Azraeil & Fudgie: A Short Story

by Andrew Barger

communicator that a skull had been spotted. The vehicles rolled to a halt. This time the spotter was sure. This time the ever-changing landscape had effaced a teardrop area of sand and along with it a copse of green-blue wires.

  The area was scanned for insurgents. Once cleared, the double-jointed arm extended and swiped out the area in a rather jerky motion. It scooped out the device. Sand washed over the sides to reveal an arachnid-looking explosive with green-blue legs.

  Cpl. Pence gave his partner a hearty slap on the back as they exited the Humvee. He ordered Azra’eil to stay near the vehicles.

  “It’s not like I’m going to be doing cartwheels.”

  Pvt. Fudgerié’s boots were leaden as he trudged across the sand. He felt he was on his death march or walking out of the kitchen with the gravy boat. After what seemed to be weeks on end, he finally made it to the scoop and peered over its metallic teeth.

  There sat the skull.

  For a brief instant the skull morphed into the appearance of Mom Gretchen with her bushy eyebrows and cornrow teeth. And then it began singing, “Here Comes the Bride.” Pvt. Fudgerié was no longer wearing military fatigues, but a light blue seersucker suit that had gotten way too small on his plump frame.

  From behind—over the music—he started hearing Pvt. Vance urging him to pick it up and hold it so Pvt. Vance could dismantle the IED.

  From the roof of the Skullcrusher (none of the marines having a clue how she climbed on top of the monstrous vehicle), Azra’eil called out words of encouragement that Pvt. Fudgerié failed to hear.

  Trying to blink away alternating images of the grey IED and a gravy boat pattern of “peony flowers in bloom” and Mom Gretchen’s chattering face, Pvt. Fudgerié reached down and cupped the object in both hands. He was careful not to snag his sleeve on the teeth of the scoop.

  In what seemed like hours, but actually only took 47.5 seconds per Sgt. Moore’s watch, Pvt. Fudgerié was now holding the IED with both hands.

  Pvt. Vance went to work on the explosive with a type of Swiss army knife that had wire strippers, scissors and screwdriver all in one. After a minute he glanced up at Pvt. Fudgerié.

  The fear was palpable in his eyes.

  “Keep your head on, Marine. Remember your training.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Longer? I just got started, Fudgie. Now pipe down and let me concentrate.”

  Yeah, Fudgie, pipe down, ordered a voice that had the tone and inflection of Mom Gretchen’s just after he failed miserably at his attempt to carry the steaming, circa 1812 English china gravy bowl with fluted gooseneck spout, which, in Mom Gretchen’s mind, would have made him a man if he had only been successful. This would be his second attempt because Mom never gave him another one. That had been the true reason he had signed up for the marines and shortly thereafter the most dangerous squad in Afghanistan. He would prove to Mom and to himself that he was a man.

  I can do this. I could have done it before.

  But you didn’t, Fudgie. You screwed up just like you always do.

  No I didn’t! I tripped over the carpet.

  And you are going to screw up now.

  I will be someone.

  Mom said otherwise.

  She’ll see.

  Pudgie Fudgie!

  “Shut up!”

  “What?” Pvt. Vance asked, then turned to Cpl. Pence and said, “Fudgie’s talking to himself while I’m trying to disarm this skull.”

  Sgt. Moore looked on nervously from the cab of the Skullcrusher.

  Pvt. Fudgerié was sweating profusely as the merciless Afghan sun poured down on his neck and ears. He especially felt it on the undersides of his wrists as he stood there holding the skull. The relentless, arid wind did little to cool him. Sand flies were biting his earlobes. A streak of sweat raced from his forehead to the tip of his nose. It hung there with the private unable to scratch it away.

  “Steady, Fudgie,” he heard one of them implore. The words undulated and were garbled as if spoken underwater. Pvt. Fudgerié was focused on the heat.

  It’s hot as a steaming ladle of Mom’s award winning gravy, isn’t it Fudgie? Look at the V-shaped hull of the Skullcrusher. It’s the mother of all gravy boats. Look. The arm is the ladle. You’re holding its little baby. Don’t drop it, Fudgie!

  Not now!

  And when was the last time you went wee-wee, Fudgie? Huh? One too many chocolate milks this morning?

  Stop it. I’ve got this.

  Yeah right, Fudgie. The metal is hot now. You can feel it burning those sausage link fingers, can’t you? Those slippery, sweaty fingers just like the gravy boat did.

  The explosive was getting extremely heavy and scorching hot against his clammy skin. Pvt. Fudgerié could feel it beginning to slip. The drop at the end of his nose rolled off and splashed onto the grey metal below in a tiny hiss.

  Maybe it was the added weight of the sweat drop or maybe Pvt. Fudgerié spread his fingers microscopically apart that caused the skull to slip—rotating in the air as it fell—Pvt. Vance snatching at hot desert air in a late attempt at snagging the skull by its wires—Sgt. Moore screaming from inside the Skullcrusher—Cpl. Pence diving in any direction that led him away from the bomb—Pvt. Fudgerié whelping in horror. No one is sure.

  Just as no one is sure how long the marines stood in the desert trying to figure out if they had died, unsure whether they had become parts-and-pieces and whether pervasive shock and numbness was the denizen of death. Yet they heard no explosion. Perhaps they had all gone deaf from the cacophony. But they heard the whirling of dry air. And they felt no pain. And it struck them all at the same moment that they didn’t hear the skull thump the ground.

  “You looking for this?” came a high-pitched voice.

  When Pvt. Fudgerié looked down, he saw the piercing green eyes of Azra’eil peering up at him. There she lay in a diving position, on her stomach in the sand, arms outstretched with the IED between her hands.

