Fives and Twenty-Fives

by Michael Pitre

  Franco held up his hand. “Fareeq Hewrami!” he called out to the man. “Marhaba!”

  The Iraqi officer waved with the two fingers hugging his cigarette, but kept the phone to his ear and walked in small circles while we waited.

  Franco turned to Dodge. “When he’s off the phone, could you tell him I’d like to have some tea and talk about what happened out in town today?”

  Dodge didn’t reply. It was impossible to know, with the sunglasses and Nomex hood still hiding his eyes and face, but I felt certain he hadn’t taken his eyes off me since I’d pulled him away from that thirsty prisoner.

  Finally, Colonel Hewrami finished his call and dropped the cell phone down to his hip.

  Dodge addressed the Iraqi colonel, speaking quickly while gesturing to Franco and me. Dodge finished and offered his hand for Hewrami to shake, an American habit he’d picked up from us.

  Ignoring Dodge’s hand, Hewrami pointed to Franco. He said a few words, waved the cigarette at his phone, then put a hand over his heart and walked away.

  Dodge spoke softly behind his hood, almost to himself. “He says that he’s sorry. He has to keep talking to his commander in Baghdad, and that we should kindly go to his office and watch television. Someone will bring us tea while we wait.”

  “All right, let’s go have a seat,” Franco said. “You like tea, Pete? They have great chai.”

  As we crossed the asphalt, I scanned the field again in a final effort to isolate the alfalfa man in the crowd. Only I couldn’t. There were too many trucks now, and too many men on their knees.

  Franco, Dodge, and I went into the barracks building and walked down a short hallway to Hewrami’s office, guarded by a stern-looking Iraqi soldier. Franco led us through without acknowledging the man. A small television was mounted high on the wall, playing an American movie from the eighties that I’d never seen. The characters spoke in dubbed French, with Arabic subtitles running across the bottom of the screen. Major Franco flopped down in an overstuffed, leather armchair with a familiarity that made me think the seat was more or less reserved for him.

  Hewrami had a window-mounted air conditioner with motorized vents drifting between the floor and the ceiling. The room must have been below seventy degrees. Dodge and I, installing ourselves on the couch, began to shiver in our damp flight suits. A framed tourist map hung behind Hewrami’s desk with the word Kurdistan splashed across it in festive letters. The room smelled like soap. The walls were bright white. Recently scrubbed.

  A small, shirtless Iraqi soldier in tight-fitting shorts emerged from a side room with tea to warm us while we waited. Franco took a sip and gestured at the framed map. “Colonel Hewrami is Kurdish, you know. Years of experience with the Peshmerga. Fought against Saddam.”

  “Oh.”

  “In fact,” Franco said, chuckling, “he still gets two paychecks. One from the Kurdish government, and one from the Ministry of Defense in Baghdad. Pretty sweet gig.”

  I raised my eyebrows and nodded, pretending to enjoy my tea, though in truth I had trouble pushing the hot liquid over my swollen tongue.

  Just then, Colonel Hewrami entered the room, a young Iraqi man in jeans and a soccer jersey following him. Neither acknowledged the three of us already sitting down. The young guy in the soccer jersey sat in a chair near the door and started watching the movie. Hewrami moved around his desk, stood by the high-back chair, and emptied his pockets. Phone. Keys. Cigarettes and a lighter. A small pistol. He sat down, lit a cigarette, and rubbed his forehead, pointed at Dodge, said a few words, then shifted his finger to Major Franco.

  “The colonel wishes to thank you for the assistance rendered by your men today,” Dodge mumbled behind his mask.

  Franco’s face lit up. “Well, tell him that’s what we’re here for! There’s anything else he needs, just let me know. Also, Dodge, please ask about the men out in the dirt. Are they suspected of involvement with the bombing today?” Franco looked away nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair with hands behind his head as if the question was an afterthought. He was just curious.

  Dodge translated for the major.

  Hewrami made a dismissive gesture, spoke for a moment, and clicked his tongue.

  “The colonel suspects that all of the men in town are terrorists,” Dodge said. “And that today’s bomb is simply more proof.”

