Once we had finished all the small tasks and had lunch at the dining facility—which if I had regular access to it would have caused me to become the fattest skinny guy in the Army—we headed over to the pool with our new towels, flip-flops, and trunks. None of us really knew our way around this base, and it took us a few trial runs to learn how the shuttle buses worked. But we finally got the hang of it after accidentally circumnavigating the base once. As we got off the bus and approached the pool area, we saw everyone standing around under cover of the building where the changing rooms were, as if waiting for something. We were really confused, so I asked one of the guys standing there, “So what’s the deal? Why is everyone standing here?” The guy looked at me as if I were playing with my own feces while asking him this apparently ridiculous question, and it took him a moment to reply. He said to me without trying at all to disguise his feelings of contempt and incredulity, “We’re at yellow.” Oh, we’re at yellow. Okay. That clears it right up. Thanks for the info, dick. So I asked the guy standing next to him, “What the hell does, ‘We’re at yellow’ mean?” This guy was a little more patient and told us, “There was a mortar alarm. We won’t be green until they give the all-clear.” Okay, this made a little more sense. This base gets attacked often enough that they have a PA system to sound an alert when they receive incoming. I would later learn that the pool was one of the most desirable targets for mortar attacks because of the density of people. As far as terror goes, a mortar round landing in the pool would be pretty damn effective. The thought of bikini-clad bodies exploding everywhere and filling the pool with blood and gore is truly terrible. Not long ago a rocket was fired at this base and it struck the front of the PX, killing a few soldiers. Other than that particularly lucky shot, everything else has usually been a miss. What’s ironic is the locals in my area believe that my base is protected by a force field (I’m not kidding), so they never attack it, but regardless, we have to wear full body armor all the time when we move around on the base. But this base gets hit with mortar fire multiple times a day, and nobody wears body armor and they actually run around wearing boonie caps instead of helmets. One time the laundry service got hit with a mortar, and soldiers didn’t get their laundry back for over a week as there was a temporary strike when the surviving launderers refused to work.
By the time we changed into our new bathing suits, the “all clear” siren had blown. We shuffled over to an available white molded-plastic table with matching white molded-plastic chairs beside the pool. Once we sat down and got settled, we were able to properly survey this incredible landscape. Tits and ass everywhere. Out of respect for this truly holy moment and each other’s madness-inducing starved libidos, we sat reverently enrapt for twenty minutes without uttering a word, our heads on swivels. Normally this scene would not have been that big a deal, but right now every athletic short-haired bull dyke and half-cute girl with small breasts and a huge ass was a priestess at the Church of the Holy Need to Hump. And we weren’t the only ones to sit and stare at the young girls like perverts on a park bench. Just outside the fenced-off area of the pool was a single-story building that some local laborers were listlessly working on. One of them, an Iraqi man with a red-and-white shemagh wrapped around his head, stood on the roof of the building, giving himself an unobstructed view of the pool. He was holding a rake and was as expressionless and unmoving as the farmer in American Gothic. I looked upon the land and saw that it was good, but I could only imagine what it must have been like to witness this scene through his eyes. The devil on my shoulder and the infidel on his gave each other enthusiastic high-fives.
Once we were able to return to earth and we started moving again, Karl and I hit the pool. There was a high-dive platform where all the guys performed feats of bravery and physical prowess, giving the girls an opportunity to judge who best to sexually couple with next. Karl and I split up and slowly paddled our way around the pool like wandering salmon looking for a place to spawn. Karl managed to get involved with one of the water volleyball games, and I cozied up to a group of girls while plotting a way to work a joke about “water sports” into conversation, just to see if they’d get it. Eventually Karl and I both got out of the pool, and we took turns testing our mettle with the high dive. After falling from the top platform for what seemed like a day, then falling a little more, I finally hit the water at which point half the pool was immediately forced through my nose. Once I decided I was done with all this tomfoolery, I made my way back to my chair and chillaxed for the next several hours, subsisting on nothing more than pure brainstem functions.
Without a doubt, the most relaxing and enjoyable part of the four-day pass, ironically, was the time spent at this pool before the four days in Qatar actually started. It felt good not to be wearing body armor and to finally let our skin see the sun. We all got pretty burned, but we really didn’t care. And it was great to indulge in some quality people-watching. I was impressed by how bronzed some of these soldiers were. The pool itself was of immaculate construction, obviously not of Iraqi design. There were a few Americanized-looking Polynesian lifeguards with longish hair who, I had to deduce, had been contracted to work at the pool. They had the typical careless swagger that I suspect is taught at lifeguard school and they all had incredibly cute girls fawning over them. I had to hate them by default, knowing that they were hurting my chances of hooking up with a girl if they were skimming off the topmost layer by moving in on the girls who were both hot enough and confident enough to spend time at the pool in bikinis.
