Fives and Twenty-Fives

by Michael Pitre

  The men pushed their chairs back to the corners of the room and filed out through the kitchen.

  My father took my hand and led me to a window looking out onto the garden. We watched the men direct a flatbed truck through the gate, over to a spot where they could load a batch of curbstones.

  “We have a problem, Kateb,” my father said.

  I said nothing as he let go of my hand.

  “The Shia in the south want to give our country to the Iranians. The Sadrists in Baghdad kill men like us for spite. Out here in the desert, Saudi and Egyptian brats who joined Al Qaeda in a fit of boredom kill good men for nothing. The Americans and the Kurds kill us all.”

  The fat man directed his men to carry five specially marked curbstones to the open trunk of the Mercedes.

  “We are the honorable resistance, Kateb. Ansar al-Sunna. The last Iraqis. We fight the jihadists who leave heads in the street. We assist the Shia with their blundering into chaos. And we bleed the Americans. Not because we hate them, mind you. Only because they are the invader. They must be driven out. The more they bleed, the sooner they go home.”

  The little convoy rolled through the gate, the flatbed truck followed by the Mercedes.

  My father reached into his pocket and produced a stack of dinar. “Our next action is very near your beach house, Kateb.” He handed the money to me. “God willing, the Americans will blame the Sadrists down the road. You will help us, yes?”

  Memorandum for the record:

  I first became aware of Corpsman Pleasant’s erratic behavior on or about 25 June, when the platoon sergeant informed me that Corpsman Pleasant had withdrawn socially and, after returning from convoys and route clearance missions, would disappear into the barracks until dining hall hours. At meals, he ate very little and showed signs of significant weight loss.

  Early in the deployment, Corpsman Pleasant earned a reputation for enthusiasm by seeking out Marines for specialized instruction in subjects beyond the scope of his duties.

  However, by the end of June, Corpsman Pleasant became known more for his deteriorating morale and slovenly appearance.

  Respectfully submitted,

  P. E. Donovan

  The Brass Buttons

  “It’s my car,” I tell my mother. “It needs work that I can’t afford right now. I don’t think it can make the trip, how it is presently. And it’s too late to buy plane tickets.”

  Of all the things I never thought I’d do, I’m lying to my mother so I won’t have to go home for Christmas. I grit my teeth and hope she doesn’t offer to pay for the flight.

  She sighs, and for a moment I think she might be trying not to cry. I couldn’t be more wrong. She comes back with her strong teacher’s voice, asking, “Do you want to tell your father that? Or should I do it for you?”

  I don’t hesitate. “You can do that.”

  She gives me a moment’s quiet to change my mind, a chance to grow up and tell the truth. When I don’t, she says. “Well, merry Christmas, then. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” Guilt overtakes me. “I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you guys.”

  She denies me the satisfaction, ending the conversation with a terse “I’ll call you on Christmas morning so you can talk to your nephew. Try to answer.”

  The timed fluorescent lights click off in sequence across the cubicle floor as I return to the research assignment on my desk. The knowledge that I’m alone in the office sets me at ease. But the relief is short-lived. My cell phone, sitting on a stack of files, announces with a rattle that I have a message from Empathy: “?”

  I type out a quick response: “Sorry. Busy at work. Call you soon,” and my stomach twists as I hit send.

  I return to the assignment in front of me, finding solace in how proficient I’ve become at this stuff. My speed is growing into an office legend. A machine, Sullivan calls me. No matter how many files he drops on me in a day, he always finds solid reports waiting on his desk the following morning. I think he’s taking bets with the partners behind my back, searching for a limit to how much I can take.

  I suspect Major Leighton played me similarly, placing bets with the officers at regiment. There’s no limit to the number of potholes my company can fill. My Marines are supermen. There’s nothing they can’t do.

  Major Leighton heard about the mission from some friends at regiment. Majors in command of other, more glamorous companies. They told him about a platoon on dismounted patrol in the abandoned employee-housing development near the Muthanna Chemical Complex. The grunts had been looking for weapons caches, instead finding an open pit stacked neatly with steel drums, sealed and left to molder in the sun. Someone had left in a hurry, before covering the pit with dirt.

