Limbo

by Melania G. Mazzucco

  9

  HOMEWORK

  On April 3, we were expecting a freelance reporter and photographer at Sollum. The brigade PIO had given his approval, and Pegasus was chosen to flank them for a story on Alpino activity in the province of Farah. The other noncommissioned officers resented this privilege. Rightly so, because I hadn’t done anything to deserve it. But the explanation was simple: Captain Paggiarin knew the presence of a female platoon leader so deep in hostile territory, at such an exposed FOB, guaranteed visibility. Freelancers usually managed to sell their stories only to small magazines, or local papers where the regiment was stationed. I had no desire to waste time letting reporters who wouldn’t even be on the base for twenty-four hours play war, but obviously I said, “Yes, sir.” When the reporter, wrapped in a blue shawl, climbed out of the helicopter and ran across the landing pad, we saw it was a woman.

  She was blond, plump, and pretty. Not so young that she was just chasing after adventure but not so old that she’d lost her taste for it. The soldiers stared at her as if she were an apparition. They hadn’t seen a woman who wasn’t armed and bundled in camouflage for three months. The combination of no sex and a whole lot of masturbation was making them hallucinate. The captain cursed under his breath. He didn’t want civilian women at the FOB, they only caused trouble. When, the year before, the ministry, hoping to raise morale on a less-exposed base, packaged up a show—complete with the requisite scantily clad dancers, TV entertainers of some kind, who were supposedly very popular but whom he’d never even heard of—he had refused, horrified. An Alpino regiment is not a circus. But this time they’d screwed him. “It’s Daria Cormon!” First Lieutenant Russo exclaimed with a smile. “I know her, she’s a good-luck charm, she’s been traveling the front for years. When she’s around no one dies.”

  Pegasus didn’t leave the FOB. Intelligence had issued a car bomb warning—a Toyota Corolla station wagon—on the S17 heading toward the village, so the captain canceled the outreach mission. The situation was too dangerous. Cormon, who hadn’t been told why there was a change in the program, begged, insisted, implored. She was prepared to sign a release form. “I’m visiting the village at my own risk, if they kill me, it’s my own fault. Just let me go.” “Absolutely not,” Paggiarin repeated. “I’m not risking my men for some newspaper article.” “Of course,” Cormon sighed, “I understand.” It was only noon.

  The distressed reporter ate combat rations with First Lieutenant Russo, Lance Sergeant Spina, and me. Russo asked her if it was true that in Kabul they called her the Blue Fairy. “I don’t know,” Cormon said, “but I wouldn’t mind if they did. I’m not a vampire looking for blood, I’m not here to make a name for myself on your backs.” The disheartened photographer took some pictures of the bomb dog, and then of Angkor: she was without a doubt the most photogenic member of the company. “A quartermaster who doesn’t even know what a machine gun is,” Jodice lamented. “They’ve never done a story on me. What kind of fucking image are they spreading of Italian soldiers, we’re not nurses here to hand out candy.”

  But the guests didn’t have time to get bored, because they got to experience an antitank missile attack. Cormon had been in Sierra Leone, Pakistan, and Rwanda; she didn’t scare easily. She followed us into the bunker, not frightened in the least. Civilians usually panic at the first explosion. I don’t know why, maybe some kind of gender solidarity, but I was glad that everyone at Sollum agreed: that blonde had balls. She had to interview me for her story. She told me so flat out. “I cover all my expenses up front,” she said. “If I sell a piece, I get paid, if not, I’m out that money. I’m thirty-nine, it’s not an easy or comfortable life. But I’m free, you know what I mean? No one tells me what to write.” “No one tells you what to write, but you can’t choose what you get to know,” I observed. Cormon smiled. “Okay,” I conceded, “but let’s not waste too much time. The situation’s critical, as I’m sure you noticed. I’m very busy.”

