running shoes. We were ordered to
change, to strip, put on the blouse, trousers, and cover,
with the go-fasters. What were those items? All I had
with me were my uniforms. Then I saw the others putting
on the camouflage pants and shirt. And the camouflage
hat. With the white running shoes. This was a lesson
here. I would need to remember it. In this world,
everything had a different name than the one I had lived
in. From there I was taken to a store, a sort of mini store,
and given a list of things I was required to purchase. I
was handed a debit card. The majority of the items were
cleaning supplies. I felt a sense of unease, why was I
buying so much ajax? But then I saw the chevrons I had
purchases. They made me feel proud somehow. For now,
that would do. We packed everything into a green duffel
bag. This was called a sea bag. Why? We were on land.
But we half marched to the building.
The building was a long corridor which stank with
strong lemon disinfectant. The walls shone of white
cement. The floor was polished smooth and shiny. There
was a long gleaming path, between two rows of bunks.
The Drill Instructor was large and black this time.
LET ME EXPLAIN THINGS VERY CLEARLY
YOU CAN SLEEP AS SOON AS YOU UNDRESS
AT THE COUNT OF TEN
This proved impossible. It was three thirty in the
morning when we eventually managed to do this. We
had an hour and a half to sleep. I lay on the thin wool
blanket, scratching the back of my scalp with fibers.
Thinking that I would not sleep. Yet I did. And then the
harsh fluorescent lights were on, someone screamed
LIGHTS LIGHTS LIGHTS
And it was time to wake.
On my first full day I went to eat breakfast at a
cafeteria called a chow hall. This was also a nearly
impossible task. I was not allowed to look anyone in the
eye. I could not manage to talk the way I was supposed
to .
“Eggs.”
‘Eggs what?”
“Please?”
 The space monkey in front of me took pity on me
and dolloped on my tray a scoop of yellow. “Your
supposed to say ‘eggs, recruit’ “ He told me. I sat in a
row and choked down a spoonful of cold oatmeal. Then it
was time to go.
I was issued my rifle. My weapon. And M-16. Mine.
It was a sphincter check. MINE. This was a thing of
hardened black steel. It smelled strange, of oil, greases,
and gases. It was larger and heavier than I expected. It
was realer than I expected. It was more intense than I
expected. We were shown how to put the weapons over
our shoulder.
PORT ARMS, NASTIES
The drill instructor shook his head at our failure
PORT ARMS
THAT’S WHAT ITS CALLED
I CANT WAIT FOR YOU NASTIES TO START
TRAINING
Again, shame and failure. As we marched, bobbing
up and down, to the building I was trying to think of as a
squad bay. Inside we ran a steel cable through the rifle
chamber, and secured it with a combination lock.
MEMORIZE THE COMBINATION
AND THE SERIAL NUMBER ON THE RIFLE
THEN STRIP TO YOUR SKIVVIES
It was a march from there, to the track and pull-up
bars, where we would have the initial strength test.
 My leg throbbed as I went in the back of the truck
to Sickbay. I had heard them using the word on Star
Trek. They used it here. Sickbay. Everything was over,
and I was done for.
I had spent so much time worrying about the pull-
ups, that I had never worried about the run. Still, I had
failed the pull-ups. Looking into the blue sky, straining to
hoist myself over the white medical tape that wrapped
the bar.
ONE
The minimum was three,
As we started the run, my arms burned with the
failure. Then I tripped over mothing, and heard the snap.
And screamed.
In the truck, my eyes were filled with tears.
“A stress fracture.” The navy doctor said. “ A bad
one. Just need a cast.” He patted me on the shoulder.
“What training day are you?”
HE DOESN’T HAVE ONE
HE BROKE IT ON THE IST
“Wow.” The doctor shook his head. “Day zero.
That’s tough.”
After I gave up my rifle, I was allowed a phone call.
I sniffled into the receiver and told my parents what was
writted on the paper I had been handed.
“I am Being sent to Medical Rehabilitation
Platoon.” At the end of the sentence, I was crying hard.
The Drill Instructor took the phone from me.
 YOUR BOY WILL BE FINE
MRP, the yellow letters seemed to ring out, on the
red sign. FAILURE, it said to me. I this squad bay, there
were recruits with all sorts of bandages and stitches. This
was the bottom of the cliff, where the Spartan babies
that had been deficient laid to rest. Babies like me.
I was told to sit on a foot locker, and read.
I did so for two weeks.
After two weeks, Dent came to MRP.

TRAINING DAY ZERO

“Ever trace a pen around your veins to find out

where they are?”
Dent was busy doing so.
“Cant say I have.”
“The trick is, if you get caught, don’t say its for
finding the best place to slit your wrist.” He offered a
hand. “Im Dent.” He said.
“Thanks. Um..isnt that against?”
“Obama’s about to repeal don’t ask don’t tell. Have
you heard about Juliet Company?”
“No.”
“Juliet Company’s going to be the first mixed-
gender Marine Corps Training company. Its going to be in
fourth battalion. Mix of male and female drill instructors.
They dropped me here, until it starts.”
 ‘Why’d they do that?”
I got caught.” Dent said. “Kissing a guy.”
“That sucks.”
‘I don’t know. It was a good kiss.”
We talked for days. It was the first real
conversation I remembered having since getting to boot
camp. I told him all about my parents in Virginia, about
growing up home schooled, about my books. Especially
about my books. I mentioned to him that I felt like the
prisoner in the Count of Monte Christo, and he told me
he knew what I was talking about.
“What do you know about boot camp?” he asked.
‘Just that Im in MRP.”
“Did you research it at all?”
“I read a couple of books.”
“On boot camp?”
“Yeah.”
“How about the internet? Do you know the
different weeks?”
“No.”
“First there’s hell week. Then series drill. Then
field week. Swim Qual. Rifle Range. A week working
chow hall.” He went on, and broke down to me the
minutiae of Marine Corps basic training. What post
orders were. When I would be allowed to wear boots.
When I would be allowed to blouse those boots. What
everything meant.
That night I was on fire watch. A way of staying
awake and wearing a uniform, carrying with me my first
symbol of authority, a flashlight with a red lens. I could
not walk that much with the heavy cast on my leg.
Mostly I sat on a chair on the far end of the squadbay,
and listened to the noise of everyone snoring. Someone
taps me on the shoulder.
I am asleep.
“Hey.” Dent says. “Cmere.”
A window is open in the squadbay. A flashlight
flickers at the far end, in the next building. Dent flickers
his own light back. He jumps out the window and I follow
him. Dramatically, he puts a finger across his lips, and
we both hobbled across. I tried to avoid my leg as much
as I could. At the far end two female recruits helped us
up. The blonde one hugs Dent. We sneak across the
room, next to the supply closet. Inside, the girls unscrew
a bottle of Listerine and swig it.
“God.” The blonde says. “Recruit Jones is such a
bitch.”
“I think shes a dyke. “ Says the redhead. “Shes
always up the Drill Instructors ass, everyday. I was like, I
need a head call, recruit? And she was like, say aye,
guide.”
The redhead sits in my lap. I can feel my erection
growing. She hands me the bottle and I take a deep
swig. She is not pretty, with pale skin and deep acne
scars. But she is female, and she is human. Dent is
already making out with the blonde. “Hey.” The redhead
says. “Im over here.” I kiss her, awkwardly. The kissing
leads to groping. We fuck the two recruits in female MRP
side by side. Their tits are floppy and loose, swaying in
time with our thrusts.At one point, they hold hands while
we do so. When it is done my head is swimming with the
Listerine and I cannot think of anything to say.
“I thought you were gay.” I tell Dent.
“I never said I was gay.” Dent says.
‘You said you kissed a guy, or something.”
“That doesn’t make you gay. It just means you
want to get out.”
‘Whatever, dude.”
“I like nasty stank recruit pussy as much as the
next recruit.”
“Fuck you!” Says the blonde.
“Lets go.” Says Dent.
As soon as we get back into the MRP squadbay, I
hear a female drill instructor screaming
ARE YOU FUCKING DRUNK, SANCHEZ?
The female recruits respond back in a crescendo
“Aye ma’aam!”

The next day starts my first real attempts at a pull-

up.
The motion should be simple. Pulling up with my
arms, until my chin clears the pole. Then, dropping
down, and doing it again. And again. Until I can finally
manage to perform the task three times in repetition.
Which seems impossible.
 My arms are little bands of weak jell-o. Still, I had
nothing but time. So we talked. And I did pull-ups. And
push-ups. Until I could do one. Then three. Than five.
Then ten.
I was taken out to the naval hospital on Parris
Island for a MRI on my leg. I remember the earplugs,
sitting in the booth and hearing the THUMP THUMP
THUMP of the MRI firing. When it was over, the cast was
taken off my leg. All was not yet well.

The IST track seemed to me to be a demon in ond

of itself in that late spring in south Carolina. But slowly, I
learned how to run. And run. When I passed the IST, I
told Dent. He nodded and looked down at the floor.
“Their processing me out.” He said.
“What about Juliet Company?” I asked.
“That was all bullshit.” He said. “You’re an easy
target.”
“Why? Why are they processing you out?”
“Seizures.”
“You didn’t tell me about seizures.”
“I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t know. I just, bam, up
and had one a week before graduation. Before I would
have made it off the fucking island.”
“That sucks.”
The punch was fast and flew at my face. I felt the
taste of copper in my mouth, the wet blood dribbling
down. He stood over me and rained down blows, as I
held up my hands and waited for him to stop. Then he
cried and told me that he never would be a Marine, the
only thing he had ever desired. I held him and said that I
would be the Marine for both of us, the Marine he had
trained me to be. I would do this, for he was my friend
and I loved him.

In the morning, we both scrambled to get up

together in another day at boot camp. Everyone knew,
and said nothing. We were both leaving.

HELL WEEK

I did twenty pull ups on the IST.

I was the second fastest runner.
Senior Drill Instructor Staff Sargeant Martinez Ruiz
was wearing a shiny belt and sitting up front with us on
the quarter deck. He was telling all the recruits very
carefully about what would be expected of them. As soon
as he was finished two Drill Instructors marched up side
by side in perfect robotic step.
We sat Indian style and watched them recite their
oath
THESE RECRUITS ARE ENTRUSTED TO MY CARE
I WILL TRAIN THEM TO THE BEST OF MY
ABILITY
I WILL DEVELOP THEM INTO SMARTLY
DISCIPLINED
PHYSICALLY FIT BASICALLY TRAINED MARINES
 THUROUGHLY INDOCTRINATED IN LOVE OF
CORPS
AND COUNTRY
I WILL DEMAND OF THEM AND DEMONSTRATE
BY MY
OWN EXAMPLE THE HIGHEST STANDARDS OF
PERSONAL CONDUCT MORALITY
AND PROFESSIONAL SKILL
It ended with
GET ON THE LINE
GET ON THE LINE NOW
Hell week had begun, on my very first training day.
There was nothing but pride in me.
Throughout it all, through the entire week, through
the screaming, the yelling, through the telling to get on
line, the Marine Corps push ups (four count) the flutter
kicks, the sand pit, the sand fleas, inside I was grinning
from ear to ear. Outside I was all business, barking “LETS
GO, RECRUITS!” First in line for PT, to train, always
correct. I knew the correct way to ask to go to the
bathroom
“Sir, recruit Michael requests permission to make a
head call sir, SNAP good morning gentlemen!”
I knew how to march. I knew somewhat of drill. I
made friends. By the end of the week, I was a squad
leader. Marching in the front to chow. Eating in ten
seconds, one utensil, right hand only, five four three two
one done sir done.
 At the end of the week I went to the recruit chapel
for the first time. Inside I saw stained glass windows
depicting angels reaching out and plucking up dead
Marines in Vietnam. I thanked God for giving me the
opportunity to join them. When I came back, I wrote a
letter to my parents for the first time, telling them that
things were going well and that I was in training.

The next week, I beat the shit out of a guy with the
pugil sticks.

SERIES DRILL

And finally, I am allowed to blouse my boots.

The drill field is a large parking lot area next to the
third battalion chow hall. We stood out there in
formation, at parade rest. Rifles out, arms extended. The
call was given.
PLATOON
ATEN HUT
We snapped to attention. One motion. One fluid
motion. How to explain it?
Everyone wants to be part of something bigger
than themselves. Drilling gives you that option. Your
body becomes part of a larger body, your clothing part of
a larger clothing, your mind part of a larger mind. It all
syncs up on given commands. Turn, go straight, bring
your rifle out in front of you.
 RIGHT OBLIGUE
FORWARD MARCH
PORT ARMS
LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LOWRIGHTY tells your feet
where to position themselves. Executed flawlessly.
Marine Corps Boot Camp is a competition. They
don’t tell you that, but it is. Each of the platoons
competes against each other for series drill. The winner
gets to keep the series guidon, that says INDIA
COMPANY, next to the platoon guidon that merely bares
the numbers 3070.
After we won the guidon, an enraged group of
recruits from platoon 3069 came up two flights of stairs
to steal it. We battles with them hard, flinging boots and
fists. As I smashed in the nose of a bird like looking kid
with birth control inducing glasses I could see Drill
Instructor Martinez looking through the blinds of his
office, smirking.

SWIM WEEK

This was the first event I partook in that separated

the Infantry from the non-Infantry. I was Infantry, and
thusly had the hardest swim qual.
The swim week started with treading water. Some
failed even to do this. They went under, and Swim
Instructors flopped out a red float for them. Another
object of failure. But I was buoyant. I made it to the
surface. I did not gasp for breath, and splash uselessly.
Then we swam the length of the pool, in full gear. Flak
jacket, rifle, and Kevlar helmet. Dragging another recruit
across the pool. This I did as well I felt exhilarated. In
love with my own success. Sweat cooling in the chlorine.
Why hadn’t I been on the swim team at school? If I could
have done this, I could have done that.
Finally, a drill instructor grabbed me and wrestled
me underwater. I grappled with him, trying to remember
to stay calm, and threw him off, exploding up for air.
The ones that failed tried again. But at the end of
the week, ten recruits were gone, unable to hold their
heads above the hard waters of Parris Island.

RIFLE RANGE

The first hump we did took us out to the Rifle

Range. A hump is a three mile forced march, with heavy
packs, wearing flak jackets and Kevlar helmets, and
carrying our rifles. Throughout it all the Drill Instructors
voice was ever present.
TIGHTEN IT UP
REACH OUT AND TOUCH THE PACK IN THE FRONT
I was sweating and my legs were cramping. There
was a headache from the helmet. The entire thing was
wonderful. My trial by fire. The source of my pain.
Training. Along the way, we drank water. Drinking water
was everything in boot camp. It was called hydration.
Along the way recruits pissed and puked on themselves.
But we made it.
 The rifle range seemed to be one giant salt flat. It
was flat and long. The squad bays were larger than the
ones in third battalion. Third battalion squad bays were
built in the thirties. The receiving squad bays were built
in the forties. These were newer, dating back to only
Vietnam.
Inside we were tormented for about twenty
minutes or so. Then we were allowed to drop packs, and
rest. And meet the range instructor.
The rifle range instructor spoke with a grin,
although he wore a Smokey the bear campaign cover,
and he allowed us to look at him. In an excited voice, he
told us about the fundamentals of marksmanship. It was
all a matter of aligning the sights, and disciplining your
breath. There was a matter of slowly squeezing the
trigger. There was the matter of not looking at your
target, but only at the tip of the front sight.

On the day when I would shoot a firearm for the

first time in my life the sun was smooth and clear and
the air was not muggy. I felt a slight stirring in my loins,
something which had been inactive since Jerel. We were
given a dry fire at first. I could feel the hammered click of
the bolt coming home. Then I was to load the rifle, and I
clipped in the grey banana with the five bullets. It was
more than I had expected.
The shot took me entirely by surprise. I heard three
noises, and would manage to hear all three every time
thereafter that I would fire the M-16. First, the explosion
of gunfire from the muzzle. Next, the musical chime of
the spent cartridge ejecting. Finally, the boom of the
bullet breaking the sound barrier. Everything was alive
with color. The green of the grass. The darker green and
brown of my Marine Combat Uniform. And finally, most
glorious of all, the grey of the gunpowder from the end of
the blue blavk barrel. We fired off four more to sight the
weapons, but that one made me feel like a man. It made
me a man. It made me born.
Everyday that week, we repeated the same
routine. Wake up, PT, fire weapons all day. The drill
Instructors backed off all week. Until the night, when the
torture could resume.
PAIN IS WEAKNESS LEAVING THE BODY
NIETZSCHE WROTE THAT
ON A RECRUITING PAMPHLET
HAVE ANY OF YOU READ NIETZSCHE
There are three recruit squad leaders in a Marine
Corps basic training platoon. There is also one recruit
picked to carry the guidon, the bright red flag with gold
numbers that represents the platoon, three zero seven
zero. Ten recruits failed to qualify on the rifle range, and
thus were dropped from training. One of those was our
guide, a tall, thin lipped idiot who took pleasure in telling
us that his father was a major. I was first squad leader.
And so I became the guide, of platoon 3070. I had
qualified expert. I had become a man. I was twenty six
and I had discovered a great new meaning to life.

FINAL INSPECTION
 We were two months into training. I had been at
boot camp an extra month on top of that, and things
were finally winding down. The end was finally near.
As guide my life was suddenly harder than it had
ever been before. I was punished on the quarter deck
whenever a recruit was found to be deficient in some
way. My eating time in the chow hall was timed to the
count of tenm when I had to tell the platoon to stop
eating and leave. But I was more full of pride than I had
ever felt before in my life. I was actually accomplishing
something. I had arrived here a fat, depressed, antisocial
twentysomething loser. I was about to leave a warrior,
and, more importantly, a leader of warriors. And I had
found my manhood in the process.
Before final drill we were allowed to finally possess
hair, to have high and tight haircuts instead of bald
heads. Our uniforms, class A green and khakis, were
neatly pressed on a day spent in preparation. We shaved
even more carefully than before. I polished my one
badge, the crossed rifles and laurel wreath of rifle expert
I had earned.
During the inspection the mojor that led Mike
Company moved down the row neatly, each recruit
presenting his weapon for inspection deftly. All was
going well. Then I heard a grimace of disgust. I looked
down the red floor of the squad bay. A recruit had pissed
himself.
Drill Instructor Martinez dragged us both back into
the supply closet. No one spoke, the tension heightened
by countless bottles of Ajax bleach lined up neathly on
the shelves. The beating was quick and surgical. The
little recruit crumpled up fast, finally moaning in a fetal
position on the floor. I held parade rest as long as I could.
Eventually, I joined him. There on the ground, I felt rage
at this recruit, who had shamed us both. I would
probably be fired as guide.
But when we marched to chow that day, when I
attempted to fall in the back, he looked at me and said
GET UP FRONT, GUIDE
THAT’S YOUR PLACE
And so I marched proudly, the pain in my face and
gut supsiding with every step..

CRUCIBLE

The wall that had proven impossible to Private Pyle

was easy. The rope beyond that as well. I was on the way
to victory. We had a physical fitness test. A three mile
run with pull ups, and I had a perfect score.
For the crucible we packed MRE’s, and name tape
camies. The name tapes were placed above our breast
pockets, that said MICHAEL and US MARINES. After the
crucible ceremony, they would be ours to wear. Finally,
we would be Marines.
It was a five mile hump to the start of the crucible.
From there, we would begin the events that would last
three days. This was the finishing touch. And it was easy.
It was beyond east. With no sleep and little food, it was
easy. There was nothing that could stop us at this point.
And nothing did.
 Drill Instructor Martinez sang cadence the whole
way back to the Iwo Jima memorial. It was a beautiful
day, even more beautiful than the rifle range, that
moment in time of early morning. I was beginning to love
that moment, to cherish it in my heart as my own. The
moment of new me. There were blisters in the soles of
my jungle boots and sweat coating the front of my
camies, but I did not care. The cover on my head bore an
eagle, globe, and anchor, that was emblazoned in my
heart.
We stood at attention in front of the memorial. A
country song played a refrain, over and over
I’m proud to be an American
Cause at least I know I’m free
And I wont forget the men who died
And gave their life for me
I received a small, metal, eagle globe, and anchor
in my hand
ABOUT TIME, MICHAEL
SHAKE HANDS LIKE A MAN
And cried like a baby. I had done it.
Afterwards, we went to the chow hall, and ate like
kings, using both hands, and as long as we wanted.

GRADUATION

Before Graduation, the drill instructor calls me into

his office. “I would like you to meet,” he gestures to his
side. “Corporal Dent.”
Corporal Dent.
Dent is a corporal. He of MRP.
Corporal.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Michael.”
‘This recruit..”
“You don’t have to talk like that, Michael. Your
about to graduate.”
“Im not sure whats going on.”
“Your part of a very special program.” Dent
interrupts. “Let me show you something.” He hands me a
file.

MILITARY SERVICE RECORD

MICHAEL, MERRELL A.

Recruit Training- Pvt. Michael shows marked

weakness and unfitness in all key attributes of recruit
training. Involvement in the Intensive Buddy Program
has been recommended. Cpl. Dent has been assigned as
Michael’s IBP.

IBP After action-

 Pvt. Michael showed increased motivation and
discipline in all areas. He excels at teamwork and
leadership abilities. He looks to complete basic training
of Plt. 3070 in a leadership role. IBP involvement ruled a
success.

I stare at the words, unsure of their meaning at

first. When the realization hits me it comes all at once, as
if in a wave.
“It’s a complete success.” Dent says.
‘Let me tell you something, Michael.” Martinez
says. “Do you remember me?”
‘No sir.”
“I was in MRP, Michael, I remember you. When you
first got to MRP, you were in bad shape. You remember
that, don’t you?”
“yes, sir.”
‘Real bad shape. I wouldn’t have put much stock in
you graduating. Being where you are today.”
“It’s a bigger problem.” Corporal Dent says. “Were
getting a lot of recruits like you these days. The video
game generation. How are we supposed to fight a war
with this?”
“But we fixed you up. Your better now, Michael.
You’re a Marine.”
Im better now.
Better.
 I was the honor graduate for Mike Company, and I
received a full set of dress blues. I had also received the
rank of Lance Corporal. I never would be Private Michael.
Never would be the weak thing they described in the
memo.
But was it real? Had I earned any of it? Had any of
it come from me, from my effort? What was real,
anyway? Suddenly all that I worked for seemed false.
Funny hats and shirts. Rediculous ideas and idealogy. A
program for masochists. What was behind that program?
What extant did it reach? How far up did it go? I kept
thinking about fucking the girl in MRP. Was that
arranged? Did she know about Dent? Was she some
whore, paid off by the government? What of the country
song? Is that the official music of the Marine Corps? What
is tradition, anyway? Is it just things you’ve done in the
past? Things that have been done before you?
Who makes things this way? Who tells us all where
to go?

We marched across the parade ground and waited

for that final call. When it came
DISMISSED

I ran over to my mother and father, and my brother

Tony, and embraced them, and told them I was ready to
leave. The bleachers they sat in were bright aluminum,
that reflected a big, yellow, September sun, shining
overhead in the South Carolina sky.
 PART two
The mediterreanean ocean
aboard the uss bataan

We do not do these things because we wish to. We

do them because we are compelled.

-Alan Moore

ONE

I am the age of old dead rock stars. I am Twenty-

Seven, and looking to join their club. I am staring at the
wallet photo of the beautiful black woman I have
married. I am staring into her tan skin, into her long
straight hair, and I am waiting for the world to end.
I have been on another world, the grey aircraft
carrier world of the USS Bataan. There is a vast hanger
bay here, we all are standing in. I am on my pack, the
tan ranger pack rucksack I will carry to war. Next to me
is the true love of my life. Sweetness, My M16 rifle. Atop
a red dot sight blinks. I am a true American baddass
here, done up in flak jacket Kevlar and with night vision
goggles strapped to my helmet.
“We wont go anywhere, dude.” Bill tells me. “You’ll
get back to Turq soon enough. What the hell kind of
name is that for a chick?”
“Its short for Turqious.” I tell him.
 “That’s a California sort of name.” I say.
“Arent you from Virginia?” He says. “Oh yeah,
that’s right. The internet.”
A reporter lady comes up to us in a blue pants suit,
a stark contrast to our desert battle dress uniforms. She
smiles around gold hoop earrings shaped in convex
curves vaguely reminiscent of sea shells. “Do you have
any good luck charms?” She asks us. A cameraman
appears behind us. I hold out the wallet photo of my
wife. “How did you two meet?” She asks.
“The internet.” Bill tells her.
The camera flashes. She scribbles on her pad. I go
back and sit down on my pack. Sargeant Rielly comes
over.
‘What did you tell the reporter, Mikey?”
‘That were going to rape Bin Laden up his ass,
Sargeant.”
“With a rusty spoon.” Bill adds.
“That’s good shit.” Rielly says. And goes back on
his pack. “How old do you think Rielly is?” Bills asks me.
“Thirty-something, I guess.” I respond.
“Nope. Hes twenty-nine. Two years older than you.
Isnt that fucking crazy?”
“Lots of things are fucking crazy.” I tell him. I am
looking around the vast hanger bay of the USS Bataan,
trying to cement the moment in my mind. The Harrier jet
in the corner, being taken apart by crew chiefs. The cool
sea breeze outside, December in the Mediterranean. The
look of grey piping on every wall, the feel of black tarmac
anti skid under my feet. Things that I will, never, ever,
experience again, when I finally leave this and I am once
again human. The look of all the marines around me,
most of them the same age as my little brother, at least
half of them not old enough to drink. The premature age
on the faces of the Non-commisioned officers like
sergeant Rielly. The weight of it. After today, will I feel
the weight?
Crates are suddenly being pried open. Reilly
speaks. “Listen up, first.” He says. “Line up for ammo.”
The brass rifle bullets, Nato standard 5.56 millimeter are
passed out. Six magazines of thirty, a combat load. My
thumb works quickly from repetition, stripping each one
from the feeder clip, reveling in the ra-chink of the bullet
meeting its kindred. A soft noise of the spring
depressing. As I work, a sudden paralysis grips me. Will
this be the one that fails me? Will this be the bullet that
fails to fire, that double-feeds inside the chamber of my
rifle, the bullet that gets me killed? Will this be the bullet
that I fire by accident, the bullet that wounds another
Marine? The bullet that haunts me for the rest of my life?
The bullet that slowly kills me? Each round has a green
painted tip. Every fifth round is painted red, for a tracer. I
try to imagine dualing lightsabers, Darth Vader and Luke
Skywalker. Battling for my very soul.
Someone sets a long green tube next to me and
says. “Strap it on your pack.” I look at my present. I have
received an AT-4 rocket launcher. Next on this
ammunition Christmas, and it is indeed December, I am
given two live hand grenades. I place them in their
pouches, next to my heart. I have had nightmares of this
moment for years. Since Saving Private Ryan. I knew
then that it would be my destiny to go through this. To
live this nightmare. To follow in not my fathers footsteps,
of the air force. Nor my grandfathers footsteps, of the
Navy reserve. But instead to walk in my own shoes,
down the bloody path of an Infantry Marine. I had signed
up right after being laid off from my last shit retail job.
This was it. Here I was.
“Do you got a dip, dude?” Bill asks me. I bring out
a borrowed can of Copenhagen. Bill grimaces.
“Formaldehagen again. This is some nasty shit. Did you
get this from Schueher?” I nod. Hearing his name, Ryan
comes into view.
Corporal Ryan Schueher. He of the non-infantry. He
of the pretty boy Marines in the barracks in Washington
DC. He of the four sets of dress blues and perfect drill, he
who carried dead bodies and marched in perfect rhythm
to the sound of taps. He who shaves his head and speaks
in constant jock-macho-preppie bullshit. He who is my
superior, and is in constant control of my life.
“Mikey.” He says. “your not going to fuck this up,
are you?”
“No Corporal.” I respond.
“That’s good. If you make me look bad when we
get to war, things are fucked for you. Im going to go to
your house and sleep with your wife. No, not really, but
just so you know, the ideas there.”
‘Yes Corporal.”
“So don’t fuck up. Nerd. Did you set your watch?”
“No Corporal.”
 “Set it to zulu time. One-oh six A.M.”
My dressing down finished, I grab the can of snuff
from Bill and replace it in my pocket. “Why the fuck do
you let him talk to you like that?” Bill asks.
“I don’t know. Hes in charge.”
“He doesn’t talk to Me like that. He doesn’t talk to
Cory of Jimmy like that. He only pushes you around,
cause you let him.”
‘I guess so. I kind of see it all as a joke, really.”
“Your three years older than him, dude. He needs
to stop.”
“Im just trying to remember the significance of
zulu time, again.”
“Mission time, dude. Mission time. The time zone
all missions are held in.”
“But all its basically doing, is making my watch
worthless.”
“Pretty much. But still, its mission time. So you
should do it.”
“Because Im such a good Marine?”
“Because you less-than-three Scheuher.”
“ALERT SPARROW HAWK ONE EIGHTY. ALERT
SPARROW HAWK ONE EIGHTY.”
“On your feet, India Company!’ The first sergeant
says. I imagine him in Vietnam, his tall and wrinkled
near- corpse leading patrols to snuff out gooks in the
wire. We stand up as a unit, all of us. It’s a fearsome
sight. A hundred Marines, fully equiped for war. “Up the
ramp!”
Up the ramp. Up the far side of the hanger bay is a
long ramp, and we march up. The sea air mixes in my
nostrils with the ozone smell of jet fuel. The ramp is large
enough to pull a helicopter down, yet somehow small
enough to induce claustrophobia. My ranger pack strains
on my back. Sweat drips down the sides of my face,
under my Oakley sunglasses. Will I fall out here? Here,
not even close to the war? Not even a fraction of the way
toward my destiny? Again, I dismiss the idea. I am at the
top of the ramp. Ahead of me is Rielly, then Scheuher. I
am at the tip of the spear. From here I can see the flight
deck of the Aircraft Carrier.
The V-22 Osprey is a strange beast. A mix in
between a helicopter and an airplane. Pure sex from an
episode Of G.I. Yo Joe. Knowing is half the battle. Only it
will have the long range capacity to take us far enough in
country to drop in a hot LZ, in Afghanistan. Afghanistan.
What do I know of the place? What do I even know of the
word, a foreign word, a meaningless term for just
another shit-hole. The power of television has gotten me
to this moment. The power of television, with its sight of
two buildings falling, in a state I have never visited, in a
city I only know from its significance in Marvel Comics.
The power of television had blessed me now with this, in
this moment in time. Would Turquoise understand? I
think of that last phone call. “Let me know when you get
there,” She said to me. How would I do that? The
Osprey’s rotors are tilted up, and the blades are whirring
up. The noise is the beat of an enraged hummingbird.
Schueher turns back to me, his face a huge grin. “This is
it, Mikey.” He says. “Are you ready to become a man?”
The crew chief taps me on the shoulder and I start to
move forward.
On this walk, I will look back someday, and think to
myself, on this walk I am forever preserved, on this walk
I do have a story to tell. The pack strains my back, the
flak strains my chest, the helmet strains my head. The
rifle is surprisingly light in my hands. In the corners of my
eye I see the entirety of the flight deck, with its many
grey osprey’s and its black tarmac and its yellow lines,
and beyond it, the entirety of the sea, a thing too large
to truly be named. It stretches in every direction, forever
and eternal. I march in my ant-line to the back of the
mutant helicopter. On its side I see a little cartoon bald
eagle painted, sitting on a stool and sharpening his
talons. Inside the whine fills my head. A wheeeee more
than a whiiiiiiiiiir, inside the bird forsakes its sleek
grayness for more ugly metal, with visible lines running
around the top and sides for fuel and hydraulics and
electrics and brakes. I scoot in as far as I can, placing my
pack on the floor, the barrel of my M16 facing down.
Next to me is Bill, across from me sergeant Reilly. I sit
and for moments, think of nothing. I feel as though I am
locked into this position due to my proximity. At the side
the crew chief performs his checks. Most of First Squad
makes it into the bird. Brief dizziness encroaches on me.
A wave of nausea. The whine grows louder. The back
ramp closes.
It is a funny thing, to take off in a helicopter. There
is no sudden push of acceleration, as in a jet. Instead,
there is simply a lifting away of the earth from beneath
you. As if a hand had picked you up and plucked you
from the ground, into the sky. I think how Turqious would
understand this feeling if she could, and compare it to a
ride at Disneyland. I look out the back of the ramp, and
watch it fade away. The boat shrinks to the size of a
bathtub toy. Is this what it feels like? To assault the
beaches of Normandy? To charge across the no mans
land? To fight the Persians at the hot gates? Is this what
it feels like? To be a man? To leave your wife, and child
behind? To leave your country, and go to war?
The ospreys circle around in the sky. Around and
around, and then they head out.

Two

I wake up and I am freezing cold. I do not know

how I have managed to fall asleep.
Next to me Bill is awake, his hands in his armpits, a
gout of steam coming out of his breath. Cory is snoring. I
wonder how I can hear it over the propeller whine. I
sniffle, and a small stream of mucus runs down my nose.
Outside it is still daylight. It was morning when we left,
so this must be afternoon. I think about the reasons
behind the cold. The osprey flies high, higher than the
regular helicopter, and the cabin isn’t pressurized.
I wonder how far out we are, and then I see Rielly
pass the signal. Five. Five minutes out. The bird starts to
dip. We are lower now. We are low enough to the point
where I can see the sand. I think of Frank Herberts book.
Dune. Dunes. I only have five minutes. From behind the
loading ramp, green tracers fly. Something hits the side
of the osprey with a rat tat tat.
 The Crew Chief springs into action, seizing the fifty
caliber machine gun and responding back. The fifty goes
buudda buuda bow. I see a camel, and then the camel
disappears, into red and purple puddles of dust.
I am squeezing the pistol grip on Heather.
Everyone is awake now. Magazines are slapped into
chamber. Charging handles are racked. Rielly gives the
signal. Two minutes. The osprey dips lower. I can hear a
challenge to us, and out the window I can see what looks
like an ancient fortress. A prehistoric castle. Castle
Greyskull. The challenge is the harsh, foreign talk of an
AK-47. I think of Schuehers words. I am ready to become
more than man, to become pre-man, to follow older
rules, the oldest rules……
We land hot.
The four Marines ahead of me break into a run
from aboard the helicopter. I hear bullets whizzing in the
air, and then I hear them cracking. There is the sound of
meat being slapped and someone falls in front of me. He
simply jerks to the ground, as if his strings were cut.
Everything is more real than it ever could have been. The
blue sky is the most intense blue. The tan below is a
torment of dust. The stones of the castle are carved from
myth itself, birthed from the forehead of Zeus. More
likely Allah, that dark god of terrible judgment. Allah,
who’s name we sneer at every September. I run ahead,
to where Schueher is pointing. The objective.
The objective is a two foot high berm in the sand.
Next to me Bill is aimed in with his 203 and firing. I feel
hot brass slipping down my shoulderas I focus in. Beside
the objective is a large rubble field. I aim in behind the
red dot. There are many women, bowing down, wearing
blue burqas and praying. There is a rifle between them.
Someone is hiding, behind the burqa woman. Scheuher
leans in my shoulder. “Mikey.” He says. “I want you to
fire.”
I aim in behind my red dot. I slowly squeeze the
trigger. And I fire. I fire my first shot, out of anger. In the
beginning, nothing happens. I fire again. A woman
slumps down. I fire again and again. Bill is firing next to
me. Someone opens up with a M249 SAW. The woman
are all falling down. I do not see anyone with a gun.
Rielly grabs the back of my flak jacket. “Mikey.” He
says. “I want you to put that AT-4 right through that
doorway. You think you can do it?”
‘Yes sergeant!” I tell him. I throw down my M16
and take the tube off my pack. Bill looks behind me and
yells. “Backblast area all secure!”
“Backblast area all secure!” I repeat. It is odd how
the rocket launcher is fired. There is no handle. One
hand grips the sling, and one hand simply flips a little
safety and presses a little red button.
“ROCKET!” I yell. My voice is drowned out by the
boom. Behind me spurts a cone of fire.The rocket races
out, with a white streak, in a tight little mini spiral, and
explodes in the way real explosions go, with smoke and
dust, and not any fireballs at all.
“GO Go Go!” Rielly yells. We are sprinting for the
front door, weapons at the ready. The yards here are the
longest yards, longer than any high school football field.
One eye is free, one eye is looking down the red dot
sight. Inside the doorway I see the effect of my missile. A
man lays on the ground, in traditional rag head clothing..
His right arm is missing and there is a neat hole cut out
of him I look at his black beard. For the first time in my
life, I smell the death-stink, the stench of bowels empty
of their shit. We sweep and clear every room. I hear
sporadic fire. We hold positions, but the fight is over.
I am taking a knee in the middle of what I think of
as the castle courtyard. An engine is running on a large
truck, painted blue and pink and covered with golden
bells, beside it is a large bale, and a pile of RPG’s and
AK’s. Rielly is one the radio. “falcon actual this is falcon
one.” He is saying. “Alternate sight secured. Ready to
proceed to mission point.”
I feel my head spinning. “Sargeant.” I ask. “What
does that mean? This isn’t the objective?”
Rielly takes a swig of water from the tube of his
water bladder and spits. “We had to land hot, Mikey.” He
says. “The birds were taking to much fire. Get a couple
of hours sleep. In a little bit, we’ve got a five mile hump.”
I stand up and stagger for a little bit. I am dizzier
than I realized. Without warning, bile fills my throat and I
vomit. I hear a buzzing noise by my feet, and start to
think of flies.

