Marine at War

by Merrell Michael

  “Do you think we can smoke back here?” I ask.

  “Probably not. But that guy was doing it, so I say go for it. And give me one too.” I fish my last pack of camel’s out of my pocket. After taking one I hand the pack to Cory. Cory points to the script. “You see this?”

  “see what?”

  “Right here, on the package. Its says smooth American blend.”

  “Yeah, so? Its made in America. RJ Reynolds.”

  ‘In America, it says smooth Turkish blend.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. Its all just fucking advertising, man. Whatever’s exotic in wherever you are.”

  We smoke and gaze at the prisoners. They murmur to us, smelling the smoke. Cory steps in close and blows a cloud into a sandbag. The detainee whips his head back and forth, then cowers.

  “What do you think these guys have done?” I ask.

  ‘Does it matter?” Cory says. “That’s not how it works, anyway.”

  “Okay. How does it work?”

  “Spooks and mercs go out into villages. Say, we’ll give you money for Taliban. Give us Taliban. These guys, they sell whoever as a Taliban. Or, random guy’s found with a gun and a weapons, on a raid. He comes here, on a one way stop before Gitmo.”

  “That’s kind of fucked.” I say.

  “Fuck em. Its kind of whatever, to me.”

  Excuse me, old chap.” A sand bag says, in an English accent.

  Everyone suddenly stands still. The privates stop their laughing. Everyone puts out their smokes. The voice was unmistakable not-haaji. The voice was one of us.

  “Might I trouble you for a glass of water?”

  The detainee is wearing a grey suit without a tie. Instead of being barefoot he is wearing brown leather oxfords. Cory steps forward, between the trembling rag-head. He loosens the knot on the sandbag, and pulls it off.

  Underneath the face is dark and brown, with a full black beard. Small square glasses, with cracked frames.

  “I’m rather thirsty.” The haaji says.

  No one can think of anything to say. Cory replaces the bag, and cinches it tight. As he walks away the detainee starts to yell.

  “Please! I..I would like a drink!”

  “Yeah, motherfucker?” A big black private replies. “Well, I would like my towers back.”

  Fist bumps are exchanged laughter tittles the air, the ice having been properly broke. “I thought that was some white dude.” The private says. “Some English guy.”

  “He probably is English.” Cory says. “An English rag-head, getting ready to blow up big ben. Like in that movie? With the guy with the knives and that weird mask. With the prince valiant haircut and the mustache. You know, the guy from the Matrix.”

  “Hey!” The merc is back. “Is this fucker causing shit?”

  The merc strides up to a completely random detainee, and kicks him square in the chest. The haaji screams, and the merc kicks him again. “Don’t let these fuckers give you any shit.” The merc says. It’s the law. These guys have no rights.”

  The big private is the first one with a rock.

  He weighs it in the air, a large yellow stone. Tosses it once or twice, up and down. As if to take a measure of its heft. He cocks back, like a pitcher. I swear I can hear the wind whistle, when he follows through, and lets it fly. There is an audible pop, on impact. The sandbag ripples. The detainee under it screams, howling in his own language.

  “That was fuckin’ a, man.” The merc says. “Chuck another.”

  Cory bombs another rock into the mass. This time there is no sound, which invites more stones. I pick up a medium sized piece of rubble, and aim center mass, chucking it. There is a stream of pebbles in the air. After nearly a minute, the merc waves us off.

  “That’s enough shit, guys.” He says. “We need most of these dudes to talk, later.”

  Cory is grinning from ear to ear. There are exchanges of fuck you’s, and that’s what Im talking about. We break off from the working party. On the way back we fill our water bladders from a large green tank. Back at the hole Bill is dozing slightly, his boonie cover pulled over his eyes. I wake him and tell him what happened.

  “That’s fucking real, dude.” He says. “I hate how all they use these days are these contractors. Those dudes are pulled down, like, six figures for one tour out here. And they can do what the fuck. No rules of engagement are whatever.”

  “He was right, though.” I say. “Wasn’t he?’

  “About what?”

  “Those guys. Those guys really have no rights.”

  “Yeah. But fuck em. Is your liberal hippie heart breaking?” Bill points down the line of holes. “Go bleed out your vagina to our new Embedded reporter.”

  “An embedded reporter?”

  “Yeah. Guys name is John Sack. He says he knew Hunter S. Thompson.”

  “Hunter S. Thompson? Really?” The old man has a head full of white hair. Schueher is excitedly babbling away to him, spewing nonsense. I get up and head over.

  “I really had a desire to serve my country since childhood. I think it was the way I was brought up. Of course I chose the marines. What other choice was there? I mean, really. The marines are america’s knights, America’s Spartans. They make all the movies about us. We have the best looking uniforms. When I first started my enlistment, I was sent to the Marine Barracks at Washington DC. We do all that drill you see. In the videos. You’ve never seen it? Were all in dress blues, marching around with rifles. Its tradition.

