HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  With the room eerily silent compared to the sound of our entry and quick search, the passage of time seemed to come to a complete stop. I suspected to whoever was beneath the blanket, the same was true. As much as I hoped the person hiding was friendly, my first tour had taught me to assume everyone was a threat.

  I fixed my weapon on the pile of blankets. “Raweenee edeek.”

  Show me those hands, motherfucker.

  The pile of bedding remained motionless.

  “Raweenee edeek!” I said in a more demanding tone.

  As the mound of blankets began to move ever so slightly, I recognized the unmistakable shape of the barrel of an AK-47 as it exposed itself from the cover of the bedding.

  My vision narrowed to the threat, and I could actually hear my heart beating. My throat constricted and instantly went dry. Everything surrounding me became distant, and the only thing that mattered was the location of the barrel. The AK-47 was the weapon of choice for the majority of the resistance against us, and had become a common sight. Although there was no doubt whoever was beneath the blanket had the means to resist, so far they hadn’t actually done so. The fine line we were required to walk regarding the use of deadly force had cost the life of many a Marine, but was a requirement nonetheless. Until the person with the rifle became an actual threat, the possibility existed that they were prepared to turn over the weapon and surrender, and we were required to treat them as such. Until he pointed the weapon at us or fired it, we were to treat him as if he were friendly.

  I stood firm, anxiously waiting on whoever was beneath the blankets to reveal themselves.

  “Weapon!” I heard Grayson shout.

  “Shut the fuck up, Private. I see it,” I said over my shoulder as I maintained focus on the tip of the barrel.

  “Raweenee edeek!” I shouted in an attempt to get him to release the weapon and show his hands.

  A thin man jumped from the blankets without any warning, and the barrel of the weapon swung toward where I was standing. It was all that was necessary for me to act in self-defense. Without thought, the tip of my index finger slipped inside the trigger guard and pulled against the trigger twice.

  His body jolted from the impact of the two bullets, and his hand instinctively pulled the trigger, discharging a few rounds into the far wall. As he dropped his weapon to the floor and fell to his knees, his eyes revealed the unmistakable regret he felt for doing what he had done.

  “Hold your fire,” I said flatly as I watched him collapse.

  On his knees, staring up at me with hopeful eyes, he held out his weathered hand.

  Why?

  Why didn’t you fucking surrender?

  I kicked the weapon to the side. “Someone secure that weapon, and get this bedding searched.”

  I shifted my gaze to meet the blank stare of the man I had shot. His eyes appeared to be that of a thirty-year-old man, but the sun damaged skin of his face seemed to be sixty, common for the people of Iraq.

  “He’s alive. Cunningham, get a Corpsman in here and see if you can find a Terp,” I shouted.

  “Fuck that Haji motherfucker,” Grayson blurted as he kicked along the pile of blankets positioned around the perimeter of the room.

  “Find me a Corpsman and a fucking interpreter!” I demanded.

  Just hang on for a few minutes, I’ve got help en route.

  I glanced down at his wounds. One of the rounds struck him in the left side of the upper chest, and the other slightly higher, closer to his clavicle. With quick medical attention, he might survive, but the chest wound needed immediate action if he was going to live. I reached for his outstretched hand, held it in mine, and waited for a Corpsman. As he looked into my eyes, he calmly spoke in a manner and tone I perceived as apologetic. Although I had learned a few of the necessary phrases, I was not fluent in Arabic, and needed an interpreter to not only understand what he was saying but to interview him before he died.

  Determining the locations of any other resistance we were likely to encounter would be helpful, and I had learned a dying man was more willing to be truthful than one who believed he was free from the threat of death.

  In seeing as many men die as I had, there seemed to be one common thread in the few seconds immediately preceding death – regardless of race, religion, or skin color.

  Death took the dying to a peaceful place.

  I positioned my weapon over my shoulder, knelt in front of him, and cut the front of his shirt open. The chest wound was considerably lower than I expected it to be, and was discharging blood with each heartbeat. If he didn’t receive medical attention immediately, he would undoubtedly be added to the long list of men I had killed in my 16 months of combat.

  “Anyone got a chest seal or catheter?” I asked over my shoulder as I studied the wound.

  The sound of shuffling boots and a few light sighs was my only response.

  With our eyes locked, he blinked a few times before his mouth curled into a shallow smile. It was a smile not of joy, but of comfort. I silently studied him, wondering if he had a family, kids, or a wife. I wondered if he was forced to fight, did so out of a feeling of need, or if he was simply guarding what was once his home. As he continued to gaze at me and smile lightly, I did my best to return the gesture. A few seconds later he released his grip on my hand and slumped against me.

  Well, fuck.

  Killing was not complicated, and had become more of an instinct than a decision I consciously made.

  Dealing with death, however, was different.

  I released his hand, frustrated that he had chosen to point the weapon at me, but feeling no regret for the action I had taken. I turned toward the entrance and walked through the room, gazing blankly beyond the walls and into the dusty street as I did so.

  “How many is that?” I heard Grayson ask.

