A Hard and Heavy Thing

by Matthew J. Hefti

  Midway through the stream of men piling through the door, helmets and body armor in hand, a private dropped the Meal, Ready-to-Eat that he had been carrying between his teeth. Levi bent down to pick it up for him. “How’d it go?” Levi asked.

  As he lifted an arm so Levi could tuck the MRE into his armpit, the young kid smiled. “Outstanding. We rustle up more bad guys by 9 A.M. than first and second squads round up all day.”

  “Is that right?”

  His broad mustachioed team leader, Staff Sergeant Shane Havens, walked in behind the grunt and kicked him to get moving. “Hell no,” Havens said. “Most boring ten hours of my life.”

  During their first few months in country, the contact had been frequent and the improvised explosive device strikes had been plentiful, but the past few months of winter had been dead. The activity seemed to die almost instantly in late fall, and as the days with no action ticked by and as the string of boring patrols grew longer, every mission felt like an odd letdown. It felt like they had somehow won the war without doing anything. The deeper into winter they got, the more inevitable it seemed that each patrol was a perfunctory exercise in pretending their presence was needed. The winter rains seemed to keep everyone down, troops and insurgents alike. Levi was glad the slow winter was now over. From his perspective, the entire platoon had escaped a dangerous few months in which they had traded their motivation for complacency, and complacency killed more than the enemy.

  Rumors of the spring fighting season had so far been all talk, but the anecdotes from visitors on the logistical convoys had been enough to get them back into squaring each other away. The PowerPoints the LT showed them once a week with storyboards and SIGACTS from nearby villages had been enough to remind them of the hell of the previous summer when they had still been green and gung ho. Now that they were on the back third of their tour, they all seemed to have snapped out of their malaise, and now they were just waiting for the inevitable day when their own AO would explode again.

  Levi stumbled out into the dark, and not wanting to walk the fifty meters to the bathroom Cadillac, he looked around to make sure no one remained outside before he walked around the corner of the massive concrete bunker to take a leak in the rocks. He looked up, trying to determine if it would be a dry day. In the cloudless desert sky, every star shone brighter than if he were on the bluff back home. As he looked straight up, he tried to force himself to think a pastoral thought about the stars and moon being the same no matter where you are. He tried to think of something poetic or significant, but the sting of diesel exhaust in his nose and the roar of the generators ruined the nostalgia and sentimentality of it all. He shivered and tucked himself back into his PT shorts before returning to the bunker to get dressed and supervise his truck’s checkout before patrol.

  The bunker had turned into a bustle of men in various states of dress. Most of the returning members of third and fourth walked around in nothing but unbuttoned DCU pants and flip-flops, towels thrown over their shoulders. The remaining bleary-eyed soldiers milled about with bottled waters and shaving bags. Nick sat on an ammo box outside his cubicle with one boot on. He held one sock and stared at the ground.

  “Ever gonna put that sock on?” asked Levi.

  Nick didn’t move. “Eventually. But it’s hard work. And it’s early.”

  Levi banged on the plywood next to Nick’s bunk. “Hooper,” he yelled. “Let’s get this party started. An invocation please.”

  From behind the blanket covering the entryway he heard a loud belch. An empty can of Mountain Dew covered in Arabic scrawl came flying over the plywood. “Hooah, Sar’nt,” came the cry from Specialist Tom Hooper. Tom, along with nearly everyone else in the company, ignored syllables and said sergeant in the slow, southern way. The army way. Though Levi had been in the unit for the better part of a year, he still thought it sounded incongruous mixed in with the northern accents and swallowed vowels of the National Guard members from his home state.

  Tom flung aside the woobie across his door and stepped naked into the middle of the bay. His arms were tanned dark and the hair had been bleached by the sun, but his hulking torso was pasty white and covered with curly red hairs. He held a bullhorn to his lips. “Friends, Archers, countrymen,” he yelled. “Lend me your ears. I come to bury Ali Baba, not to praise him.”

  “Preach, brother,” came a yell from down the hall.

  Tom turned and continued his monologue toward the voice. “The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones. So let it be with Ali Baba.” Tom looked around. “Who’s with me?” he yelled.

