The Watch

by Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya

D’you want us to holler real loud an’ make a racket, First Sarn’t? Jackson asks.

  Hang on a moment, soldier, let me think. Then I answer: Nope. We’ve no idea how they’d react. I don’t want to provoke them into attacking the woman, and we’re too far away to intervene if that happens.

  We could gun them down, Duggal suggests.

  We can’t take that risk either. We might hit her. The fog’s made our visuals difficult.

  What, then? Jackson says impatiently.

  I raise my left hand. Quiet, I whisper.

  I make up my mind. Rising to my feet, I say: Hang on a mo, all right?

  I run over to the mortar pit. Pratt and Barela look at me expectantly.

  Turn on the searchlight and focus on the cart, I order. That’ll create a ring of light around her that should scare them off. And if it doesn’t, it’ll make it easier for us to shoot them.

  Pratt complies instantly. A powerful beam of light bathes the cart.

  I hope it don’t wake the sister up, Barela says.

  There’s no helping that, I reply.

  I look through my thermals and see her stirring inside the cart.

  Them critters be leavin’, Pratt says, looking through his rifle’s scope. That was good thinkin’, First Sarn’t.

  I zoom in to where I last saw the animals. I spot their retreating backs: they’re headed in the opposite direction. They glide side by side, their silhouettes overlapping, little spirals of fog coasting in their wake. I keep my thermals focused on them, watching them recede into dots until they disappear.

  I feel myself relax and lower the device. Pratt is looking intently at me.

  They’re gone for now, I announce, but we can’t get lazy ’cuz they might be back. Ya’ll leave that light on for a bit, and then turn it off.

  Couldn’t we just leave it on through the night for her, First Sarn’t? Pratt asks.

  And have some Taliban sniper take it out? Use your head, soldier. I tap his helmet with my knuckles. But keep checking in on her if that makes you feel better. Switch it on periodically in case those critters get it into their heads to pay us a return visit.

  Done deal, First Sarn’t, Barela says and grins. We’ll do the job right. You can depend on us. Fuckin’ hyenas!

  They remind me of the tundra, Pratt says suddenly. But there we got furies.

  Both Barela and I stare at him.

  He spreads his hands. It’s what we call wolves back where I’m from. I forgot where I was for a moment, he explains with an embarrassed smile. I dunno what came over me.

  A moment of madness, Barela says.

  No, Pratt replies. He tilts the searchlight and sends it probing through the field and into the lower slopes, and then brings it back to the cart. No, he says again. I ain’t gone mad. But I’d like to sometimes. ’Cos I’m not always sure I understand the way things are done.

  I look at him with surprise. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him talk as much.

  What things? I ask.

  Like that girl in the cart, First Sarn’t. I’d like to cover that sleepin’ girl with a proper blanket an’ slide a pillow under her head. It ain’t right for her to be there like that. I thought we was here to help these people.

  You have gone mad, Barela says quickly. He tilts his helmet back a little.

  It’s jes’ my opinion, Pratt says, so I wish you’d stop attachin’ madness to it.

  You can’t say anything about this situation, I observe. Nothing like this has ever happened before. We’re still working things out.

  We’re disrespectin’ her, First Sarn’t, Pratt says in a low voice. No offense meant, but there are lines that can’t be crossed. Even here.

  Ramirez had better get here soon, Barela growls. You need some sleep.

  So you don’t think I have a point? Pratt persists.

  Hell, Barela exclaims, I’d do it if that’s what First Sarn’t thought needed to be done! I’d bring her a blanket and a care package and throw in some TLC free of charge.

  I think ya’ll had better hunker down and get back to attending to your duties, I say with a smile. I need you to get your game faces on.

  They fall silent, and I leave them and return to where Duggal, Jackson, and Lee are waiting for me. I’m gonna do a quick check of the perimeter, I tell them. And then I’ll be back.