For soldiers who are traveling in and out of Iraq through this base, there are a series of tents with cots where you can crash before your flight leaves. It’s not uncommon for flights to be delayed for days at a time depending on what the enemy activity is like. Days with a heavy rain of mortar fire and scattered showers of small arms fire could delay you a day or two. But on light days, you generally only stay overnight. After we were done with the pool and got our fill of chow, we retired to the tent we were assigned for the night. During our trip to the PX, I had perused the sizable and utterly predictable DVD section and purchased every single thing worth half a damn (The Station Agent and Twin Peaks, season one) and was looking forward to watching one of them before I went to sleep. DVDs are the primary source of entertainment for soldiers in Iraq, and we are generally able to buy pirated copies of just about anything from the local merchants. These discs are usually of exceptionally poor quality, and it seems that all the ones I ever buy crap out just before the end. I was excited to finally watch a real DVD all the way through, but my laptop battery died just before the movie finished. Figures. I’m really bad at remembering chronological details and usually forget how movies end anyway, so whatever. I put my laptop back in its battered Pelican case and called it a night.
Within the first few hours of meeting Karl, he told me in his heavy Puerto Rican accent, “Look, I just want to get laid. I don’t care what she looks like. So if we meet some girls, I’m not even going to try for the cute one, I’ll take one for the team and I’ll fuck the ugly one.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I knew if we met any girls they’d want him before me, but he seemed pretty dedicated to the idea of wanting a sure thing. I wasn’t about to argue with him seeing as how this only benefited me.
The following morning after breakfast, we were consolidated into a large tent filled with benches, where we sat while we waited for our flight. Everyone who was going to Qatar was in the tent, and this would be the only time we’d all be in the same space. Karl and I slowly wandered around the tent, checking out all the girls. The eyes of every male soldier were darting around like sharks who smelled seal blood.
Statistically speaking, if you’re going to get laid on pass, it’s going to be with someone who is part of your group. I knew there would be soldiers already in Qatar and more soldiers showing up once we got there, and some of them would be female, but four days is not a lot of time to make something happen. Any female soldiers already in Qatar would
have guys who had been working on them for at least a full day already before we got there, and any female soldiers who showed up with groups after us would also come with guys who had already been working on them since they left Iraq. You have to work fast; if you are to make any decent headway, it all has to start in this tent.
The average female soldier, by most standards, is totally unfuckable. Take for example Lynndie England of Abu Ghraib fame. She is one fugly girl, but by Army standards, she is completely average. And when you haven’t seen girls for as long as we hadn’t, your standards shift dramatically. After you’ve been in combat for a few months, you’ll find you’re wearing beer goggles you can’t sleep off. Additionally, you’ll feel like you’re thirteen years old again with regard to your sexual response to even the slightest flirtation. Once when I had to visit the medics on our base to get an anthrax booster shot, one of the female medics was lying on a cot on her back, napping. I had never found her attractive, but she was thin and petite. She was a few years older than me, and the skin of her face looked leathery from being in the sun. Her uniform blouse was off and she was in her T-shirt. Her breasts were small, and the outline of her bra was visible. Because she was lying down, the way her breasts sat made it so I could imagine how they must feel. Her trousers had ridden up and were tight at her crotch. While still lying down, she looked at me and smiled and said, “Good morning, Sergeant Hartley.” I got an immediate erection.
The few girls in the tent who were the least bit cute already had guys chatting them up while small groups of other guys were standing nearby like vultures waiting for the jackals to finish. In the corner of the tent was a girl lying on a bench, resting. It was her hair that I noticed first. Beautiful blond hair combed neatly to one side across her forehead and tucked behind her ears. Her skin was perfect and smooth, her brows plucked into delicate arches. I couldn’t find a single flaw—high cheekbones, a small straight nose, beautiful dark lashes, innocent pink lips curled slightly upward at the corners of her mouth. She was breathtaking. What in the world was this girl doing in the Army?
Karl and I sat down on a bench and discussed our options. There were actually a few fairly cute girls, and a few who were cute enough. But the blond-haired girl was far and away the most attractive. Karl said he didn’t care who we talked to, whatever we could work out would be fine with him. I had to make a decision. I didn’t know what the story was on the blond-haired girl, but it was obvious she was going to be getting the most attention for these four days and would therefore be the most difficult. Assuming sex was the priority, it would make more sense to shoot for one of the okay-looking girls, or better yet find one slutty enough willing to fuck more than one guy during the four days and just get in line. But I was already completely taken with this girl; I didn’t even want to think about fucking slutty girls. I was instantly infatuated. I wanted to know her, I wanted to make her laugh, I wanted her to fall in love with me. I was already imagining what our kids would look like, what it would be like to wake up next to her for the rest of my life, how we’d still take romantic vacations to Paris after the kids had grown up and moved out of the house. It wasn’t often I felt like this about a girl I had seen only once and whose name I didn’t even know. I had to remind myself that I hadn’t seen a girl this beautiful since I’d been deployed, and my twitterpation was unoriginal, predictable, and obviously irrational. But so what? What if she actually was an incredible person? What if we fell in love? It’s not like getting laid by some stupid Army slut was in any way meaningful, why not just go for the gold and put all my energy into trying to get to know this girl? Besides, by taking the long shot, even if I failed miserably, I would at least be trying to accomplish something I could feel good about. Getting back from leave and telling the guys in my platoon I got my dick sucked behind a dumpster would be good for a laugh, but what the hell was the point?