  He was met with indifference. The men of Archer platoon had heard Tom recycle the same mangled Shakespeare soliloquies ad nauseam. The novelty had worn off for most of them. Levi, however, still loved it.

  “Thank you,” Levi said. “I have chills.”

  Tom nodded and ducked back into his cubicle. The plywood walls buzzed as he turned on the stereo he had bought from the PX on Anaconda their first week in country. Rowdy honky-tonk filled the bay. More yelling ensued, but the groggy obscenities at the rude awakening were shortly followed by grunts and whoops, guys playing grab-ass and pumping themselves up for the coming mission.

  Levi started to walk back into his own sleeping area, partitioned with more plywood and sheets, when he heard his name shouted from deeper down in the bay.

  Sergeant Havens waved him over. He leaned against the two-by-four frame that led into the LT’s room. When Levi reached him, Sergeant Havens clapped his hand onto Levi’s shoulder. “Ready to get called up to the bigs today?”

  Levi peered into the LT’s room. Second Lieutenant Michaels sat on a folding camp stool tying his boots. “Sure,” Levi said. “What’s up?”

  The LT stood up and turned to face a Humvee’s rearview mirror, which he had hung on his wall after it had blown off his truck in an IED strike last year. He brushed his long sandy hair, which never would have flown among the active duty officers Levi knew before he went Guard. “Your platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Roper, is at the battalion aid station. I guess he spent the whole night with rice and curried lamb coming out both ends.”

  “I got it covered, sir. No problem.” He tried to sound cool, but these were the moments he lived for. He was doing something important. He finally had a role, a place in the world, and he had gained a small modicum of responsibility with his new stripe. And now, his leadership entrusted him with more.

  Sergeant Havens spoke up. “Sir, I can just go out with you again. It won’t be a problem.”

  The LT shook his head and felt his hair with the palms of his hands. “Nuh uh,” he said. “You can’t lead third and fourth on missions all night, come back, and head out for another twelver. That’s crazy talk.”

  Sergeant Havens ignored him. “Sir, it’s not that big a deal. Under the circumstances, it’s our best option.”

  The lieutenant put down his brush, tucked in his shirt, and cinched his belt. “We all know you could go out again. Lord knows that no man has ever needed as little sleep as you.” He punched the staff sergeant in the shoulder as if he had just left his frat at UW-Whitewater a week ago. “Hotshot here can be my number two today. Can’t ya, Hartwig?”

  “Yes, sir. As long as you don’t call me hotshot anymore.” He said it with a smile, hoping to get his point across without sounding butt-hurt.

  Sergeant Havens turned on him. “He’s the leader of this platoon, which means he gets to call you whatever the hell he wants. Do you understand that, Sergeant Hartwig?”

  “Roger that, Sergeant.”

  “It wasn’t that long ago that you were a specialist,” Havens said in his low, patient voice. “Pretty sure we can make that happen again if we need to.”

  “Ease up, Havens,” said Lieutenant Michaels. “Levi’s my right-hand man today, the one to keep this greasy butterbar in line.” He flashed a grin at his own self-deprecation. “And hotshot?” He walked out his door and put his arm around Levi. “Just take
it as a compliment. Including Havens here, you’re the only NCO in the platoon with any active duty time. Which means—” He paused and elbowed Sergeant Havens in the ribs. “You have more experience than this tubby beer drinker right here, what with his one weekend a month and two weeks a year.” He elbowed Havens again. “Ain’t that right, Shane?”

  Sergeant Havens popped to attention and snapped off a mocking backwards salute. “Sir, yes, sir,” he said. He relaxed and chuckled at himself.

  Levi took it as a point of pride that he had been regular army before joining the Guard, and this irreverent behavior was still new to him, but he finally felt he had found his home. Contrary to what the other 99 percent supposed, the entire army wasn’t made up of dummies, rednecks, and gang bangers. It was made up of solid guys with colossal work ethics. It was made up of pragmatic souls, each with a strong sense of civic duty and a willingness to do something rather than talk about it. Most of the kids in the company had joined the Guard to pay for college and had educations themselves or would otherwise finish them soon enough. The Guard officers recognized that and often lacked the unearned moral superiority Levi had run up against too often in the active duty ranks. He wouldn’t trade his new unit for anything.

