Youngblood

by Matt Gallagher

  “Sir? The service kicks off in fifteen. First Sergeant wants everyone there ten minutes early.”

  “We’ll be right down.”

  Dominguez left, the door still ajar.

  “Well,” I said to Snoop, slapping my thighs as I rose, “let’s do this.”

  He nodded, mumbling to himself in Arabic. It sounded like a prayer.

  •  •  •

  Ortiz’s memorial service began with a company roll call. Four platoons abreast in the gravel courtyard behind the outpost, called to attention by First Sergeant’s booming, brassy voice. The crushed pebbles under our boots simmered after another day of unrelenting heat. The sunset wore a thin ribbon of clouds like a garter, and a pale wind carried the flavor of sewer into my mouth.

  “Batule!”

  “Here, First Sergeant!”

  “Butler!”

  “Here, First Sergeant!”

  I stood behind the platoon, Chambers in front of it, chest out and back straight as a date tree along the canal. I snuck a glance behind me at Captain Vrettos, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, anxious and exhausted as ever, his skeletal frame threatening to tip over. Behind him, in a formation of their own, were the terps. A couple tried to imitate the position of attention, but only Snoop had it right, shoulders square and heels together, toes pointed out at a forty-five-degree angle.

  “Demo!”

  “Here, First Sergeant!”

  “Dominguez!”

  “Here, First Sergeant!”

  It’d been three weeks since I’d broken into the commander’s room and Alphabet had been killed. This was our fourth service since that night. The first for Alphabet, whose fiancée found out about his death on Facebook hours before a military chaplain came to her door. The second for Mackay of headquarters platoon, after he turned himself into pink mist in a Porta John. The third for Reed and Dela Cruz of first platoon, whose Stryker rolled over a mine packed with a charge of eight hundred pounds of high explosive. The vehicle had gone poof into the stonewashed sky, and someone’s small intestine knotted around a telephone wire. The wire was cut down to retrieve the intestine, much to the locals’ displeasure, but it had been impossible to figure out whom the organ had belonged to. Reed? Dela Cruz? One of the survivors, sent home to a half life of amputated limbs and never-ending VA appointments? We’d guessed Reed, and included it in his pile.

  “Lieutenant Fields!”

  “Here, First Sergeant!”

  “Gilotti!”

  “Here, First Sergeant!”

  No one else at the outpost knew about the sworn statements. I’d considered sharing them with Captain Vrettos, but he’d never get over the breaking and entering. Confronting Chambers about them seemed reckless. I’d toyed with the idea of confiding in Dominguez or Snoop, but knew neither could do much. I’d folded up the statements in my Lawrence of Arabia book, figuring that’d be the last place anyone would look, especially Chambers. Then I hid the book inside the trunk under my bed, which now had a metal lock of its own, because I now had secrets of my own.

  Only Will knew. He was in the process of tracking down the two officers from First Cav, Grant and Tisdale. “It’s a small army,” my brother had said over the phone. “And a smaller officer corps. I’ll find them. Then we’ll make sure Mister Kill Team becomes someone else’s problem.”

  He’d also repeated his suggestion about finding an Iraqi willing to write a statement about Chambers’ actions in 2006. Alia had played dumb again, Haitham had disappeared again, and Fat Mukhtar had demanded to speak to the Big Man before writing anything about an American soldier. I’d backtracked immediately, telling Snoop to blame it on a translation error, something he’d sulked about for a couple of days.

  In the meantime, Ashuriyah burned.

  “Ibrahim!”

  “Here, First Sergeant!”

  “Janis!”

  “Here, First Sergeant!”

  It wasn’t just Ashuriyah, either. All of greater Baghdad seemed trapped in the amber of violence. Sadr was threatening to lift the Mahdi Army cease-fire while the media aired reports about when the rest of Iraq would return to chaos, its inevitability not even a question. Rumors swirled that the generals at division believed our town was the catalyst for the resurgence of attacks, something that hung over Captain Vrettos like a gallows rope. PowerPoint slides and briefings now included terms like “containment” and “body counts,” and not ironically. We weren’t even supposed to call the outpost an outpost anymore, because of the Status of Forces Agreement with the Iraqi government; it’d been declared a “joint security station” to stay open.

  “Ortiz!”