Three

We carry Pfc. Almodovar and place him aboard the

helicopter for evac, the green camouflage poncho
covering the ugly hole in his head. The ugly hole seems
to place itself in my mind with the question, why wasn’t
that me? What prevent me before running before him?
Almodovar was no faster than I was, and he was possibly
as alert as I was. The only thing I can think of is the
seating arrangements. The seating arrangements saved
my life, and sentenced him to death.
The enemy dead we cover with some found wool
blankets, but otherwise leave where they lie I spread out
my pack and start to clean my rifle. That is what needs
to be done, after the weapon is fired weapons
maintenance must be maintained. As I scrub out the
carbon residue I tell myself lies to maintain the rest of
the Marine weaon:
There was nothing you could have done.
Anyone else would have done the same thing.
After a while, you’ll forget about it.
When I remember to drink water I find that the
afternoon sun has turned it warm in the bladder of my
pack. Bill is inspecting his bare feet, gingerly poking a
blister.
“Are you alright, dude?” I ask.
“Trying to see if Ive got any hot spots yet. I don’t
want my feet all fucked up after tonights hump.’
“That was some pretty intense shit.” I say.
‘Tell me about it.”
“Do you think we ever will?” I ask.
“Will what?”
‘Tell anyone about it.”
 He shakes his head. “No. Not today. Today was too
fucked up. Im taking that shit to my grave. I’ll tell
different kinds of stories, down at the VFW, when I’m
old.”
“What kind of stories?”
“Boot camp stories. That’s the entire point, of
being a Marine. To tell boot camp stories.”
“You don’t tell boot camp stories now.”
“Because its not cool now. Because everyone here
has a boot camp story. But after I get out? Oh, hellz
yeah. Boot camp stories. Boot camp stories and USMC t-
shirts. Fuck, dude.” Bill yawns. “I’m tired.”
I stand the first hour of watch, and then take off
my helmet and body armor. I unroll my sleeping bag
from my pack, but lie on top of it. There is a smell to this
country that fills my nostrils. It is the smell of body odor
and fecal matter. I try to think about all that has come
here before, the Russians. The Greeks. Everyone who
has invaded this country and been broken by it. My
poncho liner is warm and soft. Without wishing for it,
blackness envelopes me.
The first time I met my wife, she was naked.
The club was called Harlem Nights, in Houston. My
wife was dancing on stage. She was long and slender.
Her skin was a dark chocolate mocha. Her lips and
nipples were the same shade of tender brown. Later I
learned that she used the same lipstick for both. Her hair
was long and straight, and she had C- cup breasts and a
large ass. The first time she gave me a lap dance, I had
an orgasm. After that, we learned to talk. And talk. The
talking led to her breaking the rules, and dating me. The
dating led to groping, and fucking. The fucking led to my
daughter, Selah.
I had always preferred black woman. When I joined
the Corps, somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought
of myself as fighting for that right. Here now, in the
desert, near the backs of murdered men. Here now, all
my thoughts turn to you. You will keep me safe and
whole, and when I return to you I will be the better for it.
I will fight Bush’s war, I will fight Obama’s war. I will keep
my rifle clean and ready. Here. Now. At the end of all
things. Let me see our house in North Carolina, Let me
feel the red brick and green grass. It needs mowing, I
hope you are able to do it. Let me see our daughter
learning to walk, her bright green eyes and dark tan skin,
her endless ringlets of curls. I can feel it slipping from
me. Let me breath softly into your cheek and feel the
warmth of your skin. Quickly, before all this fades. Before
all is taken from me.
Schueher wakes me up by nudging me with his
boot. I spring awake. In the next two minutes all my gear
is packed and I am ready to move. The sky overhead is
the dark blue not black of predawn, before anything truly
starts to rise. We move into staggered formation. I test
the sand beneath my feet.
A hump is a forced march, or a hike. A walk with
packs and weapons. Humping in the Marine Corps has
completely ruined my desire to ever go backpacking, one
day. It is a test of endurance, of legs and back. The
march is done leaning forward slightly, to keep pace. We
step out. I keep in sight the man ahead of me, and to my
left. No one speaks. Into the hump, my breath grows
ragged and I can feel my heart beating. I sip water from
the water bladder. I see fonseca ahead, staggering on
short legs, trying to keep up. The air is surprisingly cold. I
remember that its December. Time passes. The terrain
remains the same. After an hour we pass an abandoned
shell of a car, gutted and nearly unrecognizable. We pass
and keep moving. All I think about is the pain in my feet.
Left foot, then right foot. Always leading with the left.
This is the true meaning of infantry, to walk to battle
using your feet.The drill instructor called them two black
cadillacs. But my desert boots are made from brown
suede. An anachronism. We move. I cradle my M16 in my
arms. The Marines chose the M16A4 over the army’s M4.
Said it was better. Spent money on it. Everything is
money. Left foot, right foot. Endlessly. I try to remain
alert, and fail. All I can do is move. It is three hours until I
can see the airport.
The airport is recognizably an airport, with a
distinct air traffic control center and runway. It appears
to be set in the midst of nowhere, for the use of no one.
Reilly calls a halt and collapses the platoon into a three-
sixty, rifles pointed out and ready to kill. I wait and wait. I
wait for the order. Eventually, Scheuher comes beside
me.
“ You awake, Mikey?” He asks. I nod. “Good to
do.” His voice is an unnessacary rasping whisper. “Drop
you pack here. Were going to be the assault element, as
usual. The objective is the airport. Weve got support
from weapons company with mortars, and they’re going
to take out some entrenched guns. When I say double
time, you run like your ass is on fire. Got it?”
 “Yes, Corporal.” I respond.
“After all this is over, theyre going to bring in the
rest of the battalion. For now, its only us.”
“How big is the objective, Corporal?” I ask.
“Shit, Mikey. It’s a fucking airport. Use your
goddamn head.” Schueher leaves. We break off with first
squad. My rifle is up and alert. I hear the whistling sound
of mortars, and see the THUD THUD of the impacts.
Shattering glass and screams. The sound of an AK.
Schueher pumps his fist in the air, signaling double-time.
We are facing the Airport, and we run like hell.

Four

The building we are heading to is colored a sickly

yellow. There is Arabic graphitti on the wall that I am
focusing on. The air port is made of joined arches,
architecture that someone must have been proud of,
once upon a time. Under my feet is the crunch of broken
glass. We stack on the wall, and then break to clear it.
Everything in the Marines is an acronym, and the
acronym we are using is called MOUT. Military operations
in urban Terrain. Tactics developed in Hue City. Used to
clear buildings everywhere It looks like what you see
Swat doing in the movies. Clearing rooms. Checking
corners. In the first room I turn to, there is a sound of life.
My finger is on the trigger. A rat runs out, with large,
sleek black fur. Outside I hear the familiar braaap of a
three round 16 burst. I run out. Someone is running
away, and Bill is firing. The whole squad is suddenly
firing. They continue to run, then jerk up and down. They
stop. The man had a brownish red cap, and a sort of
brown robe. Just then, at that moment in time, I wish to
myself that I knew the words for the clothes these people
wear.
After that we continue to clear the rooms. After a
while we give up on the mout tactics and start to walk.
Everything looks dead, long abandoned. There is plenty
of rubble. I look at the Air Traffic Control tower. Painted
on the side, in blue, it says TEXAS 17.
“We got some bad intel, along the line.” Rielly
points to the tower. “That’s special forces. They must
have already cleared this. All we got left are the
stragglers.”
“Sargeant.” Jonesy the radio operator comes up.
“Lieutenant’s trying to reach you on the radio.”
Sargeant Rielly talks in low tones into the
transmitter. When he gets up, he shakes his head.
“Okay, first. Get outside. Weve got to police call.”
“We have to clean?” Bill asks.
“We have to walk the runway and police call. So
they can land the planes in. Lets go. Hunter, Colon, hold
position in here, in case they show up.”
The runway is nearly two hundred yards long. We
walk across it on line, picking up tiny pieces of rock. First
Platoon is cheerfully bitching the entire time. A
smattering of fuck this shit, a little cant wait till I get out.
Like all good and great Marines, most of us hate the
Corps and the military. This is the secret tradition. At Iwo
Jima, the Marines raised the flag because some colonel
wanted a larger one. The fighting was not over. There is
so much senseless activity here. So we pick up rocks. We
kick rocks off the runway.
“hey, sir.” Hunter asks the lieutenant. ‘Whats with
this shit?”
The lieutenant looks baffled at the question. At the
idea of the question. “The small pieces of rock can tear
up the aircraft engines.” He says. “The pilots call it
foreign object damage.” Then, as if he should lead by
example, he bends down and picks up a small piece of
rock, and throws it aside. Lieutenant Easter is twenty-
two. He has a smooth face and a tiny chip in his front
tooth that makes him look perpetually frightened by the
idea of all that he is doing. At the barracks, we found a
small journal he was keeping in it, he wrote over and
over I should have been a pilot/ I should have flown/I
should have been a pilot I should have flown…..
After every other rock, I look up and see the big
picture of what we are doing. Where we are. The scenery
has changed. There are trees, here. Pine trees. The
ground is rocky and hard, not the smooth silt of sand.
Beyond the large blue letters across the arch that read
KHANDAHAR INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT I can see
mountains. They are veiled in mist, tips stained white,
and remind me of parts of Colorado. All of this reminds
me of the American southwest, Flagstaff, Arizona maybe.
I wonder of the latitude. Arizona by way of Mars.
Back inside what must have been the terminal
building I dig voraciously into an MRE. I eat it cold and
fast. I have to drink from my canteen, as my water
bladder is empty. I sit on my helmet. I am feeling the
drain from the day, from the rush leaving my system. All
of us eat as fast as we can. When we are done, someone
starts to smoke and the idea catches hold. The water hits
my kidneys. My bladder strains with the need to urinate.
“Hey, Sergeant.” I ask. “Where can I go take a
piss?”
Rielly waves his hand. “go out near those bushes. “
He says. “Take a buddy. And put your helmet back on.”
There are many bushes near the surprisingly green
airport. I pick one near a small shack. I feel exposed and
naked, walking across the airport grounds without
holding my rifle out. Bill stands behind me and smokes.
The piss is golden yellow. There are small joys in life that
mean everything when you focus on them. The joy of
pissing, when you’ve been holding your urine
unintentionally all day, is one of them.
As Im buttoning up my fly, I hear a groan from
inside the shack. The stream suddenly dries up, and my
pecker seems to zip itself closed. A few drops hit the leg
of my pant. One darkens the toe of my boot, large and
pregnant with its secret origin.
“Did you hear that?” I ask. Bill nods. His hand is on
his rifle.
The shack appears to be made of thin plywood and
several sheets of corrugated tin. The door juts part open
and Bill slowly pushes it. The sliver of light is thin, and
we walk through. It shows the boy, propped up in the
corner. He says something at us in his language. His skin
is light amber, and grey dirt stains the bottom of his feet.
His right hand is pressed to his belly, from behind it is
dark red. He is breathing heavily. He looks no older than
twelve.
“Mesha.” He says. “Ahhlah allluha.”
In the corner of the shack is a rifle, proppled up
near the broken glass of the window. Bill and I see it at
the same time and nod. The boy speaks to us in his
language.
“What are we going to do?” I ask.
“Nothing to do.” Bill says. “He’s going to bleed out.
Leave him here.”
I point at the rifle. “What about that?” I say.
“That’s what he’ll get a hold of if he gets up.”
Bill scratches his head. “I don’t want to make a lot
of noise.” He says. “If we make a lot of noise, were going
to have to clear everything all over again. Were probably
not going to get to chill, and I want to chill, before what
ever the fuck happens next happens.”
I look at the face of the boy. There is an animal
under there. Underneath the rapid breathing. I can smell
it, smell the unwashed smell of flesh. With terrible
deliberation, I reach for my knife. I unbuckle it from the
front of my flak jacket. The blade of the Ka-bar is black
and shark. Slowly, I bring it out. The boy sees what I am
doing, and lifts a hand out to force me to stop. It is small
to me, and delicately featured. He starts to crawl away
against the tin shack, shuffling back and forth. He stops
and lies there, his chest rising and falling underneath a
thin robe. I turn the knife so the blade faces down in my
hand. I thrust quickly, slamming into his back. He rocks
from the impact. When I pull it out there is a wet popping
noise, and the blood is much brighter than I had
imagined I aim for his neck, and slam again. He is
writhing and my blade half misses. The red is
everywhere, all over my hands and sopping at the
bottom of my boots. Bill has attached his bayonet, and is
sticking the boy in the side. I think of Christ on the cross
as he thrusts. Could this one be the harbinger of some
unknown origin? Unlikely. Any God of hope died in the
last century. His is the new god, the god of blood and
martyrdom seventy-two virgins or endless darkness.
There is very little light in the room. I look up, out the
doorway, and a cloud has passed across the face of the
sun.

Five
“What took you so long?” Schueher asks. “Did you
hold it for each other?”
I grunt uncommittedly. Rielly stares at us for a
moment. His eyes are green and piercing. “You’ve got
blood on your boots, Mikey.” He says.
“There was a dead animal out there.” I tell him. “A
goat or something.”
“Is that what was in the shack?”
“Yes, sergeant.”
“Wipe yourself off with a wetnap. You’ve got some
of that shit on your flak jacket.”
“Yes sergeant.”
“While you were busy, the platoon was briefed on
our new mission. Were setting up a perimeter and
digging in. Second Platoon will be here tomorrow. The
whole company will be here in less than a week. Get your
shit on, and lets go.”
We ruck up and start to move out of the terminal.
In front of the building the landscaping is surprisingly
nice. Flowers bloom amid bushes. Evidence of a vacant
civilization, the red blossoms. Beyond it all the ground is
dusty rock, facing the mountains. Rielly places us all two
at a time, out on a perimeter. There is a road in front of
us, almost two hundred yards that I can make out. It
curves to the right and runs into the airport. This would
be a likely angle of attack.
The Entrenching tool, like so much else in the
Marines, was perfected in Vietnam. It is a black metal
shovel that folds in on itself in three places. Unlike a
regular shovel, it comes to a sharp point, with serrated
edges. These can be used for cutting, or as weapon. Its
use as a weapon in Nam is well documented. I bring it
down sharply, and it meets the earth with a chink chink.
The ground is hard and packed. I hack into it over and
over. Striking again and again. Bill stands point, sighted
in with his weapon, watching down the road. This will be
our hole. This will be our home. The hole gradually
widens to a shallow trench, after several hours. I take a
break, and let Bill take over. He works as hard as I do. I
wonder if all this could count as some sort of penance.
All down the line the sound of Marines at work, digging a
hole to live in, sounds off. Each of us taking small breaks,
to spit tobacco or wipe of sweat. By nightfall, the hard
earth is deep enough for us to squat in. During twilight
we wait for an eventual attack, weapons at the ready.
Here in the hole, everything smells like dirt and dirt is my
friend. I think back to my childhood. Reading Batman
comics, and wishing that I was underground, that I had a
cave. But the dirt here is not the brown loam of home. It
is rock and dust. The colors change overhead, and the
cooling in the air is instant and harsh. From deep red to
blue.
“How are we sleeping tonight?” I ask Bill. He spits.
“Rielly said fifty percent. One of us up and one of
us down.”
“What kind of shifts should we do?”
“I say three hours. Two isn’t enough to sleep on,
and four is too long to stay awake. Three on, three off.”
There are times afterward, when I wished that I
had thought more carefully about decisions that I made
in the blink of an eye. Sleep is important. You cannot
function without it. The rest of my life, on a three hour
sleep pattern. But there was no rest of my life then.
There is only the now, and so I agree and Bill curls up in
his sleeping bag. I take another dip of Schueher’s snuff,
and think. And stare, from behind my M16. The green
LCD of my atomic solar watch counts down until I crash, I
wake and crash, And there is no time to dream.
The next day is a repeat of the first day. We wake
up and eat MRE’s, then start to dig. The deeper we get in
the soil, the more often my E-tool hits large rocks and
sparks fly. I am starting to enjoy the work, the rhythm of
the thing. Strike, and draw back. Strike, and draw back.
When the hole is filled with loose dirt, start to shovel.
This is an act of creation. I am creating a space with
absence.
 “Mikey.” Schueher appears. “Get your shit and
head over to the mortars. Your on a working party to dig
them a hole. Bill too.”
I wipe my face with my uniform top and grab my
weapon and e-tool. Bill saunters next to me, hands in his
pockets. “I will be glad.” He says “When that piece of shit
leaves next year.”
“I think he’s going to re-enlist.” I say.
“So what? He’ll get another job. Some kind of good
job, that we wont even think about. The command loves
him. The point is, he’ll be gone, and we’ll probably both
be Corporals, and we’ll probably have some other dumb
boot to do these working parties.”
“One more year closer.” I tell him. “One more year
closer to getting out.”
Bill grunts. “Were never getting out.” He says.
“Both of us, were going to be stop lossed forever. Were
going to be stuck in first platoon, India company, until
peak oil hits and the revolution begins. Oh fuck. What is
this shit?”
The mortars appear to have chosen the spot for
their pit in the densest pile of little trees possible. Half of
them appear dead, or near dead, yet still upright. The
branches have arranged themselves in ugly twists. There
are four other Marines here, in their green skivvy shirts,
hacking away at the mess with their E-tools. I prop my
rifle up next to the others, and join them. There is a
satisfying chop with every impact. In the air is sweat and
the noise of exertion, and as always, Bill wants to talk.
“You know what this is like, dude?” He says.
 “Im pretty sure your going to tell me.”
“This is like, with those guys. In warcraft three. The
peons are whatever.”
“Yes, me lord. More work?” A goofy looking private
chimes in. I search my mental database for his name,
and come up with Meier.
“Right! Exactly. Thanks dude. That’s what it is
though. This is building a base, and were the bottom of
the food chain, the guys that actually do it. It’s a great
experience. Once in a lifetime.”
As usual, I cannot tell if Bill is being sincere or not.
There is usually an undercurrent of sarcasm in his voice.
Maybe I am simply too tired to judge things correctly. “I
don’t really play strategy.” I tell him. “I’m more of a first
person shooter guy.”
“And that’s it.” He says. “That is why the Marines
will always disappoint you.”
“So far, its been pretty good.”
“Because your scaling your expectations back.”
“Hey, Chuck and Larry.” A lance corporal calls out.
“Why don’t ya’ll shut the fuck up and work?”
“Hey!” Says private Meier. “There’s some metal
shit here!”
A bell slaps me in the face. It feels like a wave of
air and wood, and after I fall it sits in my ear and rings. I
cannot breath. My breath is gone. There are spots of
blood and dust on my hands.
Bill is helping me stand back up. Under me is
Heather, the rifle. Somehow I have managed to land on
my rifle. I grab it and stand up. I wobble back and forth
for a minute. Something has torn a jagged path through
the middle of the branches. Laying in the hole of dirt is
Meier. A piece of green steel is sticking out of his calf. I
can see pink meat and tendons inside. The lance
corporal who wanted us to shut up is kneeling next to
him and calling for a corpsman. He is bellowing it, and all
I can hear is a whisper.
I start to pat myself down. As I do it I am suddenly
aware of my own place in the universe as meat. Not as
pixels in a game, but as meat, breathing meat, here on
earth. This is the lesson of the working party. People are
running from farther down the line. Someone grabs me
and asks if Im all right. I look back and see them
surrounding Meier. Helping. Beware your actions, they
become your character. My action is to walk away. What
is my character?
My character is not the hero. The hero is Rielly or
Major Fight or Colonel Lynes. My character is not the
villain. The villain is osama, the men in the castle,
Schueher. My character is the peon. My character is the
foot soldier. My character is the one who was simply
there.
“Hey, Mikey.” Rielly stops by my hole. “Be careful
where your digging. One of the weapons guys just hit a
land mine, his foots pretty bad off.”
“Yes Sargeant.”
“But keep digging. I want this at least waist deep,
tonight.”
“Roger that.” I grab my e-tool. I start to dig, trying
not to think as I do so. Bill comes over and starts to
stomp around the rim of the fighting hole. He brings over
a foot, up and down, stamp stamp.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask.
“Checking for land mines.”
“Didn’t you see what the fuck just happened.”
“Oh yeah. Perfection. That’s what happened. Did
you see where it hit?”
“His leg.”
‘Right. His leg. But below the knee. An injury like
that, and the first thing they do, is, they put you on a
plane and send you to Germany. Pump you full of some
good shit. Demerol, which is pretty much morphine. Then
they chop it off below the knee, which is like, the best
amputation ever.”
“How is that the best amputation ever?” I say.
“How is any amputation the best amputation ever?”
“Easy. One: Your non-deployable. Two: your
physically disabled, so you can get a medical discharge.
Three: although you physically disabled, they’re going to
give you a prosthetic, that is good enough so you can do
all the same shit that you were doing before.”
“That’s three reasons.” I tell him. “For the best
amputation ever, I would need four.”
“Okay, heres four. How well do you know Meier?”
“Okay, I guess. Not that great.”
“Meier smokes weed. He popped on the piss test.
After deployment, he was getting kicked the fuck out.
After this, hes damn near going to come out a hero.”
“Unless they fuck him on the discharge.”
“I don’t think they would do that shit.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Depends on which way they
want to spin it.” I cease the talk and return to the dig. By
nightfall it is indeed waist deep. Bill and I crawl inside, in
our flaks and kevlars and pointing our rifles out, stare at
nothing. Both of us are living on Schuehers
formaldehagen now, spitting. in the hole and covering it
up with more dirt.

SIX
That night, it begins to rain.
I awake to the flood in my sleeping bag covered in
water. The rain is fierce, hard thick drops. I was having a
nightmare when they woke me. I was having a dream
about the boy.
Inside the hole the water is up to Bill’s knees. “Hey
dude.” He greets me. “Its fucking raining.”
“So it is.”
“I was shivering my balls of in this cold shit. Just
listening to you snore. You fucking snore loud, dude.”
“So I do.”
As I try to miserably drape my poncho halfway
across my body Bill provides an unexpected comedy for
me, trying to find a place to sleep. The dusty rock ground
has transformed itself into muddy pools of water. Our
packs are soaked through, next to the foxhole. Bill takes
out his bag, and looks around like Elmer Fudd looking for
a wabbit. He gives an exaggerated shrug, and tosses the
bag into the corner of the hole, where it lands with a
plop. He crawls in fully clothed. The bag lays cockeyed,
halfway in the hole, halfway out. As if a giant phallus had
given up its quest to fuck the earth, and now hung limply
spent. The boil of its semen Bill’s own helmeted head.
And still the rain came down.
A man can change his life by changing his attitude.
And so there, sitting in the rain, my attitude changes,
from watchfulness, to anger, to misery. What else is
there to do? Stay awake. Stare at rain. Become rained
upon. The misery of the field. The joke of it being, every
time a Marine goes out into the field, it will rain. And here
we are, in a desert. The definition of desert implying a
lack of water. And it is raining.
I check my watch, before realizing that its set to
zulu time. Three-seventeen P.M. Three-seventeen P.M. in
the night or in the morning. Water has seeped across
every inch of my socks. I am trying to remember what I
know about Meier. I did not know Almodovar but I knew
Meier.
Meier built a bong one day in the barracks out of
an old rocket tube, a canteen cup, and a gas mask. It
was a beautiful thing, worthy of the cover of High Times
itself. You had to wear the gas mask to use it. I was there
in the Barracks with his, coughing into the mask, giggling
like a baby. He had a shaved head and red, swollen lips.
After a fight he had a gap between his teeth where some
missing chompers left him. After going AWOL one
weekend, he had a large red iron cross tattooed on his
chest. “Not because Im a Nazi.” He told me. “Just
because Im German.” No one believed him in the
barracks. He got into more fights. The Mexican kid that
punched out his teeth broke his nose. He was branded a
fuck-up. Someone to avoid.
His first name was Paul. He told me this, a week we
were both working on the chow hall on the aircraft
carrier. We were tossing kitchen waste overboard on
international waters and smoking cigarettes out on the
catwalk. The sea breeze was cool in the night and the
sound of the ocean waves was relaxing and hypnotic. As
he smoked I studied the glowing red ember of the flame
between his lips.
“I was named after this guy.” He said. “Paul
Atriedes. From Dune. You ever read Dune? It’s a great
book. Its about this desert planet. And this guy, this guy
Paul, hes like a prince. So, his dad dies. Is murdered. And
Paul, him and his mom, they flee into the desert. And
they meet these sand people, who take them in. Because
his mom is a witch and shit. And so, he takes over the
galaxy and rides a giant sand-worm. And that’s what I
want to do. That’s what I aspire towards.”
He was gone now. Gone from the desert, from any
potential sand worm riding destiny. I had never told him
that I had read Dune.
“Wake the fuck up, Mikey.” Schueher slaps my
helmet. “Your standing the rest of this watch. Let Bill
sleep.” I nod numbly.
The rain splashes down sporadically, and slowly
begins to change itself into mist. I wake up Bill. Dawn is
coming, the colors of the sky are changing again. As the
light brightens to grey, I can see my hands. They are
white and wrinkled and cracking. I cannot feel anything
in my fingers. I remember what trench foot looks like. I
did not know that it was possible to get trench hand. Bill
yawns widely.
“Shit, dude.” He says. “Why’d you let me sleep
that long?”
“Schueher caught me passed out.”
‘And he made you stay up.”
‘Sort of. Its not like I could sleep anyway. In this
shit.” I stand up out of the hole, and feel the water slosh
off of me. I am shivering from the cold. I strip off my
clothes and replace them with another set from my pack.
I feel reborn, alive again. Reborn underneath the water.
Baptized. I heat up a meal in an MRE pouch and smoke a
cigarette. When the water drains again I know it will be
time to dig.
That day I hear the rest of the Ospreys landing.
India Company has arrived, and I look up from the
foxhole to see the rest of the guys moving across the
airport. Second and third platoon. They are spreading
across the perimeter, to make a three-sixty around the
airport. Buckey comes up to my hole. “Fuck, dude.” He
says. “you guys look like shit.”
“It rained last night.” I tell him.
“How long have you guys been here?”
“Three days. The first day we got shot at. Its been
fucking crazy the whole time.”
“I’ll bet.” Buckey whistles. He is a small person,
small and slight, with a fresh, young face. In the
barracks, all I would ever talk about was World of
Warcraft.
“Wouldn’t it be crazy to play WoW out here?” He
says.
“I don’t know. Theres really no internet
connection.”
“I know, but still. To be able to have your IP
address to say: Afghanistan. That’d be some real shit.
I’m thinking about my next toon.” He continues. ‘I’m
really leaning torward a Pally. And pretty much like we
were talking about, Im going to roleplay like, a fantasy
version of this whole experience. Just like, A pally
invading the lands of darkness.”
I envision the beating Buckets must have received
growing up. I envision his friends, overweight virgins with
a distinct lack of personal hygiene. “That’s cool,
Buckets.” I tell him. “I think your on to something there.”
A sergeant barks for Buckey in the distance. He waves
goodbye and I continue to dig.
Life passes in this order for the following week. All
day long the sound of helicopters, Ospreys, and C-130’s
can be heard landing and taking off from the airport My
foxhole grows deeper and deeper, until at last it’s a deep
trench that can be stood up in. There is a berm up front
and around the sides built with sandbags. Over the top is
a piece of tin, and scattered branches. There are seats
built into the earth so I wont have to stand all night on
watch. There are numerous other, secret patches: There
is a grey discolored spot where I sometimes masturbate,
that soaks with unused semen. There is a tear in the
sandbag where I put my cigarette butts during the day,
and where I spit my dip at night. There is a rock one
meter in front of me in no-mans-land that I stare at, that
I give pause to when I can think of nothing else to fill my
mind with. There is a spot in the sand that I sometimes
smooth over with the batteries from my night vision
goggles, a small spot, five inches wide, rolling them back
and forth. When I wear the goggles at night there is a
spot between the trees past the road that I am sure is
moving. On the front of my M16 is a device called a Paq-
4, a laser that can only be seen while wearing Night
Vision. This is not as cool as it sounds, the laser is wildly
inaccurate. But when I wear it, I always focus on that
spot. Between the trees that might be pine, if only they
did not grow on Mars. Or Dune. Or planet Telex, or
whatever this terrible not-earth is truly named.
One morning after watch, I finally break down and
ask. “Sargeant Reilly. How long are we going to be
here?”
He laughs. “Till its done.” He says. “Take your ass
to the runway, they need a working party. Bill can dig
today.”
I walk back to the terminal building. Everywhere,
there are Marines running around. There are con-ex
trailer boxes near the flowers. There are humvees parked
in the circle around the terminal arches. A bustle of
activity. Grown from the will of America. Mercs walking
around, in jeans and t shirts, with long haired mullets
and AK-47s. Cory Hunter is with me. He has grown a
handlebar mustache since coming here. His face and
hands are stained with dirt and filth from days of nonstop
digging, as I imagine mine are. Around his neck and
shoulder is slung his M249 SAW, a light machine gun. A
warpig. He regards me with a nod.
“Schueher loves to put you on this shit, huh?”
“You’re here too.” I say.
“After that DUI, McMillian holds me in similiar
regard. You got to love our squad leaders. That’s okay
though.” Cory shuffles into his cargo pocket and pulls out
a small bottle of golden Listerine. They don’t get any
mouthwash.”
I take the bottle from his giant hand and unscrew
the cap. The whiskey smell is strong. Jack Daniel’s,
probably. I lift it in a slight toast and take a deep swig. I
savor the burn on its way down, the warm glow
enveloping me.
“Did they tell you what were doing here?” Cory
asks.
“Just to go to the runway, for a working party.”
‘Probably getting boxes of MRE’s again. Im going to
be the first to rat-fuck them, this time. Im tired of getting
chicken tetrazinni. I want some motherfucking beef stew
already.”
Back at the runway is a group of fellow lance
corporals and privates standing around. A merc. Is
chomping on his cigar, eying us in careless disgust. From
this side I can see the fruits of our rock-cleaning efforts.
There are airplanes everywhere. In front of us is a C-130,
its engine off. “Is this everyone?” The merc asks. No one
responds. “Fucking jarheads. Alright, listen up. Get these
guys off of the bird, park their asses on the runway, and
leave them there. Watch them until the spooks get back.
Don’t talk to them, and don’t give them shit. Not a
fucking thing. They-got-nothin-coming. Just remember,
these are the same guys, who did that shit in New York.
These are their friends. Everyone copacetic?” Nods and
murmurs of ‘yes sir’. “Okay. Cmon.” The merc steps up
to the ramp. “Get UP! UP!” Inside the back of the C-130, I
get my first look at a detainee.
They are sitting on their knees in the back of the
plane, sixty to a hundred of them. Their hands are tied
behind their back in flex-cuffs. A rope is tied around their
waist, and run through the cuffs. Over their head is a
sandbag, greenish black. Most of them are wearing the
traditional haaji robe, brown or white. One or two of
them is wearing jeans. From their bodies is the smell of
unwashed flesh, and also urine. They sway back and
forth slightly. When the man in front gets up, he pulls on
the rope and the man behind him must also rise.
“Forward!” The Merc grabs the ones in front, pulling him
forward. “Move!”
A few of the Marines are joining in, grabbing the
detainees and shoving them forward, off the plane. They
sway and speak in their own language, and then start to
move as a mass. It is impossible to be moved by their
wretchedness. The blind horde, moving in the direction
that they are poked, and guided by foreign words. They
jut off in a shuffle, moving in a square herd. Like a
centipede hiding in a cardboard box, moving with a
group of feet.
“DOWN!” Yells the merc, grabbing a haaji and
pushing him to his knees. All around me, Marines are
doing the same, stepping between the ropes. The merc
finishes his work, and takes a swig from a water bottle.
After finishing he wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead.
“That’s it.” He says. “Hold ‘em here until I get back.”
We stand around to every side of the detainees.
They mutter to themselves and bob the sandbags up and
down. Cory shifts forward to take some of the strain off
his back, then sighs.
“Do you think we can smoke back here?” I ask.
“Probably not. But that guy was doing it, so I say
go for it. And give me one too.” I fish my last pack of
camel’s out of my pocket. After taking one I hand the
pack to Cory. Cory points to the script. “You see this?”
“see what?”
“Right here, on the package. Its says smooth
American blend.”
“Yeah, so? Its made in America. RJ Reynolds.”
‘In America, it says smooth Turkish blend.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. Its all just fucking advertising, man.
Whatever’s exotic in wherever you are.”
We smoke and gaze at the prisoners. They murmur
to us, smelling the smoke. Cory steps in close and blows
a cloud into a sandbag. The detainee whips his head
back and forth, then cowers.
“What do you think these guys have done?” I ask.
‘Does it matter?” Cory says. “That’s not how it
works, anyway.”
 “Okay. How does it work?”
“Spooks and mercs go out into villages. Say, we’ll
give you money for Taliban. Give us Taliban. These guys,
they sell whoever as a Taliban. Or, random guy’s found
with a gun and a weapons, on a raid. He comes here, on
a one way stop before Gitmo.”
“That’s kind of fucked.” I say.
“Fuck em. Its kind of whatever, to me.”
Excuse me, old chap.” A sand bag says, in an
English accent.
Everyone suddenly stands still. The privates stop
their laughing. Everyone puts out their smokes. The
voice was unmistakable not-haaji. The voice was one of
us.
“Might I trouble you for a glass of water?”
The detainee is wearing a grey suit without a tie.
Instead of being barefoot he is wearing brown leather
oxfords. Cory steps forward, between the trembling rag-
head. He loosens the knot on the sandbag, and pulls it
off.
Underneath the face is dark and brown, with a full
black beard. Small square glasses, with cracked frames.
“I’m rather thirsty.” The haaji says.
No one can think of anything to say. Cory replaces
the bag, and cinches it tight. As he walks away the
detainee starts to yell.
“Please! I..I would like a drink!”
“Yeah, motherfucker?” A big black private replies.
“Well, I would like my towers back.”
Fist bumps are exchanged laughter tittles the air,
the ice having been properly broke. “I thought that was
some white dude.” The private says. “Some English
guy.”
“He probably is English.” Cory says. “An English
rag-head, getting ready to blow up big ben. Like in that
movie? With the guy with the knives and that weird
mask. With the prince valiant haircut and the mustache.
You know, the guy from the Matrix.”
“Hey!” The merc is back. “Is this fucker causing
shit?”
The merc strides up to a completely random
detainee, and kicks him square in the chest. The haaji
screams, and the merc kicks him again. “Don’t let these
fuckers give you any shit.” The merc says. It’s the law.
These guys have no rights.”
The big private is the first one with a rock.
He weighs it in the air, a large yellow stone. Tosses
it once or twice, up and down. As if to take a measure of
its heft. He cocks back, like a pitcher. I swear I can hear
the wind whistle, when he follows through, and lets it fly.
There is an audible pop, on impact. The sandbag ripples.
The detainee under it screams, howling in his own
language.
“That was fuckin’ a, man.” The merc says. “Chuck
another.”
Cory bombs another rock into the mass. This time
there is no sound, which invites more stones. I pick up a
medium sized piece of rubble, and aim center mass,
chucking it. There is a stream of pebbles in the air. After
nearly a minute, the merc waves us off.
“That’s enough shit, guys.” He says. “We need
most of these dudes to talk, later.”
Cory is grinning from ear to ear. There are
exchanges of fuck you’s, and that’s what Im talking
about. We break off from the working party. On the way
back we fill our water bladders from a large green tank.
Back at the hole Bill is dozing slightly, his boonie cover
pulled over his eyes. I wake him and tell him what
happened.
“That’s fucking real, dude.” He says. “I hate how all
they use these days are these contractors. Those dudes
are pulled down, like, six figures for one tour out here.
And they can do what the fuck. No rules of engagement
are whatever.”
“He was right, though.” I say. “Wasn’t he?’
“About what?”
“Those guys. Those guys really have no rights.”
“Yeah. But fuck em. Is your liberal hippie heart
breaking?” Bill points down the line of holes. “Go bleed
out your vagina to our new Embedded reporter.”
“An embedded reporter?”
“Yeah. Guys name is John Sack. He says he knew
Hunter S. Thompson.”
“Hunter S. Thompson? Really?” The old man has a
head full of white hair. Schueher is excitedly babbling
away to him, spewing nonsense. I get up and head over.
“I really had a desire to serve my country since
childhood. I think it was the way I was brought up. Of
course I chose the marines. What other choice was
there? I mean, really. The marines are america’s knights,
America’s Spartans. They make all the movies about us.
We have the best looking uniforms. When I first started
my enlistment, I was sent to the Marine Barracks at
Washington DC. We do all that drill you see. In the
videos. You’ve never seen it? Were all in dress blues,
marching around with rifles. Its tradition.
I enlisted after nine-eleven. I was planning to enlist
before. I really think you have to hold all this in
perspective. America was attacked. We are Americans
police force. We step up when no one else will. We
answer the call. How long will we be staying here? I don’t
know. I would stay as long as its needed. As long as its
needed to get the job done.
My politics? Im sworn to defend the United States,
regardless of the leader. Personally, I can tell you that I
am an independent. I will say that I thought President
Bush did a damn fine job. Kept the country safe, for eight
years. That’s the true test of a leader, in this day and
age. The ability to keep his people safe. And to fight for
freedom.
Hobbies? I enjoy movies. I personally enjoy Full
Metal Jacket, Heartbreak Ridge. My favorite performance
of all time, is Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men. Now
there was an excellent Marine. It broke my heart what
they did to him in there.
Im from Ohio, Cleveland. Ohio actually has the
highest amount of individuals enlisting to serve our
country than any other state. Do I have someone waiting
for me? Yes I do. Her names Meg. Heres a picture. Were
very fond of each other. Go buckeyes. What’s Up,
Mikey?”
I stare down, into the foxhole. Scheuher has grown
most his hair back on his head. You could say he looks
handsome. John Sach looks to be an old, old man. He
wears tan shorts, with black socks, and loafers. His pale
thighs have impossibly blue veins criss crossing their
way up to his groin. His nose appears to have grown for
centuries, and to have grown furiously, bulbing outward
with broken veins. He is a definition of absurdity, sitting
in our fighting holes, with his little cassette recorder and
scratch pad.
“This is Mikey.” Scheuher says. “One of our
problem children.” A laugh. “No. In all fairness, he’s a
fine Marine. One of our top shooters. In fact, after
deployment, he’s going to try out for the AScout/Sniper
platoon. Isnt that right, Mikey? Mikey?”
“Did you really know Hunter S. Thompson?’ I ask.
“Hurramph.” The old man coughs. “Yes. I knew
Hunter. He was a good- a good.” There is a pause for
some more general hacking. “A good friend. His drug
use, though, was tremendous.”
“Who do you write for?”
“Im writing an article for Esquire. I might turn it
into a book, though. I haven’t decided. Its all a little
unclear, at present. I have to see how much there is.
How much story, story I can get.”
“That’s enough, Mikey.” Scheuher’s voice grips a
dangerous edge. “Go back to the hole. Keep digging. And
wake Bill’s ass up.”
I walk the fifteen yards back to my hole and grab
my E-tool. Instead of digging, I slump down next to Bill
and stare at the floor of dirt. I am thinking about a super
bowl advertisement. A bunch of People sitting around,
watching football. Cheering. Cut to: A bunch of soldiers in
the desert. Sitting around. Watching football. Cheering.
Looking at the faces of the civilians, they look Hollywood
fake. Too good looking. Too cheerful. Why did I not think
the same of the soldiers? It was Schuehers fault, maybe.
Schueher and the Schueher before him. Trying to sell a
product. One Marine, fresh out of the box. Or jar.
There is a crunching sound of footsteps coming
near me.
“Hello, there.” John Sack says.
“Hello.” I reply.
“Do you mind if I come in?” He asks.
“Make yourself at home.”
With a general grunting and groaning, many aaa-
haaaaghs, a creaking of his bones, Sack sits down in the
foxhole. “Some place you’ve got here.”
“Thanks. Were trying for that down-home touch.”
“What do you think of your friend, Ryan
Schueher?”
“I think he was stringing you along a chain of shit. I
think that’s what he does, mostly. The guy’s full of it.”
Sack nods. “That is pretty much my impression, as
well. I run into that problem, sometimes in these
situations. Talk to the wrong man, the one that just
wants to give the company line. I ran into it a lot in
Korea. Not so much in Vietnam, once things went to hell
out there, the grunts were pretty up front with
everything.”
“You’ve been doing this a while?”
Sack’s eyes grow misty. “Ive covered every war
since the big one. I think that this, this will be the end of
it, for me.”
“Did you know Norman Mailer?”
“I ran into him, once or twice, in New York. He had
a problem with drink. Beat his wife.”
“I read Naked and the Dead, when I was, you
know, before. It’s a pretty good look at all this. All this
mess.”
“Are you aware that he was a cook? You’ve got a
leg up on him, there. He wrote about war , and, in the
army, he was just a cook.”
“I guess your right. I thought about writing.” I take
a deep breath. “I thought about writing something, about
all this. But being here, I can see why most people just
try to forget. Just try to bury it all down, and forget.
“But its important, to remember.” John Sack is
solemn. It’s important, to record, and to remember what
has happened. To prevent others from making the same
mistakes.
“I don’t think there is any preventing. I think the
same things just keep happening, over and over.” I take
a deep breath, and then I tell him about the detainee and
the rocks.
 SEVEN
Osama’s revenge is a powerful thing.
It happens a week and a half in-country. The
stomach pains. The diarrhea. Blowing out my ass
countless MRE’s. It wouldn’t be so bad, if there were
better conditions to shit in.
There is a large bit, about a hundred yards from
the foxhole line, behind the perimeter. At first it is filled
with garbage and refuse. But then, A cushionless chair is
disgarded near the edge. Someone tired of hiding their
turds with an E-tool finds a natural use. Neccesity is the
mother of invention.
The pit is bombarded with feces. I hold out as long
as I can. But one night, it finally hits me. And I find
myself hanging out, over the pit, naked to the night sky.
My turdlets splattering below Growing more and more
intangible. Lacking in consistency. I think of falling into
that hell-pit, and being forever swallowed by that void.
The revenge continues, for nearly a week.
Better shitters are built. Wooden shacks built in a
line. Inside are tin drums filled with kerosene. A plywood
cover atop, with a round hole cut out. My new throne. I
humble myself atop its majesty, two or three times a
day. In this fashion, I meet the natives.
They have brown skin and wear what looks like
pajamas to me. Their native dress. Some are barefoot,
and some have well-worn rubber flip flops. All of them
are fairly short. They reek of body odor. Their purpose is
to burn my shit. They take the drums of shit and stir
them, with long branches. The shit sends up clouds of
black smoke. One of them stirs, and one of them seems
to watch the smoke. They smile at me, as I come out,
from doing my business. All I can think of, is I want to go
home. It is Christmas Eve.
Today is the day we receive mail.
There is a letter for Bill and A magazine for me.
There is a package for both of us.
“Look, dude.” I unwrap the Magazine. “I got my
issue of X-Men. All the way out here. Isnt that cool?”
“Who is that, Wolverine?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
‘Read this, dude. Read what that fucking bitch
says.”
Billy,
I think that this time has been coming for a while
and that weve both been postponing it but I think that
were good friends and we should stay friends but I think
that there isn’t any point in continuing things the way
they are the way we have been doing. The distance has
really hurt the relationship and I thought I could deal
with it but I guess im not strong enough I guess that’s
my flaw and I will have to live with it. The way you acted
back in September really hurt I don’t think Stan deserved
to be treated that we he is just a friend I am allowed to
have friends. If I have feelings I am allowed to they are
my feelings I will not apologize for them. I think that its
best if we get some time apart so please do not call for a
while until things are sorted out. I care for you and wish
the best for you.
 Karen