  Then Hewrami became animated. Before Franco could answer, the colonel sat up in his chair and ranted loudly, turning away from the television and speaking directly to Franco with sharp words. Twice, he slapped his desk. Franco furrowed his brow and nodded gravely, as though he understood.

  Dodge translated, “He says that tomorrow his soldiers will go out and walk through the town, taking money from all the businesses and merchants. They will give all this money to the family of the grandfather and the two little girls who were so tragically killed this day.”

  Franco took a deep breath. “Yeah, let me check with my boss before you go and do that? Maybe I can get some funds for the family from our civil affairs people, so you won’t need to bother about that.”

  Dodge translated, and Hewrami scoffed. He leaned back in his chair and spoke calmly.

  Dodge turned to Major Franco. “The colonel says the money is good but it is better for the people in town to know the terrorists cannot give them anything the new Iraqi Army cannot take away.” Then, as if editorializing, Dodge added, “He wishes for them to be afraid.”

  Franco stared down at the floor a moment, as if searching for some rhetorical avenue forward. Then he sat up with a start and turned to me, the brightness in his face renewed. “Colonel Hewrami, I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed. “I’ve forgotten to introduce you to this young American officer, Lieutenant Donovan, who was just missed by that bomb. He’s here to resupply us.”

  Hewrami looked at me while Dodge translated, said nothing, then looked back at the television.

  But Franco wasn’t finished. “Lieutenant Donovan told me earlier today this has been the most interesting day of his deployment so far.” Franco reached out to put a hand on my shoulder but, unable to quite reach, turned his hand over to point my way instead. “He told me how honored he feels to be in the field with the new Iraqi Army.”

  Just then the young Iraqi in the soccer jersey, who’d been so quiet and still that I’d forgotten about him, let out a great laugh. “Is that right?” he said with an accent even more proper and British than Dodge’s. “Well, bully for you, old boy.”

  Dodge’s chest heaved and pushed out a breath, half cough, half growl. His hands shook.

  Major Franco didn’t seem to notice. “Go ahead, Dodge,” he said excitedly. “Translate. Tell him.”

  I imagined the things Dodge might say in Arabic, knowing Major Franco and I wouldn’t understand him, and made a snap decision before Dodge could speak.

  “Sir,” I said to Franco, “I need to get back to my trucks and supervise that off-load.”

  “Of course. Of course.” Franco slapped his knees. “Colonel Hewrami, I’ll go talk to my people and get back to you on where we stand with that situation out there. And I’ll see you at dinner, I hope.” Franco stood, cleared his throat, and smiled. Dodge and I stood, and Hewrami gave a brusque wave as we left his office.

  We shuffled down the short hallway, schoolboys fresh from discipline at the hands of the principal, then stepped outside into the bright sun. I heard Iraqi voices and, when my eyes adjusted, found a throng of Iraqi soldiers crowding around us. They patted me on the back and posed next to me while their friends took pictures with disposable film cameras.

  “I know that might have been a little disappointing, Lieutenant,” Major Franco said as we pushed through, the last word hanging in the air as if he’d wanted to say something more.

  We walked through the field, past bound and staged prisoners, toward the advisory team’s headquarters on the other side. Iraqi soldiers busied themselves by picking up prisoners two at a time and leading them to their barracks. The sun was right on
the top of us, tickling my scalp.

  I scanned the rows of prisoners searching for the alfalfa man, but couldn’t find him. He was gone. Just then, two white trucks come through the gate, empty, and I thought, maybe. Maybe they took him back. I imagined it, the alfalfa man being driven to his donkey cart in the backseat of a white truck, ranting like a wild man, with the good-natured Iraqi soldiers gently amused by him.

  I broke into a jog and left Major Franco and Dodge behind me, starting to notice the dozens of empty water bottles littering the field.

  I imagined Iraqi soldiers treating the alfalfa man’s wounds.

  I imagined the old man telling the soldiers, with gratitude, about a mysterious figure in a window overlooking the traffic circle, and how this mysterious figure had been playing with a cell phone in the moments before the blast.

  I imagined Iraqi soldiers swarming the building, finding a cache of weapons and cell phones, cuffing the mysterious man and bringing him out to a cheering crowd.