  We got off to a bad start. “Why did you join the military?” I was dismissive: “Everyone always asks the same thing, as if it were a weird choice. To me, that’s a sign of a country’s cultural backwardness. No one asks a female judge why she decided to become a judge, yet until forty years ago even the judiciary was off limits to women. I don’t have to explain or justify anything. It’s my profession.” “I know,” Cormon said, “and I agree. I asked because that’s what people want to know.” “I don’t discuss my personal life,” I specified. “But I think it was an encounter with a colonel that really changed my life. He treated me so badly that I wanted the ground to swallow me up. But what he said stuck with me. In a certain sense I’m here today because of him.”

  “Your mentor?” Cormon was curious. “No,” I answered, “it was at a party thrown by the army, I was still in school, he wouldn’t even remember me. The girls from tourism management and the kids in their last year of high school at Ladispoli had been invited to some patriotic event—a November 4 victory celebration. To be honest, I couldn’t remember which victory we were supposed to be celebrating, but I was curious to see some soldiers up close, so I went. There was a band playing the national anthem and a flag unfurled on the wall. I didn’t know then that the flag is a symbol, like the body of a nation, and that soldiers salute it every day. I felt like I was at a soccer stadium. They’d set up a buffet on the other side of the hall, but the snacks, pizza, and drinks were covered with a tablecloth, and you couldn’t go near it until the speech was over. The officers explained to the group of kids how the Italian Armed Forces are organized, that the army is made up of six branches—infantry, cavalry, artillery, combat engineers, communication, transport and materials—and three corps—administration and commissariat, health, and engineers. When the kids heard the word cavalry, they sneered and stopped paying attention because they couldn’t believe soldiers still rode horses in our Internet age. I listened attentively, even though I pretended to be as indifferent as the others. Because of the ruckus I couldn’t understand the difference between the light and armored cavalry, or what the connection was between the railroaders, pontoniers, sappers, pioneers, and the dog unit. I was hypnotized by all those specialized terms. The speaker concluded by reminding us that mandatory service would soon be abolished and that Italy, too, would then have an army of professionals. Volunteers would be dynamic, responsible young people ready to face new challenges and experiences, build character, and discover whether they were fit for military life. He wanted us to know that being a soldier in the twenty-first century would mean taking part in a good, modern profession that would offer an interesting and economically rewarding life of service to the community, or rather to the homeland—in other words, Italy. ‘Be proud to be Italian.’ When he finished they distributed fliers and brochures.

  “The kids had fun because they got to skip classes that day, but they didn’t really listen, and their brochures ended up in the trash. But I put mine in my pocket, folded in quarters like a Kleenex so no one would notice it. I feigned the same couldn’t-care-less attitude the others had. When a group is too tight-knit, it’s never a good idea to be the only one to take the other side. It’s better to pretend, and to act without the others knowing, so that no one will try to get in your way. Leaning against the wall, I drank Coca-Cola and spied on the officers. Their uniforms, boots, berets, and stars. They all seemed so sure of themselves. I furtively approached an old officer with a walrus mustache and a nose like a lumpy carrot. He was a colonel, but I didn’t know that. His shoulder loops, ribbons, and insignia didn’t mean anything, to me they were just scraps of fabric. I didn’t know that soldiers wear their history on their uniforms, like a book. ‘What do I have to do to enlist?’ I found the courage to ask. ‘Do I need to train? I’m a good swimmer and I run like a shot, but I don’t know how to ride a horse.’

