Iman turned on the shower. He didn’t wait for the heater coil to bring the water’s temperature up to a comfortable degree. The filthy Marine stepped into frigid water without hesitation and watched the runoff rush a light brown film of dirt into the drain. The cold nearly shocked his breath away, but he was cleansed anew. He felt some civility return to his core as he washed.
Frigid temperatures in the shower water eventually heated. Practical purposes of bathing were fulfilled. Iman’s long hair and thick beard no longer smelled of natural oil and dirt, but chemical scents of shampoo and soap. The crevasses of his arms and legs were no longer accented with dirt and filth. He returned to human form, so he was able to enjoy the massaging heat of the shower until the water ran cold once again.
Some modesty returned to the weary man. He stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He looked to the private and laughed. The young man was still very motivated to be a part of the Marine Corps. His movie selection illustrated his spirits. “Full Metal Jacket? How very cliché of you,” Iman joked to the Marine. The kid chuckled as he looked back over his shoulder. Iman was facing the mirror at the vanity, readying to groom further.
Refreshed from his long shower, Iman moved with more fervor and purpose. He seemed eager to return to what he felt was his natural form. He reached into the cabinet and withdrew a beard trimmer. The bearded man then disappeared to the whir of a small electric blade.
After removing the thickness of his beard, Iman used a safety razor to smooth his face. He looked himself over in the mirror and barely recognized the man staring back at him. His rough hands rubbed at his barren cheeks to make sure that no stubborn whiskers remained. Iman was satisfied that his shave would meet Marine regulations, so he wiped the sink and countertop. He cleared the area of beard remnants and trashed the entire mess.
Iman’s assembly line mentality continued. He was bathed and shaved like a civilized man. Therefore, he was ready to be clothed accordingly. The refreshed warrior turned to his closet and opened the door with a grin. Each of his undershirts, boxer shorts, and socks were neatly folded and tucked into their appropriate spots. All of his uniform shirts and pants were hanging, in order and facing left, in fine Marine fashion. His boots were spit shined. His canvas belt was tightly coiled. Everything was exactly as he left it. He was relieved at the order and organization that contrasted with his prior few months amid the turmoil of being a prisoner.
The senior Marine was dressed and ready within minutes. The commonplace camouflaged utilities that covered his body were crisp. While many Marines might have taken for granted the everyday uniform, Iman wore it with resounding pride. He was, by all accounts, a beacon for his peers to follow. His belief in himself and in his beloved Corps gave him the air of confidence that commanded respect.
Iman looked at himself in the mirror once more. He made sure that his uniform was in order, his trousers were properly bloused over his shiny boots, and his sergeant chevrons were correctly aligned to the edges of his collar. “You about ready to go, Marine?” he asked the private, who was completely enthralled by the Hollywood combat based on Vietnam lore.
“I sure am, uh…” The kid paused, only seeing Iman’s rank for the first time and trying to pretend he wasn’t surprised. “Sergeant?”
Iman laughed and told the private to turn the television off. He waited for the young man to exit the room and locked the door behind them. Then they walked to Hasim’s room.
Iman banged the side of his fist to the flat heart of the barracks room door. “Coming in,” Iman called out as he opened the hatch and entered Hasim’s room. Hasim had just finished tying his boots and stood up from his seat. The men laughed at their drastic differences in appearance.
Each of the men wore the Marines’ camouflaged uniform. However, the two sergeants looked less like Marines than the junior man standing among them. The private was smoothly shaved and had nothing more than fuzz for hair atop his head. Iman was shaved but had a head full of thick, curly hair. Hasim was unshaved and had locks of curled hair covering his ears.
“You didn’t shave at all?” Iman questioned Hasim. The younger brother laughed and explained that he was going to let the barber do the work. They all smiled at the idea. The private smiled harder than the rest. He was amused at the idea of two Arab men wearing Marine uniforms and trying to make it across base without being stopped somewhere along the way.
“You know some Gunny is going to see us and lose his mind, right, Sergeant?” the private laughed into the room. They agreed to the possibility of having to explain themselves and left for the barbershop. Neither Hasim nor Iman could wait to have a haircut appropriate for their uniforms.