The flight to Qatar was a drag. We rode in a C-130 and sat in the jump seats I remember sitting in as a paratrooper with my unit in Utah. The webbing seats are uncomfortable as hell, but they made me nostalgic. I really missed jumping. I fell asleep and when I woke up my ass was so asleep my balls were numb.
Once we landed, we had another orientation to attend, followed by a long bus ride to the base where we’d stay for the four days. When we finally got to the base and were assigned a place to sleep, it was well past midnight. The following morning there was one final orientation. After the orientation, they asked for those who had diarrhea not caused by nervousness to give stool samples.
For the rest of the day, Earl, Lawrence, Karl, and I all hung out together. We spent most of the time going from shop to shop, buying as much junk as possible—cheesy commemorative T-shirts and baseball caps, DVDs, CDs, magazines, toiletries, pizza, soda, junk food, Tijuana-quality Middle Eastern trinkets.
Karl and I were getting coffee from the coffee shop on post when the blond-haired girl walked in with another girl. Oh my god, she looked so good, even better now that she was in civilian clothes. They weren’t with anyone else—the perfect time to talk to her! I totally froze up. I had absolutely no idea what to say. There was no use even trying to talk to her now. When I get like this, when I start giving a shit, it all goes straight to hell. I lose the ability to talk. I’m awkward, uncomfortable, and completely unfunny. I knew that if I tried to talk to her now all I’d do was make an ass of myself.
I was stirring milk and sugar into my coffee, hating myself for being such a loser, when I noticed that Karl had started chatting up her friend. She had short dark hair and looked a little butch. My heart was racing and I wanted to pee my pants. I finished stirring my coffee and casually walked over to where he was. They were speaking Spanish. She was Latin, too, and Karl had used this as an excuse to talk to her and bust out some of his Puerto Rican charm. I did my best to appear aloof and uninterested. He introduced us to the girls. The butchy one was Jess, and the blond-haired girl’s name was Christine, but she said everyone called her Chris. The four of us talked for a few minutes, but mostly all I did was smile and laugh, trying to hide the fact that I was totally crushing on Chris. Karl and I said goodbye, as if we had something better to do, and walked out of the coffee shop. Somehow Karl had used his magical Latin powers and gotten them to agree to meet us for dinner later that night at Chili’s. I wanted to kiss him. God I love Puerto Ricans.
Before we left for dinner, I took a shower and hung my favorite shirt—a black button-down with blue stripes—on the curtain rod to steam it. I was really excited. With Karl as my wingman I was golden. He seemed to get along pretty well with Jess, which would make it easy for me to talk to Chris.
Earl and Lawrence came along with us to dinner too. Lawrence looked like he was in his mid-thirties. He was a really nice guy with a quirky personality who still lived with his mom back home. He was a fuel specialist and he ran the fuel point where we would gas up our Humvees when we returned from missions. As we walked to the shuttle bus, I asked him how often soldiers said to him, “Lawrence? Lawrence what? Of Arabia? That name sounds like royalty. Are you royalty? Do you suck dicks? I bet you could suck a golf ball through a garden hose. I don’t like the name Lawrence. Only faggots and sailors are called Lawrence!”
He laughed. “No. No one’s ever said that to me. What’s it from?”
I was shocked. “What’s it from? Jesus god, man! It’s from Full Metal Jacket! You’ve never seen that? I don’t know if I can trust a soldier who’s never seen Full Metal Jacket.” His personality was fairly submissive. He spoke in a meek voice and was endlessly polite. I recalled him telling me how he lived with his mother and sisters, and the thought of him not having seen the movie started making a little more sense.
We got to Chili’s a little early, so we sat down and made sure there were two places for Jess and Chris to sit. After a few minutes the girls showed up, but they went straight to a booth and sat down with some other guys! Unbelievable! I was totally crushed. Earl and Lawrence didn’t give a shit, and Karl just laughed
at me. Lawrence said, “Why don’t we just sit at that table over there next to them?”
“Fuck that,” I said. “Fuck her. She knows we were going to meet her here. I’m not gonna go beg for her attention. Those guys look like tools anyway.”
“Damn. She’s lookin’ good tonight, too,” Karl remarked, rubbing salt in the wound.
Just Another Soldier Page 17