What should I write back?” He says.

“I don’t know. Use the back of an MRE, for a
postcard.” Bill starts to frantically scribble.
“Okay. What about this:”
Dear Bitch,
You broke up with me on Christmas Eve, in a
foxhole in Afghanistan. Go fuck youself, and burn in hell.
Your Marine Boyfriend
“I think that says it all, dude. I really think it does.”
“You do? Thanks. I worked on it, for a while.”
“Lets see whats in the Care package.
Deer Soldjer:
Thank u for serving or country. Her are sum stuf u
wuld lik.

Bobby

“Is it from Texas?”

“Why do you ask?”
“Texas? Bobby? King of the Hill?”
“I always hated that show. I’m glad it got
canceled.”
“Why? It was good.”
“It was too boring, and just, too slice of life. Give
me family guy. Or aqua teen hunger force.”
“Here’s the postmark. Its from New jersey.’
Inside the box is an assortment of deodorants,
shaving cream, and socks. I immediatedly change my
socks, for no reason. We divide up the razors and the
shaving cream. I read the rest of the X-Men comic, and
then give it to Bill, who passes it on to Schueher. In the
issue Wolverine is fighting in desert storm, in desert
camouflage. Every so once in a while Marvel Comics
feels the need to update the characters, to make them
relevant. Someday, references to Afghanistan will no
longer be relevant, and will be relegated to past issues,
along with references to Ronald Reagan, the cold war,
Nixon, Vietnam. We want our heroes to exist alongside
up. Here, today. And not in the past.
That night the air is cold and Reilly and Schueher
are sitting with me and Bill waiting for the sun to go
down. Once again, its twilight. The deep blue black
approaches.
“Its Christmas.” Rielly says. “Anyone care?”
“I don’t think they have Christmas here.” Bill says.
“Its not a muslim holiday.”
“The commandant’s supposed to walk the lines
tonight. Along with the Sargeant Major of the Marine
Corps.”
“Isnt he the guy that doesn’t like Full Metal Jacket?’
“That was the old one. This one, he gave R. Lee
Ermey an award.”
An awkward silence. Night is here in its completion.
“I got broken up with, Sargeant.” Bill says. “On Christmas
Eve.”
“That’s pretty shitty.” Reilly says. “Mine left me
back on the boot. We were together all throughout my
days at force, and then, bam. I stayed with her ass
throughout breast cancer. Ungrateful bitch.”
“I stay single.” Schueher says. “Its better that
way .”
“What about that girl?” Bill says. “The short one,
from Ohio?”
‘Turns out shes fifteen.” Schueher grins. “Only
good for fucking.”
“Your going to jail.” Rielly says.
“Your going to hell.” Bill adds.
“Regardless, it’s a pretty good time.”
Rielly takes off his helmet and wipes his head. His
hair is matted red and stuck to his brow. “Don’t get too
down in the dumps, Mikey. Your probably not next on the
chopping block.”
“That’s right.” Schueher adds. “Black girls are very
loyal. Just look at slavery.”
“That’s fucked up, Ryan.” Bill says.
“Mac. You cant call me Ryan in front of Wade.”
“And you cant call me Wade in front of either of
them. But, fuck it. Weve all been through some shit
together. Lets be Wade and Ryan tonight.”
“Fair enough. And Bill can be Bill and Mikey can be
Mikey.”
 “Mikey is Merrell. You know that.”
“Mikey is Mikey. He stays that way.”
“Hey, Sargeant?” Bill says. “I mean, Wade? Have
you been through any shit like this, before?”
“What do you mean, like this?”
“What he’s trying to say.” Schueher says. “Did you
ever kill anybody?”
There air is soft and quiet. We are all speaking in
faux-whispers. I envision a fantasy north pole, invading
the air space north of us, getting shot down by a stinger
missile. Quietly, Wade says. “There was this one time in
Bosnia.”
“Go ahead.” Schueher says.
“I was with Force. Had been with them for three
months. We were in this compound. A guy jumped out of
a door. I put two rounds center mass. We left in a hurry. I
have no idea what happened to him after that. But
somehow…I kind of knew somehow. I kind of thought I
knew. It didn’t feel like anything. I thought it would, but it
didn’t.”
“That’s something, man.” Scheuher says. “With us,
I’m glad we got to see them. I mean, I’m glad we got to
make sure.”
“You might not feel that way.” Rielly says. “In a
couple years.”
“Its why I signed up.” Scheuher replies. “Its why
were all here. The only reason anyone would ever join
the infantry. To kill people. Nine- Eleven was the best
thing that could possibly happen. Now we get to kill
people, and to go home heroes. Its incredible. It’s the
new golden age.”
There are moments in clarity gathered in life that
do not come very often, if they come at all. Sometimes
the closest we can come to these moments is while
under the influence of some inebriant, pot or booze. At
these times the world seems to aline itself on its axis and
reveal its own dark heart. I seemed to experience it
there, in the foxhole. There was my position, and there
was Scheuhers, Bill’s and Rielly’s. We were not at odds in
so much as we were all interrelated. The dust settled
under my foot, beneath the tan suede of my desert boot.
I had been kicking in a corner unconsciously, until I had
managed to create a little shoe-hole.
“I don’t think.” I said. “I don’t think, that’s why I
joined.”
“Money for college.” Bill reasoned.
“I don’t think I really want to go to college.” I
replied.
“Everyone wants to go to college.” Schueher said.
“Lots of whores and cheap booze. Lots of booze and
cheap whores.”
“I really think I did it.” I told him “Because I didn’t
think I would be able to.”
“But you did.” Rielly said. “And here you are.”
“Its not what I thought it would be.”
“Nothing ever is.” Rielly said.
“You see this man?” Schueher says. “This man is
god. This man has been a force reconnaissance Marine
and is god. You need to pattern yourself after him. Adapt
your life to fit his.”
‘What do you want, Mikey?” Rielly asks. “What do
you really want to do? Do you want to go home? Do you
want to your old lady to push out some more kids, to get
a house and a garage, and a nine-to-five? If you ever
have that, do you think it could ever measure up to all
this? Do you think you would ever forget about this?”
“I don’t know, Sergeant.” I say. “I mean, Wade.”
Rielly tells us all to stay awake, and leaves the
hole. I take first watch, and Bill crawls into his sleeping
bag and nods off. Schueher stays with me in the foxhole.
He reaches into a grenade pouch and pulls out a
package of cigarettes. “Look at this, Mikey.” He says.
‘What is it?” I ask.
‘I came up with a way to smoke without showing
the light.” He brings out a plastic cigarette box, and puts
the lit smoke through the bottom. The smell of the
tobacco is in the air. Somehow it feels right and pure in
the night. Somehow it feels American.
“I’d let you have one.” He says. “But you’d fuck it
up.”
‘Roger that, Corporal.” I respond.
“Its okay, though.” He says. “I know why you
joined.”
“because I didn’t think I’d make it?”
“No. That’s bullshit. It might be what you tell
yourself, but its still bullshit.”
“What is it, then.”
 “You wanted power, same as me. You see this,
Mikey?” Scheuher picks up his M16. There is an audible
click. “The weapon is off safe.” He whispers. “My finger is
on the trigger. Im pointing it at your head.”
“Yes, Corporal. “ I respond.
“I could do it, now. I could do it, and no one could
stop me. I could say it was an accident.”
“Yes, Corporal.”
“This is power, Mikey. This is all power. This is what
power is.”

That night I am asleep in my bag, next to my rifle.

Trying to dream of Turq. Something kicks me in the gut
and I curse. “Didn’t see him there.” A voice says. It
laughs and says. ‘When he wakes up, tell that Devildog
who he just called a goddamn motherrfucker.” I sit up
when they leave, trying to catch a glimpse of the
commandant. He is wearing a hat and not a helmet. I
think to myself that he must be allowed to do such
things. Then I fall back to sleep.
The next morning I am given time off and allowed
to go to the Main terminal building. They have phones
there, and I will be able to call Turqious. To hear Selah’s
voice. As I walk back to the terminal, I see more growth
than I had thought possible. There are tents everywhere,
even right next to our now dirt filled shit hole. The Army
is here, and the Air Force, I see several women walking
around, laughing. Army women. Ugly as sin. My dick
responds anyway.
The terminal now has heat and electricity. A
generator roars in the backdrop. There is a line of
Marines from the 26th MEU waiting to use the phones. I
reach into my wallet and take out the phone card I
bought on ship. I wonder what the quality of the call will
be. On ship there was nearly a minute of delay. I want to
talk to her. I try to get my thoughts in order as I wait.
What to tell her. What not to talk about. What I will have
time for.
The Marine in front of me puts down his phone. It is
my turn in line. I pick up the receiver and dial. It rings.
And rings.
And rings.
Then it picks up, and I hear her.
“Merrell?”
“Hey Turq?”
“Oh my god! Merrell! I thought you wouldn’t get to
make a phone call! Are you okay?”
“Im fine.” In my mind, my voice sounds overly dull.
“Im okay. Im over here.”
‘I didn’t think you would be going over there. I
thought you would be staying on the ship.”
“They needed some more people on the ground.
That’s why they sent us.”
“Oh my god. Merry Christmas. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“How long can you talk.”
‘Ten minutes, maybe.”
 “okay. Theres so much to tell you. Selah’s got
teeth.”
“She does?”
“Yup. I found out when she bit me, and it hurt. I got
a cat.”
“You did?”
“Hes your Christmas present. I call him Mr.
Jenkins.”
“That sounds great.”
“You like it? I thought you wouldn’t like it. I thought
you would be mad it wasn’t a dog or something.”
“No, its fine. What kind of cat is it?”
“I don’t know. A mutt. I guess cats can be mutts.
Selah! Come say hi to daddy. Say, merry Christmas,
daddy.”
“Nooo…”
“She doesn’t want to say it. The washer broke last
week. It overflowed. The landlady didn’t want to fix it. I
wished you where here.”
“I wish I was, too. Bill’s girl dumped him.”
“She did? The chick from florida?”
“Yeah. She sent him a letter.”
“And he got it out there? That’s so sad.”
“Turq?”
“Yes, baby.”
“If you do it, don’t send a letter.”
‘Whats that?”
 “You have two minutes left.”
‘Crap, the cards about to run out.”
“Do you have another one?”
“No. There’s a line. Ive got to go.”
Oh no. My mer bear! I wubs ju! Don’t go!”
“Ive got to, baby.”
“Selah! Say hello, dammit! Say hello to Daddy!
“Hewwo.”
“Selah.”
Daddy! Hewwo daddy! I luv gabba!”
CLICK
The phone cuts off, and I softly put the receiver
down. I think about bearing. About being a Marine, and
about being hard. I try not to think to much about her.
About my daughter. I linger an extra moment in the
terminal, with the warmth. I take out the picture again.
Her curly brown ringlets. A lighter skinned version of my
wife. Mixed. Mullato. What will her life be like? What will
she think of this, someday? Will it register in her head at
all? Will I give her what she needs, later on in life? Will I
be a father to her? Or will I wander forever in this desert,
in this land of dust and explosives? Its Christmas.
Nowhere else in this country. But here, in this terminal, it
is Christmas.
Back at the hole John Sack is bundled up in a green
parka, and chomping on what looks to be a cookie.
“Did you get those out of a care package?” I ask
him.
 “Actually.” He says. “It’s a little package of coffee
creamer, that’s been baked solid. The one that comes
with the MRE’s. Your roommate showed me how to make
it. Its actually pretty good.”
“Did anyone show you how to make mac and
cheese?”
“No. Is that a new recipe?”
“You take the butter noodles and the jalepeno
cheese. As your warming up the butter noodles you put
the cheese bag outside the warmer, but inside the box.
That way, it get hot but you don’t have to get your hands
wet to grab it. Mixed all together, its not bad.
“That’s very clever.”
“Thanks. Weve been eating these damn things all
month.”
“Did you get to call your family today?”
“Yeah. My wife. I just got off the phone.”
“You let her know its alright.”
“Let me ask you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“Back in those other wars. In Vietnam and Korea
and everything. Did a lot of guys get dumped? By like,
their girls?”
“Oh, sure. All the time. It even happened back in
the big one, when I was in Normandy.”
“Really? It happened in World War Two?’
“Sure it did. Not as much, because most of the
men were fighting. But it would happen. Guys would get
dear john letters on the frontlines all the time. Especially
in Vietnam. That was the worst, the men would get
pretty messed up over it. It wasn’t popular to be a
Marine in Vietnam.”
“So, there isn’t nothing new.”
“No. Your wife didn’t tell you anything, did she?”
“No.”
“Well. Thank god for that. Under the
circumstances, that would be a very rough thing to do.”
“Bill did, though. He got a letter yesterday.”
“Oh. Jesus.”
“He’s pretty messed up over it.”
“I can imagine.”
“They don’t really advertise that part, you know? In
the recruiting. They show the dress blues, and the
camouflage, but they don’t really show the part about
your girl dumping you. In a war zone.”
“No. I don’t think they would. Its not really
something they want to get around.”
“Put it in your book. If, you know, you write it.”
“Its still an article now. But I think that might be
interesting.”
There is a history behind me, I think, on Christmas
in that Foxhole. A history of men like me. Behind me. In
front of me, brothers and sons wait to do what I do. To
become one of us, one of the damned. No one can talk
them out of it. They have minds full of glory, full of
dreams. No one can tell them, that their minds are full of
falsehood. That they lust over lonely months of boredom
and misery, and brief, spastic moments, of sheer terror.
No one can tell them that. There is no way to put it.
Everything is new and fresh. They await the world.
Why didn’t I try to call my parents? My brother
Jesse. Why didn’t I try to warn him, go to school, go to
college, don’t become like me. How did Dylan put it? Join
the Army if you fail. Join the Marines if you fail and you
are desperate, desperate to somehow make something
of your last name.
There are days, here, on the line, when no one
much speaks. Days spent simply doing, simply counting
the time, and waiting, for watch to be over. Staring at
nothing, and minding the darkness.

EIGHT
In January, the Army arrives.
They are dressed neatly in brand new ACU’s and
carrying gleaming black M4’s. They march in a neat line
up to our holes An Army Sargeant points to us.
“Specialist Neal! That way, troop!” A blob of dough
answers “Hooah” and tramps through the dirt to our
foxhole. It is a little past dawn, just light enough out for
cigarettes, and Bill and I have lit one up. Specialist Neal
pants, and drops his pack in a thud, sliding in between
us.
“So, guys.” He asks. “Whats it like being a
jarhead?”
“Sucks.” Bill says. “Whats it like being a soldier?”
 “Also sucks.”
There is a fine sheen of sweat on Specialist Neal’s
brow that tells me he is unused to his gear. Unused to
the weight of his pack and rifle. I look at it now, at the M4
so nice and smooth.
“Why isn’t your weapon loaded?” I ask.
“They didn’t ship any ammo with us. They didn’t
even send the rifles with us, just put them on crates and
offloaded them at the airport.” He rolls the rifle across in
his lap. The barrel flags me down carelessly, and I push it
away. “Its brand new.” He says. “Never been fired.”
“That what the fuck” I ask “Are you guys going to
do here?”
Specialist Neal shrugs nervously. He rolls his lips
and I hear a clicking sound from behind his teeth. I catch
a glimpse of a silver ball.
“Is that a tongue ring?” Bill asks.
“Yeah. Sarge told me to get rid of it, but I told him,
fuuuck that. Lots of guys have one in. Im just going to do
my thing.”
“Which unit are you with?” I ask.
“Eighty-second airborne.” He answers.
“Look at me.” His glimmering eyes meet mine and
blink, moistly. “All of you. All of you are a bunch of
complete fucking pussies.”
“Okay.”
“You are wasting my motherfucking time being
here.”
 ‘Okay.” His lip is trembling visibly. For the piece de
resistance, I rack my rifle, letting one brass round fly off
into the air, grazing across the top of the foxhole, and
raise the rifle deliberately, not quite at his head but not
quite not.
‘Fuck off.” I whisper.
Specialist Neal explodes int o motion I would not
think him capable of. Grabbing his pack, he drops his
rifle in a clatter and leaves it there. We hear him yelping
off in the distance, “Sarge! Sarge!” Bill whistles a tune to
himself and grabs the M4. Methodically, he breaks it
down it tosses the pieces out into the no mans land in
front of our foxhole. I start to laugh and he joins me.
Soon tears are running down our faces. Rielly saunters
by, grinning at us.”
“Where’d that Army fatass go?” He asks.
“I don’t know.” Bill shrugs.
“I think he was spooked of something.” I offer.
“You’ve got to play nice.” Rielly says. “These guys
are going to get us off the line.
“They don’t even have any fucking rounds.” I tell
him.
‘Fuck them.” Reilly says. “Play nice.”
“Hey, Sargeant?” I ask. “Where are we going?”
After the line?
“You’ll find out.”
Hours later a new Army creature walks up to our
foxhole. This one is thinner, and shorter looking.
 “Hey, guys.” He says. “Specialist Gunter.”
“Is Neal not coming back?”
“Nope. You guys scared him off.”
“That’s good.” Bill points in front of his sandbag
“Maybe later he can get his weapon.”
Gunter looks forward and spies the upper receiver
of the M4. “Oh, shit!” He laughs, revealing teeth stained
with tobacco dip. “Oh, man, that’s fucked up. Did you
guys do that?”
“Hey.” Bill shrugs. “He left his shit.”
“Oh man. That’s crazy.”
‘Do you want to get it for him?”
“No. Hell, no. Fuck that fucking fatass. Im sick of
him. Always clicking that fucking tongue ring.”
“Why don’t they take it from him?”
“They do. He always gets it back.”
“He doesn’t get his ass beat? He doesn’t get in any
fucking trouble?
“Not really. These days, I guess the Army doesn’t
care.”
“No shit.”
“Hey, man.” I take out a smoke, and offer the pack.
“No offense, but the Army sounds pretty weak.”
“No, its cool. Hey, can I ask you guys for a favor?”
“Yeah. Go ahead.”
“Can I get a mag?”
Bill looks wary. “What, like ammo?”
 “Yeah. Just for tonight, or whatever. As long as I’m
going to be in this hole.”
I reach for an ammo pouch. Bill slowly shakes his
head, back and forth.
“Sorry dude.” Bill says. “A marine cant give away
his gear.”
“What, is that like, a jarhead rule?”
“Maybe it is. Its not our fault, anyway.”
Specialist Gunter looks hurt, and ducks his head. I
see Corporal Angulo coming near my fighting hole.
“Hey, Mikey.”
“Corporal.”
“Go find out whats wrong with your squad leader.
Ask him why I’m doing his shift.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously. Im not going to talk to his stupid ass.
And I know you’re his little bitch.”
There is a pup tent set twenty feet from the line.
Inside I hear coughing. From behind the mesquito netting
I see Schueher, looking slightly rougher than usual.
“Mikey.” He says. “I had to put Angulo in charge. I
wanted to put Bill in charge, and then you. But hes the
Corporal. Rielly said I had to.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? Do you get it?” He melts his handsome
features, his proud chin, into a look of concern. “I trust
you, Mikey. That means something. I trust you, and I
wanted to put you in charge. I wanted the other guys to
understand. I know their talking shit. I trust you. You’re a
great Marine. Okay?”
“Yes.” There is something in me that laps up the
bullshit. All of it, as it comes forth from up his throat.
There is something in me that craves his words.
“Ive got the shits.” He says, closing the netting. “
Osama’s Revenge.”
I deliver the news to Angulo, in my best
professional monotone.
“That’s what he told you?” He says. ‘Whatever,
dude. I know hes your daddy and all, but that guys acting
like a little bitch.”
“Hes not my daddy.” I say. “I hate him.” I add, on
an impulse.
Angulo squats by my hole and scratches his head.
His mustache is thin and scratchy, and his face is
pockmarked by old acne scars. He looks so young, now.
“I can see why.” He says. “He treats you like shit. I
wouldn’t treat you like that, if you were in second
squad.”

There is a moment when…..

There is a moment when…..

There is a moment when she stopped becoming

the novelty, to me, and she become my wife. Oh my
soul, let me drink this down and be forever quenched.
Let me drown in the innocence, and the embrace, in the
soft touch. Let me see past the labels. Before I was a
Marine I was a man. Before I was American I was a man.
Before I was born I was a thought and a voice that had to
tell myself this is the world, to make sense to the
confusion of it all. Before I was a name I was a man. Do
you think that this makes up me? My skin tells you what
sort of thing to expect? There is no set pattern, just a
series of moves. Nothing makes us good or evil. Good
actions exist. Evil actions exist. We perform evil, and it
stains us. We become it. Let me perform good. Let me
perform love, let me fill my wife with love in its fullness
and thrust into her, let me hear her cries of love and let
me spill the seed of life. Oh my soul, I was not made to
be the sword, or the plowshare. I was made to be a man.

There is a moment when…….

There is a moment when………

There is a moment when the stain fills your heart.
The realness of life is brought by the ending. It is made
complete by the ending. To become the ending is to
accept something that is to big for your own small self.
To become that ending is to accept that you were the
last page in a Story. The women knew not what the men
did. The women knew not that prayer was wrong. The
women knew not your anger, you knew not your anger, it
was not truly yours, but a mask. A borrowed mask. You
wished for this! It was not forced on you! You wished for
this mask!
 YOU!

Wake

The

Uck

“UP Mikey!”
There are sounds of screeching and cracking
around me. Above, I see the cheap fireworks display of
mortar illumination rounds. Something smacks the sand
bag in front of me. I see muzzle flashes, from across the
no mans land, from across the woods.
Again, I am at war.
Bill fires one three round burst after another into
the direction of the woods. A piece of driftwood splinters,
from the crossfire. Scheuher is standing over our foxhole,
upright and holding a beretta. In the open. He fires a
round deliberately. Carefully. Over his head and all
around the bullets scream. The crack in front of me.
Sand kicks up in my face. Bill loads his 203 grenade
launcher, and fires. There is thud in the no mans land
and a puff of smoke, where it lands.
Specialist Gunter is crouched behind the berm at
the far end of our foxhole. Bill notices him and whips out
his cell phone. There is a flash of a picture being taken. I
notice Gunter’s eyes. The betrayal in them, directed at
us, at the Army, at his Sargeant, at everyone that put
him here. Pouring out. Threatening to flood
Oh my soul………..
Bill shakes my shoulder “Again, Mikey? Jesus.” The
blackness is lifted from me. “How do you manage to
sleep through this crap?” He laughs. The fire is dying
down. The bullets are going in the air, in all directions.
Sargeant Rielly is grabbing Schueher by his flak jacket.
“What the FUCK was that!”
“Nothing, Sargeant.”
“Don’t you EVER pull some stupid shit like that
again, motherfucker!”
“Yes, Sargeant.”
“FUCKING standing up! You can die Bitch! Your not
this fucking action hero you pretend to be!”
“Yes Sargeant.”
“Ive been THERE motherfucker! Ive seen it
happen!”
The Army looks around, in confusion. Voices are
yelling out, down the line, that they are not hurt, and
how many bullets they have left. Another mortar pops
overhead, and lights us all in the glow of a giant candle.

NINE

We are pulled off the line the next day. All of us are
allowed to put up tents. The ground freezes, and in the
mornings we burn trash for heat. This is a period of
relative comfort and luxury. During the day, Hunter
passes around the Listerine bottles of whiskey he is
getting in the mail, and I am getting drunk. Stories of
home are exchanged. Stories of whats been done, whats
left to be done.
“Have you ever fucked a chick up the ass?” Hunter
says.
“Hell yes.” Bill answers. “I did that back when I was
fourteen. Right after I lost my virginity.”
Cory snorts. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“Im sorry, but that’s not believable. Your story. If
you were to say, yes, I was at some college party, and
there was this coed, then I would have believed that. If
you were to say, yes, there was this giant fat bitch at the
country bar, I would have believed it.”
“Whatever, dude.”
“don’t get all butt hurt. Im just saying, you have to
make the story believable if you want people to buy into
it. Look, here, I’ll make an effort. What was her name?”
“Karen.”
“Karen what?”
“Karen something.”
“Well, that’s pretty much what I thought it would
be.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“Somehow, the girl you assfucked is mysteriously
missing her last name. That’s not something you forget. I
assfucked Aubrey Debears, before my wife would let me
do it. I wouldn’t forget the last name. Not ever. That’s
not even the worst part.”
“Oh? Well shit, motherfucker. What in your CSI
Oklahoma judgement is the worst part?”
“The worst part is, Karen is the name of your latest
ex girlfriend.”
Bill turns away, and flips off Cory. Stomping back
to the trash fire.
“Mikey!” Cory calls out. “You ever assfuck
anyone?”
“No.” I say.
“You should. It’s a life experience.”
I am cleaning my rifle absent mindedly, and
thinking in the back of my mind about sending a letter
back home to Turqious. I am thinking about how best to
articulate my thoughts. Not in this moment in time, but
in another, happier one. It is proving to be to much for
me. Things are clearing in my mind. Things are opening
themselves up. It is cold in January. Clear crisp cold, with
frost on the ground. Rielly inspects the weapon, and
nods. In the distance, I see Schueher talking to the
Colonel. He raises his right hand.
There is a tremendous explosion.
Everyone gets up to look. The explosion has raised
a giant mushroom cloud in the no-mans-land, a giant ball
of dust that borders on the mini nuclear fire. The psychic
shock, felt throughout the masses. Television and movies
unite.
 “What was that?” I ask.
“That.” Rielly tells me. “Is Schuehers reenlistment
bonus.”
“That’s what?”
“His reenlistment bonus. That’s what he wanted.
For reenlisting.”
“An explosion.”
“Yep.”
Schueher smiles, a large, good natured grin, and a
combat photographer snaps the picture. Bill lights
another cigarette and rubs his hands by the fire. Rielly
shakes Scheuhers hand, then gathers the platoon team
leaders around his tent. After he is done talking,
Scheuher comes by.
“Mikey. Your shit ready to go?”
“Yes Corporal.”
“It’ll be yes Sargeant soon enough. You like the
fireworks?”
“Sure.”
“The word has come down. Were leaving the
embassy. Pack all your shit, were moving up north.”
“What for?”
“Missions. Were running missions, in the
mountains.”
Bill tosses a plastic bottle into the fire. “Missions.”
He repeats to himself, slowly. “The army’s here. And I’m
all missioned out.”
 “It might be cool.” I say.
“it might. But it wont be.”