  Again I walk along the Hescos and then crisscross the base. My footsteps echo in the silence of the fog. I pass the bee huts, the command post, and Connolly’s office, then the mess tent and the open lot where the Humvees are parked. I walk rapidly past the ruins of the ANA huts and notice the brown smudges on the whitewashed walls where some of the Afghan troops had rubbed off opium from their fingers. I reach for a cigarette, but find that I’m out. I try to focus, but there’s only one thought in my head: the prospect of sleep, of rest, of closing my eyes and waking up at least eight hours later. I come back to myself only when I find I’ve reached the remains of the watchtower, where I dragged Brandon Espinosa out of the flames—too late to make a difference.

  Why’s it so dark here? he’d whispered. Then: I’m sorry, so sorry … before closing his eyes.

  I rest my head against the one remaining beam that rises vertically into the fog. I press myself against it with all my strength until my arms begin to shake and my chest tightens. I feel a scream coming, but choke it back and turn away instead. The fog is so thick, it’s like everything is dissolving. I begin to run, blundering over uneven ground. I go fast, past tent ropes and stacked ammo boxes. I try to avoid them but miss a hole and trip. Staggering heavily, I crash into a wall. A small animal, probably a rat, scurries away. I crouch motionless, and the fog encases my head, my chest, my hands. A chill runs through my body. I pick myself up wearily and head over to the ECP. Climbing up on the Hescos, I take up position next to Jackson.

  He glances at me and nods to his right. Doc’s out there.

  I turn my head and glimpse the flicker of a cigarette. Taylor? I call out.

  Right here, he replies out of the darkness. I squint my eyes and see him leaning against the Hescos, staring out at the field. I decide to go over and bum a cigarette. He fishes out a pack of American Spirit even before I ask. I pick one out. American Spirit, now that’s a real cigarette. Where’d you get these?

  Care package, he says.

  Lighting up, my head heavy, I ask him what he’s looking at.

  What do you think? Our WMD out there. What a fucking pile of horseshit we’re standing on! It makes me sick.

  You gotta hang loose, man, I reply. No point in cutting yourself up. There’s nothing you and I can do about that situation. It’s out of our hands.

  How long have we known each other, First Sarn’t?

  Too long, I say wearily. Why do you ask?

  Because I envy you your ability to take things in your stride.

  I wonder if I should tell him about my panic attack from moments ago, but decide against it.

  Abruptly, he says: This is my last tour—if I survive, that is. I’ve decided to quit.

  Caught off guard, all I can do is stare at him.

  Have you decided what you want to do when you go back? I ask at length.

  I’m going to try out for med school. I’ll be older than most applicants, but that’s what I want to do. I just have to work out the money equation, see if I can handle the debt.

  I don’t want to rain on your parade, but that’s a big if, isn’t it?

  Sure it is, but nothing ventured, nothing gained … As his voice trails off, he narrows his eyes at me. So: is that why you keep renewing your tours of duty? Because you don’t really believe there’s a place in civilian life for vets like us?

  His question makes me feel resentful, so I evade it. Instead, I gesture with an outstretched hand toward the darkness of the field. In a tone of mocking sentimentality, I say: What back home could possibly compare to this?

  But he’s already speaking again: Maybe I’ll set up shop in the badlands of Youngstown after I get my degre
e. Make up for all the killing I’ve seen.

  There’s gotta be as much killing there as here, I point out.

  He smiles sadly. Still and all, it’s my home turf.

  You sure ’bout this? I wouldn’t want you to be settin’ yourself up for a fall.

  ’Course I’m not sure, he replies. But one thing I do know is that this war’s not worth another casualty. That much I am sure of.

  I watch him as he stands there, hands resting on the Hesco, unmoving and stiff, a slight breeze ruffling his hair. I feel as if I’m seeing a different person than the one I’ve known all these years.

  Congratulations, I murmur. In that case, ya’ll got a good plan.

  He scrutinizes my face, then returns his gaze to the field.

  In a quiet voice, he says: I can’t do this anymore. That girl out there is officially my breaking point. I don’t want to be part of the SitRep that writes her off as collateral damage.

  You’re assuming she’s innocent, I counter. You’re ignoring the fact that it might have to do with their whole religious shtick.