  I enlisted after nine-eleven. I was planning to enlist before. I really think you have to hold all this in perspective. America was attacked. We are Americans police force. We step up when no one else will. We answer the call. How long will we be staying here? I don’t know. I would stay as long as its needed. As long as its needed to get the job done.

  My politics? Im sworn to defend the United States, regardless of the leader. Personally, I can tell you that I am an independent. I will say that I thought President Bush did a damn fine job. Kept the country safe, for eight years. That’s the true test of a leader, in this day and age. The ability to keep his people safe. And to fight for freedom.

  Hobbies? I enjoy movies. I personally enjoy Full Metal Jacket, Heartbreak Ridge. My favorite performance of all time, is Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men. Now there was an excellent Marine. It broke my heart what they did to him in there.

  Im from Ohio, Cleveland. Ohio actually has the highest amount of individuals enlisting to serve our country than any other state. Do I have someone waiting for me? Yes I do. Her names Meg. Heres a picture. Were very fond of each other. Go buckeyes. What’s Up, Mikey?”

  I stare down, into the foxhole. Scheuher has grown most his hair back on his head. You could say he looks handsome. John Sach looks to be an old, old man. He wears tan shorts, with black socks, and loafers. His pale thighs have impossibly blue veins criss crossing their way up to his groin. His nose appears to have grown for centuries, and to have grown furiously, bulbing outward with broken veins. He is a definition of absurdity, sitting in our fighting holes, with his little cassette recorder and scratch pad.

  “This is Mikey.” Scheuher says. “One of our problem children.” A laugh. “No. In all fairness, he’s a fine Marine. One of our top shooters. In fact, after deployment, he’s going to try out for the AScout/Sniper platoon. Isnt that right, Mikey? Mikey?”

  “Did you really know Hunter S. Thompson?’ I ask.

  “Hurramph.” The old man coughs. “Yes. I knew Hunter. He was a good- a good.” There is a pause for some more general hacking. “A good friend. His drug use, though, was tremendous.”

  “Who do you write for?”

  “Im writing an article for Esquire. I might turn it into a book, though. I haven’t decided. Its all a little unclear, at present. I have to see how much there is. How much story, story I can get.”

  “That’s enough, Mikey.” Scheuher’s voice grips a dangerous edge. “Go back to the hole. Keep digging. And wake Bil
l’s ass up.”

  I walk the fifteen yards back to my hole and grab my E-tool. Instead of digging, I slump down next to Bill and stare at the floor of dirt. I am thinking about a super bowl advertisement. A bunch of People sitting around, watching football. Cheering. Cut to: A bunch of soldiers in the desert. Sitting around. Watching football. Cheering. Looking at the faces of the civilians, they look Hollywood fake. Too good looking. Too cheerful. Why did I not think the same of the soldiers? It was Schuehers fault, maybe. Schueher and the Schueher before him. Trying to sell a product. One Marine, fresh out of the box. Or jar.

  There is a crunching sound of footsteps coming near me.

  “Hello, there.” John Sack says.

  “Hello.” I reply.

  “Do you mind if I come in?” He asks.

  “Make yourself at home.”

  With a general grunting and groaning, many aaa-haaaaghs, a creaking of his bones, Sack sits down in the foxhole. “Some place you’ve got here.”

  “Thanks. Were trying for that down-home touch.”

  “What do you think of your friend, Ryan Schueher?”

  “I think he was stringing you along a chain of shit. I think that’s what he does, mostly. The guy’s full of it.”

  Sack nods. “That is pretty much my impression, as well. I run into that problem, sometimes in these situations. Talk to the wrong man, the one that just wants to give the company line. I ran into it a lot in Korea. Not so much in Vietnam, once things went to hell out there, the grunts were pretty up front with everything.”

  “You’ve been doing this a while?”

  Sack’s eyes grow misty. “Ive covered every war since the big one. I think that this, this will be the end of it, for me.”

  “Did you know Norman Mailer?”

  “I ran into him, once or twice, in New York. He had a problem with drink. Beat his wife.”

  “I read Naked and the Dead, when I was, you know, before. It’s a pretty good look at all this. All this mess.”

  “Are you aware that he was a cook? You’ve got a leg up on him, there. He wrote about war , and, in the army, he was just a cook.”

  “I guess your right. I thought about writing.” I take a deep breath. “I thought about writing something, about all this. But being here, I can see why most people just try to forget. Just try to bury it all down, and forget.

  “But its important, to remember.” John Sack is solemn. It’s important, to record, and to remember what has happened. To prevent others from making the same mistakes.

  “I don’t think there is any preventing. I think the same things just keep happening, over and over.” I take a deep breath, and then I tell him about the detainee and the rocks.

  SEVEN

  Osama’s revenge is a powerful thing.