The USMC LAV-25 is a light armored vehicle that

looks more or less like a tank with eight wheels. More
than that, it reminds me of tiger force. Tiger force was a
line of GI Joe vehicles like the LAV. Somehow, you can fit
way more of us in the LAV that you can fit action figures
in the tiger force.
We climb aboard the LAV. When the hatch in back
shuts, the inside fills up with diesel smoke. The ride is
rough, and seemingly slow. I see Cory go to sleep. There
is very little light inside. What little there is shines in
through the thin cracks, and illuminates slivers of dust.
The ride is slow. The ride is long. It is warm in a good
way aboard. I think of things left behind. My hole is going
to be bulldozed. The army is going to dig trenches. If
they do anything at all.
Ocasionally a rock will bounce across the sides of
the LAV, the gun turret atop will jostle and squeak with
the noise of rusted gears. Ocasionally Rielly will tap his
headset, connected to the driver, and mouth words
drowned out by the roar of the engine. I think how much
we must stink, the lot of us, crammed into these tight
quarters and unwashed for months. I fought sleep. It
tried to swarm over me, in soft waves. It tried to engulf
me in its folds. It turned the world hazy and made lights
swim in front of my eyes. I fought it still.
Hours passed. When the LAV convoy finally
stopped, it was cold, colder than I remembered being in
Khandahar. We stood in front of a giant hill. The land
rose up and down, in front of us. We were in the
mountains.
White Toyota pickup trucks pulled up to us. The
ragheads got out of the trucks. They were mostly
dressed in what looked like cast off remnants of
ourselves, old green flak jackets, green Kevlar helmets,
and AK-47’s. Most of them wore loose beards, or heavy
mustaches. They stank of cheap cologne and body odor.
They were a rag tag bunch, ten to a truck, three trucks,
so thirty of them. They seemed to act in an effeminate
manner. In a way completely unlike ourselves. They
carried their weapons loosely, and the air soon filled with
a stream of gibberish.
“What is that?” I asked.
“That’s the guys were going to be training, Mikey.”
Scheuher said. “That’s the haaji Marines.”
“Afghanistan has Marines?”
“Marines. Soldiers. Militia. Guys with guns. Does it
really matter what you call them?”
“No. I guess not.”
The bad joke continued that day.
The raghead Marines were split into squads and
ran through basic tactics. There were many barriers to
this. The language barrier being the first one. After that,
there was the fact that they were simply undisciplined.
There was a distinct lack of pride in their actions. A
distinct breakdown in the reason for being. They tried to
shoot their weapons from the hip. They could not grasp
the concept of cover. We ran a live fire exercise, and one
of them was nearly shot. A fistfight broke out, between
the two of them. Others joined in. We watched it from a
distance and saw the fat, bearded sergeant, jumping
around, trying to stop it.
“These guys are going to die.” Cory offered. “There
either going to run away or their going to die.”
Rielly shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Orders
are we have to take them with us.”
“For what?” I asked. “What are we going to do?”
“There’s villages to the east. The taliban’s been
using them to train. Were going in there, to flush them
out.”
“With these guys?”
“With these guys.”
The fight breaks up. I see the afghanis laughing,
and smiling. Some of them are holding hands.
Before breaking camp MRE’s are passed out, for us
and the ragheads. The meals are a great novelty among
them. There is much discussion flowing. A thin haaji
makes his way over to the group of me, Cory, and Bill.
“Hello.” He says, with a thick accent. “May I sit?”
“Sure.” Bill says.
“This is good food. Very good.”
“You speak English?”
“Yes. I speak four languages. Farsi, Pashtun,
English. Arabic.”
‘Where did you learn, four languages?”
 “At the university. My name is Said. Salaam
alakum.”
“Oh. Okay. Hi, Said.”
“Hello. And now, you say, Alakum Salaam.”
“Alaykum Salaam.”
“it means, peace be with you, and when I say it
back, it means, with you as well.”
“That’s cool. I mean, good. That’s good.”
“I have friends, who would like to meet you.” Three
other haaji’s bumble around.
“J’mal.” A handsome, tall raghead.
“Omar.” A small man, with dark skin.
“Hussien.”
“Is he related?” The fat, round Afghani soldier
belches and rolls his eyes. “No.” says Said. “He is not
related. But he is drunk.” Hussien puts his head into his
arms, and farts. There is a stream of muttered Arabic. “I
am sorry.” Said continues. “I should not have said that.”
The haaji soldiers bring out flatbread from the back
of their trucks. We eat it with MRE’s. Cory brings out his
Listerine bottle. Hussien sniffs it and smiles widely. We
all drink with the haajis. Omar smiles widely at Bill. He
murmers something into Said’s ear.
“My friend, Omar.” Said says. “He likes you.”
“He likes me?” Bill says.
I leek you.” Omar says.
“Do you have, in your Marines, man to man jiggy-
jig?”
“What?”
“How you say it= jiggy jig? Luhv?”
Omar smiles broadly. His hand brushes Bill’s. Bill
jerks away.
“I don’t jiggy jig that way.”
“Wet luv? Dry Luv?”
“No. In my country-“ Bill makes hand gestures, “In
my country, we, I mean, I, I only jiggy jig with women.”
“You should try Corporal Swain.” Cory jumps in. “In
second squad. He jiggy jigs like that.”
“Women only?” Omar says. There is another
stream of Arabic between them. He is holding J’mals
hand now, and both of them are smiling. The night swirls
down, into a stream of the little whiskey Cory has left. I
have the first hour of watch. I sit and watch the valley
ahead of us, the mountain we will soon cross. There is a
grunting noise, and vague moaning. Behind the white
Toyota pickup, I can see Hussein fucking Omar in the
ass. The is a look of pleasure on his face, like my mother
would have, at church on easter Sunday.

TEN
The nightmare consumes me. I am seeing the face
of the boy in the hut. His lips are moving and a secret
word is coming out. I know that word but I cannot
remember it. I see the burqa women next. Their bodies
are torn and riddled from my bullets They move silently,
swaying. Rocking back and forth behind their blue
nothingness. At the last, I see Almodovar. He stands in
front of the women and the boy. He looks the same as he
always has, and he is wearing the uniform I realize he
will always wear. I try to speak to him but he puts his
hand to his lips, to stop me. We are standing in front of
the ancient castle. The sky is turning a strange dark blue.
The sun is very big and very red. In my heart I know, that
this is the end of the world.
In the morning the ground is freezing. We are not
allowed to build a fire. Instead we huddle around the
LAV’s, hoping the engines will warm us. The diesel fumes
are friendly.
“Did you have a bad dream last night, Mikey?” Bill
asks.
“Yeah.” I say. “I did. How did you know?”
“You woke up funny. You were like, sound asleep,
and then, Bam! You sat bolt upright, and looked around
all crazy. Like you were trying to find something. At first I
thought Scheuher was fucking with you again. Taking
your rifle in your sleep or something.”
“No.” I say. “I’ve got that right here.”
“Its probably the malaria pill, then. You shouldn’t
take that shit.”
‘I don’t want Malaria.”
“You probably wont get it. And then you wont have
those fucking nighmares.”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
The ground around the village is uneven and rocky.
The mountain is everywhere, surrounding us and
swallowing us. My fingers are numb. I flex them, to get
the blood flowing. There are trees here. These are not
the trees of home. They jut out from the rocks and the
sand, a forest growing from a mountain. I think of a bible
picture book I once had. This is what the pictures were
like. The land seems biblical, indeed.
The village itself seems to be grown out of the
rock. I am reminded of going home with Turqious, and
seeing houses on sunset boulevard. Houses that jut from
the side of hills. This is like that, but the hills are
mountains, and the houses are made from mud and
stone. From a distance they seem to simply be formed
out of the existing mountain they were built on, a
seamless blend of tan and tan.
We are forced to leave the LAV’s due to the terrain,
and hike up into the mountains on foot. We march in
neat formation. Behind us, the Afghani soldiers straggle
behind. On the balcony I see men in beards and pajamas
staring at us. No one smiles, no one asks for food. No
children come out to see. Everything is shut, and the
militia is staring.
There is a burst of AK-47 fire. One of the haaji
soldiers is firing into the mountains. “Taliban!” He says.
“Shoot! Taliban. Shoot!”
I collapse into the rocks, into the prone. Next to me
M-16’s and SAW’s are singing their song, the pop pop
pop of battle. I look for shapes in the trees. There is a
small burst of light, far off, way up in the mountain. I
squeeze of a burst in the general direction.
“CEASE FIRE!” Rielly yells. “cease fire.”
 The rest of us stop firing. The haaji’s continue.
Rielly throws a rock at the haaji sergeant. He looks
startled, and then starts yelling and shoving them
around. They stop firing, slowly, the sound of it dying off.
“Did anyone see anything?” Reilly asks.
“It was one of the haaji’s, Sergeant.” Cory says.
“Were not doing that again. That’s a good way to
waste ammo. Only fire if you hear a 16 or SAW, or if you
see something. We cant have that bullshit.”
We walk through the valley, down the center of the
dirt road in the middle of the village. Everyone is tense,
and looking carefully. There is no one out and around. A
lone shepherd tends a flock of goats outside the strip of
huts that makes up the village market. He turns back
and looks at me. He is young, not older than twelve. An
ugly scar dots his cheek. When he turns back, I notice
that his arm end in a stump. The skin of it is yellower
than his natural tan. A trick of the light, or of scar tissue.
I walk around behind one stall. There is a pile of
automatic rifles, underneath a thin blanket. In the next
one, there is a stack of RPG’s. “Hey, Sargeant.” I say.
“Look at this.” Schueher comes over, and whistles. “Hey,
Wade. I think we found the Taliban.”
Rielly’s face goes a shade pale. He signals for us to
take position. After that, we search the stalls. There are
weapons everywhere. Explosives everywhere. It is an
open air market for merchants of death. From behind us,
there is an explosion.
Hussien the haaji soldier is lying in a pool of blood.
His intestines are blazing a trail behind him, into the
cloud of dust. The other haajis are circling around him,
yelling gibberish. Doc Buckley runs back, and starts to
work.
“Think he’ll make it?” I ask Bill. He shakes his
head.
‘Theres no medevac for haajis. The guys gone.”
There is a ritual here to the ending of a life. The
corpsman does what he can. The IV and the turniqiut are
his stations of the cross. After a certain point, he gives
up. He surrenders to the enemy. And the haajis grieve
loudly.
We make our way back to where the haaji’s have
parked their white Toyota pickup trucks. The trip is long,
longer than I remember it taking to get there. On the
way back someone fires a rifle sporadically. We take
cover after every incident, and point our weapons
outward. The haajis shout and scream and fire randomly
into the sky. As if the land itself was the source of their
frustration. As if the sand itself could swallow their pain,
swallow their bodies, and spit out wads of hot anger
made of lead at the ceiling.
When we arrive They place the body of Hussien
underneath wool blankets. One of them gets on the
truck. The raghead sergeant yells at him, but he shakes
his head. Then another joins him. There is an eviction
taking place in front of us. The sergeant takes off his
beret and throws it on the ground. Then he goes over to
Sergeant Rielly and Lt. Easter. He appears to be offering
a sort of apology. The trucks load up and the driver steps
on the gas. I see Said, with a nervous sort of smile. He
waves at me goodby.
 We hike up into a cliff overlooking the village.
Rielly gets on the radio and talks with command, back at
Khandahar. We wait in the hasty three-sixty. We wait
until we hear the noise of the helicopter.
The Cobra attack helicopter is louder than the
Osprey. It comes in with a loud WHOP WHOP WHOP,
cutting low across the valley. It is a grey backed beast,
strange enough in itself to be an action figure accessory.
Nothing real like it could exist in the ordinary world, in
the civilian world. There is a rattle of chain guns. There is
a flare of rockets. The rockets shoot plumes of flame
from the back end of the launcher on the Osprey before
whizzing away with a trail of smoke. Across the
mountainside, huts explode. Ancient dust flares.
Schueher grabs the back of my flak jacket.
“Were clearing out the Market.” He says. “Anyone
with a weapons cache is Taliban. Tag em and bag em.”
The Cobra makes another pass. The chain gun
roars again, howling its fury. We scramble quickly, down
the side of the mountain. Into the village. The rocks slip
loose. Jimmy Drawdy takes a tumble, nosediving into a
bush. There is fire coming from the village now. The
crack of the AK, the hiss of the RPG. We fire back. The
LAV manages to make its way up to the clearing, and
points its main gun in the direction of the enemy. A
building seemingly caves in. All around me I can hear the
whizzing and cracking of the bullets. My mind is very
much tuned in. Everything is more real now than is
possible.
In the village I see a goat, lying in the middle of the
street. Dead or dying. For one solitary, horrible minute,
my sense of smell comes back, and I can smell how
much the thing stinks. I can smell the deep reek of it. We
stack up on a door. I mule kick it open, and we charge in,
weapons out front. Inside a man with a long grey beard
is holding a baby. The baby is naked, and wrapped in a
red rag. It is moving slightly but it is not crying. The old
man backs up before the muzzles of our weapons. He
does not speak. A blue burqa woman sits motionless. In
the next room. The floor is made of dirt. There is little
light in the rooms, without our flashlights, and the odor
of human beings is very strong. There is a solitary AK- 47
propped next to a window. Bill kicks it over. Back in the
next room the old man is kneeling now.
We come back out to the main street. There is a
sandbagged Haaji escorted out. Behind him, a woman in
a burqa is screaming. She reaches for him. Cory shoves
her back, and she falls to the floor, crying. I walk into his
hut. There is a huge pile of weapons there, AK’s and
RPG’s, but also an M-16, and what I think is a stinger
missile. The translator is talking to the woman, who is
crying and raising her hands over her head.
“She says he did not want to do it.” The translator
tells Rielly. “She says the Taliban came at night, and
made her do it. She says that if they did not do it, the
Taliban would kill them.”
“Tell her we don’t believe her.” Reilly says. “Or
that we don’t care. We already had one guy die today,
because of this shit. Tell her that he’s coming with us.”
The translator speaks and the woman holds her head in
her hands and wails. Two children come out of the hut,
and sit on their knees beside her.
 Most of the huts are empty. The helicopter’s arrive,
gleaming Army Blackhawks, and take the prisoners. The
newly minted detainees, fresh for Gitmo. They drop off
Explosives Ordinance Disposal Marines, who dig a pit for
all the weapons, and explode it. We head back to the
LAV’s and break out MRE’s, and eat. I swallow mine cold.
I am tired and hungrier than I thought I could be.
Scheuher passes me a cigarette after I finish. The
nicotine is a palate cleanser, good and pure in the wake
of what we have been through. I think of the baby. I think
of the goat, and the boy who was herding it. I think of
Said, with his strange sad smile
I try to move my thoughts over to Turqiouse. The
effort appears useless. America is so far away. I try to
think about Angela Garrison, on the ship. Even the USS
Bataan is a hopeless distance. I am lost, really and truly
lost. Rielly comes over to where I am eating. “That was
good work today, Mikey.” He says. “You and Bill both.
Neither of you guys hesitated.”
“I guess, sergeant.” I say. “Its pretty shitty.”
‘What is?”
“All of this. The kids, I guess. Especially the kids.”
Rielly squints into the sun. “Its always shitty when
the kids get fucked up.” He says. “You’ve just got to
think, that’s war. If their daddies weren’t the bad guys,
none of this would be happening.”
“You know their going to put it on Al-Jazeera,
though.” I say. “You know the first thing their going to
say is, Marines attack village, kill babies. I mean, that’s a
given.”
 “Fuck Al-Jazeera.” Rielly says. “You cant think
about that, anyway. You have to stay in the moment. I
wanted to tell you something, Mikey.”
“Whats that?”
“I think you should try out for Recon.”
“Recon?”
‘Theres an indoc when we get to Malta. After all
this shit is over with. I talked with the Staff Sargeant
NCOIC, I guy I used to run with in force. You should do
it.”
“I should.”
“Yeah. Your tough, Mikey. You’ve got a lot of heart.
That’s what it takes. You don’t want to stay here all your
life. Here is battalion infantry. That shits for the birds.”
“Okay.”
“Okay. That’s a yes, right.”
‘Yes, sergeant. I mean, I’ll think about it.”
“You do that, then.” Reilly grins. “Fucking nerd.”
The night is calm on the mountain. We watch the
valley in shifts this time, at fifty percent. This is a
moment I am starting to equate with this country, with
Afghanistan. The calm not dark before night comes, the
moment when I sit behind my rifle and I star into nothing
and I think of all that I have done.

ELEVEN
I wake up in the middle of the night and it is
snowing on the side of the mountain. Next to me, Bill is
snoring peacefully. The snow falls down in large round
droplets. Flakes big enough for you to see the pattern of
their crystals inside, fully formed. I shake his bag back
and forth. He murmers an obscenity, a quick “Fuck you”,
and blinks in the face of all the snow.
“Its snowing.” I say.
Around me the world is painted a simple shade of
white. The snow sticks to the trees in the valley, to the
dust on the rocks. A lone Hummer trails along the road
up into the Valley, its tan armor a stark contrast on the
fields of white. John Sack jumps out, his large head
bumbling inside a green Kevlar helmet. An old flak jacket
is wrapped around his frame. He still is wearing those tan
cargo shorts, and his thighs are pasty white.
“Oh.” Rielly groans. “God.”
Sack is fumbling his way up the cliff to us. He looks
unsure of himself, and unsure of his uncertainty. As if he
were undertaking a task that was once simplicity itself.
The snow makes the rocks even more slippery. He
staggers once every three or four steps.
“Hello, Wade. Huuagh.”
“Did you talk to the Colonel?” Wade asks.
“I did. I reassured him that I could keep up. Ive
been doing this a long time.”
“I realize that.” Wade takes off his helmet, and
scratches his head. “There’s not a lot of time for us to
slow down out here.”
“I. Oh. Huaagh.” John Sack spits a stream of
mucus. It is a dark yellow near orange of unhealthy
urine. The snot is thick and long. It takes a minute for
him to compose himself. “I’ll be fine.”
Sergeant Rielly nods. We turn back to camp. I see
me breath rising in a puff of steam. The cold is starting
to possess me, starting to creep into my flesh. I am out
of MRE’s. I am starting to feel sick, a sort of numbing
sickness, that sees itself as a weakness flushing out my
veins.
“Saddle up.” Rielly gives the command. “Were
going back to the village.”
We move down the cliff into the village. It is even
more empty than it was before. In small pits, people are
burning wood and trash, and huddling around it for
warmth. We walk around, observing everything. John
Sack takes his pictures, and scribbles in his book.
A man comes up to the translator and babbles
excitedly. They chat on and off. I sway forward, taking
the weight off my shoulders.
“He says the Taliban came last night. He says they
went into the mountains, into the caves. He says he will
show you.”
“Tell him thank you.” Rielly says. “And lets go.”
I am changing movies now, changing from black
hawk down to Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. The
caves jut out from the rock in large black shadows. The
snow caps everything off in perfect stillness. I switch on
my surefire flashlight, and sweep right and left
throughout the caves. There is a feeling in the back of
my mind, that I am seeing something that no one has
seen before. That I am part of a vast secret, an old secret
thing. I think about what planning must have happened
back here. I think about all we have gone through, and
all we have done. There are boxes and things lying
around. Everywhere, there is evidence that something
was in here. There air is cold, very cold, and I feel the
rock must be even colder. The air smells like my
grandparents basement, musty and old.
I look around, and see I must be by myself. The
path ahead of me is growing narrower. Inside there is a
power line running up the ceiling. A bare extension cord,
dangling loosely There is a large pile of wooden crates on
the right wall. I pry one open with my Ka-bar knife. It is
filled with mortars, gleaming metal mortars, brand new,
with undented fins. Someone is calling my name. I
suddenly realize how far down the caves I actually am,
and start to retreat back to the opening. I follow the dim
light, back to the platoon.
“Mikey!” Schueher is yelling. “Why the fuck did you
go so far!”
“I found some mortars.” I say.
“Theres a lot of shit back here. Wade’s calling in to
the battalion. The Colonel’s probably going to send Force
Recon over here, to deal with this shit.”
‘Force Recon? I thought this was ours.”
“Politics, Mikey. Its all politics. Force is going to
clear the caves, then the Army is going to come build a
fire base near the village.”
“So that’s it? We just leave?”
“That’s what it’s all about. We’re the tip of the
spear. That means we get to be first. It doesn’t mean we
get to be the only ones.”
‘Roger that.”
“And don’t fucking run off again.”
We wait by the opening of the cave. A Blackhawk
gleams in over the mountains. An angry hummingbird
over a field of snow. A fast rope lowers. The operators
spiral down. There are ten of them, with thick beards and
black caps. Rielly talks with one for a while. They give a
thumbs up and head into the caves. We make our way
back to the village.
The people have come out now. A child waves at
we. They are cautious towards us, unsure of what we are
doing. I see the shepherd, and toss his some candy from
my MRE. We march up the cliff to the far side of the
village, back to our camp.
“Im fucking hungry.” Cory says.
“We didn’t eat this morning.” Bill adds.
‘Schueher says the battalion forgot to supply us
with MRE’s.”
“How do you forget that?” John Sack asks. “Isnt
that one of the rules of war? An army marches on its
stomach.”
“I guess they figured since were not Army, we can
march on fucking nothing.”
A lone goat wanders up the side of the mountain. It
stops to lick up snow its fur is an ugly grey. It reminds
me of a diseased cat that used to eat out of the garbage,
back home. I wonder about that garbage, If any fast food
was thrown out in it. A double quarter pounder, from
Mcdonalds. That would be good.
“Mikey. Let me see your rifle.”
“What for, dude?”
“I’m going to shoot that fucking goat.”
I hand over the 16. Cory drops into the sitting
position, and aims in. there is a familiar clap of thunder.
The three familiar sounds on the M16. The goat lets out a
shriek, then falls over. Cory makes his way carefully over
across the snow. He drags the deer back by its horns.
“Ever field strip a deer, Mikey?” Cory asks.
“No. Cant say I have.”
“Huh. Watch this shit.”
Cory moves quickly and guts the goat, making
determined cuts. Removing its skin and intestines. The
blood is thick and red, and the goats eyes are large black
pools. We start a fire, gathering sticks and trash. We cut
long sticks, and roast the flesh slowly over the embers.
When I taste it, I find that the goat meat is stringy and
flavorless.
“Do you think the Taliban were in those caves?”
John Sack asks.
“Probably.” Bill answers. “It doesn’t matter
anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Were going to be stuck out here one way or
another. It doesn’t matter if they were ever in those
caves.”
“Wouldn’t it be more exciting to meet them?”
 “What?”
“Huuagh.”
“I don’t get it.”
“What I mean to say. Is that if you met the Taliban,
in the caves, it would be exciting. And I could write about
it. In my article.”
“In your article.”
“Huuagh. Yes.”
“Why cant you write about this? Isnt this exciting
enough.”
John Sack’s eyes betray him. The vulture in him
betrays him. He looks around our goat fire, and find no
pity in us, no love of sensationalism to be found. He
clears his throat again, then shivers, a deep old man
shiver. When I am old, I want to be at home, in my
house, with a bed and warm food. If I ever get out of
here, I will go home, to that house, after the Marines. I
will get a job that I can make a career. I will love my wife
and daughter. And I will pray that I never have a son, a
son who might one day crave adventure, and travel, and
glory. A son that might one day find himself here.
John Sack leaves us, then. In the village the call to
prayer sounds. The wailing commences. I look across the
mountains. I realize they remind me of something other
than Indiana Jones. They remind me of an Old Lovecraft
story, In the Mountains of Madness, about the great old
ones, evil beings who lives behind a vast mountains
range. A nameless evil. A faceless evil. Something that
was rarely seen. Something that was more often felt.
 I hear the whistling in the air. I look at Cory to see
if he is making the noise. His face is tucked deep into his
scarf against the wind. He is shivering slightly. Next to
us, I hear a deep thud. A puff of dust and snow rises.
There is more whistling. In front of me, the ground
explodes.
“MORTARS!” Someone yells. “INCOMING!”
Around us, the ground is lifting up. The air is thick
with whistles. A SAW is howling its machine gun sound,
blaring its noise Cory is shooting into the valley, at the
village, while all around death is raining down on us.
Rielly is yelling into the radio. I scramble down the
mountain. My foot slips and I fall, head over feet. Above
me another mortar explodes. The barrel of my rifle is
dragging in the dirt. I suddenly realize I do not care, and
where is my helmet, I need my helmet. I need something
on my head. I need something else between me and the
death.
More whistling. The face of the boy. The faces of
the women. The rocks and the prisoners.
The Cobra is back, chaingun firing hard. Its rockets
evaporate huts on the mountain. It turns again towards
the caves, and the caves too are bathed in fire. There is
cheering from our camp. I stagger back up the mountain.
I feel the snow on my bare palms. It has a wet sting to it
that leaves a bright red mark.
When I reach the top, everything is a scene of
confusion. Doc Buckley is working frantically on Rielly.
Lieutenant Easter is yelling on the radio. I can see a
piece of grey metal, sticking into Rielly’s scalp, just
below his high and tight. His light blue eyes are open,
and staring into a different world.

TWELVE
Back at Khandahar a ceremony is held in the
terminal. The Colonel makes a speech in which he calls
us all “We happy few” and “We band of brothers” no less
then three times. I would feel better if I thought he was
quoting Shakespeare. Instead I know that he has been
watching HBO in the terminal. Sitting on his fat ass and
watching HBO, while we have been in the mountains.
Colonel Lynes is a wide, pear shaped man, with a
comb-over. He gets excited when he speaks, and waves
his arms about in wide circles, as if to include all of us in
his excitement. We stand at parade rest in front of him,
arms tucked behind us. He calls Wade “Wades”. After it
is finished, he turns and salutes the memorial. The
memorial is simple, a M16 rifle placed barrel down
between his boots. His helmet is atop the rifle, and his
dog tags are draped around the helmet.
I think of the man himself. Wrapped in a plastic
body bag and sent to Germany. I think of all his things,
being put into their own, smaller plastic bags, and being
sent to his bitch of a wife. An ex wife, now. She will tell
the other man that her husband died a hero. That they
never got to work out their problems. She will cry in his
arms, and then he will hold her, and give her a nice
tender fuck. I think of all this.
I think of Turqious. I wonder if I have time to make
a phone call.
 “Hey Mikey.” Bill slaps me on the shoulder. “Your
team leader now.”
“I am?”
“I’m first squad leader. Scheuher’s platoon
Sargeant. Everyone gets a battlefield promotion.
‘That’s fucking great.”
“Isnt it.”
‘Their not going to let me make a phone call.”
Bill shakes his head. “Probably not. Were headed
up north to Kabul, to re open the US Embassy there. All
we have time for before that is a picture.”
“A picture?”
“All the platoon’s are taking a picture in front of
Khandahar Airport sign.”
“So we have to.”
“Its uniformity. All of us have to do the same
thing.”
“Of course we do.”
“You want a cigarette?”
We stand in front of the terminal and smoke. I
inhale the camel deep into my lungs, hoping to taste the
cancer. My nerves cool from their jangle. My stress goes
down. All this will pass, I tell myself. All this will become
history, new history that will be written with your name
on it. With our name on it. All this will come to being.
Rielly would have wanted to go like that, If he wanted to
go any way at all.
But are you jealous, then?
 Of what?
Rielly has joined the club. Dead in his twenties, a
name on a future memorial wall. Are you jealous? Are
you ready to see whats next? I know what you believe.
That activity itself is meaningless. Are you jealous then?
Are you ready for drill Instructors to talk about you at
boot camp?
LANCE CORPORAL MICHAEL WAS
A BRAVE MARINE
HE GOT SHOT TO SHIT BY A MORTAR
WHILE CALLING ON A HELICOPTER
TO KILL A BUNCH OF SAND NIGGER
WOMEN AND KIDS
WRAPPED IN A RED RAG
ASKING A QUESTION
Of what?
“Jesus, Mikey, c’mon!”
“Sorry, dude. Guess I was zoning.”
“That’s okay, man. Always knew you were a crack
baby.”
I see the picture, now. At this moment in time. I
see The picture in black and white. I see the three ranks
standing, the thirty or so of us. I see me sitting in the
front. Next to Bill, Then Scheuher. I see The land around
us. I am there, I am always there, I am at the airport, I
am looking into the blue sky, I am looking at the snow
melting on the dust and rock, I am there, I am at the
airport, and I am having my picture taken.
 We fill up our water bladders and our canteens. We
eat MRE’s and we strip rifle bullets into our magazines.
We clean the carbon out of our rifle barrels. We fart and
smoke and joke and laugh and talk. Maybe nothing can
keep us down. Maybe the entire war is being run by us.
Maybe Schueher is right. Maybe nothing matters but
power, and we carry ultimate power in our hands.
The five-ton trucks fill up with India company, all
three platoons. I toss my pack into the back, and hop in.
In seconds the trucks are filled with warmth from body
heat. Bill leans his head back and goes to sleep. I look
out the sides to the road. We pass the man gate leading
past the perimeter. The Army waves as we leave. I see
the fat Specialist with the tongue ring behind a 240 Golf
machine gun, and I cannot for the life of me remember
what his name is. The road wanders further into the
mountains. The Airport shrinks smaller and smaller, until
it is nothing but a child’s toy. We turn hard on the road
and the cliffs of Afghanistan swallow it up.
When I wake the road is desolate on either end. I
look down and the road is paved, and nearly only wide
enough for our truck. On either side of us is fields of tan
nothing. Rocks and dust. Beyond that lie the mountains,
white capped. We are driving along at a good clip. I look
behind us at the truck in the rear, and then in front to
the forward humvee. There is nothing to say we are
anywhere.
Marines are cramped inside the trucks. Some
awake, some asleep. Uniforms stained with blood and
dirt and dust. Snot and cum and drool and rock. Snow
and rain and gunpowder. The sediment of life and death.
 We pass a checkpoint in the road. A haaji with a AK
rifle stares hate from a shack. Next to him another haaji
squats and takes a shit beside the road. His stool falls in
brown coils, the truck bumps past the checkpoint, I aim
my weapon in, and in my mind, I take the shitting haaiji’s
life away. The trucks accelerate and rush past. We
continue on the highway heading north, ever north.

PART THREE
THE UNITED STATES EMBASSY
KABUL AFGHANISTAN

ONE
The city happens a little bit, and then all at once.
There is a house on the left, A stone hut. A woman with a
donkey. A boy running past yelling “American! American!
Biscuit! Biscuit!”
A field of poppies. Green stems in red blossoms.
The field opens up. More houses. And now a car. A jingle
truck, painted bright pink and green. Covered in tiny
silver bells. A man standing atop a van, holding his arms
outstretched. The haaji king of the world. The Kabul
Embassy is frozen in time.
Outside the building is an ugly yellow brick. Our
trucks park in the street. We scramble out with our
weapons, ready for anything. There is litter all around
the area. Several burnt out husk of cars sit in what used
to be a parking lot. The courtyard has a round circle in
front of it, with an empty flag pole. There is a little
broken glass, in the lobby. Broad holes line the front of
the door where an AK ripped through it. In the middle of
the building, a metal eagle stares down at us from a
government seal. Inside there are desks with the
documents still on them, dating 1989. Cigarette butts
still in ashtrays. Sodas left in cans and glass bottles,
reduced to powder through evaporation. Pictures of
President Ronald Reagan on the wall. Pictures of the
Ambassador of 1989, mourning his assassination. A time
capsule, of when things just started going to shit here.
Bill and I are going through the offices, looking for
signs of- anything.
“So weird.” He says. “They didn’t mess with this
place. Like their scared of it.”
“Did you know coke still had glass bottles in
1989?”
‘I didn’t. I think they had plastic, then. I don’t know.
I was, like, four.”
“Hey, dude?”
“Yeah.”
“What if they stayed?”
“Huh.”
“I mean, what if they stayed, in Afghanistan? Do
you think we would be dealing with all this shit now?”
“Probably not. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe.”
. Going down the stairs to the basement, we find
an old chair lying in the middle of a concrete floor. I hear
moaning. There is someone in the room with us.
 I raise my weapon to the ready. Bill does the same.
I aim in down the red dot sight. There are empty tin
cans, in the corner. The room is damp and stinks of filth.
I turn on my surefire flashlight, and look past the chair. A
man is laying on the floor. He is naked, and covered in
dried blood. I can see only his back. He is shivering,
slightly. He turns around to look at me, and I can see
that most of his teeth are gone.
“Mareen.” He says.
“CORPSMAN!” Bill yells. ‘We need a Corpsman
here!”
There is the scramble of footsteps coming down
the basement steps. Schueher is there, and Doc Buckley,
and the translator. They surround the man, shoving past
me. I back up, up the stairs. Next to me is John Sack. His
camera is out, and he is wide eyed, looking for his pound
of flesh.
We meet in the cafeteria, Breaking out MRE’s over
a red tablecloth. “When they open this place back up.”
Cory observes. “I think they’ll take out all the ashtrays.”
“Is that guy going to be okay?” I ask.
“The translator says he used to work here.” Says
Schueher. “The Taliban tortured him, right before we got
here. He says he used to work here. In the eighties, I
guess. I says he never left.”
“look at this.” Bill points to the menu. ‘Twenty five
cents for a pepsi. That’s eighties prices.”
There is a flag raising ceremony later that day. All
the state department staff gathers. I stand at attention
with my rifle. Two Marines unfold the flag and mount it
on the pole. As it raises, we salute. Lieutenant Easter
gives a short speech, about how the flag was raised over
the world trade center rubble. On September Eleven. A
bronze plaque is placed in front of the pole:
THIS FLAG WAS RAISED OVER THE
WORLD TRADE CENTER
AFTER THE ATTACKS ON SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
AND IS BEING PLACED AT THE
UNITED STATES EMBASSY IN
KABUL, AFGHANISTAN
BY THE MARINES OF INDIA COMPANY 3/6

The flag is a bright blur of primary colors. The air is

cold and greedy. The flag cracks loudly as it flaps in the
wind, and shivers run deep through my bones. I salute
the colors, as a recording plays the star spangled banner
on an Ipod speaker.
We are allowed to rest inside the Marine quarters
while second platoon takes watch around the embassy
perimeter. There was little discussion of this, as we have
been gone on missions all week, and second platoon has
been back at Khandahar. There was only a contingent of
fifteen or so Marines when the embassy was last open,
and there is not nearly enough room for all of us. We are
cramped inside too little space, laying nut to butt.
“Fuck, dude. There going to need to expand this
place.” Cory says. “We need some fucking breathing
room.”
 “What makes you think their ever going to put
Marines here?” Bill asks. “What makes you think their
not going to just staff it with mercs?”
“Fuck no.” Cory says. “All Embassies are guarded
by Marines. They have to have this one that way too.”
“Yeah. And all those marines wear dress blues.”
“So, this one will be flak and Kevlar. This one is
different.”
“Im telling you, man. It’s the way of the future.
Soon, all wars will be fought by PMC’s.”
“Isnt that a Playstation game?”
“What do you mean?”
“that’s a Playstation game. Where all the wars are
fought by PMC’s. that’s a playstation game, and its called
MAG.”
“Your point is?”
“My point is, motherfucker, that your taking a
Playstation game, and trying to pass it off as your own,
original, idea. And I caught your ass at it.”
“The idea is still legit.”
“It is? You know what else is legit?”
“No.”
“These nuts in your mouth. Cause I caught your
ass.”
“Huuuagh.”
John Sack is at the door, smiling. “Well, Marines. I
just wanted to say, good luck. I’m flying out tomorrow.
Ive got all I needed for my article, and you all have
helped me greatly.”
“Bye, John!” Bill yells.
“Goodbye.” He bobs up and down, searching for
footing. An old mans shuffle. “Goodbye.”
‘Ive got news as well!” Easter says. “Ive spoken
with the Colonel. Tomorrow, were flying out. Second and
third are going to stay out here. First platoon’s headed
back to the boat!”
There is an actual cheer at this news. Marines bang
on their rifles, on their helmets. In my heart, I feel the
weight of it hit me like a ton of bricks. Back to the boat.
Back to the boat, that takes us home. In the afternoon
we start a fire in a metal drum. I empty out my ranger
pack of all the extra offal I have collected. I burn my care
package. I burn my X-Men comic book. All the extra
weight.
Why are you doing this?
To make my pack lighter.
I don’t think that’s why. I think youre trying to
forget.
Forget? Forget what?
You want the fire to take it away.
Take
Your memories.
What
The boy. The women. The goat. The prisoners.
It was important to be here.
 How do I explain it to you?
The real reason
You will lie to everyone.
You are not a killer.
You are only playing Marine.
Let me forget.
You were proud then.
I am proud now.
This place is inconsequential.
A world of dust
And rock
That stinks like shit.
The fire roars. Look back on it. It consumes your
memories. The plane howls. Hop on board it, another
sardine. Listen! Listen to the speakers. That’s Rage
against the Machine. That’s bulls on parade
NEVER DO WHAT THEY TELL YOU
GOT YOU UNDER CONTROL
You live in media. You are surrounded by it. Media
made you. What you are. Defined by consumption.
Marine is a brand. Colt is a brand. M16 is an icon. All of
this is only information.