  A balmy hush filled the courtyard. I resisted the urge to scratch my shoulder blade. A finch sang in the day but was not answered.

  “Private Diego Ortiz!”

  Someone in the ranks whimpered. The finch called again, still with no answer. Into the dusk dripped the smell of yesterday’s blood.

  “Private Diego Santiago Ortiz!”

  The pale wind gasped. “He is no longer with us, First Sergeant,” Chambers said. A three-volley salute of fire followed.

  Crack.

  Crack.

  Crack.

  There were no more birdcalls.

  Time melted. A bugle sounded taps. The Big Man gave a speech about sacrifice and duty. My throat was dry and scratchy for want of water. We lined up one at a time to say our good-byes. A portrait of Ortiz leaned against a stack of sandbags, in front of a pair of his spare tan boots. His rifle was black and shiny, wiped cleaned of blood and sand, and mounted into the ground, muzzle down, with the bayonet fixed. A helmet sat on top of the rifle’s buttstock and a set of stainless-steel dog tags was wrapped around the vertical grip. The tags read:

  ORTIZ

  DIEGO, S.

  240-83-6230

  O+

  ROMAN CATHOLIC

  I was last in line. For some reason, for no reason, for all reason. Hog finished ahead of me, whispering the words of the Lord’s Prayer before walking away. The words “kingdom,” “glory,” and “power” cut through the air with Protestant severity. I wondered if Ortiz’s family would appreciate a Cotton Belt Baptist’s supplication for their son. It probably didn’t matter.

  I stared at the portrait. He looked older in the framed photograph than he had in person, his eyebrows more prominent, his chin fuller. The “Welcome to Iraq” speech I’d given him was the only meaningful conversation we’d had. He’d been a good soldier. That was what Dominguez said, anyhow. The burden of the moment felt like a boulder bearing down, and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to feel more or less guilty than I did. I stroked the corners of his dog tags and wondered why there were still rubber sound silencers on them.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I tugged at the bracelet on my wrist, studying the pattern of the beads, red, green, yellow, red, green, yellow.

  I started a Hail Mary, but stopped a few words in. I couldn’t remember all of it. I saluted and took a few steps toward the outpost.

  “You all right, sir?”

  I turned around. First Sergeant had been behind me the entire time, his hulking frame a silhouette against the swelling purple sky.

  “I’m good. Thanks, Top.” I paused and tried to think of something worth saying. “We have a couple angels looking over us now, you know?”

  First Sergeant’s face remained stiff. “Yes, sir.”

  He grabbed Ortiz’s rifle by the rail guards and asked if anyone in my platoon needed it. I shook my head and said we were good. He told me to take it anyhow.

  19

  * * *

  That summer, I learned the fate of a college friend named Randy Chiu. He’d been a few years ahead of me in ROTC, a fraternity brother, and, having grown up in Irvine, he was another suburbanite exiled to rural Oregon. He’d deployed to Afghanistan, but it was all the same war because the same people were fighting it—on our side, at least.

  Most of the cadet class of 2005 had signed
contracts in the days and weeks after 9/11. Some claimed they did it for honor or patriotism, while others kept hidden dreams of battlefield glory. Not Chiu. No, Chiu signed his ROTC papers on September 10, 2001, after his parents told him they’d lost everything in a poor investment and couldn’t afford a private liberal arts education anymore. The army could, though, and the recruiting officer was all too happy to bring in a cadet of Chiu’s academic merit.

  Whenever the timing of his ROTC contract signing came up, Chiu talked like his immigrant grandmother. “Wahhndy,” he said, “you have wuck of wingless bird.” Then, back in his own voice, he’d add, “Growing up, when she said that, I always just thought Grandma was a mean, cranky B-word. Turned out, she was right.”

  Of Taiwanese descent, Chiu was one of four minorities in our ROTC program, and the only Asian. Vietcong jokes were relentless. Chiu went along with them, often volunteering for the role of the enemy—the nefarious bad guys from our operations orders were always nationless and colorless—during field exercises in the woods behind the ROTC department.

  “It’s awesome being the bad guy.” Chiu liked to brag about being a forest jihadi. “The cadre shows us where to attack, but never stays with us. Guaranteed nap, every time. Plus, one time I watched a soccer girl and a Sigma Chi hook up on a bench by the lake. They didn’t think anyone could see them.”