  I tapped a cigarette from my pack, raised it to my mouth, and lit it. As I watched the smoke slowly rise from the tip, I bit into the cotton filter and spoke through my teeth. “How many is what?”

  “Kills. Cunningham said you killed a bunch of these sorry motherfuckers,” he said.

  I glared at him, capable of answering, but not necessarily feeling doing so was warranted – at least not to him.

  He narrowed his eyes as he gazed into the street at the children playing. “God damned Muslims, we should drop a motherfuckin’ bomb on this son-of-a-bitch if you ask me. Turn this sand to a fuckin’ sheet of glass.”

  I closed my left eye, took a long drag from the cigarette, and studied him with my open eye. As I exhaled a cloud of smoke into the space between us, I responded in the only manner I saw fit.

  “Well, Private Grayson, nobody asked you. And we’re not fighting Muslims, dumb fuck. We’re fighting terrorists.” I paused and took a long pull from the cigarette.

  I stared down at the toes of my boots and exhaled the smoke from my lungs. After a few long seconds of staring blankly at the dirt floor, I shifted my gaze upward and studied his eyes. A replacement for a Marine who had been killed by an IED, and all of eighteen years old, he would more than likely be dead in a matter of weeks if his attitude didn’t change. As he looked back at me with the eyes of an over eager inexperienced Marine, I continued.

  “I’m not here to condemn a man for his religious beliefs, but I’ll send one straight to an early grave for his stance against the United States of America or one of my fellow Marines. You’ve got a lot to fucking learn, Private,” I said, making sure he understood that I was not only aware of his military rank, but that he was as low and as inexperienced as a Marine could possibly be.

  His eyes went wide as if I had slapped him in the face.

  He stared beyond me for a moment, shifted his eyes to me, and gave a slight acknowledgement of my condemnations.

  “I’ll do my best, Corporal Jacob,” he said in an apologetic tone.

  As I turned and walked out of the building, I considered Grayson’s initial question, and wondered why I didn’t accurately respond. I
bent my knees and lowered myself into a squatted position beside the opening of the door and gazed into the street. The length of the deserted dirt road was littered with pieces of brick and chunks of concrete, a reminder of the many bombs dropped before our arrival. A young boy played with a soccer ball, bouncing it from his knees onto his chest and shoulders, oblivious as to what was going on around him. As I watched him balance the ball on his upper chest, I tried my best to recall the lives I had taken.

  I wasn’t ashamed, nor was I proud. Killing the enemy was something that had happened, and if given the same circumstances to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. As far as I was concerned, there was only one thing that really mattered – if I didn’t kill the men who were trying to kill me, my objective would never be reached.

  My objective?

  At the end of each tour of duty, I needed to make it home for one reason and one reason only.

  To hold my wife in my arms.

  I looked out into the dusty street. The boy was gone. The sound of small arms fire echoed in the air like distant music. I stood, raised my hands to my face, and rubbed my tired eyes. No matter how much I rationalized ending the lives of the men I had killed, the details of each of their deaths lingered in my mind, playing over and over like a slow-motion scene from a horror movie. It was the price I paid, I supposed, for doing something so contrary to man’s religious, moral, and spiritual beliefs.

  So far, I had killed thirteen men to reach my objective.

  And holding her in my arms was all the justification I really needed.

  Chapter Two Hundred Forty

  Fall 2003, Wichita, Kansas, USA

  I pushed my hand into my pocket and removed my wallet. As I thumbed through the bills the driver turned his head and glanced over his shoulder.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Thanks for your service.”

  I shifted my eyes from the meter to my wallet, and removed a $10 and a $20 bill. “Meter says $18.80. Here’s $30.00. Keep the change.”

  He shook his head. “I mean it. Keep your money. I’m not just saying it; I appreciate your service to the country. When they flew those planes into the towers, I wanted to have the guts…”

  He paused as the car rolled to a stop. After shifting the gear selector into park, he turned toward the back seat. He was roughly my age, but his shoulder-length hair and full beard made him appear slightly older at first glance.

  “Not all of us have the courage to do what you’re doing. Me? I get to drive this cab and make an honest living because people like you are willing to fight to keep this country free. Keep your money. I mean it,” he said.

  “I appreciate it,” I said as I folded the money and pushed it between the back of his seat and the bottom cushion.

  He would find it at some point in time, probably the next time he cleaned his car. I’d never been one to accept charity, and felt I was required to pay for everything I obtained in life, one way or another.

  “Going back?” he asked as I opened the door.

  I got out of the car and adjusted my pack as I responded through the open window. “Until they tell me I can’t, or it ends.”

  “Good luck,” he said.

  I nodded my head in appreciation.

  Luck.

  Some called me lucky. Others described me as gifted. Personally, I felt that I had a sixth sense; one that allowed me to see things as they truly were, and that wasn’t always the way other people perceived them. Knowing what I believed to be the truth allowed me a second or so to react without contemplation or thought, which was often all it took to survive.

  I folded a piece of gum and poked it into my mouth. As I chewed it and shoved the wrapper into the pocket of my trousers, she opened the front door. Her strawberry blonde hair was well past her shoulders, several inches longer than the last time we had seen each other.