TWO
We land on the ship. My legs wobble as I get off.
We walk down the ramp, through the hanger bay, and
into the chow hall. Theyre serving lunch. Cheeseburgers.
It smells good, too good. Real food. I pass the vending
machines. Turn another corner. And its back to the
berthing area.
On ship, we all live in a berthing area. The space is
cramped, rows of small beds stacked three high. First
Platoon has one row. Then second and third platoon. We
have a lot more space then some others, in Kilo or Lima
company they have much smaller ships to ride in. An
aircraft carrier is quiet, an aircraft carrier is big, and an
aircraft carrier does not rock with the waves or storms
that much at all. I drink it all in, as I strip off my pack and
flak and helmet. The floor is speckled blue. The walls are
white, the blanket on my bed is grey. Tubing runs up the
walls, over our heads, all around us. I strip it all off. I strip
off all my clothes, and wrap a towel around my waist. I
head for the showers.
There is a line on front of me for the showers. A
line of equally filthy Marines, bathed in dust and dirt. I
catch a glimpse at my reflection. I am thin, thinner than I
ever remember being. I can clearly see the outline of my
ribcage. The shower stall is a cube of aluminum. I press
the nozzle and warm water flows over me. Across my
head, and my chest. Down my stomach, and crotch.
Down my ankles, to my feet. Warmth envelopes me. I
shiver with joy. Little lights sparkle behind my eyes. This
is the best shower I have ever had. I strip off the
cardboard on a brand new bar of soap, and start to
scrub.
Half an hour later, the filth is off my bones and I
am in line for a computer. The line is long, at least ten
Marines in front of me. I am in the ships library,
surrounded by books. Behind three or four rows of books
is two banks of flat screen computers. The line moves
slowly. I turn and look, and there stand Angela Garrison.
“Merrell!” She smiles. “You’re back!”
Angela has green eyes, and brown hair. With light
pink, pale skin. A little trail of freckles across the bridge
of her nose. A trail of sun damage. She wears a lipstick
the color of flesh. The name of it, she told me once, is
nude, her lips are nude, and when her body is nude Her
nipples are the same pale, pink color. I drink her in now,
drink in the Navy Working Uniform, the digital
camouflage that hugs to the curves of her body. She
hugs me, then, pressing herself close against my body.
Her grip is fierce and inviting. “I’m so glad your back. I
heard the news, and I got scared.”
“I’m fine.” I say. “Wade isn’t, though. He’s dead.”
“That’s your sergeant, right? The tall guy?” I nod.
“Oh my god. I am so sorry.”
“Its okay. Its all over now. I’m back on ship.”
“Am I going to see you in Malta?”
“When is that?”
“Once we pick up the rest of you guys from over
there. Were going to port in Valletta. Its going to be the
first real liberty for any of us.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Oh yeah. Its going to be a party. And Rachel
knows a guy that knows a guy that can get us some
stuff. If youre coming.”
“I am. I mean, I’ll be there.”
 “Okay. I’ll talk to you more at chow. Your up next.”
I move to the computer terminal and sign in. She
waves goodbye and mouths the words as she does it,
bye-ee. I turn back to the console and sign into my
email.
6stringgunslinger@gmail.com
41 unread messages
Turqiouse- are you back yet?
Turqiouse- OMG Merrell, where are you I saw on
the news
Turqiouse- Selah pooped on the cat today
Turqiouse- Guess what THIS is?
Turqiouse- You love turq turq?
Turqiouse- I miss my mer bear
Dad-Hey boy! Just checking on ya. We saw in the
news.
Bank of America- Your account is overdue and
needs to be paid
Turqiouse- cant sleep I miss you
Turqiouse-my farts stink
Turqiouse-I cried after your phone call
I go down each and every one. I respond to
Turqious and Dad and even Bank of America. My heart is
heavy and feels like it is grasping something, something
way off in the future. Why did I have to do it? Why did I
have to sign up for this, to be away from her? I type a
message. I try to tell her everything
 Baby
Were back on ship. Im sorry I didn’t get to call. Im
sorry you had to worry Im fine Bill is fine Sergeant Rielly
died. Were all done and heading back. Its all over. I miss
Selah and I saw your pictures. She is getting really big
and I see that she has teeth now. I’m going to call
tonight so keep your phone on. I took my first shower
today in over three months. It was the best thing yet, But
I know the best thing ever will be when I see you. I miss
you I love you I’ll be back soon.
Mer Mer

There is emotion overwhelming me. My eyes are

tearing up as I leave the computer. I wipe them and I
stagger outside, out to the smoke deck. The sea air feels
cool as I light a smoke, a Marlboro light fresh from the
ships store. I lean across the edge of the rail.
There are three colors to the ocean. There is a
lighter grey color, on the surface, and then there is
another, deeper blue color, that is only visible when the
water is especially calm. Above that choppy foam
glistens. I stare out at the grey, between the white, and
into the deep blue. Bill hops out of the hatch next to me,
that leads back to the berthing area.
“I think we still stink, dude.” He says. “I mean, I
think theres a residual smell left. Maybe after a couple
more showers, or something.”
“Angela wants me to go with her to a party in
Malta.” I tell him.
“Great. That works great. You survived war, and
your going to get laid.”
“I don’t know. Im just ready to go back home.”
“What is it, your conscience or some shit? Hey, just
remember, what happens on float stays on float. It
doesn’t go home with you.”
“Yeah.”
“And besides, shes fucking hot. You’ve got to hit
it.”
“Yeah.”
“You know Schueher follows her around like a
puppy dog, right?”
“Ive seen it.”
“Exactly. So if you fuck her, that is like, ultimate
revenge. Like that klingon proverb.”
“You watch Star Trek? I should call you nerd.”
“No, its famous. It was in the beginning of Kill Bill.”
“Yeah. Star Trek.”
“Its not those Klingons. The ancient Klingons. I
think they were japenese or something.”
“The ancient klingons.”
“Fuck you. Anyway, revenge is a something best
cold. There. That’s what I was trying to say.”
“That’s good, Bill.”
“It will be. When I get back at her.”
“At who?”
“That bitch, dude. That fucking bitch.”
 The boys face comes to me, unannounced. I push it
away. I think about the statement. Nothing to scare
anyone. Not from anyone normal. But we are not normal.
And we know where the line is. And how thin it is.Bill has
disposed of his smoke in the ocean while I was looking
away. I search for it in the deeper blue, past the white,
and the grey.

THree

I am on the flight deck of the Bataan, in my service

charlie’s uniform. The khaki shirt with the green pants. I
am standing on the deck next to many white uniformed
sailors. We are pulling up to the island. As we draw closer
I can make out Valletta.
Malta is many old building built upon island hills
and cliffs. It brings to mind dreams of Europe, I have
once had. King Arthur and Camelot. The three
musketeers and france. The count of monte cristo and
spain. I compare in my mind the buildings here and the
ruins in Kabul. Somehow it seems not yet as old as that.
A thought crosses my mind. Turqiouse remembers
nothing of the day of her car accident. Why that thought?
Why now? The pictures of her. Laying in the bed, with
the tubes criss crossing her caramel skin. We arrive in
port. The liberty bell sounds.
A quick change in the berthing area. I am wearing
clothes for the first time in months. Real clothes,
Abercrombie and Fitch clothes. Out to the hanger bay.
Stand at attention, to the flag at the rear of the ship.
 Garrison is on the dock, in tight jeans, open toed
shoes, and a halter top. Fuck-me shoes. She leans in
close, gives me a tight hug. The crush of her breasts
against me. A kiss on the cheek, the smell of her
perfume. “Where should we go?” She asks me.
“Lets get some distance.” I say. “Lets get some
space from the boat.”
We wave down a taxi cab. It’s a small car, and a
tight fit inside. The driver mutters to us in his own
language. “Drink.” I say. ‘Drink.” The cab starts, and we
fly down the narrow streets. Garrison takes out a
disposable camera, looking out the window and snapping
pictures.
From the front of the cab the driver says. “We are
landing, shortly.”
“Look at that view.” Murmers Garrison. I look out
the window. There is nothing there but sky.
Sky is all that is up or down. There are faint clouds,
whisps really, strings of clouds that dot below us. Panic
grips me. I think about all that has happened.
“Were about to crash.” I say.
‘Whats up, dude?” Bill says.
“Wheres Garrison?”
“Who?”
“Angela Garrison. From ship.”
“you mean, from float?” Bill stares at me, puzzled.
“That’s right.” I say.
“My guess is, she’s on some ship somewhere,
whoring it up. I heard Scheuher fucked her.”
“He didn’t.”
‘Well, its some shit he always says.”

There is a sinking feeling, deep in my chest. There

is a question I have to ask, I question I am sure I already
know the answer to. “Where are we?” I say.
“We’re on a plane.” Bill tells me. And we are. The
driver is now Cory. I see in front of me all the other
Marines, All the rest of India Company. I see Staff
Sargeant Scheuher. I look down, at my own marpat
camies. Two stripes. I am a corporal now.
“You shouldn’t have drank so much.” Bill tells me.
Something is missing from me. I look at my left
hand. There is a discolored place where my ring should
be. There is a blank space in my head where memories
should be. I feel it now, the vibration of the plane. “I was
back on the boat.” I tell Bill. “We were in Malta.”
“You’ve been having those dreams again.” Bill
says.
“I guess. I was right there.”
“Last deployment, dude.” Bill says. “Last
deployment, then we get out of this shit.”
“Its been a bad year.” I say.
“It has, but this should put a cap on it.”
“You ever have one of those dreams? One of those
dreams where you know something terrible has
happened, or is about to happen, and you try to stop it,
but you cant?”
“Yeah, and then you wake up.”
“Yeah.”
“Everyone does that. I forget what its called. A
lucid dream, I think. I don’t know.”
We are in a normal seven forty-seven, made
abnormal by its passengers. Marines in desert marpat,
everywhere. Laughing and talking and sleeping. Rifles
and machine guns everywhere. I look between my own
legs to see a familiar sight, an M16A4, with a red dot
reflex sight. Next to me Bill has his own, with a 203
grenade launcher.
“Help me out here, dude.” I say. “Im a little fuzzy.
Recent events and the like.”
“You called Turq. You yelled and screamed. We
both got stupid drunk. We woke up in the morning, and
put on our uniforms, and got on a white school bus. The
school bus took us to the airplane. We got on the
airplane. Here we are now. Oh, and the in-flight movie
was Superbad.”
“That’s a good movie.”
‘Isnt it? All Judd Apatows flicks are pretty good.”
“I didn’t like funny people.”
“Why not?”
“It was too preachy and not enough funny.”
“You have to admit, it was a well made movie.”
“I don’t have to admit anything. I expect certain
things from a Seth Rogen film, and certain things from a
Adam Sandler film. It was neither of those things. It
sucked.”
“Did turq leave me?” I ask.
Bill groans. “C’mon, dude. Lets not go there.”
“Why? I want to know.”
“You do know.”
“I know that Im not wearing my ring. That’s about
all I know.”
“Okay. And I know what you know. So lets leave it
at that.”
“She did, didn’t she?”
“I guess so. You were there.”
“But I don’t remember.” Bill brings out his Iphone,
and scrolls through the selections. He leans over me and
gently puts the earbuds in their place. The music starts
slowly, a rustle of guitars. A smatter of piano.
We are nowhere
And its now
We are nowhere
And its now

“Its bright eyes isn’t it?”

I open my eyes. I am back on the cab. Back in
Malta.
“What is?”
 “The song you were singing.” Angela says. “Its
bright eyes. I know that song. I had it on a soundtrack, to
some movie. I think.”
There is a dawning sense of fear emerging. “Was it
a Judd Apatow movie?” I ask.
“Whos that?” She says.
“Did it have Seth Rogen in it?”
‘Is he the guy with the crinkly hair?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah. He was in it. It was called banged up, or
something.”
“Knocked Up.”
“Right. That’s it.” Her voice trails off. Then she
smiles wide, an all American girl kind of smile, and leans
in close, and kisses me on the lips. A peck, really. “Your
still freaked out from over there, huh?”
“I don’t know.” I say. “I think I’m okay.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She says. “Im going to fix
you right up.”
At the bar I order a Newcastle. The beer comes in
tall and large in its pint glass, with the heavy foam head.
Angela tries to order a long island iced tea, which causes
confusion between her and the bartender. Eventually she
settles for a red bull and vodka. “Its early.” She says.
“But I cant really drink anything else.”
The bar is open and a sea wind blows through it. It
is pleasantly cool out of doors. Every now and again we
see others from the ship mingling. Marines and Sailors,
distinguishable by their tight haircuts. I finish the beer
and I start another. Garrison starts to smoke a menthol
cigarette. She unconsciously rubs her foot against my leg
as she does it.
“Where are your friends?” I ask.
“Theyre going to met us later. I think Suzie’s
getting laid.”
“Sailor guy?”
“Yeah. He’s the one that’s going to hook us up,
later.” She yawns. “Its early. I want to drink, but, I don’t
want to drink. Its early.”
I get off my barstool. The alchohol swims up to my
head, the first real imbibement since Cory’s mouthwash
bottle. “Lets go for a walk.” I say.
We walk side by side through the streets of Valleta.
The weather is either early spring or late winter. I put my
arm around Angela, then I held her hand. “They have a
cathedral here.” Angela says. “I want to see it. I want to
see the cathedral.”
“It was in a book.” I say.
“What was?”
“The cathedral. Malta. All of this. It was in a book.”
“What was the book called?”
“V.”
“Vee? What the fuck? Was it like, a sequel to U?”
“No. It was pretty good.”
Angela pulls me close and gives me a real kiss. Her
tongue laps into my mouth and makes a little semi circle
around mine. I feel a deep tingle, feel her warmth, feel
the space she occupies.
“Don’t get pissed.” She says.
“Is that what that was for?”
“It was. It was to stop you, from getting pissed.”
“I didn’t think I was getting pissed.”
“You were. I could tell. Marines get pissed so
easily.”
“There were Marines in the book. It was mostly
about sailors.”
She laughs again. Flashes the cheerleader smile.
“Marines and Sailors in Malta. Did they fuck?”
“They were all looking for some girl.”
“named Vee?”
“Yeah.”
“I like the twilight books. I don’t know if I would
read that.”
“I don’t know. I just thought about it.”
Inside the cathedral the air smells like dust. The
ceiling reaches up and up, into a beautiful spire. The
cross has a carving of Jesus on it. The pews are ornate,
and line up for the pulpit. The church is mostly empty.
She breaks our hold upon entering. I wonder if it is in fear
of any possible mortal repercussions against adulterers.
She crosses herself awkwardly in front of the cross. An
old priest comes out of the back and nods toward us.
Angela smiles at him and takes his picture. Than she
takes another one, of the vast ceiling. I stand near the
back, and put folded up bills in a box designated for
collections. When we leave, she holds my hand again.
“Wasn’t that awesome?” She says.
“It was pretty cool.”
“Was that how you imagined it? In the book and
everything?”
“I think so. I think that was pretty close.” I lie to
her. In the book the cathedral had been bombed out
rubble. She grabs me and kisses me again.
“I love it. And we’ve killed enough time. We can go
see my friends.”
We get into another taxi and Angela gives him an
address. We drive across town, through narrow streets.
The streets wind out and we see the pier. I light a
cigarette, cracking the window for the smoke. It drifts
out, little by little than all at once. The room is small and
dark. Garrison lays on the bed next to her friend. She is
very stoned, and her eyes show it. Her friend is chubby
and blond, with thin rectangle framed glasses. She
giggles incessantly at the situation. Her date leans over
by the foot of the bed. On a small end table is several
thin lines of cocaine and a credit card. He leans down
and inhales sharply.
The coke was a sharp mellowness to me,
something which brought things into focus and made
them blurry at the same time. I felt the burn up my nose
and in the back of my throat. Garrison rubbed my cheek
with her palm as I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Its good.” Says the sailor by the table. “Its kind of
expensive. Everythings kind of expensive here. It’s the
exchange rate.”
“I don’t know.” I say. “I don’t do this kind of stuff,
that often. They piss test us.”
“Us too.” Says the sailor. “The trick is, to do coke.
Coke gets out of your system in three days. Weed stays
in there for about a month.”
“I thought you could drink water.”
“Drinking water can help. Flushes out your
system.”
The room blurs. Garrison pulls me into her. She
runs a hand down the front of my pants, to my hard dick.
I grab her halter top, and expose her tits. Her pants
come off fast. Long white legs. She arcs them around
me. The head of my dick feels its way into her wetness.
We fuck like rabbits, in front of everyone. As I come
inside her Garrisons blonde friend rubs my ass.
After we finish she heads to the bathroom. I can
see her wiping herself off. “I want to go, Merrell.”
Garrison says. “I want to get out of here.”
We leave the room and walk into the empty street.
There is no clear direction ahead. Presently we come to
the water. The surface seems endless and calm. A silver
disc, stretching out to the blue.
“Don’t judge me.” Garrison says. “don’t judge me
cause I do this.”
“Im not.” I say. “I did it too.”
“You didn’t. I didn’t see you do it.”
“I did.”
 ‘We should have stayed in the room. I wanted to
screw.”
“We did screw.’
“I don’t want to do it on ship. I wanted to do it
here.”
“Anywheres good.”
“Your just a fucking jarhead. Your just a dumb
grunt. Fuck you.”
“What?”
“Fuck you. All Marines are pussies. You didn’t do
shit over there. I asked.”
She giggles slightly. She hiccups after the giggle,
and sits down on a rock, watching the water. “I think Im
going to be sick. “ She says.
“That’s fine.” I answer. “Be sick. Im leaving.”
“Wait.” She says. “Wait.” The concern on her is
overwhelming. I tear away, and start to walk back. We
are far, far from anything. The streets are paved with
cobblestones and the air smells like salt. When I turn
back, I can see her sitting there. When I see a taxi I ask
him to take me back to the ship. I walk up the gangplank
and turn to face the flag. It is nighttime, now. The flag is
gone. I head out to the smoke deck and I watch the
embers of my cigarette blow, into the deep blue, the
deep dark black blue. After its finished I lean back in my
coffin locker and listen to Radiohead on my Ipod, over
and over, on repeat.

The next day Bill and I head out to a corner bistro

in the open air. We have coffee and eggs, and Bill has
Tylenol. The coffee is good and sharp and smooth.
“Did you get laid, last night?” Bill asks.
“Yeah. She was a bitch, though.”
“What happened?”
“We did coke and fucked. After it was over, she
had some kind of crazy meltdown. I left her next to the
water somewhere.”
“Well.” Bill grunts. “At least you got some fucking
pussy.”
“I guess so. I had an idea.”
“An idea?”
“I want to write.”
Bill stirs his egg yolk around on his plate, painting
a cheerful picture on the circle in brilliant yellow. “Like a
letter or something?” He says.
“No. Like a book. A book about us.”
“That’s sound kind of cool. Which way will you spin
it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you going to make it, all Jarhead and realistic
and everything, or all Tom Clancy and crazy and heroic?”
“I don’t know.” I say. I don’t think I was going to do
either.”
Scheuher stumbles by. His face is red. “I shouldn’t
have drank so early.” He says.
“Mikey’s writing a book.” Bill tells him.
 “Is that true, Mikey?” Scheuher asks. I nod.
“Make me look cool, motherfucker.” He says. “I
want a definite Jack Ryan vibe going on.”
“Like splinter cell or something?” Bill says.
“That’s a fucking video game. I mean, like Jack
Ryan. He’s president in the books. Maybe that could be a
twist, I could have political aspirations.”
“What about that fifteen year old you fucked in
ohio?” Bill says.
“I have no idea what your talking about. She told
me she was twenty.”
“Whatever, dude.”
“That’s sergeant dude. Are you ready for
tomorrow, Mikey?”
“Yeah. Ive been running on the treadmill.”
“Good luck. Remember, your representing the
platoon on that indoc.”
We talk and talk. I wander the streets with Bill. We
stop at a newsstand There is a small black notebook that
catches my eye. Inside is a paper insert:
I buy the unusual notebook, and a porno for Bill.
There are birds sitting in a plaza, undisturbed, cooing
slightly. In the middle stands a fountain. I take out a
maltese coin and flip it in. I wish in my head for nothing.
The beer flows loose and freely. Bill talks excitedly.
Cory is here too. What exactly is everything about? There
is a random stranger behind me. All my ugliness seems
to flow throughout my body, behind my eyes, into my
fists. He has greasy black hair, tight jeans, and a polo
shirt. When I punch him he falls down, so I jump on him,
and punch him again and again. Around me hands are
yelling and grabbing for me. I ignore them, and
concentrate my fury on this, my target.

FOUR
Often in her head she went back to that day. The
streets of south central Los Angeles, sunshine lit and
palm tree lined. She could not recollect it directly. That
had been taken from her. She could only remember it
sideways, from the perspective of remembering that she
had done it before. The next was the hospital, asking for
some water.
Even then, much of the room was missing from
her. She pieced it together from evidence taken in
photographs. Desiree standing over her holding her
hand, a horrible collection of tubes running over her face,
down her throat. Her grandmother handing her a get well
soon card. The physical therapist, who was so cruel. The
nurse that would not answer the call button, and was
enraged when she pissed the bed. The combination of
events moved with a terrible purpose, taking her away
from LA, sending her back to Palmdale.
In Palmdale she lived with her mother for as long
as she could stand it. It was terrible, as it always was.
She got the job as a teachers assistant. It helped her into
the apartment. She enrolled in the junior college. She
wanted to teach, to do something with children. But
more than anything, she simply wanted to be free.
 She met Scott online. It started slow, just talking.
Just chatting. It moved from that to talking. They talked
for hours. She mentioned visiting. He jumped at the idea.
She boarded the greyhound for North Carolina.
It was fun, seeing the country. It was exciting, to
get away. All her life, she had been in California. This
was something different. This was something new. There
was a blur of names at every stop. She ate light.
Crackers and candy. Water from a drinking fountain.
He was taller than she had imagined and he was
uglier too. His nose was round and red. He looked
excired to see her, in a shy way, which made him cute.
The base was ugly as well, ugly red buildings. He took
her to his room and said something like I’m sorry. It was
over quickly and did not hurt as much as she thought it
would.
She spent a week looking for a job. The first place
that said yes was the club. She was just a waitress,
starting out. She made money, she knew how to be
friendly. A few days went by. Gus was the boss and he
wore a bright red Marine hat.
“One of our black girls quit.” He said. “We need at
least two. If you want, you can try dancing.”
Dancing?
“It pays a lot more than this.” Gus said. “Don’t tell
me you haven’t thought about it. You work here.”
It was true. She did work there. So she started
dancing.
There was really no dancing to it. It was simply a
way of teasing men, of showing herself off to men. She
quickly lined up regulars. One man called himself Gunny,
paid her a thousand dollars. A thousand dollars, in one
night. She found an apartment, bought herself furniture.
Lined up the bits and pieces that made up her new life.
And everywhere, everywhere in the new town, there
were men.
The Marines were all young, and lonely. If she
wanted to have sex she could at any time, in any bar she
wanted to go into. The ratio in Jacksonville was nearly
three times in her favor. One night she came hard in the
act. Her first time. There were pills that could make her
do this forever, and it was only three nights a week.
Four, if she wanted something extra.
When she saw him, he was reading a book.
His friends were all around him, laughing and
yelling, having a good time. Typical customers. He sat
quietly, reading a book. He was immediatedly smitten by
her, there, in the club. She was completely naked. He
had never seen a black woman completely naked before.
The brownness of her nipples. Her shaved pussy. Her
long black wavy hair. He spent three hundred dollars that
night, in the club. She gave him lap dances until he came
in his pants, over and over. After shift they fucked in her
truck, and it was hot and good.
He had the friend, who was almost as beautiful as
he was, but not quite as golden. With less a shine of
innocence about him. Bill was more Id, more want. They
would bring home to the bed on occasion, and she would
fuck them both. Merrell had the longer penis ,the thicker
penis, a more beautiful instrument. But Bill was more
knowledgeable, and when Bill licked her she came harder
than she ever had with Merrell. Eventually Bill found his
Angel, named Angel, a girl with floppy tits and fake blond
hair. She was happy to be normal again. When she
became pregnant she was sure it was his. They had the
baby. She remembered none of it, the c-section had
gone quick, except the baby was pink and white and
suprising and absolutely perfect. There was no fight on
the name. Their had been a long fight with a boys name,
he had been sure it was a boy, and she had gone along
with it. They had settled on Caleb. But it was a Girl, and
her name would be Selah.
The deployment started to loom on the horizon.
There was talk of what Obama would do, of what he
would not do. There was talk of what Bush had done. She
began to doubt herself. She began to grow jealous of
Merrell’s time. The video game sat, unplayed. Her
apartment grew cluttered. He suggested they get a
house. He proposed marriage with an onion ring. We
could use the health insurance, he had said. I have no
choice, she replied, but there was a wide smile on her
face as she said it. They found the judge and made it
legal.
The house was bought with his VA loan, and it was
built for them. It was a thrilling thing to watch and to do,
to pick out the plan and see it come to life. To see it
realized. She spent the last of the money she had saved
dancing getting everything perfect. Then came the
terrible moment, and the long hug goodbye, and the
lingering kiss, and the white school bus took him away
from her.
The days apart seemed to trickle by. He called on
the ships phone. It was like speaking to a recording, with
the delay. He sent e-mails. She started a blog. She began
to think about going back to California. The child grew,
and began to open her eyes. The sparkled alive with a
brilliant shade of blue. She began to crawl around. There
was a cat that roamed around the carpet on declawed
feel, and the child chased the cat, across the carpeting.
When she laughed it was like tiny bells ringing.
Someone sent her an article found on the web,
about Marines and their good luck charms. It was him,
showing off a picture of the two of them, together. The
article said that they had met on the internet. She grew
upset at him, and then the upsetness melted into grief
and longing. Finally she had masturbated to the thought
of him, and lapsed into sleep.
The television rolled a list of namesless dead. Two
in Baghdad, three in Kabul. Two more in Iraq. Thirteen
near Pakistan. On and on it went, with what she was
recognizing was stock footage At first she thought she
could recognize him, and a stab went through her heart.
But soon she realized that was a lie, that was fake, that
was never going to be in the real.. She was beginning to
hate the footage. Why couldn’t it tell her the names?
Didn’t they owe her that?
On Christmas she got the call. He was Over There.
He was alright. It was a short call. The call made
everything better, then it made everything worse. She
watched the news. She talked to her friends, on the
message boards. One day, she even prayed, something
she had never really done before. The months drug on
and on.
 When she finally got the call he was all right and
safe and coming back the sun seemed to come out in her
life. Things were going to be fine. They talked everyday,
online. When he stepped off the ships ramp, she was
there with her daughter, in a sun dress that was much to
light for the weather. She saw a million Marines, all not-
him. When she finally did see him, he looked skinny,
gaunt even. As he brought his arm up to her, she
flinched. There was a cast on his hand.

FIVE

I have a thought. A lucid sort of thought, a

continuation of a dream.
A dream cannot stay a dream if you stay up and
think about it. Then it becomes more than a dream, it
becomes a thought. It blends into the fabric of your life,
into the way you do things.
It is the 1950s. I am in my house, this house that is
mine, and it is the 1950s. Turqiouse is sleeping, her head
in my lap. Her sweet, light caramel skin. A product of her
black father and her white mother. Mullato. Woman to
her man: I am black but homely. Her hair is cut short, the
way I remember my grandmothers hair being cut in the
photographs. My own hair is hidden inside a hat. A real,
honest to god fedora, not like that trendy crap worn by
certain celebrities and entertainers today, but an actual
vintage item.
Everything in the room completes the ensemble.
Her long skirt, and nylon stockings. The heels on her
shoes. The way her blouse straps fall over her shoulders.
My own wide tie, the tan colors of my suit. The black and
white photographs of the newspaper in my left hand. The
utter absence of a television inside the living room. Her
chest rises and falls, slowly. She does not snore.
I take in the scene deeply. A sense of rightness
pervades itself to me. I kiss her lips, lightly. “Darling.” I
say. “I’m going to run off to the drug store. Get another
one of those Superman funny books.”
It’s a line full of cheese. But its real. Its what I
would be doing. What I am doing. She murmers
something softly. I rise as quietly as I can. Letting her
head slowly slip from the sheerness of my pants fabric,
to a place on the couch.
The motorcycle is a classic Harley. Nearly
unchanged in fifty years. Slightly louder than the one I
have today. The streets are neat and empty. A few cars
about. Gleaming, well kept. Beautiful object.
Inside the store I find the book on a rack. It is a
dime, larger than comics of today. Longer too. Cheaper
and with more value. I buy it and a candy bar for a
nickel, the bar being a monster whose size doesn’t even
calculate in the twenty-first century.
The cashier wears an apron and a bow tie. With a
striped shirt. Nothing is supposed to be humourous about
him. I smile anyway.
“Morning Ed.” I say.
“Mr. Michael.” He rings his register and takes the
spare change. His eyes are full of mistrust.
“These for that colored girl you’ve been seen
with?”
I want to protest. I want to say something about
not knowing her. Not being with her. Out of fear, fear for
both of us. Out of a need for protection. The dream
spirals away from me. The dream catches hold of an
invisible wind and tumbles me into the now, into the
present, where I wake without waking.

In the morning I woke up next to the real

Turqiouse. She was darker skinned than the woman in
my dreams, dark chocolate. She was naked and the bed
smelled of our sex. It is a wonderful thing, waking up like
that in the morning, with the taste of a womans juices in
your mouth and the smell of a womans sex in your nose.
I turned next to me and saw her laying there, her long,
wavy black hair swirling in the pillow. She turned and I
saw her breast splayed out, Her nipples are long and
large. I felt a rush of blood from my head. My penis
began to throb with an erection. She grabbed it and
turned over, smiling. She guided the head into her pussy.
“I love the way your dick feels.” She said. “I love
how you make me feel. When your fucking me.”
I started to move forward. She grabbed my
shoulders. “Stop.” She said. “I just want to enjoy this.
Enjoy being filled up.” I could feel her kegel muscles
squeezing my penis. I started, regardless of her. I thrust
and thrust and thrust. And she cried out and screamed
and moaned. When I came into her it tingled from my
balls to my toes. We collapsed into each other. Then she
said “move” and went to the bathroom, turning on the
shower.
 “Get Selah.” She said, from the shower. “She
hasn’t seen you in like, forever.”
I put on a pair of green sweatpants and a t shirt
and went across the living room to see my little girl. I
noticed the large television, the toy scattered across the
way. In the back yard of my house I could see the green
grass, and the bushes.
It was 43 43 Hall Croft Chase Lane. It was also
mine and ours. It was bonded between us in off-red
brick, it was a home. Two and a half bedrooms and two
bathrooms. A two car garage. I itched the cast on my
right arm reluctantly and headed her room.
My daughter was sleeping there. She was curled in
her innocence in a blue Winnie the Pooh blanket. Tucked
in free of harsh thoughts. Stuffed animals and Dr. Suess
books adorned her walls. The Wonder Pets. Yo Gabba
Gabba. Green Eggs and Ham, I felt something harsh peck
at me. Softly, I stretched out my hand and shook her
shoulder.
“Selah.” I said. “Wakey wakey. Time to get up.
She sat up and rubbed her eyes. When she opened
them they were bright blue windows to her soul. She
smiled when she saw me, grin revealing budding teeth.
“Mer Mer.” She said.
“Time to wake up.”
“I luv breakfast.” She offered.
“Get her a cereal bar. From the cabinet.” Turq
called out from the bedroom. Hesitantly, she stepped out
into the living room, wrapped in a towel. “Hey beautiful!
Mamma loves her baby!”
“Mommy! Want breakfast!”
“Ok baby.”
“Want kiki.”
“Ok.”
“Want Juse.”
“She does this all day.” Turqiouse said, fishing out
the tiny cereal bar from the cabinet overtop the sink. My
daughter goes over to the treat with open hands.
“Tanks.” She says. “mmm. Lishus!” Turqiouse laughs.
“Isnt she the cutest thing, Merrell? Isnt she the cutest
thing ever?”
In a few minutes we are all eating together on the
dark brown table. I missed everything. I missed this
dining room table, my feet dangling from it. The high
chairs. Yo Gabba Gabba is blaring from the forty seven
inch tv. We are eating cereal. Selah is doing a dance
along with the cartoon characters. I look at them now.
Their misshapen bodies. Their sharp teeth. The people
inside. Dancing. Shouting gibberish. One of the cartoon
rats is blue and round, the same color and shape of a
burqa……
“Merrell!”
“Huh?”
“Whats going on?”
“Nothing. I mean. I’m okay.”
“You were zoning out.”
“I was?
 “You were making this face, and you were staring
at the tv. Like, really hard.”
“I was? What kind of face.”
“A scary face.”
“I’m sorry.” I say. I punctuate my apology with a
bite of soggy oatmeal.
“How long do you have off?” Turq asks.
“A week or so. We probably wont be going back
into the field for another month.”
“There is a blur, to all this.”
“What do you mean.”
“Nothing seems really clear. Its like you’re here but
your not here. Like your still gone.”
“I’m here.”
“I know. We should see your parents.”

SIX
I am home from war, home in Chesterfield County,
Virginia, staring at a photograph, trying to go back in
time. The photograph shows me in he-man sandals. I am
wearing camouflage pants, carrying a cheap toy gun,
and wearing a green plastic helmet. My sister is in a
cradle next to me. A grey plastic hand grenade is in her
hand. This is my fifth birthday. I am very happy. Next to
the pictures is a story I wrote, when I was fourteen. It’s a
cheesy violence fantasy, with only the weakest plot, just
a vague villain to torment my hero. I wrote a character
based on the girl I sat next to in class. She seemed to
like it. I remember her smiling, light freckles behind her
glasses But next year, she wouldn’t talk to me, and she
sat on the other side of the class. The last picture shows
me in a black t-shirt and jeans, right hand up, reciting
the oath of allegiance to the united states in front of a
sharp looking lieutenant. The expression on my face is
that of a beat dog.
In my closet at my parents house is my dads
Gibson Les Paul. I take it out of the case. It glistens of
mahegony and ivory, a thing of beauty. The two bottom
strings are broken. I remember a day ten years ago,
listening to my dad rock out when my mom was away,
listen to this one. Merrell, this guy was god, better than
that Kurt Cobain idiot. Buduh bud a bump a bohw, got
me on my knees. Bud ug buddu bump a bohw beg ya
darling please. I am in awe. I did not know my father
could be like this. No trace of being a prison guard or a
republican fundamentalist. And then he hears a POP from
his Peavey amp, and he mutters,
“Ah, Fuck.”
I do not hear him play the guitar again. On the
drive home from Camp Lejuene Turq asked me if I
wanted to get Marine Plated for the car. I snapped at her,
and she said nothing after that, just gave me a funny
look. I saw fear in her eyes. There is a Nirvana In Utero
tape in the draw that Chris gave to me. I was thirteen,
out of pity. Here dude, I know your mom wont let you do
shit. And he’s right, so I hide the tape, and listen to it on
a little cassette player, with headphones. I have to be
qiuet when I listen to it, and I cant turn it up too loud. I
saw Chris today, and he looked stoned. He was cool, but
he wasn’t the same. He laughed at my stories, but all I
got was “wow” when I talked about other countries. “Did
you kill anybody?” he finally asked me, And I knew that
that was it. My best friend and next door neighbor was a
stranger to me. I was a stranger to me. Who lived this
lifetime? Who was this boy?
Staring into the mirror looking at my dress blues.
An hour later I am at Gill Grove Baptist Church. I sit
through Sanday school and I am a stranger. I shake the
hand of an Army private who sees my ribbons and calls
me “sir”. He hears my name and shakes his head,
thinking of the weak little kid in the past, and the tall
strong Marine in the now………………
A girl that never used to talk to me flirts. Jason
Myers. The bully who made it his mission in life to fuck
up mine looks skinny and flinches in my handshake. Mr.
Watson, a Vietnam Marine, congratulates me.
“On my wedding.” He says. “I wore my dress blues.
You remind me of me, back then.” The pastor mentions
me in his sermon. A group of little kids run up to me.
“Are you a real Marine?” One asks.
“Yes.”
“Mommy! I met one! A real Marine!” He runs off
into his life, into the safe and comfortable confines
thereof. I want to send this back in time, to the yellow
haired boy and his fifth birthday. This is for you! This is
for you. You win. You win, at last. But he looks back.
You are not me.
Yes! I am,
 You are a stranger.
I am you!
This place drove me away. It loves you, and you
are a stranger.
As the boy turns to leave, a voice whispers in my
ear. This is what power is, and at night, as I close my
eyes, to stare out the back of my eyelids to the dust and
the mountains and the sand, I agree, over and over
again.

