Marine at War

by Merrell Michael

  I look around, and see I must be by myself. The path ahead of me is growing narrower. Inside there is a power line running up the ceiling. A bare extension cord, dangling loosely There is a large pile of wooden crates on the right wall. I pry one open with my Ka-bar knife. It is filled with mortars, gleaming metal mortars, brand new, with undented fins. Someone is calling my name. I suddenly realize how far down the caves I actually am, and start to retreat back to the opening. I follow the dim light, back to the platoon.

  “Mikey!” Schueher is yelling. “Why the fuck did you go so far!”

  “I found some mortars.” I say.

  “Theres a lot of shit back here. Wade’s calling in to the battalion. The Colonel’s probably going to send Force Recon over here, to deal with this shit.”

  ‘Force Recon? I thought this was ours.”

  “Politics, Mikey. Its all politics. Force is going to clear the caves, then the Army is going to come build a fire base near the village.”

  “So that’s it? We just leave?”

  “That’s what it’s all about. We’re the tip of the spear. That means we get to be first. It doesn’t mean we get to be the only ones.”

  ‘Roger that.”

  “And don’t fucking run off again.”

  We wait by the opening of the cave. A Blackhawk gleams in over the mountains. An angry hummingbird over a field of snow. A fast rope lowers. The operators spiral down. There are ten of them, with thick beards and black caps. Rielly talks with one for a while. They give a thumbs up and head into the caves. We make our way back to the village.

  The people have come out now. A child waves at we. They are cautious towards us, unsure of what we are doing. I see the shepherd, and toss his some candy from my MRE. We march up the cliff to the far side of the village, back to our camp.

  “Im fucking hungry.” Cory says.

  “We didn’t eat this morning.” Bill adds.

  ‘Schueher says the battalion forgot to supply us with MRE’s.”

  “How do you forget that?” John Sack asks. “Isnt that one of the rules of war? An army marches on its stomach.”

  “I guess they figured since were not Army, we can march on fucking nothing.”

  A lone goat wanders up the side of the mountain. It stops to lick up snow its fur is an ugly grey. It reminds me of a diseased cat that used to eat out of the garbage, back home. I wonder about that garbage, If any fast food was thrown out in it. A double quarter pounder, from Mcdonalds. That would be good.

  “Mikey. Let me see your rifle.”

  “What for, dude?”

  “I’m going to shoot that fucking goat.”

  I hand over the 16. Cory drops into the sitting position, and aims in. there is a familiar clap of thunder. The three familiar sounds on the M16. The goat lets out a shriek, then falls over. Cory makes his way carefully over across the snow. He drags the deer back by its horns.

  “Ever field strip a deer, Mikey?” Cory asks.

  “No. Cant say I have.”

  “Huh. Watch this shit.”

  Cory moves quickly and guts the goat, making determined cuts. Removing its skin and intestines. The blood is thick and red, and the goats eyes are large black pools. We start a fire, gathering sticks and trash. We cut long sticks, and roast the flesh slowly over the embers. When I taste it, I find that the goat meat is stringy and flavorless.

  “Do you think the Taliban were in those caves?” John Sack asks.

  “Probably.” Bill answers. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “Were going to be stuck out here one way or another. It doesn’t matter if they were ever in those caves.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more exciting to meet them?”

  “What?”

  “Huuagh.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “What I mean to say. Is that if you met the Taliban, in the caves, it would be exciting. And I could write about it. In my article.”

  “In your article.”

  “Huuagh. Yes.”

  “Why cant you write about this? Isnt this exciting enough.”

  John Sack’s eyes betray him. The vulture in him betrays him. He looks around our goat fire, and find no pity in us, no love of sensationalism to be found. He clears his throat again, then shivers, a deep old man shiver. When I am old, I want to be at home, in my house, with a bed and warm food. If I ever get out of here, I will go home, to that house, after the Marines. I will get a job that I can make a career. I will love my wife and daughter. And I will pray that I never have a son, a son who might one day crave adventure, and travel, and glory. A son that might one day find himself here.

  John Sack leaves us, then. In the village the call to prayer sounds. The wailing commences. I look across the mountains. I realize they remind me of something other than Indiana Jones. They remind me of an Old Lovecraft story, In the Mountains of Madness, about the great old ones, evil beings who lives behind a vast mountains range. A nameless evil. A faceless evil. Something that was rarely seen. Something that was more often felt.

  I hear the whistling in the air. I look at Cory to see if he is making the noise. His face is tucked deep into his scarf against the wind. He is shivering slightly. Next to us, I hear a deep thud. A puff of dust and snow rises.

  There is more whistling. In front of me, the ground explodes.

  “MORTARS!” Someone yells. “INCOMING!”

  Around us, the ground is lifting up. The air is thick with whistles. A SAW is howling its machine gun sound, blaring its noise Cory is shooting into the valley, at the village, while all around death is raining down on us. Rielly is yelling into the radio. I scramble down the mountain. My foot slips and I fall, head over feet. Above me another mortar explodes. The barrel of my rifle is dragging in the dirt. I suddenly realize I do not care, and where is my helmet, I need my helmet. I need something on my head. I need something else between me and the death.