  The LT walked down the hall a few feet and grew serious. “All joking aside, Hartwig. You are the number two today, whether you like it or not. It shouldn’t change much, but be a second set of eyes and ears for me. I’ll ask for advice if I need it, but otherwise, take care of your truck and your guys like you always do. If we split up on contact to hold a cordon or for any other reason, you take second and I’ll take first squad. We’ll have Corporal Gassner fill the TC seat for Roper. It’s not optimal.” He shrugged. “But with these around-the-clock ops, we don’t have any more NCOs to spare.”

  “What about the empty seat?” Levi asked.

  “We’ll bring along Jellybean. Battalion has nothing planned for him today. We’re not planning on stopping to chat with anyone, but if we have the open seat, it can’t hurt to bring someone who knows the language.”

  Lieutenant Michaels slapped Levi on his bare back and started walking away. “And one last thing you need to know,” Michaels said as he turned around. “If I die, you’re in charge. And that would mean everyone is screwed.”

  “Easy, sir. Just don’t die.” He turned and went to get dressed and kitted up.

  •••

  An hour later, Levi stood next to his Humvee while a small circle of troops gathered in a huddle to pray before their mission. The few that there were—Nick, Tom Hooper, Specialist Pete White, who was Levi’s driver, and a few others—all took a knee in the gravel and started muttering together. Levi, meanwhile, paid attention to the things that could save him. He did one last check of his gear, one more inspection of his weapons, one more COMCHECK with the TOC.

  When the faithful had finished, Lieutenant Michaels, call sign Archer One-Six, gave the same briefings he’d given for the past 243 days since they had left the States. The same actions on contact. The same directions to blow through IEDs. The same questions to the privates about the rules of engagement, known as the ROE. The only thing different before this patrol was that when they went through the mission’s chain of command, Levi was second to the lieutenant.

  The speech was littered with letters, each set equaling words and phrases: TOC = tactical operations center; FOB = forward operating base; LSA = logistical supply area; PX = post exchange; QRF = quick response force; TC = truck commander; PMCS = preventative maintenance checks and service; victor = vehicle; HMMWV = High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle = Humvee; MSR = main supply route; PL = platoon leader; AO = area of operations; AIF = anti-Iraqi forces; ECM = electronic countermeasures; SIGACTS = significant actions; BOHICA = Bend over. Here it comes again.

  Instead of joining the circle of troops around the lieutenant, Levi lit a cigarette and let it dangle from his lips as he lifted his flak vest high enough to get to his fly. He pulled out his business and took a leak against the Humvee tire, squinting to keep the cigarette smoke from his eyes. He watched his stream wash the fine desert caliche from the rubber. Nick tossed bits of gravel at him from the staging area.

  “Pay attention to the briefing, numbnuts,” Levi said through the corner of his mouth. Nick laughed quietly, trying to avoid the ire of the lieutenant, and he tossed more rocks, trying to lodge them between Levi’s back and body armor. One of them stuck and fell right to the middle of Levi’s back.

  Levi prepared to set Specialist Nick Anhalt straight in a very grandiose and theatrical way so he could get a laugh and so he could show all the privates that—best and oldest friend or not—no one could dick with Sergeant Levi Hartwig, platoon sergeant, acting.

  Before he had a chance to showcase his machismo, Archer One-Six shouted, “Mount up.”

  Levi flicked his cigarette at Nick’s face. “Hey, thanks a lot, Annie. Now I’ve got this rock sticking in my back for the next six hours.” He started putting on his Kevlar helmet. “Here. Help me get it out.”

  “Stop being a pussy.”

  “For real, dude. Hold my rifle for a second. I’m not going on this whole mission with this rock back here.” Levi jumped up and down but nothing happened. “It’s stuck in there. Right between my shoulder blades.” Levi’s voice carried an edge. The sun had just come up, and the temperature had already soared to 90 degrees. His boxer shorts had already grown damp from the sweat.

  “I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” Nick said. He knelt and reached his arm up Levi’s back from the base of his flak vest. He rooted around the tight space, his arm sliding around against Levi’s sweaty back.

  Tom Hooper called down from the turret, “What the hell are you two cupcakes doing? Playing without me?”

  The LT stood by the shotgun door of the third Humvee as he buttoned his chinstrap. “You two can snuggle later. Mount up.”