SEVEN
“It was a good movie, Cory.”
“It was a fucking downer.”
Cory slurs his words badly. We have been drinking
for nearly six hours. We have been drinking throughout
the whole movie. The evening seems to be winding down
to a break out of apocalyptic purportions.
“Hurt Locker.” Bill asks. “What does that mean?”
“I think it means World of Shit.” I say. “Like in full
metal jacket. Basically the same thing.”
Bill is with his wife, Amber. I am with Turqiouse. All
of us our inside My living room. I think about what has
just transpired. The near empy theater. The wives
reluctance to come with us, to the movie. Inside me is a
vast wall of red, of anger. I push it deep down, and
recline on my durapella sofa. The fabric absorbs my
feelings. There is a flush from the bathroom.
“Sorry dude.” Cory mutters. I missed the toilet. He
shuffles out of the water closet, the man-giant nearly
dwarfing the frame. As he turns toward me, I see a glint
of steel. Cory has his snub nosed 45 in his mouth. The
gun is pointed straight up, his finger is on the trigger. His
eyes are moist with tears.
“No, Cory.” Amber shakes her head. “No. no.no.”
“Hey, dude.” Bill says. “Whats up with the gun?”
“It’s the only way.” Cory mutters from around the
barrel. “Im not going back.”
“Were not going back anywhere.” Bill says. “Were
going to crash right here on Mikey’s floor and go to
sleep.”
‘Shut up.” Cory says. “Fucking lier. You saw it to.
Im not going back there.”
“It was a movie.” I say. “Nobody has to go there.”
“Youre a fucking idiot.” Cory says. “It’s the truth.
It’s the truth and I hate it, and this is the only way.”
“CORY!” Amber screams. “FUCKING take the
FUCKING gun out of your mouth!”
In the other room, Selah starts to scream.
Turqiouse runs past Cory, and slams the door to the
nursery. Bill is walking toward Cory with his arms wide,
talking calmly. I don’t know what is about to happen, or
what I am supposed to do. I walk toward the nursery
door. Beyond it, I imagine Turq disappearing to the ether,
to the white non scale grayness of the outer universe. I
open it slowly. Turqiouse is trembling and holding Selah.
“That’s okay, mama.” She says. “That’s okay. I know. I
know.”
There is a clap of thunder in the kitchen. Turqiouse
jumps. For one second, I can clearly envision the end of
them, a bullet ending this, this my family………..
I run into the other room. Cory is Crying on the
couch and hugging Amber. The gun is on the counter.
There is smoke coming from the barrel, and a small hole
coming from the linoleum floor.
The year passes. I grow worse. Finally, Turqiouse
leaves.

EIGHT

I yaw n and head down to the vending machine by

the duty hut at the start of another weekend stuck in the
barracks. The barracks where I will live, because my wife
has left me. There are two military police cop cars
parked in the grass outside, blue and red lights flashing.
Yellow police tape catches the reflection. I duck under it
to go to the duty hut, and I see Bill wearing the duty NCO
belt, and talking to several high ranking officers. Two
guys in civvies are facing the corner at parade rest.
“Get out of here, Mikey.” Bill says.
“Roger that.” I reply, taking his advice and heading
back to my room, to hide from the chaos and sleep.
When I wake up, the cops are still there. I stumble down
the stairwell to bum a beer from Buckey.
Buckey is leaned over his new imac, surrounded by
councentric rings of beer bottles. I hear the sounds of his
fantasy MMO, the violence of imaginary swords.
“Hey Buckey.” I ask. “You got a beer?”
 “Hey Mickey. Guess what the fuck happened last
night?”
“Huh?”
“Couto got raped.”
“The fuck?”
“Yeah.” Buckey gives a smirk. “I’ve been talking to
the fucking MP’s and investigators all goddamn morning.
In the fridge.”
I peer inside the mini fridge in Buckey’s barracks
room and retrieve a cold Budweiser, hoping the alchohol
will restore some sanity to the morning. It offers the
clarity of a buzz. After downing it, I notice that Buckey
has logged off his game. Robery Buckey is an ugly
individual, ugly in the way that the antisocial are ugly,
with pasty skin and a unibrow.
“That dumb fuck.” He says. “Listen:”
See now the sleeping face of Private Couto. See
the awkward limbs, the wrinkled uniform. See him drool
on the pillow. His wretched yellow teeth. What was his
recruiter thinking? Did the Marine Corps simply need one
more body? One more body, to make the numbers
complete?
Outside the revelry continues. Task Force
Guantanamo Bay is back in the barracks. Four months
spent, Guarding a wall. Watching haajis in orange
jumpers. Four months spent. And now this. There are no
single women in Jacksonville, North Carolina, for them to
meet this evening. The towns ratio is five to one. There is
no welcoming parade for what they have done, what
they have spent their time doing. And sooner or later,
they are going back. They are going back, they are going
back, they are going back.
Everything that had seemed to be going right
seems to be going wrong. Alchohol fuels anger. Its been
too long. Not enough time between deployments. The
battalion is fucked up. The company is fucked up. And at
some point, someone mentions Couto. Private Couto is
fucked up.
Where does he live? What room does he stay in?
Doesn’t matter. There are names on the doors. He is
awakened from his sleep with a pillow over his head. The
sensation is warm, and somewhat familiar. He can still
breath. He does not panic yet. He does not move. Flight
or Fight has been triggered, and he will stay, he will
become still. He will not ask what is happening. They
would probably not even tell him.
“Turn him around, man!”
There is a smacking sound. Private Couto is being
slapped in the face by a dick, by a Johnson, by a penis. Is
he crying now?
“Turn him over, man. Fucking credit card swipe!”
And Couto is finally violated. With the finger in his
ass, Couto is no longer a man, not even a boy. The guys
leave Couto after roughing him up a little more, and
laugh at their joke.
Some time later, private Couto speaks with the
duty NCO.
“Cohpowal.” Couto lisps worse now, upset and
ashamed.
 “What, Couto.”
“I was waped.”
“Huh?”
“I was waped.”
The duty NCO is bored. Couto is slow, ugly, weak.
Wahtever happened to him cannot possibly be as bad as
he says.
“get out of here, Couto.”
Couto leaves, confused. Who do you tell? His cell
phone. Nine Eleven. In case of emergency. The
dispatcher hears rape and marine, and puts him in
contact with the base MP’s. The chain of events spiral
out, quickly.
‘And that’s whats going on.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. And hes been telling everybody.”
“What?”
“That he was ‘waped’”
I laugh. “You now, technically, he right. I mean, by
a textbook definition.”
“Couto’s a piece of shit.”
“I know.”
At this moment the shared bathroom door opens
and there the piece of shit stands, with skinny limbs,
pale white skin, and big yellow buck teeth, hunching
inside a wrinkled uniform.
“Wance Cohpowal Mikawl!” He weezes with
friendly, stinking breath.
“Hey Couto.”
“I was waped.”
Suddenly, there is nothing left to say. Buckey looks
at his hands in resignation. I walk out of the room, in an
attempt to leave it behind me. There is little left to say.

NINE

At formation, I see Schueher wearing staff

Sargeant chevrons.
“What the fuck was all that about?” He asks.
No one replies.
“Because of all this Couto nonsense, were getting a
free trip to the Carribean.”
No one replies, but the formation shuffles a little,
intrigued.
“There was a training op floating around for
Curucao.” Scheuher says. “With the Dutch Marines. Since
all this shit, were getting it. So, congratulations. I mean, I
cant congratualate whoever did it, but yeah.
Congratulations.”
“Stwaff Sawjent!”
“Yes Couto.”
“I was waped.”
“Yes, you were, Couto.” Schueher says. “Good
job.”
 Out the window of the Airplane, the water changes
color in the ocean. Off the tip of Miami, the water
becomes a lighter blue, a clearer blue. The sun shines
brightly through the wnidow. I watch Swain sleep in the
seat next to me. He is wearing impeccable slacks and a
polo shirt. Bill turns around from in front of me.
“Their not going to discharge Cory.” He says.
“They aren’t?”
“They sent him to AA and gave him some pills.
They said he’s fine.”
“He put a hole in my floor. He tried to kill himself.”
“The Marines say that hes fine.”
“How the fuck do they say that.”
“I don’t know. But they do.”
“That sucks.’
“Im sick of it, dude.” Bill says. “I don’t want to go
back.”
“Yeah.”
“Scheuhers an idiot. Hes an idiot and now hes
platoon Sargeant, and hes going to get someone killed.”
“Yeah. I mean, fuck, it’s a possibility.”
“Im going to stay.”
“Where?”
“Here. In Curacao.”
“What are you going to do?”
“half the island is owned by this private citizen. Im
going to work for him. As security or something.”
 “Whats his name?”
“I don’t know. Fucking Keyzer Soze.”
The plane lands in the tropical wonder. The air is
fresh, the sun is hot and beating down on our shoulders.
There is a bustle in the air that is not American, with the
dark skinned natives and the dutch talking with one
another. All of us are dressed like tourist. Several
European buses arrive to take us to the base.
The boats are rubber and small. First squad packs
into one, weapons pointed outward. The dutch Marine
guns the engine, and we head out to sea. The boat
rockets up and down. I look over the edge, into the
infinite blue. I check the stock of my bullpup rifle, filled
with blanks for this training exercise. We hit the white
sandy beach, and I charge up into the hotel building. We
take the tropical hotel, and break windows and doors,
just for kicks. After the training exercise, Lieutenant
Easter comes out in front of formation in white khaki
shorts and flip flops. His cheeks are red from drinking.
“Okay.” He says. “Overnight liberty. Everyone cool
with that?”We shout yes sir, and Ooo-rah. There is a
small bus that takes us to the beachfront bar. At the bar I
think about the next day in September. It will be my
birthday, in September and September and September.
The night blurs. I dance with a long straight blonde with
long straight hair.
“I’m English.” She says. “My names Carrie. Im here
on Holiday.”
“Is Holiday like vacation?”
“Yes. She says. “Holiday is like a vacation.”
 “Would you like a drink.”
“I would. Bacardi and coke.”
I order the drinks from the bar. Something ugly
springs up inside me as I do. I think of all the
imperfections of this new girl. Of Carrie. I think about the
sunspots on her face, Her flawed teeth.”
“Your American?” She asks.
“Yes.” I say. “Im a Marine.”
“My father was American.”
“That’s cool.”
:He was in the military as well. He was in the Air
Force.”
“Were you raised in America?”
“I was raised in England. In London.”
“Id want to go to London. It seems cool.”
“It is. It really is.”
We dance and drink under the stars, and things
blur even worse. The night concludes with me fucking
her in the sand in the darkness Her bar ass in my hands,
the feel of grains in my knees. Her moans in my ear, her
breath on my throat. I come and come and fall asleep.

We dress in a hurry and head back to the party.

The marines are going crazy, drinking and dancing. I find
Bill in a corner.
“Where were you?” He says.
 “On the beach.”
He nods knowingly, and I feel a sudden stab of
paranoia.
“Im not going to run off.” He says. “Im not going to
try and work for Keyzer Soze.”
“That’s good.”
“I want to go to School. I want to go home, to
central florida, and go to USF. I want to go to school and
study nothing, just drink and fuck, and not do any of
this.”
“That’s good. That’s a goal.”
“You’re my friend, Mikey.” Bill tells me. “You’re my
friend and I love you.”
The pain and the pleasure settles in, with the
ocean wind and the loudness beyond it all. The fury we
create, to escape from the other fury. On the floor Jerel is
dancing and celebrating his birthday, the bon fire tracing
arcs of his skin. Here we are gods.
The next day I walk along the sand by myself. The
impossible white, the infinite blue. Is this even the same
world, as Khandahar or Kabul? It doesn’t feel like it. The
air is always light. I take the bus downtown. Curucao has
pebblestoned streets, and the bay arches into the middle
of the square. I buy a tropical drink and think of what
would be appropriate. How much do I know about
myself? This is what I want.

TEN
 In april another asshole with brass on his shoulder
comes to Camp Lejuene to feed us his line of bullshit.
They were all the same, anyway. Starting with
“Marines!” to confirm that yes, this important individual
was indeed talking to, or rather at, us. It would then
include some form of “good job” with possibly stating
vague references to our “job” being “hard work”. You
stand at attention at these things, and stare at nothing,
and think about when you go back to the world. But this
asshole also happened to be president, so I was halfway
interested in the experience of listening to what he had
to say, if not the actual content. My head is still
swimming as I make my bed neatly and empty my trash
can. My mouth tastes like shit, like cheap beer mixed
with sleeping aids. Dressed neatly now, faded digital
camouflage uniform, camouflage cap pulled over too
much hair. Tan boots, scuffed and weathered. A quick
glance before I head out. Ive managed to shave this
morning. Don’t remember doing that. Out in front of the
barracks, next to our sign
HOME OF THE FIGHTIN “I:
3RD BN 6th MARINES
Red letters etched into wood. The sign has been
there since World War One, maybe even longer. I light a
smoke, and see Bill out front.
“Bum a smoke, dude?” He asks. I toss him the
pack, and give him a jump off the embers. Bill takes a
deep drag. “Dude, what the fuck were you drinking last
night?
“Nyquil and Keystone light, I think.” Bill lets out a
grin.
“So, what was the occasion. You call old girl whats
her face?”
“Yeah, Turq.”
“Plenty more fish in the sea, dude.” I shrug and
turn. A gesture that’s meant to say no there aren’t, not
like her, and my stomach elevator works backwords. I
walk quickly and with purpose, to the bathroom, to the
toilet, and give my porcelain goddess her offering. As I
finish, I hear the barked orders.
“Form it up, First Platoon!”
I wipe off my face and try to walk straight. Staff
Sargeant Scheueher sees me coming and gives me a
cold stare. He is going for a Drill Instructor thing these
days. Theres always the ten percent, who don’t care,
who aren’t motivated, that make everyone else look like
shit. Let that be me, then. I will accept the burden. I am
the shit-bag, the short-timer, too short even for our
wannabe Drill Instructor. Yet I feel the hate in his stare,
as he wraps his Brain, One, Marine Corps general issue
around a fact that he can accept. I have been to war,
with him, and I have seen his true face. I know that right
now hes looking for me to stumble in front of him, to slur
my words so he can smell my breath for alchohol. So I
walk straight, march even, quick and with a purpose, and
I make it to formation.
And this is how much of my time has been spent
for three years, standing in a straight line, hands behind
my back, swaying slightly from the breeze and last
nights booze. My squad leader, Corporal Sweetness
notices, and gives me a glare. I give him a cocky grin
and a shrug. He shakes his head, with a little half smile.
Yesterday I was in the India Company offices. He was
standing in front of Easter and Scheuher. His uniform
was impeccable, and if his boots were black and not tan,
I could tell that they would be shining.
“Corporal.” Scheuher began. “I am not
recommending you for promotion at this time.”
“Why is that, Staff Sargeant?”
“I do not believe that your are ready for the
responsibility at this time.”
“ I see. And what would I need?”
“Ah-“ Adds the Lieutenant.
“Because Ive been a Corporal for over two years. I
was meritoriously promoted, I have the highest PFT in
the platoon, and an expert rifle score.”
“At ease, Corporal.”
“Om just wondering, Staff Sargeant, what else I
would fucking need too….”
“OUT OF LINE, CORPORAL!” Sweetness is breathing
hard for a minute, and then hes composed himself.
“Yes, Staff Sargeant.”
“I based this decision off a number of factors. You
will still remain first squad leader.” He pushes a sheet of
paper across the desk. “Sign it.” And Swain does, and
then executed a neat about face when hes dismissed.
Scheuher leans back, and shakes his head.
“I never thought Id see the day when Id have one
of those in my platoon.”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?” The lieutenant
chuckles. “Isnt that what it is nowadays?”
“Oh yeah, oh yeah. But I’ll tell you what-“
Scheueher leans forward in the chair, and drops his
voice, “As long as I’m in the Marine Corps, Corporal
Swain will never see Sargeant.”
I hear the company office door shut, but not before
I see Sweetness’s face behind it. I know he heard
everything. What they said, and what they didn’t have to
say.
One of those. Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?
Faggot.

We stand and wait and wait and wait, and mutter

very quietly, fuck this shit, our true refrain of dissent.
The command is given INDIA COMPANY ATTEN-HUT!
From that moment forward, I am a zombie. My
movements are not my own, they have been
programmed into me in boot camp, three years ago. My
thoughts can do what they wish, my body will only
respond to the commands. Left facemforward march,
and off we go, to listen to this wonderful speech on this
wonderful day by our wonderful fucking president.
All that can be heard in the background static of
being in the military: tersely barked orders, hurry it up,
India Company! Or cadence, rolling with a nearly musical
crescendo, leheft, Raht, Lehwuh Righighty leheft
Raht……………….A sea of well pressed digital camouflage
uniforms and bright tan boots under a mildly sunny
spring day. We march across Camp Lejuene, individual
formations, battalions of Marines, hundreds of them, a
traffic jam without internal combustion. I welcome the
exercise and fresh air, it helps move the alchohol from
the night before out of my blood. The grassy stadium
beside the commissary has a bleachers with a podium in
the middle of it that was not there the night before.
Guidons, the red and gold flags of the Marine units flap in
the breeze, lined up neatly at the top of the bleachers,
behind where the president will speak.
“Jesus, look at all the fucking POGS’s Cory mutters.
And there are a lot of them, truck drivers and desk
jockeys. Personnel Other than Grunt. Marines that are
not Infantry, who fake war stories when they go home.
Pretenders, unlike us. Our only job was to kill.
“Dude, you think these guys feel guilty about not
going over there?”
“I don’t know.” Cory snorts. “I fuckin don’t. I got
my ribbons and shit. I don’t need anything else. Don’t
need to go back.”
“But we are going back, dude.”
“Yeah. I know.”
We are given our orders. Listen up, Marines. No
formations, everyone fall out into the bleachers, this is
going to look like a speech for the news media, not a
military event…. I head a phrase muttered under
someones breath, it gets picked up and passed around ,
and assented Fuckin dog and pony show, Yeah, no shit,
cant wait until I EAS, get the fuck out, who gives a shit
about this, just want to fucking sit down, drank a shitload
last night…….
The murmering is apparently loud enough to perk
the ear of First Sergeant Post. Lock it up! The order is
given, and we obey. That’s what we do.
I take a seat in the back of the bleachers, near the
guidon flags. I see no familiar faces, and I wish I did. The
Marines seated around me look higher in rank, older in
age, and probably not interested in a slightly drunken
young short timers comments on this even. And my mind
drifts back to last night, when after a dozen beers I
decided to drink and dial.

“Hello?”
“Hey, Turq. Didn’t think you would pick up.”
“Oh no. Its cool.”
“Look, I owe you an apology. For everything.
“Its okay. Do you want to talk to Selah?”
Look, Turq-“ And I do it. I drop the L-bomb. The one
I know will end the conversation, will send her running.
“Don’t say that again.” Already she sounds scared.
“I wont. I just wanted to say it once, before I go
over there. You know?”
“how can you say that?” She says. “How can you
say that, and do what you did?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I just do.”
“You don’t get to.” She tells me. “You don’t get to
say that.”
 Bill is in the crowd, not having drunk as much the
night before, he does not desire a seat as much as I do. I
pull a ticket out of my pocket, to make this seems as
much as an “Event” as possible, they issued tickets to
every Marine on the base who was attending, which was
everyone.
Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune Welcomes
President Barack H. Obama
Thursday, April 3
Location W.P.T. Hill Field
Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune, NC
Gates arrive at 7:45 a.m.
Please arrive no later than 9:45 a.m. I laugh. I have
walked through this field, sometimes several times in
one night, to get beer, and whiskey or cigarettes from
the commissary, and this is the first time I have heart it
called W.P.T. Hill Field. I wonder, did they invent that
name for this occasion?

“Look, I don’t know, it just seems like, to hear you

say that, is just kind of seems like b……………s. I’m just
saying.” And her words tear me apart, its all wrong, what
shes doing to me, but hearing the sound of her voice is
all right.
“Hey, look Turqiose. I get it. You don’t have to feel
guilty about anything. Your young. Your having fun.”
“But….why cant you?”
 Because Im not like you. Because Im not old
enough to drink, but Im older than you, probably older
than your parents. Because so far Ive had twenty-five
through twenty-seven stolen from me, and I still owe
them one more year.
“Don’t worry about me. And don’t regret anything.
Just have fun. Live your life.”
And shes saying something about her and Sam not
working out maybe, and we can hang out sometime, and
I can see Selah whenever I want, but I know that Im gone
already. Gone from her life. Gone from the states. Gone.
The conversation dwindles like this, and I hang up when
its over. Jesus God, I need to sleep now. I take the Nyquil
from under the sink and chug half the bottle. It goes well
with the beer already in my stomach. The world stops
being mildly blurry, and starts melting.
I am wandering down the barracks catwalk,
wearing my t-shirt skirt and mumble-drooling gibberish. I
have found a room. Is it mine? I open the door, and
exclaim my surprise at the residents. Bill and Cory stare
at me for a few seconds, and then laugh.
“God, dude. You see? That’s what this fucking
place does to you, man. Fuck this shit.”
Bill gently takes my shoulder and leads me to my
room. My ass is hanging out of my t-shirt underpants.
Sleep is here.
A sound like an angry hummingbird. Gleaming
Helicopters filled the air, fresh black and white paint
sparkling in the sun. Distant cousins to the dirty grey
Ospreys I know so well. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA on
the side, with an eagle in the middle. This is his seal, this
must be him.
“Why are there so many choppers?” I ask the POG
looking sergeant next to me.
“This is how they do it, to protect from terrorist.”
He explains.
“Yeah, I guess we do a lot of things to protect from
terrorist now.” But who cares, let all this shit get blown
away, my life is already gone, L-bombed to hell, eye
dash vee eee you boom gone.
A light skinned black man in a blue tie, surrounded
by a mob of men in black suits gets out of a helicopter.
Holding hands with a tall black woman in a cream
colored pantsuit, he steps onto a podium built for him
overnight. As he smiles and waves, the Marines in the
stands follow their orders and stand up and clap
excitedly. I think about Turqiose, and raise my hand in
the peace sign, lost in the roar of the crowd.

ELEVEN

I am riding my motorcycle, a Harley Davidson

Nighster 1200. The Pipes are loud and the wind beats
fast on my face. Tomorrow is deployment, tomorrow is
leaving. I count in my head all the things that take part
in today, all the different changes to plans, all the
different ways things could go and have gone. A car cuts
me off, I swerve, and then think nothing of it, thinking
only of the facts at hand. Iraq is getting worse. There are
earthquakes and floods. True unemployment is near
twenty percent. I am fading in and out of a very strange
dream. I am on the plane again with Bill, looking at my
left hand, and the discolored ring spot, listening to bright
eyes. There is a deep sense of dread in my stomach.
How many times can I do this? I made it the first time.
Almodovar hits the sand like a bag of wet fruit. Meir lives
without legs. Reilly dies in the mountains. The bullet
passes by my head. Random chance ruling everything.
Now I am sitting in a field, waiting on a bus, my
rifle propped up on my pack. A mountain of green duffel
bags in front of me. A few wives are here, with children.
No one to see me, most of us have already said our
goodbyes. Cory gets up, takes a drag from his smoke,
and thoughtfully pauses.
“Goodbye, Camp Lejuene. I hope- well I hope you
burn in hell.” We laugh, a hollow sound.
“Last year, dude, then we get the fuck out. Bill
grins.
“Stop loss.” I regret the words even as they come
out of my mouth. “Stop Loss, directed be Congress. A
mandate that this is all there is to be to your life.”
“That was eloquent, dude.” Cory says.
“A four year contract that last forever,”
“That wasn’t as good. The congress mandate part,
that sounded about right.”
“Your both fucking drama queens.” Bill says.
The bus takes us both to the air station, and we
wait there. All the non ncos go load the packs and duffel
bags into the cargo hold. Then into the plane, the 747/
The smiling stewardesses and inflight movie obscenely
out of place. Nect to red dot rifles, Night vision helmets,
and machine guns.
I close the window and put on my Ipod. The first
song that comes on, is bright eyes.

“We are destined for greatness, dude.” Bill tells

me.
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“Both of us are in our twenties, and have jobs.” He
says.
“The jobs pay for shit.”
‘Prestige, man. Prestige counts on a resume.”
“You know the iwo jima memorial?”
“Yeah.”
“You know what those guys did? After the war?”
“Im sure you’re about to fucking tell me.”
“One of them was a janitor. The other was a
undertaker. The other was a day laborer on an Indian
reservation.”
“Sucks to be them.”
“Sucks to be us.”
“This is true.”
“What are you going to do?” Bill asks me. “What
are your going to do, after all this?”
 “Im going to get a job with my dad.” I say. “Im
going to get a job with my dad, working in a federal
prison.”
“As a guard?”
“Yeah.”
“Isn’t that dangerous as shit?”
‘Its not that bad. TV makes it seem worse than in
is.”
“Fuck that. I’m going to school.”
“What for?”
“Finance. I want to make money.”
“The evils of the burgiouze . Enslaving the
workers.”
“Fucking communist.”
“Least I didn’t vote for Bush.”
“wasn’t old enough to vote.”
“Fucking kid.”
The plane lands quietly after hours and hours. We
disembark and the pretty stewardess smiles at me.
“Good luck.” She says. Off the plane and down the
ladder, we are leaving reality.
And back in Afghanistan. The smell hits me and
once. The smell of human odor, of slums and death and
shit.