  As fellow cadets, we learned to tolerate Chiu and his idiosyncrasies. Most of the cadre, though, as professional military men and women, didn’t know what to do with him—he couldn’t march, he couldn’t shoot, and he couldn’t help but turn every aspect of training into a circus. But Chiu could make people laugh, even adults, and that can take someone a long way. The only person Chiu could never crack was Sergeant First Class Miller. Sergeant Miller seemed to hate Chiu, which made sense, because Sergeant Miller hated everyone. A combat veteran of the famed Ranger Regiment, none of us could figure out how or why the Vein (a nickname we whispered behind his back, due to a huge blood vessel that bulged from his forehead) had been assigned to an ROTC unit in wartime.

  The other cadre members were approachable and friendly, overweight and nearing retirement. The Vein was rarely approachable, never friendly, and as far from being fat as he was from retiring. A fist of a man, he led our 6:00 a.m. physical training sessions on weekday mornings, loudly conducting exercise drills outside the dorm windows of oversleeping cadets until they joined us. No one dared defy Sergeant Miller, not unless one counted Chiu’s detached perplexity as defiance.

  We were more concerned about Chiu’s relationship with the Vein than Chiu was. He simply attributed it to some sort of existential difference. “We’re just oil and water. Fire and ice. Military service and Young Republicans!”

  Leadership labs occurred every other Thursday afternoon for three hours. The first twenty minutes were spent drawing dummy rifles, made of a hard synthetic rubber, from the arms room. Then we marched to the woods and executed various drills under the guidance of Sergeant Miller. One bright spring day, at the beginning of training, the Vein asked for volunteers to serve as the enemy ambushers. Chiu’s hand shot into the air.

  “Not today, Chiu,” the Vein said. “Today you’re going to learn some actual infantry tactics, whether you like it or not.”

  “A simple no would’ve worked,” Chiu muttered. Three other cadets were selected.

  Once the chosen enemy disappeared over a hill and into the forest to plot in secret, the Vein announced he’d be conducting a uniform inspection. Groans bounced from cadet to cadet like a pinball; uniform inspections meant uniform deficiencies, which in turn meant mass punishment.

  Chiu, a frequent offender of uniform inspections, was third in line. We all held our breath as Chiu’s canteens were tapped, but miraculously, both were filled with water. We all winced as the Vein pulled at the straps on Chiu’s outdated flak vest and load-bearing equipment, but they held in place. The Vein straightened Chiu’s patrol cap, then gave him a toothy sneer—the closest thing to a smile he ever offered any of us—while slapping him on the back. Chiu almost fell over, rocking forward on his tiptoes to catch his balance. But just as Sergeant Miller seemed ready to move to the next cadet, he lifted the bottom of Chiu’s camo top to reveal a royal blue belt and shiny silver buckle. The groans returned. Army dress regulation called for a black fabric belt and a black buckle with field uniforms. Chiu instead wore a belt from a trendy surfwear company, and while we understood it was the only belt Chiu owned small enough for his narrow waist, Sergeant Miller did not.

  “Titty fucking Christ, Chiu. Who do you think you are, a parade marine?”

  “No, Sergeant,” Chiu said, deadpan. “I’m Randy Chiu. ROTC cadet?”

  The undertone in Chiu’s response did not go unnoticed. “That’s it, Iron Mikes for everyone. To the water tower and back, all thanks to Randy Chiu, eternal soup sandwich!” We did as told, some laughing, others cursing Chiu for his inability to right himself.

  When we returned from the water tower, our young quadriceps burning like brush, the Vein gathered us together.

  “Listen up, heroes,” he said. “I know all this seems strange now. Like a game. But this is going to keep you alive in a couple years. Going to keep your platoons together. You’ll be in charge of soldiers’ lives. I can’t impress the seriousness of that upon you enough. You will be in charge of people like me.” He paused, wrapping his hands behind his back. “How’s that make you feel?”

  I didn’t know about anyone else, but it made me feel lacking. I’d no idea how I’d ever lead men like Sergeant Miller to a meal, let alone in combat. They seemed born to another time, when practical skills like knowing which way north was and how to tie a hundred knots were something more than party tricks. Good thing the wars are almost over, I thought. Only the older cadets need to worry.