  His tone and glance are pointed. No, I’m not assuming her innocence, as a matter of fact, he says. But I do know this much: if she turns out to be a suicide bomber, it won’t be because she hates our religion. I mean, I don’t even have a fucking religion. It’ll be because we whacked her brother and we’re in their country. How difficult is that to understand? When you kill people and wipe out their families, strafe their homes and burn down their villages, litter their fields with fragmentation bombs and gun down their livestock, you’ve lost the whole fucking battle for hearts and minds. I mean, who’re we trying to kid? Ourselves? Is it any wonder they’re fighting back? We’re not winning this war; we’re creating lifelong enemies. It’s time to admit that our own leadership has ring-fenced us with lies.

  I don’t reply. I can’t altogether say that I hadn’t seen this coming. All the same, I’m left feeling a mixture of understanding and regret. More than anything else, though, his little tirade leaves me feeling even more exhausted than I was before.

  No response? he prompts without looking at me.

  All I can muster by way of a response is: It sounded like you needed to get that off your chest.

  And I’m not done, he says with feeling. I’m tired of playing these boys’ games. I’m tired of being surrounded by nineteen- and twenty-year-olds who’ve been conned into believing they’re fighting the good fight. I’m too old to play these games—games with youngsters who lack the maturity to understand the consequences of their actions, for themselves as much as the people they’re primed to kill. I’m tired of supplying an endless array of prescription pills to help these kids cope with their fears and their confusion and their guilt. You know what I mean: I’m the fucking gatekeeper to the valley of the dolls, and I can’t take it anymore. I’ve lost my ability to pretend.

  He stops all of a sudden and turns toward me.

  I don’t know about you, he says, but I can’t look at myself in the mirror anymore. I’ve stopped believing—and do you know why? He jabs his cigarette in the direction of the field. That’s why. Armies don’t win wars; people win wars. People feel things like sacrifice, loss, grief. The Pashtuns are in this thing as a people. And that legless girl in her cart is part of that. They know what they’re fighting for—they’re fighting for their survival, their homes, their beliefs. Okay, fine, those beliefs are fucked up, but what are we fighting for? We got kids here whose only option in life is either the army or methland. Sure, we also got the high-tech ordnance and every damn textbook strategy under the sun. It doesn’t matter. Their slings and stones are more powerful than our M-203s. Their nation’s more powerful than our army.

  He drops his cigarette to the ground and stubs it out with his boot.

  The moment that girl showed up, I knew it was over for us. If Lieutenant Frobenius’s death was the beginning of the end, then she is the end. Game, set, and match. I mean, think of all those who started out with us way back in Iraq—Dave Hendricks, Brian Castro, Brandon Espinosa, Bradley Folsom—all gone. And for what? For what? So there it is. I’m done now. I’ve said my piece.

  I put out my cigarette. I feel just so incredibly tired, and somehow the loaded silence that follows Doc’s tirade makes it worse. Turning away abruptly from him, I say: Best of luck. I nod a couple of times and climb down from the Hescos. I gotta go, I explain. I can’t think of anything else to say. Maybe he was expecting more of a response from me, but he isn’t going to get it. I’m simply not up to it—not at this time of the night, at least. And not when I know that my guys are patiently waiting by their guns for me. They might be young, but their exhaustion is as old as time itself. All the same, I’m aware of Doc’s eyes boring into me as I walk slowly back to the ECP. The night is clotted with fog.

  At 0300 my watch ends, and I head for the NCOs’ hut. Dark clouds crouch over the plain; the fog is thicker than ever. Visibility’s near zero, and everything’s in shades of black and gray. Numb with the cold, I stumble over ground covered with frost. The extremes of heat and cold are beginning to wear me down. Geography isn’t my strong point, but I guess the climate must match the altitude and location: landlocked desert thirty-six hundred feet above sea level. I try not to compare it unfavorably with the Atchafalaya and fail miserably, as usual.

  I enter the hut and wake my replacement, Tanner, who’s sound asleep.

  Your watch, Tan. Rise an’ shine.

  He sits up on his bunk, rubbing his hands together to keep warm while I brief him. It takes him a while to put on his clothes and pack his gear, but after he leaves, I hit the sack and pass out almost instantly.

