by Brooke King
I began to put the pieces back in place, covering the skeleton. Each one resembled the manifestation of the living, each part working in unison for the greater good. It could’ve survived the war, but in my hands it will not achieve it. If I had left it, would it have decomposed, melted back into the earth, and become something new? Or would it have just simply ceased to be, a predicament for the next person who came across it?
I held it in my hands for a while before it was time to reassemble it. It must have had a birthplace, a name, people that cared for it before it was placed in my hands. It must have had a life before me, a story behind each scratch, ding, and dent, a special time when it had seen a different foreign battlefield and experienced the sting of war.
I put it back together on the table. It looked as though it were reanimated, clean and new, ready to be lifted and used, ready for me to manufacture death.
Friendly Fire
I was standing inside FOB Courage waiting for our truck’s turn to download our concrete barrier payload. Pulling drags of my cigarette, I noticed First Cav’s security detail mounting up. I turned to Sergeant Lippert, but he was already aware. He moved quickly from one end of the compound to the other, beelining for the convoy commander.
They were going to leave us here.
I stood there, my M4 loaded, attached to my weapons clip on my flak vest, pulling drags from my smoke when they told Sergeant Lippert there were hostiles in the area moving in on our position. The mission was supposed to be simple: drive barriers from Camp Liberty to FOB Courage, unload them, and drive back. Eavesdropping on the convoy commander’s discussion with Sergeant Lippert, I heard the shakiness in his voice. There were a lot of insurgents, and this place was not nearly fortified enough for us to bunker down in and hold an offensive. The gun trucks rolled out, setting a perimeter outside the gate. Soldiers ran to the guard towers, manning their machine guns. The only tank in the compound, an Abrams, shifted its turret toward the outer wall. Sergeant Lippert turned to me and nodded. I knew what it meant—we continued mission. The crane operator, a civilian contractor, refused to keep working. Sergeant Lippert shoved him back into the cab. Night had fallen, and it was pitch black out, except for a few street lamps, when the first round came screaming into the base. We all ducked as it hit the building behind our trucks, scattering debris and cement dust onto us. I flinched and Sergeant Lippert hit me twice in the arm. “Two for flinching,” he said. I rubbed my arm.
Asshole.
We looked back over at the crane, but it had stopped and the operator was gone. We spotted him running away. Sergeant Lippert yelled at him to get back to work, but it was no use. The operator ran for shelter in a nearby makeshift bunker. Sergeant Lippert threw his hands up, told me he’d be right back, and walked toward the bunker, but it was too late. Another round came in. No more bunker.
Crouched next to my flatbed HEMTT, the semitruck’s wheels shielding me as best they could, I started to question what to do. Do I stay put, ride out the rest of the attack, or do I move forward? Across the way, Sergeant Lippert shouted for me to stay put. I knew that it was a mistake, but I did what I was told. Running with his rifle in hand, he shifted body weight from side to side as he sprinted to the cab of the crane. Inside he lifted and pulled levers, figuring out the system before he leaned out the cab door and shouted for us to keep working. The trucks rumbled to life again, each HEMTT now inching forward as Sergeant Lippert lifted and dragged each barrier from the beds of the trucks. In the distance I could hear gunfire, rounds being sequenced in and shot out with precision. There were no three-round bursts, only continuous suppressive fire. Each truck filed into the unloading area as more mortar rounds whizzed into the compound. Soldiers on the wall began laying down lead. I was trying to concentrate on ground guiding a truck out of the way of the crane, but the new sound of bullets ricocheting off metal nearby me made me jump. The ringing in my ears deafened the world around me. No longer were the engines of the trucks rumbling. All the sounds of war were put on mute by the adrenaline pulsating my heartbeat against my eardrums. I could see Sergeant Lippert yelling at me. Another round came flying over the wall. A cloud of dust was in front of me now. No sight. No sound.
I was no longer standing. I was on the ground on my back. I couldn’t recall how I got there, but I could hardly breathe. My flak vest was shoved up near my throat, the plates inside constricting my airway. I scrambled to my feet, first checking for my weapon. It was still attached. I grabbed hold. My trigger finger instinctually found its home near the trigger well. I slammed my body against the HEMTT wheel, crouched, waiting for the enemy to come. I saw a figure running toward me. At first I was startled. A cloud of dust obstructed my view. I pointed my rifle at the unknown black figure moving toward me. As it got closer, the fear mounted in my chest until I was uncertain of what to do. I thought in my head, Do not fucking die. I pressed my finger gently against the trigger—a light squeeze that was gentle enough to take back or regret. The figure moved closer, and soon I was fighting the urge to pull the trigger. I slammed my head against the wheel as I tried to psyche myself up. I whispered to myself, “Do not fucking die,” as I cinched my hands tight around the weapon’s grip handle, trying to gain the courage to shoot. The slow motions of the figure’s legs scrambling toward me in zigzag patterns, the body ducking and diving as though it were just as scared as I was, made it harder and harder to pull my finger out of the trigger well, but I did not pull the trigger, not out of fear but out of my unwillingness to fight. Do something. Do not fucking die. Do not fucking die in this shithole. I didn’t want to be a killer, at least not yet, so I screamed loudly at the figure, pointing my weapon at it as it came closer.