  I reached the open passenger door of my Humvee and unlocked my rifle. Putting on my vest and hood, I called out to the Marines still milling around. “Gear on!”

  I smoothed my vest, waved for Dodge to hurry, and looked around for an empty patch of shrub and dirt where we wouldn’t run the risk of crushing someone during the off-load. Gomez had the convoy ready to go, save for two young Marines still working to remove straps from the air conditioners and the pallets of chow and water on the cargo truck.

  Across the field, Hewrami emerged from the barracks and began talking to another Iraqi officer. The officer slapped his palm with the back of this other hand and gestured at our vehicles, pointing furiously at the empty water bottles all around his prisoners.

  Zahn stood at his door, resting his hand on the steering wheel. I sat down in the passenger seat and keyed my radio. “Gomez this is Actual. Do you see that open patch of dirt, between us and the prisoners?”

  “Roger, Actual.”

  “Did you give those guys water?”

  “Affirmative, Actual.”

  “See an old man with a gray beard? Cuts on his face?”

  “Negative.”

  Zahn waved to the lance corporal driving the cargo truck and pointed to the empty patch of dirt. I latched the armored door behind me and held the convoy net to my ear, waiting for Gomez to give the order.

  “Combat off-load, motherfuckers,” she said.

  Combat off-load, standard procedure under threat of an ambush, was used when the convoy needed to get back on the road, and fast. The platoon wouldn’t have to explain itself, and I even found myself wishing that I’d been quick-witted enough to give the order personally. As usual, Gomez was way ahead of me.

  “Nice.” Zahn laughed, getting settled behind the wheel. “She’s pissed now. Everyone look out for their ass.” He craned his neck to watch her through the windshield. He kept his eyes on her, stomping around and waving her arms to direct the truck, a few seconds longer than necessary. He smiled with a satisfaction built of something more than just professional admiration. He could’ve watched her all day, I knew.

  I wish I would’ve let him.

  Instead I tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Zahn. We need to go. Get us lined up at that gate.”

  He nodded sheepishly, found his can of Skoal. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  As we pulled away, I watched in the side-view mirror as Gomez directed the cargo truck. It pulled forward and turned right. The driver lined-up his rear wheels and put the truck in reverse. He gunned the engine and gained speed for about five seconds before slamming on the brakes. The pallets slid off the tailgate, air conditioners first, followed by the chow and water. The air conditioners bounced off each other and settled into the sand with an alarming, metallic groan. Half the water bottles ripped open on the sharp corners, and a mud puddle began to grow at the base of the pile.

  “Holy shit,” Zahn said, choking back his laughter. “That was awesome.”

  Dodge laughed, too.

  I turned around and saw that he’d taken off his hood.

  Doc Pleasant handed him an open bottle of water.

  I keyed my radio. “All vics. Oscar Mike.”

  And we rolled through the gate, into the desert, back through the little town. Women stood at a safe distance and watched the outpost for any sign of more white trucks.

  A pile of alfalfa lay abandoned in the traffic circle, slowly giving itself to the wind. A small clump landed on the windshield and strands floated in through the open turret. It smelled like Alabama in September.

  Findings of Fact:

  Corpsman Pleasant had unsupervised access to the controlled-medications locker as a field medic assigned to Engineer Support Company. Following Corpsman Pleasant’s transfer to Surgical / Shock Trauma Platoon, inventories taken of the controlled-­medications locker showed significant discrepancies in stocks of Percocet, Vicodin, and Demerol. In his official statement, Lieutenant Donovan claims to have witnessed Corpsman Pleasant behaving erratically in the weeks before his transfer. Lieutenant Donovan further describes this behavior as consistent with opiate abuse.

  A Box Where I Can Keep These Things

  Landry tells me I should be careful about Lizzy. “Seems a little fast, partner. All I’m saying. Living with this girl already? The first girl you’ve met in, what, five years?”

  I shrug. “It’s nothing like that. Just that my boss owns an oil-change place up here, too, and he says I can pick up with that branch, no problem. Lizzy’s just letting me crash for a little while. Isn’t it you always telling me to get out of Houma?”