The Embassy has changed dramatically. There is a

ten foot high slick tan aluminum fence around the entire
enclosure. Atop the fence hangs strands of aluminum
razor wire. As the five ton trucks pull through the heavy
gate, I see the rooftop, decorated with sand bags. Sniper
huts squat from every corner, the long barrels of their
muzzles barely visible. The back of the truck opens. I am
struck by a terrible feeling, when my boots touch the
ground. Worse than déjà vu. I am struck by the feeling
that I have never left. In my hands is the M16A4, with
the red dot scope. On my head is the heavy Kevlar
helmet, with night vision scope. Strapped to me is my
body armor, with heavy Kevlar plates. There is a faint
explosion from somewhere far off, beyond the
mountains, the mountains that surround and engulf
Kabul.
Staff Sergeant Schueher forms us up into two lines.
We march out as a platoon behind the Embassy. Where
there were once trees stand tractor trailer con-ex boxes.
The white trailers have been outfitted with windows and
doors. The roofing is topped with aluminum and
sandbags. I open the white door and walk inside. There
are rows of military grade bunk beds lining up on either
side. Inside there is also fake wood siding, and bare light
bulbs from the ceilings Cory sits in a corner, playing a
playstation 3 game. I recognize its from the sounds of
the explosions as modern warfare. Cory looks up at us
and sighs.
“Huh.” He says. “You guys finally showed up.”
I hang my rifle on the edge of a bed by its sling. I
unstrap my flak and Kevlar, and stash them on top of the
grey army blanket. Cory looks bleak and turns the video
game off. “You got the top, dude. I got the bottom.” He
rubs his fingers on the new chevrons on his collar. “Hey.
You picked up Corporal.”
“Yeah. Last Month. Im first team leader.”
“Whos in first team?” Cory asks.
“You and Gilbeau.”
“So I guess you want the bottom.”
“No. Its cool. Ill sleep up top.”
“That’s good, dude. I’m a big guy. It would be hard
for me to make it all the way up there.” I toss my ranger
pack under the bed, along with my seabag. Alongside the
bunkbeds are grey wall lockers. I open one up and
arrange a few personal things. Across the room I see Bill
and Sweetness setting up their own lockers. After I finish
I climb up on the bed.
“Hey first.” Bill says. “Formation at sixteen
hundred, behind the embassy. Go ahead and do
whatever until then.”
Cory snorts and mutters. “I don’t need Bill’s
permission, to do whatever.”
“He’s squad leader, dude.” I say. “Hes just trying
to act the part.”
“Yeah. Guess it doesn’t matter, anyway .”
“How is it, here?” I ask. “What do you do?”
“Go on post, get off post. Four hours on, eight
hours off, with three platoons. After that, weve got video
games, and the internet. Oh, and here.”
Cory cracks open his locker and pulls out a small
bottle of Jack Daniels. He brings out two paper cups and
fills each with a shot. I toss it back. The liquid giving a
happy burn to my throat.
“I get it from the contractors.” He says. “From the
mercs. Its something to do.”
“That’s cool.”
“I can get other stuff.” He says. “If your
interested.”
“No thanks.” I said. “I mean, I don’t know. Maybe.”
“its quiet here, mostly.”
“That’s good. Quiet is good.”
“Its good sometimes. It gets to you other times.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, for like, a week, nothing will happen. And
then there’ll be an explosion. And you’ll never now where
it came from. It’ll just sound far or distant. One time a
mortar hit, right behind the embassy, by the basement.
And it didn’t go off. It just bounced there, and rolled.”
“Who saw it?”
“I guy I know in Kilo company. Lyborg. He got me,
and we just watched it. We didn’t do anything. After a
little bit, we left to smoke, and when we came back, it
was gone.”
“That’s fucking weird.” I say.
“Yeah. Did you bring your laptop?”
I pull out my macbook from my seabag and hand it
to him. Cory looks it over and nods. “This is good.” He
says. “We can use this for e-mail. You can connect from
the trailers.”
 “That’s cool. I mostly brought it to write.”
“Are you still writing?” Cory asks. “I remember on
float, you said you were going to write a book.”
“I am. Its hard to know, when to start.”
“Start from the beginning, dude. Only place to do
it.”
“Whats the beginning, though? When do things
really begin?”
“The beginning is the beginning. The beginning is
when all this shit really started.”
Cory returns to his video game, and I take my
boots off and stretch out on the bed. I am surprisingly
comfortable. Part of me is smugly satisfied just to have a
bed this time, and not to be sitting in a hole, or sleeping
on the ground. I power up Microsoft word, and look at my
document. Three hundred words written. Where to go
from there? How much more will I need? I think about
writing on Kabul. Instead, I search the side of the beds
for a phone jack. I find it, and plug in to the net. Into the
search bar, I type.
John Sack
Several porn sites immediately pop into view. I
scan down until I find
John Sack
1930-2004
Tragically, war correspondent John Sack, Who has
covered every war since World War Two, died recently
after finishing up what was to be his last work, The Army
in Afghanistan: Interviews with the true warrior heroes!
John Sack spent nearly three months embedded with the
82nd Airborne in Khandahar, Afghanistan, as they fought
the Taliban. This true life story is available now from
barnes and noble and amazon and wherever else fine
books are sold.
Something ugly crawls up the back of my throat. I
scan down the list. Korea, Vietnam, Desert Storm,
Somalia. Army in Afghanistan. “That mother fucker.” I
say aloud.
“Whats up?” Cory answers.
“that fucking faggot John Sack.”
“Who was he?”
“Our embedded reporter. From Kandahar.”
“Right, the old guy. Did you know he knew Hunter
S. Thompson?”
“He didn’t write about us.”
“Huh?”
“He didn’t write anything about us. He wrote about
the army instead.”
“The guys that didn’t have any bullets?”
“Yeah. He wrote a fucking book about them. We
didn’t even get an article.”
“Huh. That sucks.”
“I talked to that guy for hours, dude. I told him
about stuff.”
“Yeah. Me too. I think he talked to just about
everyone in the platoon.”
 “How the fuck, dude? How the fuck could he do
that?”
“I don’t know. Guess he thought the Army had
better stories.”
“That’s bullshit, dude. It really is.”
“So write your own. Write your own story.”
I sit back and I start to type. I put down what I
think and felt about Khandahar, about boot camp. Soon
enough it is time for post.
We stand in two lines behind the embassy. Flack
body armor and Kevlar helmet, M16 with red dot scope.
Waiting for Scheuher. He finally walks out. In an
impeccable uniform. He gives us a speech on duty and
honor. His tone is near mocking, his mannerisms look
copied and false. When he assigns us all our posts, I am
put on roving duty with Cory.
“That’s good, dude. It’s a good post. Its not that
boring, and it gives us something to do.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll give you a tour, dude. I’ll show you where the
fuck everything is.”
We walk past the pavement to the gravel. To the
front gate of the embassy It is a large tan colored
wrought iron gate. “This is post two.” Cory says. “If a
bomb goes off here, this is where you get vaporized.”
The Kilo company Marines nod and stand around,
bored. There are white lawn chairs near the gate, in a
shack. Beside it is a large stack of water bottles. Cory
reaches in and tosses me a bottle. “Nescafe.” He says.
“This is the good water. You don’t want to drink that shit,
that’s bottled in Pakistan.” He turns to the Marines. “You
guys good?” He asks. “You need a battery, or anything?”
No one speaks up. He points to a bunker. “You see that?
That’s a 240 golf. It’ll shoot out the engine block, if
anyone tries to run the gate. Save everyone’s life.
Except, you know, the guys at the gate. And the guy in
the bunker. Theyre all dead. Lets check out the VIA.
We turn right and walk to the gravel. There is a
parking lot here filled with cars, Mostly old Toyotas, but
also a few black SUV’s. “This is the Vehicle Inspection
Area.” Cory says. A Marine stands next to a trench with
tracks for car wheels, that I have seen in auto shops. He
is carrying a small hand held mirror. “This is where
almost everyone goes when they come in the embassy,
to get their shit checked out for IED’s or whatever.”
“Almost everyone?” I ask. “Who doesn’t?”
“VIP Staff. The ambassador, the mercs. The
ambassadors staff. When they come through, they go
straight through. No stopping.”
“Your going to love checking out the haaji cars.”
Says the Marine with the hand held mirror.
“Why?” I ask.
“Those motherfuckers stink. Bad, dude. Like rotten
egg-unwashed ass stink.”
“I saw you guys got the good water on post two.”
“Yeah. Some dumbass Army Sergeant that doesn’t
lock his doors. He had two crates of it in his trunk.
Boosted them both.”
 “The VIA is a good place.” Cory tells me. “To
acquire shit.”
A car pulls through the front gate, and into the VIA.
A haaji in a dress gets out, and the marine with the
mirror pat searches him, running a hand held metal
detector over his body. He then pops open the hood, and
looks carefully. Cory starts to walk away, and I follow
him.
At the edge of the gravel is a smaller gate, made of
wrought iron bars. “This is the original front gate.” Cory
says. “Back before they decided the needed, y’know,
something better.” He walks inside the small wooden
shack set up next to it. “Hey Jones, you alright?”
“Hell no.” Jones says. Im ready to go the fuck
home.”
I look inside the shack. There are various ID cards,
clipped up in neat rows. Several Afghanistan, Arabic,
American drivers liscence, and other. “This is Post
Three.” Cory says. “You pass out the ID cards, and you
open the small gate.”
“Whatever you do.” Jones says. “Don’t leave the
ambassador hanging at the gate. It’s an easy way to get
your ass chewed out.” He spits a stream of tobacco onto
the packed sand floor, leaning on a plastic chair propped
up with sandbags. The gate buzzes open and slides back
with a rattle, and we walk through.
In front of the embassy are more conex box trailer
houses, sitting on what was once the front lawn. There
are tall trees around them, trees that look like oak, or
maple, that I can imagine finding in Virginia. At the front
is the ten foot fence, topped with glistening razor wire. A
wooden step ladder leads up to a post topped with
sandbags. Bill is standing by the sandbags, resting his
rifle, pointing outward. A cigarette dangles from his lips.
“Hey, Bill.” I offer.
“I forgot what haaji speak was.” Bill says. “For
move your fucking car.”
I look over the edge of the fence. I can see a busy
main street, running with buses and jingle trucks, small
Hyundai cars, and donkey carts. On the opposite side an
Afghani soldier leans back on a chair. Bill points to him.
“That is one lazy fuck.” Bill says. “That guy wont do any
fucking thing, unless you point your weapon, and scream
at him.”
“Basically, “ Cory tells me. “What you do here is
keep the traffic moving. Don’t let anyone stop, and don’t
let anyone park next to the embassy, unless you want to
die. Yell at the damn haaji if anyone does, and he’ll make
them move.”
On the opposite side of the street I see Another
building with razor wire. A haaji guard stands out front of
a small gate in a camouflage uniform. “The haaji army.”
Bill says. “The northern alliance, or the afghan army, or
whatever. They live next door. Hey dude, you see that
cartoon on the wall?”
On the stone wall by the building I see it, a strange
mixture of cartoon animals, Arabic script, and AK-47’s.
“That’s a haaji PSA.” Bill tells me. “It says to shoot rabid
dogs, and bring the bodies in to be burned.”
“The more you know.” Cory adds.
 “You see the picture right next to it?” Bill says.
“That’s Massoud. He’s like, the haaji Che Guevera.”
“He’s even got almost the same story.” Cory says.
“He was all badass fighting the Commies, but then the
Taliban killed him. With a bomb or some shit.”
“You got a battery, dude?” Bill says. “I could use a
battery.”
Cory reaches into his cargo pocket and swaps out
Bills battery. We stand up there a moment longer. I look
down either side of the main street, where it runs to the
circle, and where it runs down into the city. The city, built
on top of the mountains. The houses, without any roofs.
Cory sighs. “C’mon.” he says. “Lets go up to the roof.”
As we go back off the front lawn to the front of the
embassy, I spent a quick ten seconds reading the plaque
again, in front of the flag. “You can buy a flag from the
embassy for like, thirty bucks.” Cory says. “And they’ll fly
it for you. It makes a cool gift.”
At the front of the building, next to the glass
double doors, we stick the muzzles of our weapons in a
clearing barrel and remove the bullet from the chamber.
Next to it a Marine dances from foot to foot, doing the
funky chicken.
“Hey, Cory.” He says. “relieve me real quick. I
gotta go piss.”
Cory nods and we both take his place standing by
the door. Two marines come and by the flag. Taps plays
on the embassy loudspeaker and we all stand at
attention. The sun is lowering itself in the late afternoon.
When the music stops we stand back again by the tin
barrel full of sand.
A very pretty girl walks up, in afghani clothes, her
hair wrapped up in a blue sarif. Her eyes are Bright
brown. I can see her hair, black and curly, near her
eyebrows. Her eyebrows are thick yet femine. She
reminds me of Deanna Troi, from Star Trek. Imzadi.
“Hi Cory.” She says. “Whos your friend?”
“This is Merrell.” Cory tells her.
“Wow.” She smiles at me. “Merrell. That’s a great
name.”
“Thanks.”
“It really is. You should be proud.”
“I guess so. Im used to it.”
“Im Shazia.”
“That’s a pretty good name.”
“I guess. My sister’s name is Paula. Iwas always
jealous. Until I found out Paula was Hitlers sisters name.”
Other women is dresses and head scarves arrive. I
hear the low murmer of Arabic on their lips. Somehow it
sounds musical, not harsh and abrupt like it usually does.
They are all the same color of light olive. Only Shazia’s
hair is showing from the top of the scarf. She smiles, and
looks guilty. “Goodbye, “she offers. The group of women
disappears around the corner of the lobby. Their shoes
ring a Cop, chop into my brain, the foot paddings of timid
deer.
“This is post One.” Cory says. “This is primarily
where you can meet mercs and embassy staff.”
 “Are the rest of the staff like Shazia?” I ask.
Cory snorts. “Hell no. Most of them are fat and old.
Most of them either hate or dislike Marines. I talked to
Shazia about it, a little. She says you’ve really got to
draw the short straw in the state department to get
stationed out in Afghanistan.”
“So no ones here by choice.”
“No one. Not even the Ambassador.”
“Sucks to be them.”
“Not really. They get to leave, dude. You and I,
were stuck behind the wire.”
“Where can they go?”
“They’ve got shops and shit out in the market.
They’ve got a ISAF base near here, and they’ve got safe
houses out back. Theres ways you can get around, out
here. It can happen.”
The Marine returns from the bathroom, buttoning
his fly. I look around the lobby. It has a high ceiling, with
black marble floors. There are bullet holes on the far
wall. When I look at the front door, I see the matching
pair. Behind thick glass at the side of the lobby, I see
Corporal Eynon sitting around a panel of monitors and
switches. He swiftly spits a stream of tobacco juice into
an awaiting soda can. The motion reminds me of a
regurgitating mother bird, with his gawking adams apple,
and beak of a nose.
“That’s post One-Alpha.” Cory says. “Handles all
the doors and gates. Also watches all the cameras set
up, around the Embassy walls. I guess they thought
Eynon was to much of a weak bitch to do anything else.”
“I guess so.”
“Cmon, dude.” Cory slaps the back of my flak.
“Lets get up to the roof.”
We walk up a flight of stairs in the far left corner of
the lobby. We walk up and up and up, what seems to be
an endless loop of stairs. I look down and feel dizzy. At
the top is a dirty green access door. Cory takes out his
Motorola radio and calls.
“Hunter to post Eight, at the door.”
There is a creak of metal on metal, and the door
opens to the roof. I step through it, and onto the rough
sandy substance of the roofing. The air is colder up here,
and the wind blows faster. There are three huts, set up
built with plywood and sandbags. Cory heads to the far
left one. I get close to the edge as I follow him, and stop
and stare out. From here, I can see the heart of Kabul. I
can see the traffic on the streets. I can see the rows of
houses missing roofs. I can see The embassy walls, the
guard posts on every corner. The ten foot high wall,
topped with razor wire. From here, the embassy looks
almost pleasant. There are green trees, near the side
fence. Beyond that, I can see a vast construction side,
with piles of concrete and rebar, and holes dug, for some
future foundation.
Cory pops his head out of the makeshift door on
the sniper hut. “Cmon in, dude.” He says. “It gets cold
out there, and Mason’s got a space heater.” I weave past
the camouflage netting, and into the room with Cory.
Inside, Mason is staring vaguely at nothing, from behind
the M-14. Kirkland is playing A Playstation Portable. A
racing game, from the sound of it. “You ,Know dude.” He
says. “When I quit minor league ball, this is not what I
thought of.”
“What did you think of?” Mason asks.
“I don’t know. Running around with guns. Kicking
ass. Killing ragheads. Definitely not sitting on the roof of
some shithole, playing video games.”
“That was last deployment.” Cory says. “This
deployment is sitting on the roof of a shithole.”
Kirkland groans and rubs his bald head. “I guess
so. I guess I really didn’t know fucking anything. Listened
to my recruiter, and my dumb ass believed him. That,
and nine-eleven. Bought into that shit. Again, like a
dumb ass. But its like, its like in the barracks? All we do
is clean.”
“All you do is clean.” I tell him. “Because you’re a
boot.”
“That’s the thing though, Corporal Michael. Its like,
here, I am a boot to you, because I’ve been in less time
or whatever. But out there, I’m stronger than you, and I
make more money. No disrespect or anything.”
“None taken. I was working at Lowes before this.”
“It’s a what do you call it. A hierarchy.”
“Well, Brian.” Mason drawls. “this is the United
States Military. I mean, there is some structure to it.”
“Yeah.” Kirkland draws out a pack of Newport’s.
He taps one out, then offers it to the both of us. “Yeah.
Fuck it. Im only bitching, anyway.”
“That’s all we do.” Mason says. “That’s all we can do on
the roof. Fucking bitch or sleep.”
Kirkland chuckles. “Or the other thing.”
“Yeah.” Cory smiles. “We might do a little of that
tonight.”
“Did you get the stuff, dude?”
“A little. Tooth came through.”
“Shit makes me hungry. That’s the only thing.”
“Speaking of which, its time for Mikey and me to
chow.”
“Good luck with all that.” Kirkland returns to his
PSP, and resumes the race.
We take the stairs all the way down, to the
basement. Inside a room to the left sweaty mercs in cut
off wife beaters lift weights and run on treadmills. “The
weight rooms pretty good.” Cory says. “I spent a lot of
time down here with Barnhill. We can come here, If you
want. I need someone new to lift with.”
“That’s cool.”
“Remember what else was down here?” Cory says.
The basement has been transformed into a
miniature armory. Grey walls, low light by fluorescents.
Rows of AT4 missile launchers and Ammunition boxes
stack next to a cage filled with riot shields and batons. I
walk to the middle of the concrete floor. “This is where
we found that guy.” I tell him.
“They call him Tooth.” Cory says. “He works here
now. They give him a job, cleaning offices and shit.”
“Fuck, dude.” I point to the ground. “I can still see
the blood spots. I think.”
“Maybe. Nobody ever comes down here. You can
cut through it, going to the gym. There’s a small door
over here.” We walk int o the blinding sun, after the cool
and dark of the basement. I squint and pull on my
Oakley’s. Behind the embassy we arrive back at the
trailers. As we pass the conex trailers on the way to the
Chow Hall I look at each one. Some have flowers in the
front yard, and a yard with grass. Windows and doors. I
see a lady walking her cat on a leash on the front lawn.
To the far end, near the fence, there are the boxes of
wire and dirt that protect is all from explosion.
In front of the chow hall we rub hand sanitizer on
our hands in a station out front. We clear our rifles again,
in a barrel out front. Inside is the bustle of Marines and
Embassy staff, lining up to eat. We place our weapons
on racks near the entrance, and pile our Flak and Kevlar
on shelves next to it. Like everything else outside the
main building, the chow hall is made from Conex trailers.
A small haaji sits by a table at the head of the line,
with an ancient cash register. The man in front of me in a
polo shirt and slacks Reaches into his wallet, and pulls
out five dollars. “Do we have to pay?” I ask Cory.
“No, dude. This shits free for us.”
I walk through the line. I get what looks like beef
stew with rice, and green beans. I grab a cook and settle
down at a table, covered with a red and white checkered
tablecloth. When I grab the top of the soda can it opens
up funny. The entire tab comes out, leaving me with a
sharp triangle in my hands. I gaze at the can, Red with
White Arabic script, and am struck with an enormous
amount of déjà vu.
“You okay, Mikey?” Cory asks.
“that did it for me.” I say.
“The haaji coke?”
“The haaji coke. Do you remember the first time
first time we had this shit?”
Cory scarfs down a faceful of food. “Probably in
Bahrain. In Bahrain, or on float.”
“It was on float. In the soda machines, on the
Bataan. They changed them, when we went through the
horn.”
“Right. I remember now. They didn’t change them
back until when. Malta?”
“That, or Spain. When I broke my hand.”
“So you’ve had some sort of revelation? Wait until
you’ve had curry every day for a week.”
“That’s what this shit is? I thought it was beef
stew.”
“You’ve never had Indian food before.”
“Not really.”
“Its where the vendors are from. India. Sometimes
they make hot dogs, or steak. Mostly, it’s a lot of fucking
curry.”
“Its still better. Everything’s better than last time.”
 “MRE’s and a foxhole? Yeah. I can see your point.
But your not looking at the big picture.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Well, for one thing, we have no idea how long
were going to sit here.”
“The Colonel said six months.”
“The Colonel doesn’t know shit. Look all over the
news, Iraq is blowing up.”
“How does that affect us?”
“Stop loss, dude. Stop Loss and Stop Move. If they
send everyone else out into the other sandbox, we don’t
get relieved.”
“So were here indefinitely.”
“Pretty much.”
I chew my food thoughtfully. “I don’t give a shit.” I
say. “I’m getting out next year. They can keep me here
till then.”
“I don’t know. Dude.” Cory says. “This place here,
this place might change your mind. Its pretty intense,
from time to time.”
“Have you guys seen any action?” I ask.
Cory shakes his head. “Not really. But all around
us, shit happens. The India embassy got hit. The Army
base next door. All these compounds, and their all
around us, and you know our time will be up, eventually.
“
“I don’t know.” I say. “I don’t see any reason to
think that way.”
 Cory swallows the last of his haaji Pepsi. “I want to
show you something.” He says. “Lets go out by the rear
gate.” Out behind the large dirt boxes I can hear the roar
of a generator. “It runs on diesel.” Cory says. “This whole
embassy runs on diesel. That’s how you get power, out
here in Kabul. You have a great big generator.”
“How do they fill it up?”
“They park a great big truck out here, behind the
embassy, and hook it up to the diesel tanker.”
“Isn’t that dangerous? I mean, with the fuckers
blowing up?
You would thinks so. The people that matter, they
don’t think that way. Or maybe they don’t give a shit.
Either way, that’s the way its done.”
We climb up a wooden staircase that leads to a
post over looking the rear gate. From here I can see a
series of alleyways in a neighborhood behind the
embassy. “All of these are safe houses.” Cory says.
“Some of the embassy staff, that doesn’t live in the
trailers, lives back here. That one right there, that’s the
Mercs.”
A stocky haaji in a green uniform with a wicked
looking knife in his belt stands at the alleyway. “Who is
that guy?” I ask.
“That’s the Gurka’s.” Cory says. “There guards
from Nepal. They’ve got the contract to guard the mercs’
safe house. Everything here, is about contracts. Look,
this is what I wanted to show you. You see that little rag,
over there to the right? In the fence.”
I look across the alley to where Cory is pointing.
There is a thin trail of blue fabric, fluttering in the wind,
hanging from the razor wire. The rag is nearly
translucent, pale, thin fabric. If the sun were to hit it, it
would seem to be made of nothing.
“What is it?”
“That was her dress. That’s whats left of her.”
“Whos her?”
“A girl tried to climb the embassy fence back here.
The guy on post, had to take her out.”
“No shit.”
“Yeah. After she was dead she got all tangled up in
the wire, and they had to cut her out. The lieutenant that
gave the order was all fucked up after that. The ended
up replacing him. I mean, she was just a kid, man. Like
eleven or twelve years old.”
“Did you know the guy? I mean, the guy that
shot?”
Cory shakes his head. “Not real well. Some guy
from Kilo Company. He says hes cool with it, I mean, he
says that he gets why it had to happen. I don’t know
though. I saw it afterwards.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“Yeah. But that’s what it is, here. Fucked up. Hey,
so you see those mountains?”
I look over the neighborhood, to two large hills,
that gently roll overhead. “Yeah.”
“We call those mount Jenna Jameson. Cause, you
know, its like two tits. The haajis climb up there and
shoot rockets off it into the city.”
“What, like a mortar?”
“Not really. Like an unguided rocket. Propped up
on a stick or something. Just pointed in the general
direction of Kabul. Just, fwooosh, go forth and do good.”
“Jesus.”
“This place. Its fucking crazy.”
Eight hours off post seem to go by in a blink of an
eye, and the next time we take post the embassy is lit by
streetlamps. The night is not as cold as I thought it was.
Again, Schueher puts me on the Roving Post with
Cory.“The first thing we need.” Cory says. “Is coffee.” We
stop off by the chow hall and raid the coffee pot, taking
our cups with us on the walk up to Post Two. With the
front gate closed, Sweetness and Gilbeau are sitting in
the plastic lawn chairs, chatting about nothing.
“Everyone good?” Cory asks.
“Yeah.” Sweetness says. “Bored. That’s it, though.”
“Im going to take Mikey to check out the
Construction site.”
“Good luck.” Sweetness says. “Don’t shoot at the
ghost.”
We walk through a small gate behind the parking
lot and entire the construction site. All around us pipe,
cement, and rebar, catch the near light and seem to
flicker.
“Theyre building another embassy.” Cory says.
“That’s what all this war on terror money is going into. A
new building, for the ambassador. When its done, the
mercs are going to staff it. Zero Marines. It might happen
next year, or the one after that.”
“Anything going on out here at night? I mean,
besides us.”
“Not really. You remember what Sweetness said?”
“Yeah. Don’t shoot at anyone.”
“No, dude. The ghost.”
“What about it?”
“Some guys in Kilo saw a woman out here. In a
blue burqa. When they went out to get her, she
disappeared.”
“Like, disappeared disappeared.”
“Like vanished. One of the guys said he could see
right through her.”
“Craziness.”
“I know. Nutty shit.”
I kick my feet in the dirt. Something white and
small comes up, like a little white rock.
“The fuck is that?” I say aloud. Cory grabs his rifle,
brings it up to the ready. “No, no, dude. I meant this.” I
pick it up. I can see the bone for what it is.
“Dead goat out here, maybe? That, or one of those
rabid dogs, from two alpha.”
“Could be it.” I put the bone in my cargo pocket
carefully. It bumps easily against the fabric. We make
our way out of the construction site, and back to post
two. Sweetness tosses me a bottle of water. Cory slumps
into a white picnic chair.
 “Your going to take that shit with you?”
“Im going to keep it as a trophy.” I say. “When I
get out Im going to tell my kids that its from the hands of
a haaji I killed in the war.”
“You should write that down.” Cory says. “You
should put it in your book.”
“Whos writing a book?” Sweetness asks.
“Mikey is. Hes been writing it since float.”
Back up.” Gilbeau says. “What are you keeping as
a trophy?”
I take the bone out of my pocket, and hand it to
him. He holds it up to the bare light bulb and giggles.
“You eat chicken for dinner, Mikey? I thought we
had stew.”
“It was Curry, not Stew, Dumbass.” Sweetness
says.
“Same shit. Different name.”
“Here comes Schueher. Guys.”
Schueher strides toward our post, his face an
envision of wrath. “Corporal Michael. PFC Butlers got
Osama’s Revenge. Your going out on the convoy
tomorrow.”
“Yes Staff Sargeant.”
“Did you hear about the ghost, Staff Sargeant?”
Cory says.
“The Burqa Ghost?”
“I didn’t hear it called that.” Sweetness adds.
 “The fucking morons in Kilo Company said some
bullshit about that. Also had two negligent discharges. I
know you all are better than that. This is first Platoon.”
“What time is the convoy?” I ask.
“Zero Seven. Don’t be late or I’ll have your ass.”
Scheuher smiles. “Ive got some fun stuff planned for the
Platoon tomorrow.”
The post passes. We head back to the trailers. I
take a warm shower and brush my teeth. When I crawl
under the grey army blanket with the US stenciled onto it
I fall asleep thinking of the luxury and strangeness of it
all, sleeping in a bed in a room in Afghanistan.

This is about the time of the worst nightmares

And they go like this: cant sleep cant sleep cant

sleep mentally ill from malaria pills the dreams fucking
nightmares cant sleep get up get up lights lights lights
get dressed ten nine eight seven six five four three two
one done sire done got to get out look up porn the
internet is for porn no porn here haajis only jerk off to
each other no email no one not at all no turq no Selah no
parents no brother no shit its too late she im gone gone
gone time to spent money. Look at this Im a hero Im a
childs plaything Im on sale from walmart a real American
hero the USMC Corporal Merrell Michael action figure
comes with his M16A4 service rifle”Ol Jess” with
mounted red dot sight and laser sights for night vison the
night vision laser is inaccurate the red dot sight becomes
loose its shitty make sure you have the multitool
accensory to fix it each sold separately the reason they
are both on there is that everyones rifle has to look the
same they don’t even have their batteries why should
they inaccurate even if they do work this is called
uniformity it is an important military tradition Mikey is
wearing his Kevlar helmet with foam padding he stole
from a POG with an unlocked truck. The helmet gives
him a bald spot from wearing it every day he is also
accessorized with a tan body armor jacket, twenty pound
plates in the front and back collar digging into his neck,
pouches that are useful for extra mags 5.56 parrabelum
one grenade pouch for camel lights Turkish and
American blend Mikey likes it favorite smokes. Carrying
around stooped shoulders (permanent modification)
cracked vertebrae secret unknown comes with peg in ass
to sit on Osprey radio control helicopter sold separately
sent into battle against evil forces of Al Queda Cobra
same thing both falsehoods. Stick him into a 5 ton
military truck vehicle sold separately roll him off in the
samdbox on a convoy leave him there and stick the
firecracker IEDs around him, tell him where the land
mines might be but not sure. Off duty liberty time Malibu
Mikey clothing playset beer bottle accessory and pills
blue polo shirt and jeans let him show off tattoos and
scars to any dolls around sold separately doll has man
doll use punching actiom just twist his waist and let off
the blow struck in anger we sleep soundly at night
because angry men watch us this model of Mikey does
not come with moving eyes his eyes are painted open
and fixed in a constant stare this is preferable for long
hours on and on post or foxhole helping protect Americas
freedom to continue America has as many continues as it
wants when you tire of you Mikey action figure use the
firecracker send him out with a bang simply set it there
and watch the fun as the plastic flies will eat ear eat at
the plastic body laying out there under a too real sun as
it lays dying a plastic death in you sandbox it will think
about home and life and the dollhouse.

I awoke from the nightmares at about five in the

morning. My body refused to go back to sleep again. I
went into the corner and fired up the Playstation two,
picking out a harmless supervillian game. I fried pixilated
bystanders with my red lightning, and tried to think
about what it could all mean. The dream had shook me,
and my heart was beating in my chest. Usually the
dreams had been simple, the Boy ot the women or the
prisoners. I had learned to deal with those as they came.
I did not now what to think about this.
I shut off the playstation and booted up my
macbook. I uploaded a few pictures I had taken of the
embassy to facebook, Briefly I searched online for
Shazia, but found nothing except another angry message
from Turqoiuse I had forgotten to delete. I put on my
flak and Kevlar, getting dressed for the convoy.
The MRAP Cougar’s sat idling next to the embassy
like an enourmous tan beast, nearly a tank in its own
right. It was lifted off the ground like a monster truck, the
hatch for the drivers side door so far up it needed steps.
In front on it on the grill sat mean forks looking out in
front. As if this enourmous beast could skewer its way
through the rag heads to safety. Atop on the turret, I saw
the fifty caliber machine gun behind so much metal it
reminded me of a gun port on a B-17 bomber. The
windows were tinted black, and when I knocked on them
they were on inch thick.
“You like it?” Sweetness asked. “Think about how I
feel. I get to drive this bitch.
“Its fucking huge.” I say. “I mean, I love it. This
fucker is bad ass. I had no idea they had these here.”
“You and me both. Kilo company lost four in an IED
explosion two months ago, and when they sent the
replacement Humvee’s, they sent these instead. Get up
inside, have a look around.”
Inside the MRAP it is roomier than a Humvee, with
fold down seats and room to stand. In the gunners turret,
bullet proof glass protects me from every direction.
Fantasies of star wars fill my head. I swivel around,
testing it out.
“Mikey.” Scheuher says. “Can you hear me up
there?”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”
“Good. Listen up, this is the convoy brief. Were
going to Bagram air base, to pick up supplies and mail.
The order will be Corporal Swain and Corporal Michael in
the MRAP, Myself and Sergeant Mcdonald in Humvee
one, and Lance Corporal Dula and PFC Cox in Humvee
two. Don’t let any vehicles come between us. If anyone
gets in our way, turret gunners, that’s on you, take them
out. Remember, complacency kills out here. Swain,
remember to pull Michael down if the MRAP flips, so he
doesn’t die.”
“Can they flip an MRAP?”
 “I don’t know. A Lance Coolie managed to flip that
bitch in training, so its probably possible. Keep an eye
out for anything on the road, especially any bodies. They
pack the bitches full of explosives, and leave them there
for us. Body IED’s. Good luck.”
Im wired and fully awake as I grab both handles of
the fifty caliber machine gun and lock and load the
ammo belt. Swain fires it up, and the MRAP roars to life.
Atop this beast I feel like god, invincible, immortal.
Everything looks different below, smaller, less important.
We turn the circle in front of the flagpole. I look at the
rising sun from behind my oakleys, and wrap my desert
scarf over my face. The air is cool and expectant in a
wonderful way. The front gate opens for us, and we roar
out into the street. For a second I get a glimpse at the
post opposite post two. The afghani soldier, sitting in a
hut, in front of the gate, to screen before we do. One
more body to place in front of an explosion.
Kabul in the morning is noisy and third world and
vibrant and alive. We head the opposite way as the truck
came to drop us off, what my watch compass says is
north. No one approaches us. Swain roars through the
streets, on and off the road ahead. People scatter in front
of the MRAP. We force a bus off the road, it hits a vendor
stall with a loud crunch and a squeal of tires. Even with
all this, I can see a child wave.
The bombed out roofs congregate and the streets
narrow. Sudden fear grips me. Is this it? Are we turning
down the final alley, the final narrow alley, the last one I
will ever see? I take one hand of the fifty and flick the
glass with my hand. The resulting thunk is deep and
reassuring. Soothing my mind, and calming my spirits.
Snipers be damned. I am still invincible. Soon the view
widens out. The city lessens, the houses and huts
become less frequent. Two and three and then one and
none, and finally we are out of Kabul, into the vastness of
the Afghanistan countryside.
This is the country I know so well. Vastness on
either side, great rolling tan grey desert. Beyond that,
the mountains rising, white capped with snow. Matching
the clouds they come so near to. Little huts and stone
castles far away. Made miniature by the distance. The
MRAP throttles down, and we roar on. I think of one of
Buckeys nerd games. Warhammer 40K. With the Space
Marines. And the space Marines all pile into these tank
things, called Rhinos. Little metal miniatures. Scary
smelling nerds, virgins afraid of life. All of them wishing,
in their heart of hearts, that they could do this, that they
could be this. I lightly, carefully grasp the butterfly
triggers on the fifty. A man on a bicycle veers of the road
as we roar pass. With this I could destroy him. With this I
could turn his insides to a fine pink mist, his head into a
collection of unmatching features. I see him now, I see
him completely, in a dark head wrap, in his white
pajamas. I do not hate him. There is no point to it. All
that he is is in my hands. The bicycle is whisked away,
forever behind.
We ride and ride. Eventually I succumb to the
numbness of it. We are the only ones on the road, and
nothing happens. The country is wide in front of us.
When we come to a checkpoint the MRAP roars through
and I point my fifty at the haaji sitting beside it. Rejoicing
at the hate in his eyes. It falls behind like everything
does.
As we come near Bagram the road grown greener
on either side, and the landscape changes. We pull up to
the gate and a soldier holds his hand out. I look at him
there, in his bright ACU’s with his M4 rifle.
“Did you stop?” He asks Swain.
“No. We didn’t stop.”
“Where are you guys from.”
“The embassy. Getting supplies and mail.”
“Go ahead and go right through.” He waves the
gate open. We head through, into the familiarity of metal
boxes full of dirt and razor wire. I lean back in the turret.
Swain makes a series of turns. Finally, the MRAP stops. I
get down from the turret, and over to the passengers
side door, where I jump down into the dirt. I land hard,
and lose my balance. Swain walks around the other side,
laughing.
“Jesus Christ, Michael. You can use the damn
steps, on the other side.”
“I don’t need to.” I cough, and pick up my
sunglasses. “Im hard like that.”
“Hard in your fucking head. Come on, lets pick up
the mail.”
The bagram post office is a building like every
other building on the base, made of plywood on top of
rocks and dirt, and filled with contents filed neatly into
shelves. A bored looking soldier sighs as we come in, and
gets up from his chair. “Help you?” He asks.
“Mail for the embassy.” Swain tells him. “task force
Kabul.”
The army dog goes back to the shelves flipping
through envelopes and boxes. I walk around, looking at a
large pile of boxes on the counter. “What are these?” I
ask him.
“Unclaimed care packages. General shit.”
“Look at this.” I pull one out of the pile and hold it.
“This ones fucking huge.”
“Its probably socks.”
“You think so?”
“Most of them are socks. Take what you want.”
There is much more free space at Bagram, and it is
less cramped then the embassy, but there is still little to
do. I wander around the PX for a while, and buy a new
comic book and a pack of camel lights. Before long I
make my way back to the MRAP. Swain points at my
huge parcel.
“Where are we going to fit that thing.” He says.
“Right here in the turret.” I tell him. “Im going to
keep it next to me.”
“Whatever it is, you better share it.”
“The army guy said it was socks.”
“Hell no. Nobody needs that many socks.”
“Maybe its porn. You can have the stuff with the
dudes in it.”
I see Scheuher coming back, munching on a
powerbar. “Saddle up.” He says. “Lets go.”
 Halfway out to Kabul, the car approaches us. It
blows by the left side of the convoy, swerving to the
right. It is an old model Toyota silica, a cheap box. The
brake lights come on, flashing red. It swerves in front of
us.
“Motherfucker!” Swain yells, slamming on the
brakes. He hits the horn. “MOVE! MOVE!” The car looms
closer and closer. “Fuck it. Take it out, Mikey!”
My mind rattles at a thousand miles an hour. I
point the fifty and squeeze the butterfly trigger. Nothing
happens. Panic grips me. In a flash, I think to myself:
Safety. I flick it off. The fifty booms with its thunder. In
front of me the car changes. Holes blossom in the hood,
revealing the engine. The windshield shatters inward,
and red sprays up and up. Swain swerves to the left. In
front of us the pavement is shattering , chunks of it flying
up and hitting the glass. Swain is trying to tell me
something.
‘Let up off it, Michaels!”
“What?” I realize what is going on, and release.
“Let go of the trigger. You were holding down the
trigger, and shooting the shit out of the road.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Its okay, though.” He slaps me on the leg.
“Your okay. Everythings copacetic.”
“Shit.” The adrenaline is draining out of my
system. I feel rattled, and take a swig out of my
camelback. “First convoy, man.”
 “Yeah. I know.”
“Was it worth it? Did we really need powerbars and
mail?”
“fuck. I don’t know. Ask that haaji.”
“I don’t think he’d answer.”
After the convoy comes back I take my package
out of the turret and walk to the smoking area. There is a
random assortment of people hanging out, embassy staff
talking quietly. Bill comes by and slaps me on the back.
“Scheuhers giving you the night off post today.
Says you guys got some, during the ride.”
“Yeah. Just some idiot, driving too close.”
“Whats in the box?”
“A magic button, that will kill you and give me one
million dollars.”
‘That was lame, dude.”
“I thought it was good.”
“No. That movie was fucking terrible. Thusly
making that a terrible reference.”
“Fine. Its socks.”
“Good. Rip it open. I only brought three pair.”
“What?”
“Rip it up. I need socks.”
“How did you not bring more socks than that?”
“I don’t need too. Plenty of socks out here.”
“Were going to be out here for at least six
months.”
 “Yeah, and?”
“So, how could you not plan ahead.”
“I did plan ahead. I brought lots of detergent.”
“Here we go.” I take out my Ka-bar and make that
first, decisive indentation in the cardboard. When I can
wedge both fingers in, I tear it back.
“Just a guitar.” Bill remarks. “Not socks at all.”
I carefully grab the instrument by its headstock
and lift it out slowly. “It’s a Martin.” I say.
“I s that a good brand?”
I turn it over, gazing at the mahegony headstock,
and the deep maple finish. “Its one of the best.” I tell
him. “This is a really nice guitar.”
“How did you get it?”
“It was in a pile of care packages.”
“Smash it, dude.” Bill says. “Pull a pete townsend,
and smash the shit out of it.”
“Fuck that. I can play a little.” I trace my fingers
out across the strings, fretting the chords from memory.
Look at this photograph
Every time I do it makes me laugh
What is that on my head
Why are my eyes so red?
This is the house I grew up in
This is also the house I grew up in
My parents weren’t divorced or anything
 We just moved when I was ten
I remember my best friend
It was brian legonowitz
We grew up together
I don’t know where he is now
I remember where I went to school
I lettered in some stuff there
It was easy to letter there
Because it was the poor school
Whoa yeah whoa oooh

Shazia appears out of nowhere. Her hair is out of

the scarf, and flows down her shoulder. “That was a
beautiful song.” She says.
“Thanks.” I tell her.
“You have a guitar?”
“I got it today.”
“Can you play any Clapton?”
The past and future melds together into one blur.
My father and his Gibson. Me here, now, at this picnic
table under the afghan oak tree. Leaves blossoming
over us. She leans in close and I can see the delicate way
she smokes the cigarette, long and slender. I start it off
with the question
‘What’ll you do if you get lonely?”
And from that point on, I let the guitar speak for
me. It calls out in between its notes the story of Derek
begging for his woman. The story my father taught me,
long ago.
At the end of the song, Shazia and I are alone
together, beneath the large oak tree. She snuffs out her
second cigarette.
“You want to go back to my place,” She says. “And
hang out?”
“You have a place?” I ask.
“I have a place.” She puts her hands in her
pockets, and puffs them out, expressionistically. I have a
trailer. I have a box. That I live in.”
“Sure. “ I say “I guess that counts as a place.”
Back at her trailer I neatly fold my flak jacket and
stack my helmet on top of it, next to the door. I prop up
my rifle beside it. Shazia is there with a bottle of red
wine, and two plastic cups. She sets the bottle on a small
plastic table and pours us both a generous sized drink.
“Do you ever get tired of it?” She asks. “Wearing
all that stuff?”
“At first I did. Now Im just sort of used to it.”
“I don’t think I ever could. Get used to that.
Carrying around a gun all the time, like that.”
“Its what I do.”
“Do you like it?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes. Im getting out of it, next
year.”
“Whys that ?”
“Its not really something that you do forever. Your
always gone, and its too much, you know.”
“Yeah. I believe that. Im gone all the time. Too.”
“What do you do?”
“Im kind of the liason. The womans liason. I talk to
all these groups of women, and find out what they want.
What they need.”
“That sounds cool.” Shazia swallows deep in her
cup, and nods her head hurriedly. A thin drop of red runs
from between her lips, down her chin, and she wipes it
off with one thin finger.
“It is cool. Most of the time. Sometimes, its
depressing as fuck.”
“Why? “
“These women? Their lives are like….shit. I mean,
all the ones I talk to, they were docters, or lawyers, or
teachers. Then the Russians came. After that the Taliban.
After that us. Now its all shit. Some of them burn
themselves.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. They do. I don’t know. I don’t like talking
about it. Do you like music?”
“Sure.”
“I have this record player. Its not that great, I got it
from goodwill. But its kind of cool. This is my favorite
record.”The music starts up, Claptons voice and duane
allmans guitar
She took my hand
Tried to make me understand
 That she would always be there
“This is my favorite album. In like, the world.”
“I know the story behind this.” I tell her. “My dad
told me. Clapton and George Harrison and Harrisons
wife.”
“I know. Its awesome. And the thing about it is,
they were all friends. And they stayed friends, after. This
whole album, its all about her.”
“Unrequited love.”
“Huh?”
“that’s what its all about. Unrequited love. Love
that is not filled. It’s a Persian story, Majnun loved Layla,
but she did not love him back. Patti Boyd didn’t give a
shit about Clapton. That was the concept of the album.”
“That’s really deep.”
“Yeah. It’s a classic album.”
“Your good to talk to, Merrell. I mean, I enjoy
talking to you.”
“You too, Shazia. I mean, I feel the same.”
“No, its just, I mean, there was this other guy. This
other Marine, In Kilo company, or whatever.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And we hung out, and everything, but there
was no real, like connection. I mean, it was just a thing
that we did. A physical thing. And he didn’t like me
playing Clapton. Said it was geezer rock or something.”
“I guess that typical. Stereotypical, or what not. For
a Marine.
 “It really is? I just, I don’t know, Ive always liked
this kind of music. The who and pink Floyd and led
zeppelin and Clapton. As long as I can remember. Its just
been what I listened too. And its hard to find anyone,
especially a guy, that gets that. Its like, as long as I can
remember, Ive had this nolstalgia for this time period
before I was born.”
“I get it though.” I tell her. “I really do.”
“You do? Explain. I mean, talk to me, about it. I
want to hear what you have to say.”
“No one in my family was in the Marines. And since
I was fourteen, Ive been checking out books from the
library about like, the Korea war, and Vietnam. And world
war two. And, like, I knew, that all that meant something
for me. That that was the direction I was going.
Sometimes I would watch the movies, or I would read the
books, and it was, like, I was there. I was really there,
doing that stuff. Fighting. Sometimes I felt it so deep
inside, it really choked me up.”
“Is that what got you in?”
“No. Nine eleven. Probably. “ I was there, I think
about adding but I don’t.
“That was terrible. I was in texas. My family lives in
texas, and that’s where I was, when it happened.” She
leans forward, to change the record player. “I want to
play you this song.”
It’s a howling wold cover by Clapton Bud a bump a
buh pow, Have you ever loved a woman?
“Have you ever loved a woman.” Shazia says. “So
much, you tremble in pain?”
 The red wine is spinning circles in my head. I fall
on her and pull her head into me, the long curly black
hair. Her tongue is a small mouse, darting in and out of
mine. Her breast are perfect round ovals, the center
dark brown floating in olive. My own clothes come off.
My erection juts out, We come together and I enter her.
She turns around and grips the head of the bed. I thrust
into her from behind.
The fucking is good. She cries out loud and long
Aaahunh! The meaty portion of my thigh hits her ass
swalapp! Together then apart, back then forth, over and
over again, There is a rhyme to this, there is a purpose
for this. What else could it be? Finally, apex. I feel it in
my toes at first, and the orgasm overwhelms me. She
pulls a t-shirt off the floor and uses it like a blanket,
curling up on the couch. She smiles at me and from
where the tshirt ends I can see the perfect triangle of her
shaven pussy, my god, I want to die, shes so cute.
“Get a blanket. She says. “From the bedroom.”
Naked, I navigate my way into the other portion of
the trailer, partitioned off with fake walls. A small single
bed. Next to it, a picture of a man in either his late
thirties or his early forties, with receding hairline, hooked
nose, and glasses.
“I got kicked out of my house for this.”
“For what?”
“Sex. Sex with strange boys. Muslim household.
Forbidden.”
“Huh.”
“Thanks for not bringing it up.”
 “Sure.”
“The other guy, the kilo guy, that’s all that he
would talk about. I think he had a fetish.”
“No problem.” I wrap the blanket over her and
bring myself in to spoon her body. “Thanks for not
bringing up the other guy.”
She laughs again, then punches my arm. The air is
still and quiet. My mind is racing. We lie there, and I
make every move not to stir.
“Cant sleep.” She mutters.
“No. I guess not.”
“The first week I got here, I kept trying to listen for
these highway sounds at night, that weren’t there. You
never think about them, back home. But theres always
something at home in America.”
“In America.”
“That’s what it is. Home.”
I set my watch and wake at Four- thirty, dressing
hurridly. In the trailers I play Modern Warfare 2 on the
Playstation until the others wake up and it is time for
chow.