Unexpectedly, their walk across base went without obstacle. Iman and Hasim walked into the barbershop and ordered fresh, high-and-tight haircuts. The barber, a professional “marine mower” for many years, was able to whip them into shape very quickly. Hasim was then shorn free from his previous self. Hasim stood from the barber’s chair and was immediately replaced by Iman. The barber ripped through Iman’s thick head of hair until they were finally clean-cut and ready to go to see the administration clerk for their orders.
The brothers stood outside the barbershop. They rubbed their heads, feeling renewed by the clippers. They playfully slapped each other on the back of the head while the younger man grinned uncomfortably, unfamiliar to the two older Jarheads. They saw that the kid was out of place, so Iman nodded to the junior man. Hasim dismissed the private and the young man carried on back to his guard unit.
Hasim looked at Iman with a grin. Iman returned the gesture, and they welcomed each other back to the right side of the fence. They were anxious to see what orders were waiting for them. They were eager to leave Guantanamo Bay. Most of all, they were happy to be Marines again.
TWO
Would either of you gentlemen like anything to drink?” a silk-skinned flight attendant asked Iman. He smiled politely at the woman and shook his head. Then he looked to Hasim and saw that his brother was fast asleep with his head against the window. “I don’t think he wants anything either,” he chuckled to the woman.
Iman laughed under his breath at his brother. “How can you sleep like that?” he questioned the sleeping man, critiquing the angle of Hasim’s neck. The posture was unnatural and seemed like it would be uncomfortable, but didn’t stop the younger brother from dozing into the darkness of a plane window.
Leaning over, Iman gazed beyond the glare of the oval plexiglass pane. The plane’s intermittent flash of red into the black sky gave no indication of where they might be. Iman knew that the flight from Florida to Washington was going to be a few hours, but he began aching to get off the flight.
He and his brother were flying under official orders, so they were not profiled at security as would be expected. They were flying in uniform, so they were treated well by the other airport patrons. The overall travel experience was pleasant and moving along without the annoyances of delay. However, Iman was growing impatient with the travels. He could not wait to get to the Pentagon. He could not wait to find out his new purpose within the Marine Corps.
“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s going to be good,” Iman whispered to himself in faith that the Corps held great things for his future.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are about fifteen minutes out,” the pilot’s voice chimed into the darkness of the plane. Hasim’s head snapped forward as if he were coming out of a bad dream, and Iman chuckled. “We’ll be landing at Dulles Airport in beautiful Chantilly, Virginia. On behalf of myself and the crew, we hope you’ve enjoyed your flight. Crew, prepare for descent.” The pilot chimed once again to end his announcement. The flight attendant responded by making sure everyone was awake and in an upright position.
The plane descended and touched down into a new world for Iman and Hasim. Their Marine Corps prior to landing in the District of Columbia was muddy and stank of captured enemy. Their new Corps was sure to be very clean and
stink only of federal-issue coffee. Hasim and Iman adjusted in their seats. Then they adjusted to the idea of a different job. Both of them were happy to continue their service alongside one another. They knew how rare it was for brothers to join together and be able to carry out their terms in the same unit. The two shared this fortune for a second time in their orders to the Pentagon, and they were grateful.
Slightly ahead of schedule, the plane landed with chirping precision as rubber tires met slick asphalt. The Marines wondered if the pilot had served in the military or if he was so well practiced that he could move from sky to ground in such seamless fashion. They half expected a hatch to lower aft allowing equipment to be swept out via deployed canopies of green fabric tethered to anchor knots. The pilot’s approach was similar enough to a touch-and-go resupply that each of the Marines rendered a nod and an invisible salute to the cockpit.