  Regiment had dispatched a chemical team to investigate, and the colonels must’ve held their breath thinking maybe they’d found the goods. The almost-forgotten reason we’d made the trip. Whispers flew up the chain, all the way to Baghdad with the best kind of bad news.

  But, after testing residue on the drums, the chemical warfare team came back with nothing special. Just an assortment of common, industrial products. Caustic acids and pellets of concentrated pesticides. Dangerous and problematic, for sure. But nothing of interest to Baghdad, so the strategic, theater-level assets en route to assist turned around. The chemical-disposal teams. The civilian experts. They all went back to the Green Zone and left regiment to deal with the drums alone.

  The drums couldn’t stay. Over time, the steel would corrode. The contents would seep into the groundwater and eventually into the river. Or the bad guys would get hold of the stuff and put the chemicals to some clever use to make us hurt.

  Regiment couldn’t decide who had responsibility for hazardous chemical disposal, so Major Leighton volunteered his company. Supermen. Engineer Support doing a job no one else could, or would.

  He announced the mission a day later, in the daily operations briefing: “This is what we came here to do. We enable our trigger-­pullers. Because of the work we do, the grunts are able to fight the terrorists without distraction. This is a mission tailor-made for us.”

  His staff sat silent and still. The lieutenants kept their eyes on their notes. The gunnery sergeants, less intimidated, looked at each other with arms crossed in disapproval. But we all avoided eye contact with Major Leighton. No one wanted the mission.

  “We have the State Department lined up to support, fortunately,” Major Leighton continued, calmly rubbing his bald head. “A project officer from the provincial reconstruction office will meet us at the site with trucks and local nationals to haul away the drums. All we have to do is secure the scene, remove the sealed drums from the pit, and transfer possession.”

  The room didn’t budge, even with this rare offer of encouragement.

  “So that’s why Road Repair Platoon has this one,” he said finally. “Good rolling stock, familiar with the area of operations, and best prepared.”

  My mouth went dry, and I looked up from my notebook as Major Leighton raised his eyebrows and nodded at me. I couldn’t look at him, so I focused on his sunburned head, his hairy knuckles, and the sunglasses hanging around his neck.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” I said.

  Cobb, sitting next to me, held my arm in the air like I’d just won a boxing match. The staff acknowledged Cobb’s mock support with nervous laughter, and I tried to smile.

  After the operations briefing, I went to tell Gomez and Zahn. I made Gunny Dole come with me, and he ranted nonstop on our way to the platoon barracks.

  “Unbelievable. Complete bullshit,” he huffed. “Absolutely not in our lane. Not our responsibility. This is just crazy, sir. You have to talk to him about this.”

  “And say what, Gunny? Tell him the whole platoon has bad knees?”

  He cursed under his breath. “Not our fucking job. I remember one time, in the Philippines. Must’ve been around ’95. The company commander wanted the Marines to cut their liberty short to go out to help this village
with their sewage problem. And the lieutenant said no way. He threatened to request mast. That was a long deployment, too. Must’ve been—”

  “Gunny, shut up.”

  He fumed off to the side with his arms crossed as we approached Gomez and Zahn, waiting in the shade behind the barracks for details of the day’s mission. I gave it to them straight. There was no way to spin it, and no sense in trying to soften the hard facts.

  “We don’t have a procedure for this sort of thing,” I told them. “No instruction book. So, we use the procedures we do have. We treat it like a chemical attack. We break out the gas masks and wear charcoal-lined suits and rubber gloves. We work in shifts.”

  Zahn pulled a can of dip from his pocket and shoved a thick wad under his lip. He shuffled his feet and looked at the dirt.

  Gomez pursed her lips, refusing to look at me.

  “It’ll be hot in those suits, no question,” I continued. “So, we draw extra ice from supply. We make sure Doc Pleasant has plenty of fluid bags. We make a rotation and we stick to it. Twenty minutes in the suits, maximum. No heat casualties. And we stick to the decontamination procedures.”

