After that, the men have to wear their DCU tops.
And then pretty soon no one does, because command realizes rather quickly how cumbersome it is to strap on a long-sleeved blouse in the desert heat just to use the bathroom.
Not that any of this is unexpected. We are the same but separate, we females in our government-issued uniforms. Narrowing the gap of separation is our ultimate goal. If to be soldier is to be male, and to be male is to objectify, then I started to learn the rules of this game long before I ever ended up on a sandy strip in Kuwait.
* * *
Some weeks into my time at Fort Polk and shortly before the rape, a few of us from the company pay another visit to the Pegasus Lounge, the finest strip club Leesville has to offer. The long room is shrouded in a haze of cigarette smoke. The purple and blue lights cut through the dense cloud, the stuffy air visible in swirling circles. I lean back in my chair, manspreading my legs and tapping the empty plastic cup against my knee. The Jack Daniel’s makes me light; a warmth is spreading across my stomach and cheeks. I signal for another shot, because I don’t like the taste of alcohol, and I prefer to shove it quickly down my throat rather than savor its bitter taste.
“Yeah, I’d fuck that,” one of the Supply guys murmurs, and I glance up at the stripper on the stage.
The stripper is a small woman, but perhaps the word woman is being used a little too liberally. She is almost childlike in appearance: tiny waist, petite bare shoulders, her thong barely visible around her narrow hips. She twists artfully around a gleaming pole, eyes half closed against the harsh spotlight, as if she is dancing alone in her room to Chevelle’s “The Red,” oblivious to the leering crowd as she flips upside down on the pole, clasping it with her taut thighs. She crucifies herself, inverted, arms stretched wide as pale hair hangs down and brushes the stage, all in time to the screaming, raging swell of the music. Her breasts are small but tight with rose-pink nipples.
“She has great tits,” I say. The words are clunky in my mouth, as if they don’t exactly fit, but the men around me grunt in agreement, some tapping their hands to the beat on the plywood table.
Leesville, Louisiana, the small city that grows on the corners of Fort Polk, isn’t exactly known for its class, and the fact that the Pegasus Lounge can’t even be bothered to cover all its rickety tables with thin, plastic tablecloths says a lot about the surrounding clubs. Route 171 is littered with neon lights of triple X’s, tattoo parlors, strip clubs, drive-in liquor stores, more strip clubs.
Court wrinkles her small nose at the stage. “I can do that.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say over the glare of the music, because no way can I hang upside down simply by the power of my own thighs. That takes a certain kind of cultivated talent.
She jerks her head in my direction, her hazel eyes appearing black in the shifting light. “You don’t think I can?” And she is off her chair, sauntering around the table in my direction.
“Are you going on stage?” Avery Langley says a little too hopefully. Court is still hanging on to her femininity, inside her uniform and out, brushing golden hair off her shoulder, her tight V-neck T-shirt sculpted perfectly around the heavy weight of full breasts. Suddenly she is straddled over my lap, gyrating her hips against my chest, tossing hair across her flushed face, holding her cup of water and lime slice out to one side (because Christians don’t drink alcohol).
“What is happening right now?” I glance around the table and sit back, arms spread in a gesture of surrender. She dances with a sensuality accomplished through youth and inexperience, the edge of her shirt occasionally rising, exposing the soft, vulnerable slope of her navel. The men turn, they watch, because Court has that kind of unabashed femaleness that will eventually, in the streets of Baghdad, through no fault of her own, make men ask me to pull convoy guard instead of her, because that kind of feminine fragility needs to be protected.
A soldier from another unit turns his chair toward us, smirking. “I knew you MI girls were all freaks,” he says. I ignore him, because I’ll never see him again and I don’t have to prove anything to him.
Farsi linguist Jackal slaps my shoulder as he cheers me with his beer bottle. “I’ll trade places with you.”
I smirk back. “I get all the bitches.”
Court snarls slightly at the title and I tilt my head up, ignoring the sudden stab of discomfort, and grab her ass, yanking her closer to me because it’s what they would do if they could, but they can’t, and I can. “Bring it on,” I jeer to a crowd of laughter. Court and I are both playing parts. But I don’t understand hers and I don’t think she understands mine, either.