The Marines, and everyone else aboard, jolted with each application of the aircraft’s heavy brakes. The pilot decelerated in short, choppy power drains and energy dispersion from the wings to the wheels. Whirring engines turned to lightly whining turbines as the plane taxied runways and finally halted. Everything seemed to move slowly against Iman’s eagerness to leave the transport. Airline patrons stood excitedly in a hurry to leave, only to be denied exit at a secured hatch. Finally, the door opened. Eardrums decompressed and equilibriums returned to normal as tired passengers shuffled, row after row, to the front exit. Iman and Hasim waited their turn before they disembarked and made way to baggage claim.
Exhausted from travel and shrouded in uncomfortable uniforms, the men ached to get to their destination. Their trek through terminals and corridors was unabated by the light foot traffic inside the airport. However, the ends of their toes and the bottoms of their feet burned at the confines of patent leather footwear. Hasim was still a little groggy from his nap aboard the plane. He rubbed at his eyes until he caught sight of a small boy.
The boy was visibly tired and less than thrilled to be in an airport during hours that would otherwise be deep into his bedtime. His small left hand clutched tightly to the comforts of his mother’s right. Hasim smiled at the mother and child as their paths crossed. The little boy, suddenly excited and apparently raised as a patriot, rendered a salute to the Marines. Each of the men smiled back and broke uniform protocol. They returned a playful salute to the boy, and the child lit up. He was elated to have received the military courtesy as he yelled, “Mommy, Mommy! Did you see?”
Iman and Hasim forgot about the pains in their feet. They dismissed the itch of form-fitting collars and heavy ties. They discontinued their silent complaints against the heavy wool of their uniforms. Rather, they smiled with the slight bump of charging energy that the child passed to them. Hasim said, “There’s a future Jarhead right there.” Each laughed lightly as they arrived at baggage claim.
Distinguishable luggage drifted around the baggage carousel on a single pass as the Marines reached through a sea of strangers. People stood around the baggage claim area like hogs at a mobile trough waiting to be served a buffet of cloth and canvas. Civilians, fearful by nature, were too intimidated by the Marines’ uniforms to have raised any issue of over-aggressive baggage grabbing. Iman and Hasim achieved their immediate goal. They moved within the hustle of thousands of people going here and there until they stepped out of the airport to hail a cab.
Iman whistled loudly at the passenger loading zone, and a cab stopped directly in front of the uniformed men. The cabdriver exited to help them with their bags just as Hasim noticed a young woman standing behind them. She was also in apparent need of a cab. The younger brother tapped Iman on the shoulder and pointed to the woman. Iman simply nodded.
“Ma’am,” Hasim said, initiating a short conversation with the stranger. He smiled invitingly. “Why don’t you go ahead and take this one?” The woman, taken aback by the unexpectedly kind gesture, attempted to argue politely. Iman insisted, “Don’t worry. We’ll catch the next one.” He opened the door for the woman, and she thanked him repeatedly as she sat in the backseat. Iman made sure that she cleared the door before he closed it and tapped on the trunk. The cab pulled away with the woman giving a last thank-you wave to the men. Then the yellow car was promptly replaced by the next in line. “It looks like good karma pays off quickly,” Iman joked as they got into the back of the cab.
“Some things just don’t make sense to me,” Hasim laughed to Iman in the backseat ride to a hotel. “Uncle Sam flies us out on red-eye flights to try to save some money. However, we land in the middle of the night so we don’t have a barracks to check into. So whatever money they saved on crappy flights is then spent on hotel rooms and having to eat off base. Does that make any sense to you?” He poked at Iman. Iman laughed along with his brother knowing that the logic was flawed by nothing other than reason. Iman just shrugged. That was the last bit of energy he had to give to conversation for the night. He was spent from the long night’s travel.
The rest of the ride was quiet until they reached a sign hanging over a brick passage. Guest Check-In. Iman rolled his eyes at the overdone letters etched into the elaborate wooden sign. A Marine to the core, Iman preferred things simple and functional. He had no appreciation for finer things that served no purpose beyond décor. Even still, he was happy to have reached a place to sleep comfortably.
Iman paid the cabdriver. Then the men checked into their hotel on federal vouchers. With room keys in hand and directions getting them to the following morning’s complimentary continental breakfast, they bid each other decent rest. They would have to be awake and ready to check into their new command in a matter of hours. Such was the way of the Marines. Hurry up and move. Hurry up and wait.