  “What time do we roll out, sir?” Gomez asked with eyes on her notebook and her pen at the ready.

  “Tomorrow morning early. Muster a zero two hundred. I want us on the site and working before dawn. Maybe we can knock this thing out before the afternoon heat.”

  “Okay.” She sighed and added a lax “Sir.”

  I rubbed my sweaty palms on my trousers. “Listen. Both of you. Look at me.”

  Zahn and Gomez looked up.

  “This is a tough one, no question. But there’s no sense fighting it. And no sense pouting in front of the Marines. It’ll just make it worse for them.”

  “Speaking of, is Gunny coming out with us, sir?” Zahn asked. “Taking a turn with a suit and mask?”

  I glanced over my shoulder to gauge how Gunny Dole had taken the slight, but he hadn’t heard it. He was already halfway across the expanse of dirt, on his way to the Internet café.

  “No,” I said, “Gunny can’t make it.”

  Zahn shook his head and laughed under his breath.

  I didn’t admonish him. There would’ve been no point. “Questions?”

  They had none, so I dismissed them to prepare the platoon. They would hardly have an hour to sleep, I knew.

  I went to the supply section and drew my chemical suit before going back to my room and writing out the mission order in alcohol pen on my laminated template. I fell asleep with my socks on.

  My wristwatch alarm woke me at midnight. I dressed with my red-lens flashlight, not wanting to ruin my night vision. I laced my boots, zipped my flight suit, and struggled into my flak jacket. I walked through the operations center on my way out of the darkened compound. Sweat rolled down my neck and cheeks and pooled at the base of my neck. The armor plate held it there.

  Cobb had the overnight watch, and he smiled over his coffee mug. A laptop played a movie on the desk behind him. He reached around to pause it. “You out?”

  “Shortly. Five vehicles, twenty-two packs.” I went to the weapons rack in the corner and unlocked my rifle.

  Cobb made a note of our numbers. “All right, buddy. Have fun.” He put his finger on the space bar, ready to get back to his movie.

  I stood behind his chair and looked over his shoulder at the watch logs and screens. “Anything happening?” The blue force-tracker screen, a map of Anbar Province overlaid with icons representing friendly units, showed a logistics convoy of civilian-­operated trucks en route from Jordan, a few snap vehicle checkpoints, but not much else.

  Cobb confirmed it. “No. It’s pretty quiet.”

  I slung the rifle over my back. “I’ll radio from the gate.” As I walked out, I heard Cobb get back to his movie.

  A scrum of red flashlights led me to our staging area. I heard engines warming and Marines cursing in the darkness. Two Marines brushed past me with an ice chest, and I heard them talking as they hefted it into the cargo compartment of their Humvee.

  “Is he serious about these fucking suits?” one of them said.

  His partner gave a mumbled reply, too soft to make out the words or the identity of the speaker.

  “Gomez sounded pissed. I know this wasn’t her idea,” he continued. “Five bucks says we don’t see him in one of those fucking suits.”

  I stood there, just another bulky shape with a rifle, and listened to things they wouldn’t say about me if they knew I could hear. They shuffled past me again, on their way back to the supply yard.

  “He’ll give it the college-boy try, I bet. Maybe put on a suit right at the end to help with the last barrel, you know? Make a show of his leadership principles. OCS motherfucker.”

  My face burned and I backed away into the darkness, hoping they wouldn’t bump into me. After about twenty yards, I turned around and approached the staging area from a new angle, calling loudly for Gomez and Zahn to make my presence known. The chatter of Marines fell away when they heard me, but they continued their work.

  Gomez and Zahn jogged over and stood close to my face. Gomez gave me the report. All present. Chemical suits for everyone. Extra ice. Extra water. All vehicles fueled and ready. I went over to Gomez’s vehicle and sat on the hood while she and Zahn gathered the convoy team.

  I read the mission order word for word by the red glow of my flashlight—a straight-ahead brief without encouragement or bravado. I gave them the route and the order of march. I listed our immediate actions on near ambush, far ambush, improvised explosive device, and disabled vehicle. I gave them our radio frequencies and the call signs of supporting units.