  When no one answered him, the Vein called on the only hand raised.

  “It makes me feel good,” Chiu said. “Because if my sergeants in the real army are like you, they’ll usually be right. Which means I’ll make good decisions.”

  We tried not to laugh. The Vein held back for a few seconds, but couldn’t help himself. “ ‘Usually’? ” he asked.

  Chiu just shrugged.

  Two hours later, our squad lay motionless in a small depression in the woods, watching ants crawl over us. Bladders ached. Throats throbbed. Backs itched. But we couldn’t move for fear of crunching sticks or pinecones that would give away the advancing squad, which had gone on assault while we stayed back as reinforcements. A discerning eye would’ve noticed the semicircle of rubber muzzles sticking out into the great beyond, but discerning eyes had better places to be.

  “Don’t. Move.” A nasal voice whispered from the center of the depression. Nervous glances over our shoulders confirmed what our ears had told us: Sergeant Miller had walked into the middle of our defensive position.

  “The other squad has been captured,” he said, taking a knee. “Chiu is now your commander.” Forgetting our security responsibilities, we turned to Chiu, whose face had turned to ash. “What now, Cadet Chiu?”

  “We . . . we need to get our guys back?”

  “Correct. And the enemy doesn’t know you’re here. They’ll let their guard down. Believe it or not, you have the advantage.”

  With prodding, the Vein got Chiu to order us out of the depression and through the woods, in the direction of the lost squad. To Chiu’s credit, he maintained control over our movements. By splitting us into two fireteams, one moving at a time, a sort of leapfrog motion developed. Minutes later, those of us in the front heard muffled voices.

  Chiu crawled up to us, Sergeant Miller following. The voices got louder and louder, and between tree trunks and foliage we saw a short line of faux prisoners about a hundred feet away, the faded inside-out uniform of the enemy interlaced among them.

  “Now’s your chance,” the Vein said. A man of action, he treasured opportunity above all else. His eyes were dancing with anticipation. “Initiate an assau
lt, Chiu!”

  The correct way to initiate an assault in modern war, or even pretend modern war, is to open fire with the primary weapons system, in this case, the rubber M249 light machine gun. The element of surprise maintained absolute precedence, as battles could begin and end in seconds. All the Vein wanted was for Chiu to give that order, so the cadet carrying the machine gun could yell, “RAT-TAT-TAT!” and then the rest of us would begin firing our rubber rifles in “BANG BANG BANG!” succession. Questions that tours in Iraq and Afghanistan taught us—like “Couldn’t you potentially hit the prisoners?” and “Why didn’t you radio higher for support?”—didn’t exist in ROTC, nor did they cross our minds then. Nonetheless, what followed couldn’t ever have been right, even in the pretend wilds behind the ROTC department.

  Desperate to initiate the assault, Chiu picked up a large stick at his side and stood up, rifle in his other hand. Before the Vein could snatch him back down, Chiu pointed the stick in the direction of the prisoners’ march and unleashed a raw scream, not a semblance of hesitation in his voice:

  “CHAARRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGEEEEE!”

  Chiu ran north, fireteams following, unsure of what else to do. Some began yelling themselves, and a bizarre mix of Rebel yells and howling filled the woods. First dismayed, then frightened by the voices and bodies coming their way, enemy and prisoner alike fled, eager to return to a world of power naps and stale beer. We followed, running with a child’s delight we believed long ago shed, only to find that the advances of puberty and irony hadn’t killed it off after all.

  Chiu’s Charge, though never again attempted and often derided, went down in the annals of university history. Sergeant Miller made no mention of it at physical training the next day. In the years after, though, Chiu swore the Vein flashed him another toothy sneer that morning. “Even he,” Chiu told us, “recognized my tactical genius.”

  A week after his unit arrived to Afghanistan, Chiu was nearly killed in a mortar attack south of Kandahar. A round crashed through the roof of a housing trailer, carving a master sergeant in half. Shrapnel from the explosion cut through Chiu’s upper leg, almost severing a major artery. Medics stabilized him, but not quickly enough to save the leg. A smaller piece of shrapnel cut off a chunk of his left ear, leaving him partially deaf.