The brothers disappeared into their respective rooms and dropped luggage at the doors. They were of like mind in equal eagerness to shed their uncomfortable uniform shoes. They peeled out of their green suits and crawled into bed before accidentally catching a second wind. The last thing Iman wanted, especially after not being able to sleep on the tubular winged prison, was to experience an adrenaline rush. He wanted nothing to prevent him from slipping into a deep slumber. He wanted only to reset. He slid into a bed that offered far more comfort than he was accustomed to, and his eyelids made no effort to remain open. He faded away cursing the prospect of an approaching morning.
Morning, suddenly, was rudely announced by the sound of a blaring alarm clock. The young Marines were awake, dressed, and ready to go before most people were rolling out of bed. Iman and Hasim were itching to leave their small rooms before the rest of the world was able to slide into well-worn slippers and stumble their way to a fresh cup of coffee. They met each other in the hotel lobby and made their way to cabs parked outside the hotel’s circular driveway.
“Did you want to get breakfast?” Iman asked Hasim.
Hasim shook his head and answered, “I’m still too tired to eat.” Neither of the men was accustomed to eating anything worthwhile first thing in the morning. Most of the meals they had consumed in the early hours for months prior were served while the men were held in custody at Guantanamo. Neither of them was fond of eating breakfast, so Iman offered no objection to Hasim’s decline.
Hailing a cab outside of a hotel would have been an easy feat for anyone, but two Marines in uniform were treated better than either man expected. They were accustomed to lugging around their own bags and opening their own doors. They did not have to do either as the cabby catered to them curbside. “I could get used to this kind of living,” Iman joked as they climbed into the back of the cab. The driver slammed the large yellow trunk over the passengers’ luggage and hustled to the front door.
The driver sat down in his seat and asked, “Where to?” He then looked questioningly into the rearview mirror as the Marines stated that they were going to the Pentagon. He looked back with an initial response of doubt. Then the man looked the Marines over once more. They were clothed neatly in their uniforms, ready to fulfill orders, and each
had a respectable stack of medals and ribbons on his chest. Having spent a lifetime in a cab, and really not worried about much else, the cabby knew nothing of the military decorations representing accomplishment. Yet he decided the Marines looked important and worthy enough of the Pentagon. The driver shrugged and left the hotel, headed for the heartbeat of all military operations.
Despite the early morning call to do Marine labor, traffic jams filled every street in every direction through the city. Washington was packed with people trying to get to work, and the men were worried that they might not make the designated check-in time. The cabdriver explained that the high level of traffic concentration was normal. The driver, like all cabdrivers, swore that he knew the fastest routes around town. Iman and Hasim hoped he was right because there were only two conditions Marines dreaded to ever be: dead and late.
An hour’s worth of sharp turns, rapid accelerations into decelerating traffic jams, and gut-wrenching brake checks brought the brothers to their intended destination. They finally reached the Pentagon and paid the cab with chuckled protests about the expensive cost of the rolling death trap. The cabdriver offered a standard form of gratitude for their payment and the ensuing tip. Then he offered a much sincerer and much deeper felt bit of gratitude for the Marines and their service to the country that loves and hates them with equal fervor. Neither of them responded with more than a nod as the driver dropped their bags on the sidewalk next to them. He gave them a final handshake and made his way back to the throes of traffic.
Iman and Hasim were touched by the man’s show of thanks. They were motivated by the reminder of why they served as both turned to the front of a massive federal building. Then they were lost. Two sergeants, standing with their standard-issue duffel bags, were sore thumbs among the hustling suits and brass. They weren’t able to walk ten feet without having to render salutes here and there, so they were eager to get inside. Indoors, though they were plunged ever deeper into the strange world ahead of them, at least offered certain rescue for having to render salutes. They would be able to “uncover” by removing their uniform hats. Unlike the Army or Air Force enlisted men, the Marines would not be required to offer an indoor homage to officers.
Operation Jericho Page 4