  Cpl. Pence looked at both vehicles and they were too distant for any person, let alone a child, to have dove from under one of them and caught the falling IED. Besides, there were no small footprints, either.

  By this time Sgt. Moore had climbed out the back of the Skullcrusher and was standing off to the side with an M-4 rifle pointed at Azra’eil. “Put the explosive down,” he warned.

  The girl turned over slowly so that she was facing him. She placed the IED in the yellow lap of her Pashtun outfit. “You may find this surprising, but I am helping you out here. You need it, believe me.”

  Sgt. Moore pointed with the M-4. “Hand the explosive to Cpl. Pence there.”

  “I can paint it for you. Perhaps an indigo blue.”

  Sgt. Moore told her she had three seconds to do as he commanded. He began counting.

  Azra’eil shrugged and pushed the IED up to the marine. The girl stood up and brushed sand off her qmis. She fixed the ḥijāb that had gone cockeyed.

  Sgt. Moore put the M-4 at ease.

  For a few moments the marines stood in awe of the young girl as the wind hummed through the tight nooks and crevices of their machinery. They were truly speechless.

  Finally, Sgt. Moore asked, “Where were you hiding?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “You didn’t set this bomb, did you?”

  “Would I set a bomb and then save you from getting blown up by it? Think about it.”

  Sgt. Moore felt dim-witted. “Why are you helping us?”

  “Helping? You silly, silly boys. It just wasn’t right. Not here. Not now. The paint is almost dry.”

  None of them understood the response.

  “We’d like to thank you,” offered Cpl. Pence. They knew it was important to gain any comity they could with the locals.

  Azra’eil raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess, more bottled water. You really know how to treat a girl.”

  Pvt. Vance turned to Pvt. Fudgerié and said, “You’ve gotta have a bunch of candy bars stashed somewhere back
there.” He nodded over his shoulder to the Humvee.

  The marines all focused on Pvt. Fudgerié in the hopes of a positive response.

  Cpl. Pence noticed it first. “Look! Fudgie’s wet himself. Look!” He was pointing at the marine’s leg and the dark color spreading down his fatigues. He forgot about the IED and began laughing hysterically as the others joined in.

  By the time Sgt. Moore had quieted down the subordinates, Azra’eil was gone. As quickly as she had appeared, she had vanished.

  “I’ve seen stranger out here,” Sgt. Moore informed as they searched under the vehicles. “The sand’ll play tricks. People can just up and disappear when they are three feet in front of you. We’ve lost whole convoys in dust storms only to find them again two-hundred yards away.”

  Where ever she was hiding—if she was actually hiding—they could not find her. After they gave up searching, it took the marines another half hour to get the IED fully disarmed and dismantled.

  Pvt. Fudgerié took no part in the process and had a private talk with Sgt. Moore where he explained he could no longer ride with Cpl. Pence and his big mouth. Sgt. Moore, displaying a rare sign of compassion for the marine, agreed. Sgt. Moore coupled it with strict orders that he sit only on the tarp in the back.

  As the team of bomb-sweeping vehicles moved on, Pvt. Fudgerié—stiff-legged—quickly asked about a Latin tattoo on the arm of Sgt. Moore. He wanted to talk about any subject but what had just happened.

  “Servo permaneo bovis provestri. Save the last bullet for yourself,” Sgt. Moore informed.

  Cpl. Pence, who was now in constant communication as he was riding alone in the trailing Humvee, added over the radio, “You should get one, Fudgie. Servo permaneo doughis provestri. Save the last doughnut for yourself.”

  The marines burst out laughing.

  As they drove, Pvt. Vance scanned the horizon for more shiny objects. At eleven o’clock he noticed another graveyard of military vehicles. They too had lilies painted on the tires and various other parts of their machinery.

  “Our girl has been busy,” he told the others. “Hey wait a second. I just noticed this. The burn marks are over the flowers. It’s as if Azra’eil painted the vehicles before they got torched. Just like the Humvee. Hey, you don’t think—”

  Sgt. Moore cursed and hit the steering wheel. “Would you look at that? Pence is creeping up on us again. Pence!”

  With a quick burst of speed, the Humvee pulled along side the Skullcrusher.

  “Pence, listen to me. Don’t get stupid.”

  He stuck out his tongue and raced past the marines in the other vehicle. Fine desert grains pelted the Skullcrusher as Cpl. Pence jockeyed to the forefront. There was no window gesture or radio communication that could slow him down.

  He only held the pole position for a few seconds before a jarring sound pierced their ears. They saw blue-green fire spurt from the undercarriage of the Humvee. It launched the vehicle six feet off the ground. The occupants of the Skullcrusher watched in slow motion as the twisted hunk of metal landed on the driver’s side, jounced, and ground to a halt.

  When the other marines arrived at the wreckage they noticed the lily-painted tires spinning in mid air. It was an air filled with the acrid smell of burnt rubber and oil. A small but malevolent fire was burning near the back axle.

  “The fastest way to get Pence out is to tip it over,” Sgt. Moore yelled. He feared if they were not quick in their response, even more explosions could occur.

  Pvt. Vance joined his superior in pushing on the roof with his hands.

  “You too, Fudgie!”

  Pvt. Fudgerié began pushing on the roof with his sizeable back. The Humvee jostled in the sand and settled at least twice before they managed to get it rocking. A final effort sent it back on all fours.

  With the Humvee righted, Sgt. Moore jerked the driver’s door open. It was almost impossible to see if Cpl. Pence was hurt through the gummy, cracked sheet of glass that was designed to withstand bullet impacts and IED bursts.

  Once the door creaked