  “Sure, but, you know . . . I thought you’d be living here at first. With us.”

  Paul walks in from the kitchen with a beer and picks up his video-game controller. “Didn’t that Lizzy girl just kick some other guy out?”

  “What?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  “Sebastian,” Landry says. “I don’t know if he was Lizzy’s boyfriend, or whatever, but, yeah, he lived up in that house for a while.”

  “You’ll probably meet him soon,” Paul chimes in as he starts up his video game. “Lizzy’s a real scenester. Knows everybody. Goes to every metal show. One of those art-student types. That run-down house she lives in? Her whole department’s lived there, one time or another. I doubt she’s even on the lease.”

  “But this guy Sebastian,” I say, “who’s he?”

  I’m a little surprised by the chill I get at the thought of Lizzy and some other guy. Why should I care? I just met this girl.

  “He’s just . . . I don’t know—a guy.” Landry sighs, trying to be gentle with me. “I think he’s more like her best friend, actually. He plays acoustic guitar in a few bands. Real pussy-ass folk-rock shit. Works at a coffee shop. I think he gets money from his parents. You know—that type.” Landry stops, like he’s got the idea that he isn’t helping, and he’s right.

  “Fuck it,” I say, standing up. “No worries. I’m just feeling this thing out.”

  I walk into the kitchen, my heart beating fast. The linoleum floor in here has soft patches that get deeper and more fucked-up as you approach the fridge. I’m surprised the fridge hasn’t fallen through to the apartment below us, it’s so weighed down by cheap beer. Old concert leaflets cover the door like fur, and the handle’s stained black. I open the fridge and peer in at all the beer cans, packed tight like ammunition in a magazine.

  Landry and Paul never offer to grab me a beer when they get up from the couch. But they don’t ever make it feel awkward, either. They’re real friends that way. I should treat them better.

  I’ve never talked to them about the meetings, or why I got kicked out and sent home, but they know. And now I want a beer, more than I want Marceau’s coffee. What’ll they say if I go back to the living room with three cold ones? Will they confront me about it?

  I close the fridge, step away, and march quickly across the tired linoleum until I reach the wooden creak of the hallway floor.

  All of a su
dden I’m calm. I take three slow steps and listen through the noise of Paul’s video game to the sound of my bootheels against that solid wood. It brings my heart rate down. I close my eyes and wrestle with my breathing.

  It’s the wood floors in my dad’s house I’m missing. The way those boards creak when you walk across them, each board making the same sound every time. Like people talking. Familiar voices that might distract me from that arsenal of beers in the fridge.

  But sometimes I’m trapped in my room while dad watches television, and I end up rummaging through old stuff. Old letters, old books. Eventually that old cigar box, from my uncle. Ordered from some specialty website. Cigars for military types. Shitty ones, too. Even Dodge thought so. Nasty, convenience-store things, slapped with military logos and sold at a big markup. My uncle had the box engraved LESTER “DOC” PLEASANT. Etched into the lid like he thought it was my special nickname, Doc. But Marines call every corpsman Doc. Even shitty corpsmen, guys who don’t know what they’re doing.

  I keep that cigar box on my dresser at home and put stuff in there. Things I brought home. My dog tags. Different patches and things. My medals. A stack of memorial-service programs.

  The programs are kept down at the bottom, buried. Down where I have to dig. The chaplain’s assistant made a new program for each memorial service. They all look pretty much the same, though. He just changed the name and the picture. Maybe put a different quote from Scripture in there, depending.

  It’s good to have a box where I can keep these things. Pictures up top. Then medals. Then patches and stuff. Then memorial services. I put the memorial services in order. Gunny Stout first. Then Marceau.

  Sniper got Marceau in Fallujah, that day on Phase Line Fran when we were coming back from delivering those air conditioners. We were rolling west through the city, later than usual. Too much traffic. That afternoon sun painting us. Marceau was in the turret of the lead Humvee. The lieutenant sent him up there at a security halt after we left the Iraqi Army post. Said we’d been hogging him, that it was the lead Humvee’s turn to have the more experienced gunner.