Sunrise Over Fallujah (23 page)

I fumbled with the bag, finally got it opened, and folded my hands so no one would see them shaking. None of the Iraqis looked at it. They were so cool.

Another of the men spoke to Fadel, who answered in a different tone of voice. The man spoke to him again and Fadel bowed his head and did the same palms-up gesture as the older man had done. Then there were nods all around and Fadel told me to pick up the money. A minute later we were out of the cave and headed back to the vehicles.

“We do it?” Marla asked.

“We did it,” Fadel said.

“What was that last bit of conversation?” Coles asked. “When the other guy spoke to you?”

“He wanted to know who my people were, and if they knew I worked for nonbelievers.”

I thought of the kid walking around touching all the Americans saying, “Infidel, infidel, infidel.”

We were supposed to meet in one hour and we would just have enough time, if we tore through the darkness at a clip fast enough to kill us all, to make it.

“Roberts timed this too closely,” Coles said.

“There's an old proverb they say in the marshes,” Fadel said.
“‘Chiefs sleep on anthills.' If he sleeps on it he's going to be bothered all night and by the morning he will have changed his mind five times.”

We were elated on the way back. I was worried about IEDs on the road but I didn't think too much about them.

“The thing that gets me,” Marla said, “is that if either side blows us away, they're going to think they at least got something out of the deal.”

Fadel radioed ahead and Roberts and his team met us on the road.

“Fadel, they buy our story?” Roberts asked.

“No, but they think we can get the kids,” Fadel said.

“I thought bringing in decent-looking people might help the situation,” Roberts said, grinning. “We pull this off and I'm putting myself up for general.”

Roberts had the other kids brought out and put them into the vehicle with Miller.

“Is that kid…?” Miller squinted.

“Blind,” Roberts said. “We build ourselves another life, Captain, and I'll come back over here with you to help these people. In the meanwhile if anybody has to pee or anything, do it now and get on your way. If it starts going down wrong, get into your vehicles and bug the hell out. Our vehicles have armored plates on the sides and if you don't get a direct hit with an RPG or take a straight-on shot from a AK-47, you have a good chance of making it. These
people shoot and run quick; they don't want to tangle with my men. We lack sympathy.”

I felt like I had to pee but couldn't go.

There was an eerie sound coming from the camp. I thought it was chanting and asked Fadel if they were praying for us.

“That guy's buffalo is sick,” Roberts said. “He's singing to it to make it feel better. He's only got that one buffalo so he gets priority.”

Great.

“Birdy!” It was Jonesy.

“I get that blues club, you going to come down to Memphis to check it out?”

“I get free drinks?”

“All your narrow butt can handle.” Jonesy put his hand up and I slapped him five.

“Bet!”

I was more relaxed as we set out. Having the kids to deliver made me feel better. I could tell Marla was more relaxed, too. She was running her mouth about how she hadn't made it on the debating squad at Half Hollow Hills.

“What I should do is get me a Humvee and hook it up with a sound system and a squad gun,” she said. “Then I'll put on the
Survivor
cut and blast it up to decibel heaven as I blow away all the old biddies picking the debating team.”

“It won't be the same ones that didn't pick you,” I said.

“Birdy, the whole deal's symbolic; don't be so lame, man,” Marla said.

Driving through the night was spooky, scary, but we had done okay so far. We were actually dealing with these people far off the beaten track. I hoped we were saving lives. Even Miller looked okay. Or at least as okay as Miller ever looked.

We got to the place on the map where we were supposed to meet the Iraqis and Gambarelli pulled off to one side.

“They're here,” he said. “I can smell them!”

I looked at him to see if he was kidding. He wasn't.

Roberts's guys got out first and quickly disappeared into the darkness. For a wild moment the thought came to me that I wasn't sure if they were really good guys after all.

Put it out of your mind.

Coles and Miller were getting the children out. It was beginning to rain and had grown cool. I wondered if the children were cold. I pulled down my night-vision goggles, couldn't see crap, and pushed them back up.

Miller and Coles pushed the kids forward. Fadel was with them.

“Birdy! Move up with us.” Coles spoke in a loud whisper.

We walked toward what looked like a shimmer in the fog. As I got nearer I could see the outline of a rifle; from the angle it was on someone's back with the sling across his chest. A shift in the moon and I could see three figures. Each one stood behind a box.

Fadel stepped forward and greeted them in Arabic. I checked the safety on my weapon.

The three figures were young men. They piled the boxes down in front of Fadel.

“Take a look, Birdy.”

Crap, I didn't want to look away from the guys. Stepping forward as I fumbled for my flashlight, I realized I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be seeing. I lifted the first box. It was lighter than I thought. For some reason that was reassuring. At least it wasn't going to be a 105-mm shell rigged to mist me.

The box was unsealed and I put my hand in it. I felt something in plastic and put the flashlight on the contents. There was a row of blue tubes, two, maybe three inches long, each with two wires sticking out of one end. A quick guess said there were at least a hundred in the box.

“They look like detonators to me,” I said.

“Take them back to the truck,” Coles said.

I could lift all three boxes easily and was glad to be moving away. I got the boxes into the vehicles I had come in. By the time I turned, Coles and Miller were almost back with me. Behind them I saw the children disappear into the darkness. I heard one of the Iraqis speak and saw the children squat down quickly.