  Nick stood. “Got it. Here ya go.”

  Nick dropped the pebble into Levi’s hand. As Nick walked away, Levi dropped it down the back of his friend’s body armor. Nick wiggled and tried to get it out while he walked. Before he climbed into his own Humvee, he called over his shoulder, “Really, Levi? You really are a one-way prick. You know that?”

  “That’s Sergeant Hartwig to you,” Levi called, only half in jest. He stood by the right side of his own truck, the second one in line. “Love you, Annie. Eyes up out there.” He grinned at him, amused with himself for getting the upper hand. Nick was still hopping around by his driver’s side door when Levi buttoned up his own victor and started briefing his men.

  For months after, Levi often stared sleeplessly at the billowing canvas vents above his cot thinking, So much depends upon a piece of gravel, dusted in desert sand. For years after, he stared sleeplessly at his popcorn-textured ceiling, marveling that it was little details on which the whole world turned. For the rest of his life, he would obsess about the stupid, galling, rebarbative, pestilent, abrasive, carking rock.

  2.2 DON’T ACCUSE ME OF PUTTING WORDS IN YOUR MOUTH; I’M JUST

  TRYING TO LEARN EMPATHY

  OR

  FEEL FREE TO KEEP CONSIDERING ME

  AN UNRELIABLE NARRATOR

  Nick squirmed behind the steering wheel of the lead Humvee, unable to take his mind off the rock that had been digging at him for the past sixty minutes. He tried leaning forward to relieve some of the pressure on his shoulder blade, but that proved futile because the added girth of the body armor made it impossible to move behind the steering wheel, and it wasn’t like he was a small man to begin with. The piercing of the rock and the sting of sunburn on his back made him imagine the road opening up and swallowing him to put an end to it all. The narrow dirt roads lined on each side by deep canals filled with sewage water—perfect for corralling convoys into kill zones—were likely to open up in a flash of fire and steel anyway. He figured it might as well happen when he was already miserable.

  To make matters worse, his acting truck commander was now Cor
poral Brody Gassner, who was a stickler for the rules. He cut his sideburns straight off, right above his pasty white ears, and he wouldn’t let anyone in the truck smoke. All the privates called him Gasser behind his back, and the noncommissioned officers had no qualms about saying it to his face.

  “I’m dying here, Gassner. Let me smoke.” Nick took his eyes off the road and looked over at his TC to see if he might give in.

  “No chance, Annie.”

  Nick’s mood darkened even more. “Don’t call me Annie.”

  Gassner looked out his window over the butt stock of his down-turned rifle, his right foot resting on the row of sandbags that covered the floor of the Humvee.

  Nick kept himself from cursing at his squad leader and he tried to control his mounting rage. “Stop being such a gas, Gassner.” It sounded juvenile, even to his own ears, but the guy was unreasonable.

  The comment only caused Gassner to hole himself up in his professionalism even more. He donned his mask of combat readiness and slipped on the rules like a pair of comfortable house shoes. “Look alive, Specialist Anhalt. Eyes front.”

  Nick tried all the tricks he could think of to keep his mind off the rock against his sunburned back. He sang at the top of his lungs. He started with “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey, but the register was too high and he broke into a coughing fit before anyone joined him. He sang mad parodies of patriotic country songs, but no one paid him any attention. His squad mates stared out into the tall grasses that lined the canals, perking up only when they passed inhabited qalat compounds. No one in the vehicle was in a mood. Or, they were all in a mood.

  Nick started hitting Tom Hooper’s leg, which rested behind his right shoulder. Tom stood tall and ominous in the turret of the Humvee, not apt to think twice about putting a .50 caliber projectile through the torso of a brown man digging on the side of the road after curfew. Nick kept turning in his seat and hitting Tom’s leg. Nick shouted, “We’ll put a boot in their ass, right Tom? We’ll put a boot in their ass?” Eventually, Tom—in whose mind Toby Keith was only slightly less culturally significant than William Shakespeare—took great offense to Nick’s scorn of hard-working and righteously angry Americans. He kicked Nick in the head from the gunner’s sling that sat in the middle of the Humvee. This shut Nick up for a while and he went back to stewing in his own sweat and frustration.