TWELVE

The next day after morning post Schueher gathers

us all together in boots and utes. Our tops are stripped to
our green skivvy shirts. He flexs his forearms, and
stretches. “Okay.” He says. “Okay. Were going to do
some Marine Corps Martial Arts. Im going to get
everyone in this platoon, a green belt. Except, you know,
Im not.”
He looks across the platoon for someone to
challenge his will, his statement. “Everyone here
watches UFC, right? Everyones seen it? Yes, no, fuck
you? Good. Okay. That’s what were going to be doing.
Were going to fight. Mikey, Mcgovern. Get up here.”
I walk in the middle of the circle. All around me, I
can see the tall dirt boxes. We are in a far corner of the
embassy. “One round.” Scheuher says. “Two minutes.
Go.”
I double over when Bill hits me in the gut, hard.
There is pain behind my eyes, painful sparks flying. He
tries it again and I tackle him. On the ground we flounder
like fish. I concentrate on my jiu jitsu, and try to
remember what it is I have to do. I roll until I can flip my
leg overtop his head, and I grab his right arm. I struggle
and try not to panic. When I get him in the arm bar, he
taps.
“That was good, Mikey.” Scheuher says. “Real
good. You got him on the ground, and finished up.
Remember: The ground is half of the fight. If you can
fight there, you can fight anywhere.” Scheuher waves
me off, and then grabs Bills arm. “Stay here, Mcgovern. I
want to show the platoon something. These are the ten
points of muscular gouging.”
“Eyes: Take your thumb, push it into the socket, as
far back as you can. If it doesn’t pop, you can drive it
back into the brain.”
 “Ears: It only takes three pounds of pressure to
tear off the human ear. You grab from the top, and rip
down. It tears off like a sheet of paper.
“Trachea: Take your hand and close youre thumb
and forefinger around the adams apple. It feels like a
tube. Pull back, and the tube will snap. Or come out.”
Coladosternomastiod muscle: These are the
muscles on the side of your throat, the ones that control
you neck movement. And this is what muscular gouging
actually is: You can tear the muscle off the bone. Rip the
tendons, let it float free.
“TRAPS.”
“LATS.”
“BICEPS”
“TRICEPS.”
“PECTORALS.” Or breast for a woman, or a man
with bitch tits. Lift from up under, and thear them off.”
“Groin. This is probably the easiest one. Requires
no explanation.”
The demonstration leaves us shiftless and bored.
Schueher shrugs his shoulders and waves his hands
inward, in a come hither gesture. “So.” He says. “Who
wants a shot at the title?
Cory raises his hand and steps forward. Cory
Wayne Hunter, all two hundred fifty pounds of him, six
foot six, massive, giant, arms thick as legs. We form a
circle around Cory and Scheuher. I step back to the wall
of dirt, giving them room to do what they need to do.
Scheuher squares up first, raising his hands up, like
a boxer. Cory raises his hands as well, but keeps his
palms open, moving them quickly, just above waist level.
They circle and feint. Cory thrusts out his hand, and we
can all see the obvious advantage of his reach. Scheuher
ducks and lunges for a body shot.
At this moment Cory envelopes him, trying to grab
Scheuher in a old fashioned choke. Schueher slaps him
off. Cory thrusts Schueher back into the tree behind
them. Scheuher breaks off and shoves his knee into
Cory’s gut. Once, then twice. The big man makes a
grimace of pain. An “awk” forms. Schueher has the arm,
and is trying to work the joint The arm is working,
forward, forward, but Cory is strong. Too strong, and
they topple into the dirt.
On the ground the fighters are a writhing mass of
human flesh. Oddly intimate, faintly disturbing, the
spectacle continues. The is a battle being waged on
another front. Cory is atop, and then, hesitantly, he is
moved, and panting hard. Schueher rams against him.
Some of us are cheering, others are simply observing the
scene unfold. Quickly, it comes to its head. Scheuher is
twisting above Cory as he mounts him. His fists leap up
and over, and the noise they make when they connect is
brutal. A sharp crack, echoeing past the barriers.
Somehow Cory manages to mumble
“enuf”
And Schueher swings a leg over and stands up. He
is panting hard, and his eyes blink rapidly. With a free
hand he wipes the sweat off his brow, smearing dirt
across his eyes. The look is prehuman, subhuman.
Bizarre fashioned triumph. On the ground Cory’s face is
red and welted.The world is dim before him, it is vague
infront of me. I take his outstretched arm and lean back
to help him to his feet. Back at the trailers, I am
showered and changed, lying on my bunk with my apple
computer. I am attempting to think of a title for a blog. I
have found several of these, since searching. Names like
MY WAR, KABOOM, or ENLISTED. Most of them appear to
be Army, and most of those seem to be Pogs. I type in
CAMEL FUCKER, then erase it, self conscious of the
alterations. None of it seems to fit. Could I even tell
anyone about this? About Scheuhers real life fight club?
Would they believe me?
Bill walks up to me, and slaps my boot. “Mikey.” He
says. “Get Cory or someone to go on a working party.
One of the boots.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Escort Tooth upstairs in the embassy.”
“I’ll do it.”
“You don’t have to, man. Your Corporal.”
“No, its cool. I’ll do it. Cory’s asleep, and the boots
pretty worthless.”
“Its up to you, man. Whatever dude.”
In the embassy Said is waiting for me, grinning his
empty grin and wagging a large finger in the air.
“Number one.” He says. “Number one Marine.”
“Its okay, Said. I get it.”
“Mareen, Number one.”
“That’s all you, man. Said number one.”
 “No. I number zero. Mareen number one.”
“If you say so.”
“We go, yes? Clean sweep.”
I nod and stretch out my hand in front of me. Said
bounds happily up the faux-marble stairs. I put one hand
carefully on my M16 and walk up behind him. On the
second floor Said knocks quietly. I overweight blond
woman in a pantsuit answers, parting the heavy black
metal frame. Her face is pancaked in excessive makeup,
and a thin pearl necklace trails around the thick flab of
her throat. For a minute, she looks flustered, out of her
bearings. I think about my camouflage and my assault
weapon and try my best to appear nonthreatening. “Oh,
right.” She says. “You’re here to clean?”
“Yes ma’am.” I reply. “Just escorting Said.”
“Is that his name?” She says. Then, louder, “Is that
YOUR name?”
“I go. He says. “Clean sweep.” He presents the
broom to her triumphantly, waving it forward. Dust
particles rain down onto my shoulders, and I brush them
off. They curl in the air, bits of hair or feces or dirt or
nitroglycerin, and disappear into oblivion. Said makes a
sudden movement down the stairs, unsure of himself,
and then he makes a sudden movement toward the
door, trapped in a comical half loop. “Come on in.” The
fat lady finally says. Together we shuffle through the
door. She shuts it with a thud and a hiss.
On the other side of the door the second floor is
well kept, with many nice offices, furnished in a mixture
of opulence and federal government. We walk in and out
of offices, in one, a heavy oak desk, pictures of a fishing
trip somewhere down in south florida. Various memos
tacked up on the wall, conferences, safety, secure areas
in Kabul. One catches my eye, President Bush as Anakin
Skywalker, GULF WARS: EPISODE TWO. Next to it is a
picture of Obama in joker makeup, with the word
SOCIALISM written underneath. Everything else seems to
be indistinct and dull. Said works methodically. Sweeping
the floor, emptying the trash can. I watch him clean,
looking around as I do, until I see her. A hint of a black
head scarf.
I walk quietly behind her until she turns all at once
and those eyes flash on me, those brilliant brown pools
of luminous dark. She smiles, and I want to kiss her, right
there. “Hi.” I offer.
“What are you doing up here?”
“Working party. Escorting Said.” I point behind me.
“To clean up.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“I wanted to get out of the trailers. I haven’t seen
this part of the embassy yet.”
“Nothing much to see.” She gathers the papers in
her hand. “Just another government building.”
“Its different, though. I like it.”
“Oh? Why do you like it?”
“It reminds me of home. Civilization.”
“It does. Does it?” She cocks her head and
searches into me, with those eyes. “Have you ever really
seen Kabul?”
 “Ive driven through it. I went on a convoy, the
other day.”
“Where did you go?”
“The base in Bagram. Picked up supplies and
mail.”
“I feel sorry for you boys, sometimes. I really do.”
“Don’t. Its not bad here.”
“Its not that its bad. Its just that your trapped here,
behind these walls. You have no idea whats out in this
city. You cant really know where you are. Besides here.
Imprisoned.”
“When you put it that way.” We are leaning quite
close. I can smell the sweetness on her skin as she
brushes her fingertips against me. In this moment in
time. She breaks off, turning her head. “I have to work.”
She tells me.
“I’ll see you tonight.” I say, and she smiles. The
sound of her walking off haunts me, a gentle tap tap tap
on the hard floor. Beside me Said is urgently mopping,
slinging faintly soapy water across the white floor.
“You should ask her father.” He says. “You should
get married, and you should ask him for her.”
“I don’t know about that, Said.” I tell him. “Ive
done that before.”
“Done it before? Then she is no good.”
“No, I didn’t mean that. I mean, Ive been married
before.”
“You should have many wives. It is the best way.”
 “One wife was a lot. One wife was too much.”
“Send her away. You should have another.”
“You have a wife?”
“Yes. She is old. No good. You should have a young
wife.”
“We both should. We should get two of them.
“You want hashish?”
“What?”
“Hashish? You want.” Said pulls out a this woven
cloth bag, and hands it to me. Inside I can see crumbled
greenish tan, with a strong odor. I think about all the
things I have never done, running the list through me
head. I add a new one. I have never smoked hash.
Slowly, I find myself reaching out for the bag, and
depositing it in my cargo pocket. I follow Said from room
to room. A conference room with large leather chairs. A
smaller office, where a woman has framed pictures of
her Labrador. A radio, softly blaring a country song,
which is actually a CD. All of these things make up the
second floor of fake America.
Said stuffs each of the little plastic bags of garbage
into one large trash bag. I shove open the door. We walk
down the stairs, all the way to the front door of the
embassy, and he waves goodbye, and heads out to the
front gate.
Back at the trailers I open my blog, and type in my
first entry:
Some haaji just gave me a nickelbag of hash.
I go back to my facebook and look and various
rants from my ex wife and her friends. Finally, I hit upon
the most recent photos of my daughter. She is growing
taller. I wonder how many words she can say now. The
pain hits my heart like a dead weight. Several minutes
go by. When I check the blog again there are comments.
U shud smokes it @wilddog51
Afghan hash is the best @herbfeeder
Prolly no piss test in the desert@blankwitz77
Give me sum! @soonerlite
In the corner Cory is playing modern warfare 2 on
the playstation again. I finger the bag and deliberate
carefully. Finally I pull it out and toss it into his lap. It
bounces off the controller and lands at his crotch. His
eyes flick down, and lose the glazed reflection of the
flatscreen.
“Where’d you get the shit?” He asks.
“A haaji handed it to me today. While I was on that
working party.”
“Was it Tooth?”
“Yeah.”
Cory carefully palms the drugs and moves it up
into his breast pocket, over his heart. He takes the game
off pause and the sounds of the digital slaughter resume.
“You want to try it?” He asks.
“Don’t we need a thing? I mean, a pipe or
whatever.”
“Yeah. We can do that.”
“Okay.”
 “Chill out, though. For right now.”
“Fine.”
“I mean, I don’t think anyone in the trailers while,
you know, but fucking Schueher walks around all the
fucking time. And you know what that prick would think.”
“I guess. Can I play?”
“Not right now, dude. Im online.”
“What rank did you get up to?
“15. Senior Lance Corporal, or whatever.”
“Wish this game had been out when I enlisted.”
“Yeah. I know. I would have never fucking signed
up. With shit this real.”
“We could have just, like, played professionally.
Never had to come out here. Just sat at home and
played.”
“Well, fuck, dude. It could be worse.”
“Hows that?”
“You could not be getting that haaji pussy.” He
jabs me in the chest with a thick finger. “Way to not say
anything about that shit, Mikey.”
“I guess. Im trying to keep it low key.”
“When you don’t come back to the trailer at night,
people started to ask where the fuck you were. Then
someone said they saw you with Shazia. After that,
boom.”
“Do you think Schueher knows?”
“Maybe. Who cares? Cant fuck with you about
getting laid.”
“He might. He just might do that shit.”
“I want details, dude. Everything.”
“Let me take a turn. I’ll fill you in after.” He passes
the controller to me and I restart the game. As I play I
answer his questions, describing sight, feel, tits, ass,
passion, sound, and sweat. My mind is affixed in two
locations as I send another pixilated raghead to meet
allah. Love and death Sex and death, the metal chime of
a rifle chamber working, the spasms of a women in the
midst of an orgasm. Everything happens, and as I sit
there, nothing does.

An hour before post I am standing in a secluded

spot behind the trailers with Cory and Bill. It is very dark,
the light is very low. I focus on a dim front porch light on
a far off trailer, and the darkness spreads after that. Cory
and Bill are only two outlines, one tall and one short.
“You got the lighter?” Bill asks.
“We all have lighters, dude. We all fucking smoke
out here.”
“Well, shit. I don’t.”
“What happened to yours?”
“I threw it away. Im trying to quit.”
“This is hardly the time or the place.”
“I know. Im getting out soon. I don’t want to
smoke, after I get out.” Bill brings out a small wooden
object. “Whose got the stuff?” Cory jerks a thumb in my
direction. “No shit?” Bill says.
“Yeah. No shit. Tooth gave it to him. For, like, a
wedding present.”
“A wedding present. You getting married, Mikey?”
“I don’t think so. Not anytime soon.”
“I would go. I wonder what I raghead wedding is
like.”
“Probably like any other wedding. Food. Dancing.
Two people ready to make babies.”
“I went to a jewish wedding once. They stomped on
this glass, in like, a napkin. It was loud as hell.”
“I don’t know. Lets hurry up and smoke this shit,
before post.” Cory takes the pipe and holds the lighter
near his face. The sudden flame brings light, and I see all
the damage done by Scheuher earlier that day, all the
crags and deep lines that have writ themselves large on
his landscape. He blows out the smoke, and I taste the
same sickly sweet odor on the air that I did on the roof,
in the sniper hut. Cory takes two draws, then three, and
passes the pipe to me. The tip is rough in my mouth. On
my tongue I can feel the nicks made on it by a Ka-bar,
into this piece of afghan oak. I hold the lighter to the
bowl and flick it. When the flame touches the coil of hash
it briefly glows, then immediatedly goes out. I suck
quickly, but manage to get nothing.
“No, Mikey. Dude, you’ve got to hold the flame to
it.” Bill says. “Hash doesn’t stay lit by itself.”
I do as Bill says and finally I draw into it, the rich
smoke, deep and whole, into my lungs. My eyes blur. A
deep mellowness blooms up into me. I feel myself
getting stoned, sneaking up little by little, then
transforming the world, all at once. I pull and I smoke
and I smoke and I smoke until I finally hear “Jesus, dude,
don’t bogart the shit.” Bill gently pulls the pipe away
from me. The world under me spins a little and I have to
prop myself up on the side of the dirt boxes in order to
remain upright.
“Its good, isn’t it, Merrell?” Cory says. “This is the
best shit. This is the kind of shit that comes from the
source.”
“That’s what this fucking place is all about.” Bill
coughs. “Drugs. I got the fucking percs on post two
today.”
“What about the Vicoden?” Cory asks.
“Just the percs.” Bill says. “I forgot about the other
stuff.”
“I was looking for some HGH later, too. For the
gym.”
“I’ll talk to my guy. I can probably get it.”
“Ellman in second platoon got some D-bol. I know
you can get some HGH out here.”
“Probably, I guess. Why not.”
“How long have you guys been smoking out here?”
I ask.
“Ive been doing it since I got here with Kilo.” Cory
says.
I used to do it with Kirkland, then I found out Bill was
cool.”
 “Did you really just say that?”
“Say what?”
“ You found out I was ‘cool’.”
“Yeah.”
“Cool implicitly meaning, that I smoke hash.”
“Yes. I mean, that would be the general
implication.”
“Your such a fucking cliché.”
“How so?”
“Hey!” Bill squints and leans in close, extending a
wavy limp. “You cccoowehl, maaan?” He laughs and
takes another hit of the pipe. “Seriously, dude. You need
to find another expression.”
“Im using the fucking agreed upon terms, for the
procurement of illegal drugs.”
“Yeah. Well, your still a cliché. And, you need to
work on that. For, you know, the future.”
“Fuck you. Do you have the visine?”
“Right here.”
Cory takes the eyedrops and tilts his head back,
blinking rapidly after application. He passes the bottle to
me and I do the same, the wetness streaming down my
cheeks in false tears. “Gotta reset your pupils.” He
explains. Bill stubs out the pipe in the wire dirt box
behind him, then covers it over with more dirt.

THIRTEEN
 That night Cory and I head over to post two. We
pull chairs out next to the VIA and stare into the
construction area. “You feel good?” Cory asks. I nod.
“Feeling goods good enough.”
“That’s from Platoon.”
“Which one? First or Second?”
“No, Platoon. The Oliver Stone movie.”
“Yeah. That was a good flick.”
“Willem Defoe says that to Charlie Sheen. After he,
like, smokes weed through a rifle barrel.”
“That’s cool. I don’t think you can do that with
hash.”
“Yeah. Probably not.”
“I mean, we can get weed. But the hash out here is
so fucking good, why would we want to?”
I shift back in my flak jacket, trying to rearrange
the body Armor plates inside to a comfortable position.
Under my chin, the helmet strap dangles loosely. My rifle
sits crossways in my lap. Atop it I balance a Styrofoam
cup of coffee, brimming with milk and suger. I sip deeply
into its sweetness, and stare at the darkness.
“The weathers changing.” I say. “Its getting
warmer. Pretty much spring now.”
Cory nods. “It was cold as shit last year in
Kandahar. Worse in Mazir Al Sharif. I thought we were
going to freeze to fucking death on that mountain.
Looking through those shitty caves.”
 “Its different here.” I tell him. “You can drink coffee
and sleep in a bed at night. Don’t have to dig a hole in
the dirt.”
“Yeah. You want to know something?”
“What?”
“If you stare at razor wire long enough, you start to
see hearts.”
“Yeah?”
“Ive been looking at the fence right there past you
this whole time weve been talking, and all I see know is
loops of hearts. Repeating themselves over and over.”
I look behind me. The razor wire atop the fence is
dark and shadowed, and appears to me to be nothing but
what it is, coils of metal, claws extended. Dissappearing
into the night. Cory suddenly grabs my hand, and
squeezes.
“What the fuck is that shit?”
We are both standing now, facing the construction
area. Cory has his weapon at the ready I am looking
around beside him, scanning back and forth. Everywhere
I look there are deep shadows, valleys and crags torn up
by bulldozers. Cory takes a step, and then another
towards it.
“What did you see?” I whisper. “Where is it?”
Cory takes his left hand off his rifle and points out
there, in front of him. “By the red conex box.” He says.
“The big one, in the middle.”
I sight in with my rifle scope and stare at it. I see
nothing. There is only dirt, and rebar. But then
something flickers. I blink my eyes.
“Yeah.” Cory Whispers. “Its coming back.”
Before my eyes, through the scope, the ghost
appears.
There is no other word for what I am seeing.
The figure is dressed in a blue burqa, but seems
more to be a blue burqa, and, the longer I stare at it, the
more it appears to be nothing. It walks, but it doesn’t
really walk, back and forth, between the red conex and a
pit full of rebar. As I stare at it, I unavoidably see it begin
to wink into nothing with every third or forth step. To
blink into non existence. When it comes back, for a half
second, I see it as something else, other than a burqa.
Something thin. Something skeletal. Cory keys the
receiver on his Motorola radio. “Post Five to Watch
Commander.”
“Go.”
“Staff Sargeant, theres someone in the
construction area.”
“Post Seven. You copy?”
“Solid Copy.” The snipers say. “It’s a figure in a
burqa.”
We hold position at the entrance to the
construction zone. Scheuher shows up, double timing to
our position. His face is a mixture of intensity and
concentration. “Where is it?” He says. I point out in front
of me. He begins to repeat himself “Where”- then he is
cut off. We all stand between the parked cars and
witness it, moving back and forth, slowly. Flickering in
and out of reality. Being here, then gone, then something
else.
“How long has that been there?” He asks.
“About five minutes.” Cory says.
“Who saw it first?”
“I did.” Cory answers.
We wait and watch it for a minute. A long minute
passes. Finally, Scheuher calls out on the radio “Watch
Commander to Watch Actual and Post Seven. Three
entering the construction zone. Post Seven, keep eyes on
the bogie.”
Scheuher opens the gate and steps through. We
follow behind him. Slowly. Rifles pointed out, into the
dark. My heart is racing in my chest. A cold sweat is
beading its way down the back of my neck. The crunch of
the dirt underneath my boots is incredibly loud in my
ears. The air is clear and cold and harsh. If there were a
wind it would stink, bite the ears and nose and lips,
leaving fingers frozen. But it remains still and
threatening. And the thing in front of us holds its shape.
As we get closer, it gets clearer in detail. I can see it
moving between now. I can see it becoming something
fluid and terrible in the moments when it is not quite
visible, like a light blue sack of guts. My hands are
trembling on the rifle. I look through the scope and its
shaking. I wonder for a horrible minute if it is the hash
doing this. Then I wonder what Schueher is seeing. If he
is processing the same. Closer we get. One step, two
steps, then stop. I wonder: Should we be telling it to
stop? To get on the ground? Should we fire? Can a ghost
be a suicide bomber? Is Al-Queada now working hand in
hand with hell?
Something grabs the back of my flak jacket, by the
handle. The pull knocks me down, clear off my feet. For a
minute in time, I am suspended in air. I see details very
clearly. A stack of metal pipe by the red conex. The blue
mesh on the burqa’s face. The face of the moon, large
and pale yellow, suspended high, high, over the
mountains.
When I fall, I fall into a puddle of water. The splash
is loud. I sink to my knees.
I am between
Fields of red flowers
Poppies.

The water is cool to my skin and pleasant. I am

sitting in it up to my chest. It soaks through under my
body armor into my skin and the feeling is wonderful. I
forget myself and let my urine go. I feel the piss soaking
through my pants, into the clear water. At eye level, I
can see the details in the poppies. They are small and
beautiful. White stems in the center. Long green stalks
emerging from the pond. The wind blows, a sweet scent
on the air, a smell of spring. As if everything young and
emerging and new could be captured, and stored, and
then released, all at once, and spread everywhere. I look
around. Across me are gently rolling hills, covered in the
red flowers. The feeling is good to me. There is a knot in
my chest slowly releasing. Something cold and hard
brushes against my hand and then I think: My rifle. I get
up quickly, raising the M16 out of the shallow pond. The
clear liquid drips out of every part of the weapon. I
imagine the barrel as a faucet, the pond as a sink.
Thunder strikes from far away. I can see the
mountains now. Beyond the hills the flowers end, and the
mountains rise, tall and white capped. Strands of lighting
flash, to strike the tip. But the mountains stand the
same. I look at the sky. It is neither day nor night. The
light over head is a mix of dusk and dawn, with blue that
darkens in some areas to black. Stars are dimly visible. I
look for the moon, but cannot find it. A wind blows off the
mountains. It carries a deep chill with it, in the air. My
feet suddenly are freezing, but my feet are dry.
Underneath them I can feel hard packed dirt. The dirt of
Khandahar. The dirt of the mountains. I feel the dust
against my face. Something clatters on the ground. The
wind blows something over my foot. Something hollow
and white. Something very much like bone. In front of
me is the ghost, horrible and white, pale blue. The burqa
flaps over her remains. She leans in close and I feel her
breath, and hear her begin to speak. I close my eyes, so I
wont see it, so I wont hear the terrible things she will
have to say.
“Mikey?”
Something hard and flat slaps my cheek, leaving a
harsh sting. I open my eyes. Scheuher is standing in
front of me, Cory is shaking my shoulder. I am back in
the construction area, leaning on a red conex.
“Mikey what the fuck happened to you?”
“He hit his head.” Scheuher says. “ I knew he hit
his head.”
 “I don’t think so, Staff Sargeant.” Says Cory. “I
mean, I saw him catch himself. He landed on his butt.
“Post Seven.” Schueher calls on the Motorola. “Any
sign of the bogie.”
“Negative. Its gone.”
“It cant be gone.” He snarls. “Check again.”
“Solid copy.”
“Use the Thermal site from post eight. Im going to
check the corners.” Scheuher marches off, leaving us
sitting by the conex.
“Does your head hurt?” Cory asks me.
“No, dude. I feel fine.”
“I knew you didn’t hit your head. That guys a
fucking idiot.”
“It is what it is. What happened to the”- I pause,
and search my mind for the right word. –“the burqa.”
“You tripped and fell down, dude. We both turned,
to help you up. When we looked back, it was gone.”
“No fucking way.”
Cory nods. “This is some bad shit, right here.”
“Yeah.”
“What did you trip on.”
“I don’t know. Should we look for it?”
“Why not? Idiot left us here. Might as well do
something.”
We bring out our surefire flashlights and search
across the dirt. Cory point to a small crater. “This is
where you fell. I don’t see any rocks or anything.”
“It didn’t feel like I tripped, dude. It felt like
something grabbed me.”
“Well, Jesus, dude.”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for sharing. I mean, that’s fucking
creepy.”
“Yeah. Why is the ground cracked?”
“What?”
“Right here. The ground is cracked, like split. In the
middle.” The cracks stretches across the crater, a small
geological fault. A grand canyon for ants.
“Your fat ass must have broke it when you fell.”
I take out my Ka-bar and start to scrape. “The dirts
loose here.” I tell him.
“So?”
“So, usually the dirt in this goddamn country is
packed hard. Remember how it was digging those
holes?”
“Yeah. So you tripped on the dirt?”
“C’mon, dude. Get your knife, help me dig.”
We scrape out loose soil in the hole. The knoves
break it easy, and then we scoop the dirt away with our
hands. I start to dig like a dog, pawing the dirt back away
from the center. Scheuher strides back, breathing hard.
Eyes wide in disbelief.
“What the fuck is this?”
 “Mikey’s digging, Staff Sargeant.”
“I can see that. Why the fuck is Mikey digging?”
“He wants to find whatever tripped him.”
Scheuher opens his mouth to add something, then
stops. We all see the same thing. The hollow eyesocket
stares out at us. The white of bone. Schueher pushes me
to the side, and digs around with the Ka-bar. When he
pulls it out I can see it has no lower jaw, and no teeth.
“Alas poor Haaji.” He says. “I knew him well. A
raghead of Infinite Jest.”
“That’s a good book.” I add.
“I know it is, Mikey. Im quoting fucking
Shakespeare here. Jesus Christ, must you ruin
everything?”
“I meant, Infinite Jest. A good book.”
“I don’t give a shit, you fucked up my moment. I
don’t care about whatever ignorant backwoods West
Virginia book you read while fucking your sister.”
“Yes, Staff Sargeant.”
“When you write this all down.” Scheuher makes a
scribbling motion over the skull. “In your gay little
notebook, make sure you include my speech, and get rid
of the dumb shit you said after.”
“Roger that.”
“Theres some more.” Cory is wiping dirt away from
what looks like a hand. The bones of a hand. The
metacarpals. Finger bones. Frail things.
“Leave it alone.” Scheuher says. Let the haaji’s
clean it up tomorrow, They have to dig it up anyway.”
“Who was it, Staff Sargeant?” I ask.
“Who the fuck knows?” Scheuher answers. He
tosses the skull in the air like a baseball, then catches it
and cradles it underneath his arm. Second Platoon
arrives, to relieve us from our post. When I get back to
the trailers I suddenly remember that I was supposed to
see Shazia. I hop in the shower and change into a clean
uniform. As I dry myself off I look into the mirror. My
pupils are back to their right size. Whatever happened to
me, was a cure for getting stoned.
I knock on Shazia’s trailer door, and scrape my feet
gently on the doormat out front. She answers it
“Coming.” And opens with a smile. My heart flutters
when I see her. She is wearing a purple nightgown, made
of silk lace and nearly sheer. In my pants, I can feel my
dick flutter in response.
“Your missing the movie.”
“What movie?”
“Juno.”
“That’s pretty good. How far along is it.”
“Shes just about to meet the adoptive parent.
Bennifer Garner and whats his face from that fox show.”
“Arrested development?”
“Yeah, that one.” She waves a hand inward. “Come
in.” She says, shyly.
I place my rifle barrel up next to the door, as if it
were simply a cane or an umbrella. When I lean into the
couch to watch the movie, she curls up next to me, on
my shoulder. Her cheek and hair pressed into my
camies. I alternate watching the movie and watching her,
and notice that she rubs her feet together an equal
amount of times on occasion. Three rubs each, left over
right, then right over left.
“I want to do something special for you.” Shazia
says. “Get bare naked, and get under the covers in the
bedroom.”
I do as she says. The light is off. There is a full
length mirror at the edge of her bed. Watching us. She
steps in in a sheer nightgown. As she slips it off I drink in
her rich pink tits. Her wide hips. The visible gap in
between her legs, that leads up to her pussy. I feel like a
man now. I feel whole now. Between her legs, thrusting
my penis into the wet and warm. Finally cumming, the
surge beginning in my toes, tingling there, and erupting
wild up my chest and my head and heart, spasming
through this link between us.

Days pass by. They turn to weeks, than a month is

gone. I spend most of the day on post. After that,
Scheuehers fight club. Nights spent with Shazia, when
both of us can manage it. There is a rhythm to things
developing. I go on a few more convoys. No one pulls out
in front of us. The convoys are the only time I leave the
Embassy grounds. My home. My cage.
Scheueher is growing more intense. The boots are
growing more nervous. Cory is pushing away from it all.
All of us, all of us are waiting for something to happen.
And of Course, something does.
 I am standing on Post Two, watching outside the
front gate. The Afghan Soldiers are laughing and smiling,
tossing something to one another. Bill is spitting dip off
the post, watching it land in the barb wire.
“What are they doing?” I ask Bill.
“Playing Ball, I guess.” He tells me. “Havent you
ever played ball?”
“No.” I tell him, without thinking.
“Shazia plays with your balls.” He says.
The haajis walk across the street, smiling and
waving. Their faces are gaunt and dark. Dirty tan, mixed
in with the dirt. The younger one comes very close to the
fence. He pitches the object over hand.
I do not see it sail over the razor wire. I do not even
see it leave his hand. All I see is that it is there and then
it is here, rolling clunk a lunk lunk across the floor of the
hut overlooking the front gate. It spins around. I do not
know when I recognize it as a grenade. I believe Bill does
first, because he is talking on the radio. I am not sure of
what he is saying. I am very sure that he is calm. The
grenade is grey and round. When it stops spinning it
comes to a rest next to my foot.
“Fuck.” Bill moans. “Oh fuck.”
The lieutenant is there, almost instantly. “What do
you mean a grenade?” He says. I point down to my foot.
He reaches down slowly, and picks it up. I wonder how
much time has passed. The lieutenant looks left and
right. I remember Mieir. How the dirt flew in the air. The
way his leg looked. He takes the grenade and walks
away. My heart is beating very rapidly in my chest. There
is a sweat on the back of my neck that is running cold.
“Is this how things are supposed to be?” Bill asks.
I do not answer him. I look across the street.
“Where did they go?” I ask. There is nothing there. Not
cars, or anything else.
“I don’t see them.” Bill says. There air is suddenly
blowing in cold underneath my helmet. “What should we
do?”
“I don’t know.” I say. “I don’t fucking know.” I add.
“Nothing, I guess.”
Bill takes out a smoke from a pouch on his body
armor, and offers me the pack. I accept it. With an index
finger he digs out the dip and lets it fall on the floor
where the grenade had just been.
“Why did you start smoking,” I ask “If you had a
dip in.”
“I had to prove it.” He says “That I’m not dead.”
“What if your ghost smoking?”
“There is no kind of fucking afterlife out there that
lets you smoke Camel lights. Not heaven or hell. This
proves it. We lived.”

AT THE LAST

I am the bastard son of three fathers, Nothing,

Hate, and Anger.
Its raining today in Houston. Outside the window
the rain falls in a fast drizzle. The Vietnam guys hate the
rain, they say it reminds them of the war. I hate the
Vietnam guys and love the rain, it reminds me of home.
Home? Home/here. I am American. I have earned it, I am
home.
On floor 6A Of the Michael E. Debakey Veterans
Hospital my bed is nearly empty. The meds make me
sleep, like they always do, but sometimes I wake
anyway. Sometimes the dreams are too real.
The dreams are not what you think they would be.
I always dream about the Marines. I always dream
about the war. Sometimes I start out fucking my ex-wife,
and then, poof, Im late for formation. Sometimes Im back
at home, in New York or Virginia, but then Im over there.
Too often Im back on Post Two Alpha, my ears ringing,
the grenade on the ground, wondering where is it?
Where did my leg go?
My fathers know where it went. They tell me: It was
taken from you.
I sit upright on my bed in the hospital, trying to
connect all the dots. In the rain, I can do this. I can sit
here, and I can think. I need the white noise of the heavy
droplets. I need the calm of the room. More Importantly, I
need the calm of the meds. Risperidol, Percocet,
Citalopram, Prazosin. I say the chant. The meds have
made me put on weight. The meds have made me too
sluggish to work. Too impotent too fuck. But the meds
have made me calm. The meds have made me able to
think. Sometimes, even, the meds make me able to talk.
Or read.
Father hate has tried to snatch away my reading. I
pick up a book, or magazine, and read of people with two
legs, with good jobs, without medication induced
diabetes. Without war in their hearts. I throw the books
away. I read a people magazine in here once. Afterwards,
I had to be sedated, and put into isolation. The only
people I can stand are absent. All my Marine friends on
facebook. They the living. I see none of them They all
live lives, scattered across the country. Scheuher is a cop
in DC. Cory is a security guard in Oklahoma. Bill is a
financial advisor in Tennessee. Rielly is dead. Almodovar
is dead. Shazia is dead. They the living.
Father Anger is the foe Doctor Robinson tries to
face. He is a fat man with a white ponytail. His office is
full of stuffed bears. When I told him about the gun he
checked me in here. When I told him that my anger was
not from any one thing, it was from itself, from a swirling,
looped vortex, he raised my meds. He has seen this
before. He will see it again. He called it Psychotic
episodes. I call it arguments with absent friends, friends I
sit here with now, and debate, and talk with, and call out
of time. Friend of father nothing.
Father nothing is behind the other two. Out of all of
it now, I summon Scheueher. I summon him for
everything left unsaid. I summon him as he was, to
stand, invisible, by the foot of my bed.
Yeah, Mikey?
“You always were a dickhead.”
Someone had to be.
“Bullshit?”
You know its true.
 “What was your problem?”
What was yours? You were a little fat kid, wanted
to be a Marine. You were made a Marine, found out it
was all about killing people. Found out that killing people
is hard. Whats your problem? Accept what you are.
“What am I?
The dark heart of man. The ancient thing
responding to the old rules. The wolf, the dog, the great
beast slouching to Bethlehem.
“I don’t feel like that.”
You are the failure of that.
You remember that day? On post two?
You killed all those people. I told you to do it and
you killed them.
The protest happened, the next day. You killed
more then.
I asked you if Cory was smoking hash, you said yes
and turned him in. He got court-martialed.
You are loyal to nothing, not even the angry dog.
When do you feel alive? When are you calm? When the
police arrive after you beat Turqiose, with your daughter
watching you? When the ragheads fire bullets at you, for
your murders? When you beat them with boots and rifle
barrel, when you stab the boy with your knife? When you
see the man jumping from the burning tower. When you
see the darkness closing on you, and you don’t feel the
fear, but joy. When you embrace it as yourself. All of this
is a gift for you. The bomb that took your whore at the
embassy, the bomb that took your leg. Do you
remember how you felt? When you took you hand, and
reached out, and touched the end and felt the tan meat
with red, felt the warmth of the blood, and brushed the
broken bone, and felt the vibrations running up to you
knee? You were calm. You knew the truth. It was the gift,
the finest gift anyone could give you. Your failure was to
live.
The nurse arrives, and straps a blood pressure cuff
to my arm. She places a thermometer under my tongue.
I run in between my teeth, and, looking at her, bite
down, as hard as I can. The crunch is very loud. Her eyes
are wide open. Outside the window, the drops are falling
hard, beating their rhythm, expending their ammunition.

He was earth, and we were the fruit of that earth.

Though he had eaten us, he would never, ever, digest
us.
-Harlan Ellison
September 2006-May 2010
Fin