  “The colonel turned around, surprised. These propaganda pilgrimages to schools, which the Ministry of Defense required, were like forced labor to him. I can understa
nd his annoyance and frustration now, even imagine what he was thinking. Young people today are apathetic cowards—dead dogs, as we call them in the military. They don’t want to work hard. Concepts like honor, dignity, and steadfastness haven’t touched them. The girls from tourism management preferred to flirt with the guys from the NCO Academy in Viterbo. And those big, horny boys took the bait. They’d been holed up in the barracks for months. But they’d been brought along on these school visits to serve as testimonials, because the young never listen to the old. The colonel looked me up and down. Back then I was skinny as a rail, black bangs hiding my eyes. Dressed like a million other kids in nowhere towns all over the world: jeans four sizes too big, a faded hoodie, a tattoo on my neck. ‘How old are you?’ he asked me. ‘I’ll be seventeen in May,’ I answered, trying to seem important. ‘So study, get good grades, graduate from high school.’ I shrugged my shoulders and blew the bangs out of my eyes. That’s what my mother always said to me. But I expected different advice from a military man. ‘We need to construct an elite army to represent Italy throughout the world,’ the colonel said. ‘We need mature, aware, motivated youth, not soccer hooligans.’ I turned red. I felt as ashamed as if he’d spat in my face. I disappeared into the crowd that was attacking the buffet table.

  “Basically, he made me realize that to become a soldier, you have to go through a selection process, compete, just like when you enter the workforce. And to earn a place you have to know things. Read, become informed, learn your history and geography. So I got it into my head that I’d never become a soldier if I didn’t fill the gaps in my education. I’ve never lacked willpower. My grades improved dramatically. In the end I surprised everyone—especially my mother. I got one hundred percent on my high school exit exam. I applied, ready to crush the competition. I became a volunteer for one year, what’s known as a VFP1. To me it was really something, but it was only the lowest form of military service. The first thing they told my echelon was that this year was a kind of test. To see if military life was right for us. That explanation annoyed me. I didn’t need any tests, I knew already. I didn’t consider myself just some volunteer passing through. I already felt I was a professional soldier. Private Paris.”

  Daria Cormon smiled. Maybe she wanted me to keep going, but to me it seemed like I’d talked too much already, and besides, I had things to do. I rushed through the rest of the interview in ten minutes. The usual questions, the usual answers. Is this a passion for you or a vocation? What does the fatherland mean to you? What’s it like commanding a platoon, have you encountered any difficulties as a woman, do you have a boyfriend, do the men respect you, are you afraid? It felt rehearsed. Cormon would have liked to ask completely different questions, and I would have liked to give completely different answers. But we couldn’t. Both of us knew it, so we kept to the script. I never asked if she was able to sell the interview, or if she’d send me a copy. The first time I was interviewed, back at the NCO Academy in Viterbo, the only woman in my course, I bought forty copies of the paper and gave them to friends and relatives. But I never recognize myself in the words they attribute to me, so I gradually stopped caring about my public image. I do my job and try to do it well. The rest is not my concern.

  Then Daria Cormon asked if I could show her the squad weapons. I stared at the tape recorder on the table. It was still running. In a conflict a reporter, even the most famous correspondent, never mind the lowest freelancer, is like the lowest-ranking soldier. You have a very limited view of the playing field, like when you’re seated behind the goal at a soccer game, or when you’re the ball boy. You get very little information, and you can’t verify it, can’t put the pieces together, you’re a puppet maneuvered by strings you can’t even see. You travel forty-eight hours to spend one day holed up in an advance base, buried in the sand, and maybe you won’t even sell your story. I had them call machine gunner Pieri. He was the best of my men, he deserved to have his picture in the paper, or an interview, some kind of recognition.

  Michelin was over six feet tall and ripped like a decathlete. An incredibly gentle soul despite his disturbing Terminator look. When, during training in Italy before deployment, he discovered that his commander was going to be a woman, he told the others—Nail, who had become my confidant, perhaps without even realizing it, told me—that he found the idea intriguing, he wasn’t upset at all by the strangeness of it. It was a new challenge, and he liked to set goals for himself. He came running, drying the sweat that ran down his cheeks from under his helmet. I authorized Private Pieri to accompany our guest to the shooting range. “Yes, ma’am,” Michelin said, without even lifting his eyes to look at her.