My shouting sounded like disparity, the half-yelling of a girl who was not ready to become a killer. The cloud started to dissipate, but the figure was still coming toward me.
It was Sergeant Lippert.
He slid down toward my position, slapped his back up against the rim of the wheel, and turned to look at me. I was still pointing my weapon at him, finger still in the trigger well. He reeled back and pushed the barrel away from his throat. I was shaking. He shook me and I snapped back. My finger was no longer in the trigger well, but Sergeant Lippert was looking at me as though he didn’t know what else to do in that moment but shout at me. I knew he was talking because I saw his mouth move, but I couldn’t read lips, so his words were met with a scared blank stare. He pointed to his ear, then at mine.
Can I hear him?
I shook my head.
No.
He nodded and pointed two fingers at his eyes, then pointed up. I nodded. He raised himself up and looked over the flatbed but dropped back down. He pointed at me again and then at himself. I knew from training that I was supposed to follow him, cover his back as we ran, but I was still shaking, so I shook my head no. He grabbed hold of me at the shoulder straps of my flak vest and slammed me up against the wheel of the truck as he said something that I still could not hear. He let go and slapped the front of my helmet.
He mouthed a word: “Ready?”
I nodded even though I was not.
We were up and moving. I followed him as he ran three paces, stopped, and checked. We did this over and over again as we searched for the rest of the soldiers on mission with us from our battalion. Hobbs was by her driver’s side door, hunkered down in a crouch. Myrick was next to her. They followed us. We moved to the next truck, where we found West and Slater. We gathered near a blown-out building. Now regrouped, we waited for a lull in the fighting, the shooting to cease, so we could finish our mission and get the hell out of Dodge. I winced when another mortar round came into the compound.
Sergeant Lippert punched me: two for flinching.
Small Consolations
Before I unfolded it, brought it, and laid it out beside you, a blanket, shirt, bedspread, poncho liner, or nothing at all was draped over you. Before there was a heavy lifting and a sad remembering of who you were, there was violence and
your death. Your body made a death rattle, a fellow soldier held your hand, and for a short moment you knew what it was to fear death as it climbed up your body.
The bag, splayed out next to your body, has held none before you. I unzipped the long metallic flap and folded it over, being careful not to touch the inside creases of the lining in your pool of blood. Fellow soldiers helped me gently raise you. I cradled your head while the other soldiers took their places to lift you, your arms crossed over your chest, but if that day had been different, if there had been only pieces, each one would have been delicately placed in different bags, parts of you that would never come back together again. Lifting with the knees and not the back, I placed you inside, into an abyss that was smoothed out from its edges by the contoured bulk of your wide shoulders and thighs. Once you were in, the top flap was slid over, the zipper dragged closed long and slow, like the sound of a childhood sweetheart gasping when she heard the news from a family friend in the checkout line at the Raley’s that you had died. The gallon of milk in her hand bounced off the linoleum floor and into the other checkout line as she raised her hands to her mouth, unable to speak or hear the words “killed in action.”
Once you were zipped inside, the soldiers lifted you up with black vinyl handles and carried you off, but do not worry, I was with you. You were not alone. I held your head as each soldier shuffled their feet and took you from the ground to the waiting Humvee. I watched over you as the wheels on the Humvee spun toward base like the sequencing of .50 caliber bullets that enter into the chamber of a machine gun and blow out the barrel with forward velocity that tears through flesh, and bone, and metal alike. And though our journey was short, the spot where you lay inside the bag was only for you; my parting gift of loyalty and respect for your sacrifice was that the body bag carried only you.
Failings
It had been a while since I had thought about death or the fear of dying, but I was still scared of it. I buried it deep down, hid it from the others. I joked and laughed, shit-talked and made conversation, but deep down it was still there, the fear. It steadily came to the surface, rising slowly when an attack happened, when sirens went off at night while I was sleeping. The surge of fear, the uncertainty of my last minutes or seconds on the earth, and each time I began to question if this was what I wanted to be doing before I died. I looked around the room, or the motor pool, or convoy and noticed that I was not the only one frightened, but the mortars, bullets, and shaking walls stopped, if only for a short time. The panic subsided into a normal routine, and soon I was not aware of the fear anymore, just the racing pulse and thumping of my heartbeat in my ears. Some days I worried that I’d be shipped home in a metal coffin. Other times I lay awake at night wishing for death to come, for a mortar round to whistle into base and strike me down, maybe a stray bullet when out on convoy. I worried at times that I might mess up and get someone else killed. Soon I began holding the grip on my M4 tighter, cinching my knuckles down on the black plastic rails as I walked. I was becoming unpredictable in my courage, and it showed.
*
When I was a child, I often wondered why my grandpa drank so much in the evening. We used to have a family understanding; we don’t ask why he’s drinking, we just let him do it. One drink—he’s sociable, content. Two drinks—he’s bitter and angry. Three drinks—he’s silent and we don’t bother him when he sits down to fall asleep in his chair. He drank the same thing every night—Johnny Walker Black Label with only two cubes of ice because three would water down the scotch. Gramps had been in the Vietnam War as a navigator on a plane. He never spoke of it. He said that it was just a war and he was not there long enough to recall any actions or fights, but I know now that he was lying.