  I didn’t let Doc Pleasant speak. I gave the corpsman’s brief for him: “Push water. As much fluid as you can manage.”

  I asked for questions, then passed it to Sergeant Gomez before going to my vehicle, settling in my seat, and loading my radios with frequencies and crypto.

  I heard a snore. It was Dodge, asleep in the backseat. He’d missed the brief.

  Doc Pleasant slid into the seat next to Dodge and punched him in the shoulder. “Dodge, wake the fuck up.”

  Dodge came to with a snort. “I am awake. Awake.”

  Pleasant sighed. “You even know what the fuck we’re doing?”

  “Of course. We are going to some place in the desert where I will speak in Arabic to some Iraqi dudes. You gentlemen will move barrels full of bad shit while sweating and cursing. Everybody will be pissed off, all day.” He closed his eyes, crossed his arms, and went back to sleep.

  I let him. He had the mission about right.

  The convoy rolled through the gate and fell into line. Our route took us through Fallujah. We cleared the city and took the northbound ramp at the cloverleaf. The interchange spat us out onto an empty, four-lane highway, which by some strange miracle was well lit by functional streetlights. The highway took us north into the desert.

  No other convoys or civilian traffic crowded the road, so we used both lanes. We straddled the white line and stayed as far from the curb as possible.

  Four times, Gomez halted the convoy to investigate suspicious piles of dirt or trash. We did our full fives and twenty-fives each time. We varied our speed and spacing. We made ourselves a hard target.

  Even with all the time spent on precautions and security halts, we reached the prearranged rendezvous point before dawn. A grid coordinate, given by the State Department’s Provincial Reconstruction Office in Ramadi, took us to a dirt track leading northwest into the waste. We halted there, set the vehicles in a protective formation fifty meters off the road, and waited for the State Department to show.

  Six hours passed.

  The sun came up and the temperature climbed. The skin of our Humvees grew too hot to touch with bare hands. Civilian traffic filled the highway, with trucks hauling fuel south, beat-up bongo trucks taking piles of scavenged junk toward the city markets, and taxis with prying eyes rolling by our static and vulnerable perimet
er. The rendezvous point placed us near a known intersection. Anyone with a mortar tube and a few airburst rounds could easily have judged the distance. The longer we stayed, the more nervous I became.

  Gomez grew worried, as well. She never stood still. She moved around the perimeter constantly and snapped at Marines when they looked less than alert.

  I sat by my radios and monitored the nets, but nothing came through on the frequencies given to us by the State Department. Meanwhile, the company net crackled with demands from the operation center that we stay put and wait.

  At first, in the darkness, Cobb’s easy voice came through the handset. When Wong replaced him on watch as the sun came up, I could hear how he grinned, amused by my frustration. I could even hear the company staff distracting him as they came through the operations center for morning coffee.

  I made a nuisance of myself, asking for an update every five minutes. Eventually, Major Leighton’s voice came through the handset.

  “This is Hellbox-Six,” he barked, all emphasis on the last syllable, the number that identified him as the commander. I could imagine how he’d snatched the radio away from Wong. “Remain in place. Regiment confirms supporting elements en route. Make no further requests to displace from your current position. Over.”

  I’d been told, insofar as radio etiquette allowed, to shut up and wait. I hung the handset on its hook, left Dodge and Doc Pleasant to watch the vehicle, and walked the perimeter.

  I tried to look calm, relaxed, and unaffected. How would a guy like Cobb handle this? My Marines, in turrets or behind armored doors, acknowledged me with sweaty nods and hard stares. I tried to smile and nod back, the unwilling muscles in my cheeks twisting the gesture into something unnatural, grotesque.

  The Marines took turns sealing themselves inside their vehicles to fill empty water bottles with urine. Regiment had directed no public urination as a perceived concession to Islamic culture. I checked the growing pile of urine bottles in the middle of the perimeter for signs of color. It heartened me to see that the Marines were at least hydrated. The liters and liters of piss showed not a hint of orange.