  Michelin didn’t sleep in his tent that night. I should have punished him, because it was strictly forbidden, and if he’d been found out or if something had happened, I would have paid for it. Steadfastness, honor, duty, integrity. But also good sense. Flexibility is the key to every human relationship. I pretended I didn’t notice. The visitors left at dawn, the grumpy photographer with a long beard, and smiling Daria Cormon, her hair wrapped in her blue shawl. At roll call Michelin had a hickey on his neck and was falling asleep. At the morning briefing Paggiarin asked me if Cormon’s visit had caused any problems; he was staunchly against outsiders at the FOB, but they didn’t understand that at the ministry: sometimes the media’s perception of the operation seemed more important to them than the operation itself. But it matters what you do, not what you say you do. “No problems, sir,” I said, “the platoon is very grateful to have been chosen.”

  * * *

  That evening, in the mess, the men called me over to their table and offered me a glass of prosecco. Cormon had smuggled in the bottle, she knew that the scarcity of alcohol at Sollum was demoralizing. I accepted, just a token sip, to show team spirit. But Zandonà filled my glass and I downed it. Later I learned from Nail that the platoon’s respect for their leader had increased after the Blue Fairy’s visit. Paris didn’t humiliate them just for the sake of it. She wasn’t like the college graduates, or the other parasites who kiss the officers’ asses to get even with the soldiers. She was on their side.

  “Tell her, Spaniard,” Michelin goaded him. “Tell her, tell her,” the others prodded. Jodice, sitting at the far end of the table, refused, protested, made them beg. “No, I’m not going to, women go all soft, she might think I’m doing it so I can ask her a favor, no.” “Tell her, man,” Zandonà insisted. “Paris is all right.” I didn’t understand what they were talking about. They were all excited. Giani’s eyes were wet with tears. “Spaniard scored,” Owl said with a wink. “Sarge,” Jodice finally said, “my heart’s melting.” Zandonà turned the laptop toward me so he could show me the DVD. From the soldiers’ expressions, I could tell they’d already seen it, and they were stunned.

  A sort of black funnel appeared on the screen, slashed horizontally by clearer streaks, lines almost. In one corner of the funnel was a spot. It was pulsating. I didn’t understand. “It’s my baby,” Jodice said. “This is the ultrasound, the Blue Fairy brought it to me from Herat, if I’d waited any longer for the mail to arrive, Imma would have already given birth. If you look, you can already see his little weenie, it’s a boy.”

  I couldn’t imagine what he must have been feeling, two thousand eight hundred miles from home, his son on a DVD, and rockets overhead. I’m not easily moved, and anyway, I had learned to keep my emotions under control. Besides, that microscopic dot that I could barely make out didn’t seem human to me or even alive; it was more like a star. I didn’t know what to say, or what all the soldiers pressing against me expected. I did know that their sharing their secret with me was a kind of initiation.

  “Congratulations, Diego,” I said. “You must be glad it’s a boy, you don’t really like women.” “It’s weird, right?” he said. “Here I am showing you the ultrasound, all emotional, like it’s me who’s pregnant, and you, Sergeant, you’re looking at me like I’m some sentimental little lady because you don’t give a
shit. Either the world is turning upside down, or one of us was born the wrong gender.” “I don’t think so,” I said, “and it’s not true that I don’t care. If you toe the line, I’ll send you to Dubai to see your girlfriend.” Jodice understood that it was a pact, not a promise. I held out my hand. He shook it, hard and for a long time. It was the coarse, callused hand of a soldier.

  * * *

  No sooner had the supply planes started making deliveries again, and spaghetti with tomato sauce and frozen fish started showing up in the mess hall again, no sooner had the snow melted on the mountain passes and the tracks were passable again, and the waning moon became a crescent, a sickle, a line of light, and finally nothing, then the order I’d been waiting for all winter arrived. This time it was for real. It was our turn. Ninth Company Panthers—Mars, Cerberus, and Pegasus platoons—departure at 2100. Cordon and search. Operation Goat 4.