* * *
The late-afternoon Baghdad sun beats against the back of my neck as I walk across the flat rooftop of our six-story work building. Waist-high clay-brick walls surround the roof, which provides a sense of privacy and security. I flip open my Gerber and slice the serrated blade through the empty plastic water bottle I had been carrying. I cut off the top and toss the upper half. With no working plumbing or electricity in the building, we all find it’s too much of an effort to walk down six flights of stairs to a latrine when a bottle can easily answer the call of nature. I drop my bottoms and squat over the bottle, yawning as I gaze at the smoky skyline. Finished, I pull up my DCU bottoms and toss the urine over the wall, pausing briefly to hear if anyone unfortunate has been walking below. Silence. I happily hum and stash the bottle behind a broken piece of concrete for later use.
As I reach the door leading back downstairs, low laughter catches my attention. Only our platoon has access here so I move toward the voices, stepping over downed columns of concrete and mangled rods of metal.
“Dostie!” Brooks’s petite face lights up when she sees me, and she waves me over. “Come here for a sec.” She’s sitting on the edge of the wall, Lovett leaning against the brick beside her.
“What’s going on?” I hike my M16 higher on my shoulder and lean on the other side of Brooks. I don’t have the balls to sit on the wall. One tough gust of wind and there you go, the quick way down six flights of stairs.
Lovett shrugs, rolling her eyes behind her black-framed combat glasses. “She won’t tell me.” She gestures to Brooks.
Brooks’s grin deepens, her young face marked by lines of dark sand mixed with sweat. “It’ll be worth it—ah, and here we go.” She points to the building standing parallel with ours. One floor below us, through the glassless windows framed by jagged metal, two male soldiers drop their hygiene bags onto the floor. They don’t think to look up and across the way so we’re invisible to them as they toss their dusty DCU tops to the side.
“Ooh, shower time?” Lovett murmurs appreciatively as one of the males strips off his dank brown T-shirt, revealing a sleek, toned torso underneath.
“Shower time,” Brooks says.
One of the males leans forward, pouring his canteen over his newly shorn head, the water splashing across his shoulders and trickling down his spine. They are oblivious. The other starts to undress himself, working off the uniform trousers that hang low on his hips.
We’re enjoying the show, but this isn’t about voyeurism. Revenge doesn’t work if they don’t know we’re here. “That’s right, baby!” Lovett cups her hands around her mouth to project her voice. “Take it off!”
Both of them start, heads jerking up in surprise, one turning around to see if the voice is coming from behind him.
“Come on, we don’t have all day! Take it off!” Brooks calls and follows with a sharp whistle.
The male to the left finally looks up, seeing three females waving from our post. He immediately ducks backward, jumping out of the line of sight.
“Aw, don’t run away,” I call after him.
“Pussy!” Brooks yells loudly, so that the insult bounces back and forth between the stone walls of the buildings.
It’s the second male who catches my attention. He stares up at us, mouth slightly agape, and he’s rooted in place, caught on display, unexpecte
dly exposed.
“That’s right, bitch,” I mutter, very low, just under my breath. He can’t hear me but I can.
He slowly lifts his brown shirt to cover his chest, the limp material barely blocking anything. There is something terribly vulnerable in that tiny gesture. I realize he’s very young. He suddenly snaps awake and jumps backward, out of sight.
“No, come back!” one of the girls yells.
I turn around, my back to the now-empty windows. My heart is pounding. I press a fist against my stomach.
“Boo, that was too fast,” Brooks pouts.
Lovett is leaning against the wall, trying to still see them. “They have to come back for their bags eventually.”
My mouth is dry. “They can’t take a fucking joke,” I try, but the words don’t fit right.
Brooks hops off the wall with a heavy sigh. “Back to work, I guess.”
I wonder if anyone else finds it so stifling in here, or if it’s just me who can’t play the male right.