  More whistling. The face of the boy. The faces of the women. The rocks and the prisoners.

  The Cobra is back, chaingun firing hard. Its rockets evaporate huts on the mountain. It turns again towards the caves, and the caves too are bathed in fire. There is cheering from our camp. I stagger back up the mountain. I feel the snow on my bare palms. It has a wet sting to it that leaves a bright red mark.

  When I reach the top, everything is a scene of confusion. Doc Buckley is working frantically on Rielly. Lieutenant Easter is yelling on the radio. I can see a piece of grey metal, sticking into Rielly’s scalp, just below his high and tight. His light blue eyes are open, and staring into a different world.

  TWELVE

  Back at Khandahar a ceremony is held in the terminal. The Colonel makes a speech in which he calls us all “We happy few” and “We band of brothers” no less then three times. I would feel better if I thought he was quoting Shakespeare. Instead I know that he has been watching HBO in the terminal. Sitting on his fat ass and watching HBO, while we have been in the mountains.

  Colonel Lynes is a wide, pear shaped man, with a comb-over. He gets excited when he speaks, and waves his arms about in wide circles, as if to include all of us in his excitement. We stand at parade rest in front of him, arms tucked behind us. He calls Wade “Wades”. After it is finished, he turns and salutes the memorial. The memorial is simple, a M16 rifle placed barrel down between his boots. His helmet is atop the rifle, and his dog tags are draped around the helmet.

  I think of the man himself. Wrapped in a plastic body bag and sent to Germany. I think of all his things, being put into their own, smaller plastic bags, and being sent to his bitch of a wife. An ex wife, now. She will tell the other man that her husband died a hero. That they never got to work out their problems. She will cry in his arms, and then he will hold her, and give her a nice tender fuck. I think of all this.

  I think of Turqious. I wonder if I have time to make a phone call.

  “Hey Mikey.” Bill slaps me on the shoulder. “Your team leader now.”
<
br />   “I am?”

  “I’m first squad leader. Scheuher’s platoon Sargeant. Everyone gets a battlefield promotion.

  ‘That’s fucking great.”

  “Isnt it.”

  ‘Their not going to let me make a phone call.”

  Bill shakes his head. “Probably not. Were headed up north to Kabul, to re open the US Embassy there. All we have time for before that is a picture.”

  “A picture?”

  “All the platoon’s are taking a picture in front of Khandahar Airport sign.”

  “So we have to.”

  “Its uniformity. All of us have to do the same thing.”

  “Of course we do.”

  “You want a cigarette?”

  We stand in front of the terminal and smoke. I inhale the camel deep into my lungs, hoping to taste the cancer. My nerves cool from their jangle. My stress goes down. All this will pass, I tell myself. All this will become history, new history that will be written with your name on it. With our name on it. All this will come to being. Rielly would have wanted to go like that, If he wanted to go any way at all.

  But are you jealous, then?

  Of what?

  Rielly has joined the club. Dead in his twenties, a name on a future memorial wall. Are you jealous? Are you ready to see whats next? I know what you believe. That activity itself is meaningless. Are you jealous then? Are you ready for drill Instructors to talk about you at boot camp?

  LANCE CORPORAL MICHAEL WAS

  A BRAVE MARINE

  HE GOT SHOT TO SHIT BY A MORTAR

  WHILE CALLING ON A HELICOPTER

  TO KILL A BUNCH OF SAND NIGGER

  WOMEN AND KIDS

  WRAPPED IN A RED RAG

  ASKING A QUESTION

  Of what?

  “Jesus, Mikey, c’mon!”

  “Sorry, dude. Guess I was zoning.”

  “That’s okay, man. Always knew you were a crack baby.”

  I see the picture, now. At this moment in time. I see The picture in black and white. I see the three ranks standing, the thirty or so of us. I see me sitting in the front. Next to Bill, Then Scheuher. I see The land around us. I am there, I am always there, I am at the airport, I am looking into the blue sky, I am looking at the snow melting on the dust and rock, I am there, I am at the airport, and I am having my picture taken.

  We fill up our water bladders and our canteens. We eat MRE’s and we strip rifle bullets into our magazines. We clean the carbon out of our rifle barrels. We fart and smoke and joke and laugh and talk. Maybe nothing can keep us down. Maybe the entire war is being run by us. Maybe Schueher is right. Maybe nothing matters but power, and we carry ultimate power in our hands.

  The five-ton trucks fill up with India company, all three platoons. I toss my pack into the back, and hop in. In seconds the trucks are filled with warmth from body heat. Bill leans his head back and goes to sleep. I look out the sides to the road. We pass the man gate leading past the perimeter. The Army waves as we leave. I see the fat Specialist with the tongue ring behind a 240 Golf machine gun, and I cannot for the life of me remember what his name is. The road wanders further into the mountains. The Airport shrinks smaller and smaller, until it is nothing but a child’s toy. We turn hard on the road and the cliffs of Afghanistan swallow it up.