  “Oh my God. You didn’t say…” she gasped.

  Short of writing letters, I hadn’t spoken to her in seven months, and hadn’t told her specifically when I would arrive. Although many of the Marines used the calling centers or morale calls on SAT phones to call home, I felt the distraction on both ends was too much if we were to attempt to communicate by telephone. An old fashioned letter delivered in the mail, however, was something nice to read, and it could be read over and over, providing much more than a few moments of pleasure.

  My eyes fell to her feet, and slowly inched their way up her body until stopping at her face. I stood in awe, recognizing her natural beauty, but trying the entire time to hide the excitement of seeing her again. She looked every bit as gorgeous as she did on any other day, which was more beautiful than any other woman who had ever graced the earth with her presence.

  “I wanted it to be a surprise,” I said, twisting my mouth into a smirk.

  Unlike many of my Marine brethren, I was devoted to Suzanne wholly. Cheating or even lusting over another woman was completely out of the question. I was hers, and only hers, and she knew it. It was a large part of what allowed me to travel to another country and devote myself to a war while leaving her at home without her worrying about my commitment or loyalty – or me questioning hers for that matter. I knew, no matter when I showed up, she would be alone and waiting for me.

  “God it’s good to see you,” she said as she ran down the steps.

  “Come here, Babe,” I said as I dropped my pack to the sidewalk and opened my arms.

  I extended my arms and gazed into her green eyes. They were the most inviting eyes I had ever seen, and they were attached to the most beautiful woman to ever exist. Seeing her cry – even if they were tears of joy – was heartbreaking.

  “No need to cry, Babe,” I said as I wiped the tears from her cheeks with my thumb. “I’ll be home for a while. I’ve got some leave before I have to go back.”

  “But you’re going back?” she said, half asking, half stating.

  I pulled her into me and held her tight to my chest. “Until the war is over, or they find me unfit to fight, I’ll keep going back. I don’t have a choice.”

  As she nodded her head in acknowledgement, I pressed my nose into her hair and inhaled a slow breath. I viewed my time at war as an opportunity to serve my country, and never really felt sorry for myself for what I was required to forfeit to do so. Each time I returned home, I was reminded of the things I missed, and although seeing Suzanne proved to me that God existed, inhaling a hint of her scent was much more satisfying.

  It reassured me that she existed.

  After swallowing my gum, I reached down, lifted her chin slightly, and kissed her. The kiss wasn’t aggressive, extremely long, or close to what most Marine wives received upon their husband’s return to the states, but it was appropriate, respectful, and provided all the support she needed to understand where it was I had placed her.

  On a pedestal above anything and everything on the earth.

  Most men, upon returning home from the war, more than likely greeted their wives or girlfriends with the tip of their dick. I believed there was a time and a place for sex, and was actually quite fond of fucking the woman I loved, but for the next hour or so I needed to simply hold her in my arms, inhale her scent, and talk to her. She’d been through this routine enough times that she knew what to expect from me. Sitting down, eating a meal together, and talking allowed my mind to return back to civilization, and at least for the amount of time I was home, feel like things were different.

  “God, I love kissing you,” she said as our lips parted.

  She leaned back and shifted her eyes up and down my frame. “You look like you’ve lost weight. Come on, let me make you something to eat. Are you hungry?”

  I reached for my pack, lifted it to my shoulder, and nodded my head. “I could eat.”

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s eat, and then we’ll curl up in a ball on the couch.”

  She turned away, walked up the steps and held the door open.

  I paused at the first step and glanced
at the front of the house before allowing my eyes to openly gaze around the yard. Leaves had filled the gutters, and the yard was littered with the various colors of fall.

  Most men would perceive a yard full of leaves as a pain in the ass. Work. Time that could be spent watching a football game.

  Me?

  I saw it as exactly what it was.

  Beautiful.

  I grinned, exhaled, and followed her into the house.

  God, it feels good to be home.

  Chapter Two Hundred Forty-One

  Early Spring 2004, Fallujah, Iraq

  The First Battle of Fallujah.

  I grew up the only son of high school sweethearts who fell in love, married, and remained true to each other until my mother passed away. My father never remarried after her death, claiming his only love to be my mother, and further explaining that allowing another woman into his life, at any level, would be disrespectful to his deceased wife and only love.

  I respected him for his position on love, relationships, and as a father. As a child, my friends often claimed their hero to be a television character, someone in a movie, or even a superhero from a comic book.

  Me?

  My father was my only hero.

  He took me deer hunting for the first time when I was twelve. Although I was young, I had spent my short life around weapons, learning to respect them, understand their inner workings, and how to properly handle them safely. My father described me as a natural, claiming one day I would be in the Olympics as a marksman, but I knew otherwise.

  I wanted to be like my uncle, who was a former Marine and a Vietnam war veteran. My father’s brother, and a man who didn’t demand respect – but received it from those who understood him. He was less apt to speak than any other of my relatives, but when he did, his advice was always well thought out and easy to apply to life.