Uninspired
I catch a glimpse of Avery Langley out of the corner of my eye. He strides out of the command operations center with that bowlegged swagger of his. He doesn’t see me; he glides down the dark hall, his back to me. At the last moment, just as I’m about to call out, he playfully leaps into the air, stretching one large, sun-bronzed hand for the low-hanging ceiling, his fingers slapping the already crumbling plaster. He slips around the corner and I smile to myself. At least someone is happy.
In my room, I drop my M16 by the base of my cot and peel off my uniform, which drops to the dusty floor with a wet plop. I choke on the air, slathering on military-grade DEET. My skin tingles. I spread out on the green cot, pools of sweat already forming around my body.
The recent arrival of electricity has allowed us the luxury of a fan, and the plastic ticks loudly as its head swivels. I roll my eyes back, exhaustion heavy on my shoulders and the arches of my feet. I ignore the periodic AK-47.
I’m woken by a curt yell. It’s the middle of the night. Sergeant Daniels stands at the mouth of our room, seeming vaguely red in the dim light. “Put on your gear.” Then he is gone into the blackened hall.
I fling my feet over the edge of the cot, tugging on my DCU bottoms, fingertips brushing the muzzle of my M16 for reassurance. I heave on my flak vest as I strain to hear the sound of M16 gunfire. There is unusual movement outside our room, heavy fall of boots on warworn carpets, but otherwise the night is distinctly quiet—no customary splatter of gunshots or the familiar boom and rumble of mortars.
Through the dim light I see Brooks shuffle into her gear, her slight body disappearing beneath the bulk. “What do you think’s going on?” I ask, but she simply glances back with a stark, wide-eyed stare. King is missing; her cot is empty and I quickly rack my brain to place her—guard duty or night shift, I can’t remember, but the importance lies in the distinction.
I stumble out of the room, shifting my vest into place. One of the engineers stands in the wavering electric light, jerking at our approach with a disjointed stare. “You’re supposed to go to Sergeant Daniels’s room,” he mumbles, and there is something in the way he shifts his bulk and averts his eyes that ignites my dread.
“Where’s King?” I ask Brooks but she simply shrugs in response, her Kevlar falling forward on her forehead and consuming her.
Sergeant Daniels’s room is shared by what is left of the other men in our platoon; it’s ablaze with lights despite the late hour. I’m immediately assaulted by cold air as I step through the door. A coughing, sputtering AC unit sits at the far end of the long room, and for a moment I’m distracted by the relief.
The guys are placed around the room in senseless order, flak vests and M16s laid at their feet. Male Sergeant Brennan’s towering height is broken in half, his elbows on his knees, face lost in the cusp of his hands. They are still; the silence is physical.
I quickly scan the room of green cots and metal-framed bunk beds pushed up against the cracked walls. King perches on the edge of a wooden fold-up chair that has seen better days.
I let go of the breath I didn’t know I was holding. She looks up at us and her face is white.
“You guys can sit down,” Sergeant Brennan says, composing himself, straightening up and running a hand over his shorn blond hair.
I pull up a piece of floor, stripping off my flak vest and glancing around. “What happened?”
Eyes dart across the room, waiting for someone else to speak. It’s Sergeant Lee who finally says, his voice heavy and grating against the bright lights, “Langley’s been shot.” No preamble. No warning.
I simply blink. “Is he okay?”
“He was shot in the head.”
“He was shot in the head,” I dumbly repeat. I find myself looking around the room again, waiting for someone to tell me it’s a joke. “But didn’t he have his Kevlar on?” If you have your Kevlar on, you can’t be shot in the head. That’s the delusional belief that keeps me going. “Why didn’t he have his Kevlar on?”
But my questions are drowned out by a crescendo, a thin, wavering wail. Brooks still stands by the entrance, face crumbling under the weight of her cry. Her grief is instantaneous and her tiny hands clamp over her mouth.
The room is too bright, the sound of fabric brushing against fabric deafening. I blink again. “Are you sure?” I ask, and no one answers because it wasn’t a real question.
Instinctively I reach out for Brooks, pulling her into a loose embrace, and she leans her thin body against mine; I never noticed how breakable her frame is.