  The alarm rings at 0600, and I rise to the sight of Garcia and Masood waiting outside the hut for their meetings with me. I take Garcia first: he seems much more composed than he was last night, and I tell him that, as a preliminary step, I’ll set up a meeting with a counselor at Battalion.

  The conversation with Masood is more complicated. Right off the bat I inform him that I’ve decided to move him in with Spc. Simonis. He looks surprised, and not entirely happy, which is understandable given that he’s only just arrived at the base, and I’m already shifting him around. When he asks why he’s being moved, I bring up Duggal’s complaint, without mentioning any names, and conclude that I’ve decided it’s the best solution all around.

  I’ll introduce you to Spc. Simonis, I tell him. He’s a sniper. A quiet guy, unlike the rowdy fellers you were with. I’ll have him walk you around and orient you to how we do things here. I’m sure ya’ll will get along fine.

  He bites his lip. I have met him, he says, and falls silent.

  In that case, you’re already ahead of the game, which is good, because it saves me work. I look at him and smile. That’s all, unless you’ve any more questions …

  He looks disconsolate.

  May I have some time to think about this, and then come back and meet with you again? he asks.

  Sure thing.

  He leaves, and next up is Pratt, which comes as a surprise, given the amount of time I spent with him on the Hescos last night. He stands there with his feet planted characteristically apart, but something about his expression lacks its customary stolidity. I eye him with a vague sense of discomfort myself, not sure what’s going on.

  Howdy, Specialist. What up?

  He thinks for a moment, and says: I dunno if I got any issues, First Sarn’t, but there’s certain things I’d like to talk about.

  Okay, shoot.

  What he comes out with transforms what ought to have been a perfectly straightforward meeting into something much more complex.

  D’you have any eddication about crows, First Sarn’t?

  Crows? No. Dogs and cats maybe, but not crows.

  He looks to his left, and then to his right, before looking back at me.

  A few years back, I was workin’ on a farm in Montana, attendin’ to sheep, he says. Boy, what can I tell you, First Sarn’t. I came to love thos
e animals. I loved their sof’ness an’ their kindness, but I hated the carrion crows that made them mis’rable. Each year in lambin’ season, the crows would swoop down in great black swarms on the newly borns. They’d peck at ’em an’ slash at ’em an’ scoop out their eyes—while they was still alive. Crows are bad news. At least vultures wait till you’re dead.

  He pauses for a moment, gazing at me, while I wait for him to get to the point. I know better than to hurry him. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other and continues to look at me. At length, having received some mysterious signal to resume, he says: So what I’m about to tell happened las’ night. After I got done with my shift, which was shortly after you’d left us, I hung aroun’ the dugout to keep Barela and Ramirez company. I musta fallen asleep, even tho’ I was still standin’ on my feet, ’cos the next thing I know I’m havin’ this dream.

  A dream?

  Yup, things that come to you in your sleep.

  Go on, Specialist, I say with a guarded calm.

  In this dream, see, I was lookin’ at birds like I never seen, crows an’ suchlike, but bigger, scrawnier. They was attackin’ that girl in the cart—an’ I knows she was a girl ’cos she had her veil off an’ I could see her face an’ also that she was cryin’ real hard—and the birds kept tryin’ to hose her while she kept tryin’ to bury her brother. She’d dug a hole in the ground like the ones she’d made earlier, but ev’ry time she tried to ease the body in, those birds attack’d her an’ screamed like they was furies or somethin’, and it was bad, real bad—it was a terrible scene to watch.

  He pauses again as I search through my pockets for a cigarette: I’ve a feeling I’m going to need it.

  Am I goin’ too slow for you, First Sarn’t? he asks.

  Inwardly I’m raging with impatience and raring to get on with the million tasks that I know are waiting for me, but I also know that if I don’t give him a hearing now he’ll simply turn up somewhere else. So I grit my teeth and say: Just keep talking.

  Thanks, First Sarn’t. Much appreciated.

  He lapses into a moody silence, as if remembering details.

  At length, he says: There was patches of blood all over the ground, an’ more blood drippin’ from the birds and spreadin’ all across the base, like.