I swirled the remnants of water around in a bottle, stared at the sky from the stoop outside my hooch, and looked up at the stars, which were barely visible. It had been a long night of counterattacks by the 1-82 Field Artillery unit. The clouds were smoke that strung out sideways, plumed at the top by another round whistling out of the base. I thought of home, of what liquor would feel like on the tongue, of what Gramps holds inside his chest that made him bring the scotch to his lips every night for comfort. I swished the water in my mouth and thought of scotch; two cubes of ice, three drinks, three drinks to fall asleep.
*
There were no mirrors in my room. No crosses. There were three pictures taped to my wall: one of me, my brother, John, and my dad; one of my friends and me drunk and stoned outside the house on Lancaster; and one of Nana and Grandpa hugging me. There was no alarm clock on my nightstand. There was a worn tan combat notebook filled with shitty poems, a green army watch, and a figurine of Buddy Christ smiling and pointing at me with his thumbs up as if he were Arthur Fonzarelli. There was a wall locker half full of gear and clothes. There was a bed with maroon sheets and a brown afghan blanket. There was a bed with wooden sides sticking up a half inch too high, making it feel more like a coffin. The bed was hard, the piece of wood underneath too firm, the mattress so thin that it might as well be another plank of wood. There wasn’t laughter or happiness in the room because at night the walls rattled from the helos taking off, the air was stagnant from the A/C, and the sobs were too loud coming from my side of the room. I didn’t sleep. I stared up at the ceiling, at the emptiness of the room, and wished that I was home lying in a bed that felt soft and plush and had more than one pillow, but I knew that it would be a while before I saw comfort and dreamed of something other than the war, so I lay there in my bed awake and thought of death.
Placing Bets
I held the barrel and housing of my .50 cal, nicknamed Big Bertha, high up on my shoulder and carried it toward the gun truck. Getting it up to the turret was the hard part, but as I looked down from the crow’s nest, the gun already assembled, the ammo can attached, the rounds stowed and ready to go, an empty shell casing lodged under the butterfly trigger, the gun waiting to manufacture death, I looked over at Specialist Demaris, who was sitting in his truck, his black bandanna covering his pale white skin fade haircut. He signaled me for a smoke. I nodded and got down. Leaning on the barrier across from the convoy staging area, I watched Wach and Sergeant Tiesler talking shit, Harris and Lantrip laughing. Sergeant Lippert was walking around his truck, checking the tires. Captain Mauro was looking at an area map. Myrick was walking up and down the line nervously. I looked for the chaplain. He was giving out advice, prayers, and crosses. God bless you and God bless you. I pulled a drag from my cigarette. Fuck praying anymore. Prayers didn’t keep you safe. I turned to Demaris and bet him a pack of smokes that we saw action on the convoy. He shook his head and walked away toward his truck. One last convoy briefing and we were ready to roll out. I put on my helmet, goggles, and comm headset. Demaris swiveled his turret and lifted his pack of smokes in the air. I gave him the thumbs up. We rolled out the back gate, swerving through the barrier blockades and down Route Irish and onto the blacktop; it was then that I knew for certain that his smokes were as good as mine.
Ghosts
The young Iraqi girl stared back at me, her face covered over in black; only her eyes shown out from under the cloth. For years the girl I saw in the marketplace haunted me. I used to wonder what she saw. We were almost the same height, and though I had armor and a weapon, she stood there across the street from me staring at me as though she couldn’t decide if I was a friend she’d once known long ago when she was child. We did not speak to one another, but I often wondered what I would have said to her, what she would have said to me. She stood beside her mother, who was waiting for water and aid from one of the soldiers who was handing out supplies from an LMTV truck bed. The girl’s hands were clasped onto one another, her gaze direct. Her abaya and hijab covered her figure and her hair, only leaving the eyes for me to see. They were restraints from her religion, but they did not seem to bother her. She had lived that way as long as she could remember. She watched her mother carry out the same routine in the morning before she ever left the house:
this is how you wrap the hijab around the head to cover the hair, she would say, pin it here underneath the throat and wrap the rest up and over the head. As a girl, she practiced it every day. Now a young adult, the girl had a hijab that was perfect, wrapped tightly and neatly around her head, the black shielding her from me. Her eyes peered at mine, locked in an understanding that this was her home, her street, the marketplace where her father sold spices, and though I was only there to make sure she received water and medical aid, I felt as though I were an intruder. I smiled at her, and it was then that she looked at my rifle. Two days from now the marketplace will be a pile of trash, rubble, and bodies. She will be dead. Her mother will cry out for her, not knowing in the chaos where she is, and the next time I look at her in the eyes, there will be no life in them. But I did not know that now. Right now, she stared back at me, as if to acknowledge that we were both trapped, that at some point one or both of us will die, and that for a short while we must continue living, if only to come to the understanding that the world consists of people waiting to die.