Sergeant Daniels materializes out of the hall and grabs a chair, his exterior slightly cracked along one edge. He looks older. The rank on his lapels is dragging down the skin at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth. He rubs his face with one hand, then the other. I watch him faithfully, breath bated. But instead he says something terrible, something impossible, something uninspired, about the stupidest way a soldier can die, about “self-inflicted,” and Brooks freezes, her breath stuck in her throat as she processes the sentence. Then the wild sobs take over once again. She is rocking back and forth in the circle of my arms.
“Dostie, bring her to the aid station,” Sergeant Daniels orders.
I’m still trying to figure out why everything is so bright. I tell my legs to move and they do. I tell my arms to carry Brooks and they do. Dully, I lead her out of the room; I don’t glance back. King comes with us, leading or following, I’m not sure.
The aid station is similarly bright and I blink several times, staring back at the faces of the medics. They’ve been warned or perhaps they are always this grim, perpetually laden with visions of legless torsos or bloodied trunks.
“I don’t understand how this can happen.” Brooks is sobbing, her arms around my neck. I’m grateful to have a task. I pat her back.
I should be crying. Everyone else is crying. I probe my inner emotions, trying to stir something up, but there’s nothing there to grasp. The harder I try, the more it slips between my fingers. I stare. At the thin curtain that is supposed to be a wall, through the threads that make up the curtain, through the stone walls behind, now cracked from US air strikes and periodic mortars.
“How could he do this…” Her sentences have no ends; she trails from one thought to the next, then glances at me for affirmation. “Dostie?” she asks, though I can’t figure out why. I’m right here. “Dostie!” She strings out my name, the inflection rising in alarm at the end. I move my head so that her face fills my vision and I can see through her skull, past the mushy material of her brain and the fibers of her wheat-colored hair. “There’s something wrong with her,” she cries to the medics, and I could’ve told her that a long time ago.
There is a doctor there, a woman; she grips my arm with an iron squeeze. I can’t see her features but I know that beneath her eyelids are white, spherical orbs attached to wiggling vines of red. “Can you hear me?” she asks.
I can hear you but I have no mouth. I sho
uld nod but I can’t find the energy. I could motion to her but my arms are too heavy. So I stand. I stare. More hands. More medics. I hear a string of familiar terms—blood pressure, skin texture, respiration. I’m on a table, seeing through the ceiling, hearing Brooks’s probing questions begging for reassurance.
I hear the term catatonic and it strikes me as an odd word. Cat, cat, it should be a good word—anything with a cat in it is good. I hear the doctor’s voice at my ear, whispering threats of needles. Am I supposed to care about needles? “We’ll do this if you don’t…and that if you don’t, we will, we will.” I hear the drone and I can feel the weight of my body all the way down to my fingertips. My nails are concrete slabs.
I’ve been here before, in my world of white, and I wiggle down, comforted by the vast nothingness. I’ll peek out in a few minutes but right now I take solace in the blankness.
I can hear the panic now, catatonic—catatonic—not responding—and I probably should respond, just a little.
I turn my head and say, “I’m fine.”
Except I don’t. My lips are sealed; my neck is iron. Through the haze I feel a dull prick of surprise. I fall back on old tricks, little ways to get out of this white place. Yet when I tell my hand to move, to twitch, I’m met with nothing. I envision the member, slender with blunt nails and mud packed beneath the bed. Move your finger. Move. Your fucking. Finger.
It remains dead against the paper bedding. Panic roars through my skull, screaming that I’m trapped within a prison of bones and flesh and I snatch on to the emotion, wrapping myself around it. I ride its waves back to existence. I move my finger.
My finger, my hand; I sit up. The doctor jumps back, startled, and I swivel my head to finally see her. She has blue eyes—that kind of vivid blue you don’t really expect to see looking back at you. She’s older, with lines around her mouth and thin, white lips pressed firmly together.
Brooks is near the bed, white with shock. “Oh thank God,” she breathes, but she doesn’t rush me, she doesn’t hug me. I think maybe I scare her.
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