  It happens a week and a half in-country. The stomach pains. The diarrhea. Blowing out my ass countless MRE’s. It wouldn’t be so bad, if there were better conditions to shit in.

  There is a large bit, about a hundred yards from the foxhole line, behind the perimeter. At first it is filled with garbage and refuse. But then, A cushionless chair is disgarded near the edge. Someone tired of hiding their turds with an E-tool finds a natural use. Neccesity is the mother of invention.

  The pit is bombarded with feces. I hold out as long as I can. But one night, it finally hits me. And I find myself hanging out, over the pit, naked to the night sky. My turdlets splattering below Growing more and more intangible. Lacking in consistency. I think of falling into that hell-pit, and being forever swallowed by that void.

  The revenge continues, for nearly a week.

  Better shitters are built. Wooden shacks built in a line. Inside are tin drums filled with kerosene. A plywood cover atop, with a round hole cut out. My new throne. I humble myself atop its majesty, two or three times a day. In this fashion, I meet the natives.

  They have brown skin and wear what looks like pajamas to me. Their native dress. Some are barefoot, and some have well-worn rubber flip flops. All of them are fairly short. They reek of body odor. Their purpose is to burn my shit. They take the drums of shit and stir them, with long branches. The shit sends up clouds of black smoke. One of them stirs, and one of them seems to watch the smoke. They smile at me, as I come out, from doing my business. All I can think of, is I want to go home. It is Christmas Eve.

  Today is the day we receive mail.

  There is a letter for Bill and A magazine for me. There is a package for both of us.

  “Look, dude.” I unwrap the Magazine. “I got my issue of X-Men. All the way out here. Isnt that cool?”

  “Who is that, Wolverine?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  ‘Read this, dude. Read what that fucking bitch says.”

  Billy,

  I think that this time has been coming for a while and that weve both been postponing it but I think that were good friends and we should stay friends but I think that there isn’t any point in continuing things the way they are the way we have been doing. The distance has really hurt the relationship and I thought I could deal with it but I guess im not strong enough I guess that’s my flaw and I will have to live with it. The way you acted back in September really hurt I don’t think Stan deserved to be treated that we he is just a friend I am allowed to have friends. If I have feelings I am allowed to they are my feelings I will not apologize for them. I think that its best if we get some time apart so please do not call for a while until things are sorted out. I care for you and wish the best for you.

  Karen

  What should I write back?” He says.

  “I don’t know. Use the back of an MRE, for a postcard.” Bill starts to frantically scribble.

  “Okay. What about this:”

  Dear Bitch,

  You broke up with me on Christmas Eve, in a foxhole in Afghanistan. Go fuck youself, and burn in hell.

  Your Marine Boyfriend

  “I think that says it all, dude. I really think it does.”

  “You do? Thanks. I worked on it, for a while.”

  “Lets see whats in the Care package.

  Deer Soldjer:

  Thank u for serving or country. Her are sum stuf u wuld lik.

  Bobby

  “Is it from Texas?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Texas? Bobby? King of the Hill?”

  “I always hated that show. I’m glad it got canceled.”

  “Why? It was good.”

  “It was too boring, and just, too slice of life. Give me family guy. Or aqua teen hunger force.”

  “Here’s the postmark. Its from New jersey.’

  Inside the box is an assortment of deodorants, shaving cream, and socks. I immediatedly change my socks, for no reason. We divide up the razors and the shaving cream. I read the rest of the X-Men comic, and then give it to Bill, who passes it on to Schueher. In the issue Wolverine is fighting in desert storm, in desert camouflage. Every so once in a while Marvel Comics feels the need to update the characters, to make them relevant. Someday, references to Afghanistan will no longer be relevant, and will be relegated to past issues, along with references to Ronald Reagan, the cold war, Nixon, Vietnam. We want our heroes to exist alongside up. Here, today. And not in the past.

  That night the air is cold and Reilly and Schueher are sitting with me and Bill waiting for the sun to go down. Once again, its twilight. The deep blue black approaches.

  “Its Christmas.” Rielly says. “Anyone care?”

  “I don’t think they have Christmas here.” Bill says. “Its not a muslim holiday.”

  “The commandant’s supposed to walk the lines tonight. Along with the Sargeant Major of the Marine Corps.”

  “Isnt he the guy that doesn’t like Full Metal Jacket?’

  “That was the old one. This one, he gave R. Lee Ermey an award.”

  An awkward silence. Night is here in its completion. “I got broken up with, Sargeant.” Bill says. “On Christmas Eve.”

  “That’s pretty shitty.
” Reilly says. “Mine left me back on the boot. We were together all throughout my days at force, and then, bam. I stayed with her ass throughout breast cancer. Ungrateful bitch.”

  “I stay single.” Schueher says. “Its better that way .”

  “What about that girl?” Bill says. “The short one, from Ohio?”