  When I wake the road is desolate on either end. I look down and the road is paved, and nearly only wide enough for our truck. On either side of us is fields of tan nothing. Rocks and dust. Beyond that lie the mountains, white capped. We are driving along at a good clip. I look behind us at the truck in the rear, and then in front to the forward humvee. There is nothing to say we are anywhere.

  Marines are cramped inside the trucks. Some awake, some asleep. Uniforms stained with blood and dirt and dust. Snot and cum and drool and rock. Snow and rain and gunpowder. The sediment of life and death.

  We pass a checkpoint in the road. A haaji with a AK rifle stares hate from a shack. Next to him another haaji squats and takes a shit beside the road. His stool falls in brown coils, the truck bumps past the checkpoint, I aim my weapon in, and in my mind, I take the shitting haaiji’s life away. The trucks accelerate and rush past. We continue on the highway heading north, ever north.

  THIRTEEN

  The city happens a little bit, and then all at once. There is a house on the left, A stone hut. A woman with a donkey. A boy running past yelling “American! American! Biscuit! Biscuit!”

  A field of poppies. Green stems in red blossoms. The field opens up. More houses. And now a car. A jingle truck, painted bright pink and green. Covered in tiny silver bells. A man standing atop a van, holding his arms outstretched. The haaji king of the world. The Kabul Embassy is frozen in time.

  Outside the building is an ugly yellow brick. Our trucks park in the street. We scramble out with our weapons, ready for anything. There is litter all around the area. Several burnt out husk of cars sit in what used to be a parking lot. The courtyard has a round circle in front of it, with an empty flag pole. There is a little broken glass, in the lobby. Broad holes line the front of the door where an AK ripped through it. In the middle of the building, a metal eagle stares down at us from a government seal. Inside there are desks with the documents still on them, dating 1989. Cigarette butts still in ashtrays. Sodas left in cans and glass bottles, reduced to powder through evaporation. Pictures of President Ronald Reagan on the wall. Pictures of the Ambassador of 1989, mourning his assassination. A time capsule, of when things just started going to shit here.

  Bill and I are going through the offices, looking for signs of- anything.

  “So weird.” He says. “They didn’t mess with this place. Like their scared of it.”

  “Did you know coke still had glass bottles in 1989?”

  ‘I didn’t. I think they had plastic, then. I don’t know. I was, like, four.”

  “Hey, dude?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What if they stayed?”

  “Huh.”

  “I mean, what if they stayed, in Afghanistan? Do you think we would be dealing with all this shit now?”

  “Probably not. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe.”

  . Going down the stairs to the basement, we find an old chair lying in the middle of a concrete floor. I hear moaning. There is someone in the room with us.

  I raise my weapon to the ready. Bill does the same. I aim in down the red dot sight. There are empty tin cans, in the corner. The room is damp and stinks of filth. I turn on my surefire flashlight, and look past the chair. A man is laying on the floor. He is naked, and covered in dried blood. I can see only his back. He is shivering, slightly. He turns around to look at me, and I can see that most of his teeth are gone.

  “Mareen.” He says.

  “CORPSMAN!” Bill yells. ‘We need a Corpsman here!”

  There is the scramble of footsteps coming down the basement steps. Schueher is there, and Doc Buckley, and the translator. They surround the man, shoving past me. I back up, up the stairs. Next to me is John Sack. His camera is out, and he is wide eyed, looking for his pound of flesh.

  We meet in the cafeteria, Breaking out MRE’s over a red tablecloth. “When they open this place back up.” Cory observes. “I think they’ll take out all the ashtrays.”

  “Is that guy going to be okay?” I ask.

  “The translator says he used to work here.” Says Schueher. “The Taliban tortured him, right before we got here. He says he used to work here. In the eighties, I guess. I says he never left.”

  “look at this.” Bill points to the menu. ‘Twenty five cents for a pepsi. That’s eighties prices.”

  There is a flag raising ceremony later that day. All the state department staff gathers. I stand at attention with my rifle. Two Marines unfold the flag and mount it on the pole. As it raises, we salute. Lieutenant Easter gives a short speech, about how the flag was raised over the world trade center rubble. On September Eleven. A bronze plaque is placed in front of the pole:

  THIS FLAG WAS
RAISED OVER THE

  WORLD TRADE CENTER

  AFTER THE ATTACKS ON SEPTEMBER 11, 2001

  AND IS BEING PLACED AT THE

  UNITED STATES EMBASSY IN

  KABUL, AFGHANISTAN

  BY THE MARINES OF INDIA COMPANY 3/6

  The flag is a bright blur of primary colors. The air is cold and greedy. The flag cracks loudly as it flaps in the wind, and shivers run deep through my bones. I salute the colors, as a recording plays the star spangled banner on an Ipod speaker.