“The kids are—”

I didn't have a chance to finish the sentence before the first shots rang out. The flame from the muzzle of the AK-47 lit up
the figure for a hot moment and I could see the guy sliding off to the right.

“The children!” Miller was screaming.

From behind me I heard the answering fire from Roberts's men.

“Move it out! Move it out!” Coles was shouting.

The sound of a machine gun came from our side of the road and a grenade went off a short distance from where the Iraqis had been standing. Then there was a sudden and awful silence.

“Mount up! Mount up!” Coles's voice was higher, more urgent.

We were getting into the vehicles when we heard another sound. It was one of the children. He was crying.

“One of them is hurt!” Miller.

“Leave him!” Coles.

I could see the child. It was the blind boy, his hands up in front of him, pushing against the darkness. Then I saw a figure—it was Jonesy—running toward him.

“Jonesy's out there!” I called out.

Crouching, I headed toward them. Jonesy had grabbed the

child around his chest and was covering his body with his own.

“Get out of here! Get out of here!” One of Roberts's men.

For a moment I lost sight of Jonesy. Then I saw him get to his knees.

“Stay low!” I yelled. “Stay low!”

I felt a sharp pain and my foot slip out from under me. More bullets hit the ground to my left and suddenly I was firing into the darkness.

Then an explosion, it had to be fifty yards in front of me, lit up the night sky. The impact of it lifted me off the ground and backward. Then I was being pulled to my feet. I looked up and saw Gambarelli, eyes staring straight ahead, a pistol at arm's length pumping bullets in the direction the explosion had gone off.

I half walked, half got dragged back to the vehicle and slid in. Marla was behind the wheel and as soon as the door closed, she spun it around.

“Where's Jonesy?”

“They're taking him to the other truck,” she said. “He's hit! He's hit!”

I was sprawled across the backseat of the truck as we spun in the road. We started after the first truck with Marla pushing within ten feet of its rear. Twenty seconds down the road, we saw the rest of Roberts's men in SUVs and Humvees lining the road. I glanced at the rearview mirror. There weren't any lights following us.

It took forever to get back to the camp. There were torches lit everywhere and guys running around with automatic rifles as Roberts was setting up some kind of a defense.

I stumbled through the confusion looking for Jonesy. Then I saw two guys carrying someone into one of the huts. Miller was pushing her way past us to get to him.

They were putting him down on the ground as I reached them. Jonesy's eyes were open and his hand was moving near his neck, as if he were trying to brush something away. I looked and saw a bubble of blood swell and disappear.

“Give him some air!” Miller was on her knees next to him and cutting away his uniform. “Give him some air!”

I hobbled outside and tried to breathe. A burning pain seared through my left leg. There were streaks in the sky and the first signs of morning. What to do? Where to put my eyes? What to think? It had been so long since I had prayed. So long.

O Jesus God, please don't let him die. Oh, please don't let him die. O God, please don't let him die. Oh, please! Oh, man, God, please don't let him die. Not Jonesy, God. Please.

I sat down on a pile of sandbags and realized how
tired I was. There was a lot of activity around me and I looked up and saw Roberts's guys stringing concertina wire around the perimeter of the camp. I figured they must have been expecting an attack. The M-16 felt heavy in my arms.

Two deep breaths gave me enough energy to head back to the tent where Jonesy lay. I envisioned him sitting up, telling some story about his blues joint. When I got into the tent he was still lying at the far side, the flames from the low fire casting a reddish glow to his skin.

“You were wounded,” Miller was on her knees near Jonesy's feet and started toward me. “Let me take a look at you.”

“Deal with Jonesy,” I said. “I'm okay.”

She stopped where she was, still kneeling, head down, hands folded in front of her thighs.

“Captain Miller?” I called to her.

She looked up at me. Her face, pale and drawn, looked as if she were in shock. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm so sorry.”

She began to sob, and then to wail. It was as if something horrible and ugly were pouring out of her. “I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!” She was shouting the words. Moaning the words. They were coming from deep inside her and filled the tiny space we were in. They broke against the walls in a thousand tortured shards that said that Jonesy was dead.

Several of the Iraqi women came to her. They began to put their arms around her. Now they were talking softly to her. Now they added their wails to hers.

Jonesy was dead.

Somehow she got herself together and looked at my leg. There was an ugly cut just below my knee and a huge swelling that bled lower on the side of my ankle. The leg looked different, raw and ugly, as if it was something other than a leg. I was ashamed of the fact that it hurt so much and that I could still feel the pain when Jonesy couldn't. Miller gave me a shot in the leg that eased it quickly and told me to get some rest.

I didn't want rest. I wanted to be outside if we were attacked. I wanted to hurt something, to make something right. But what?

Roberts. His mouth moving. He babbles on about the success of the mission.

Sorry about your buddy. He said. We're calling in a bomb strike.
Keep their heads down. He said. The detonators were just what we thought they would be. They're traceable. He said. There are parts numbers on them which encode the country of origin. Babble. Babble. He said. Detonators and photocells. Don't know what they're for. But you guys did well. I don't think they'll attack. He said. Babble. Babble. I see he is elated with the detonators. They will save lives. But not enough lives. This I know for sure.

I found Marla. She was bent over, her arms around her shoulders, rocking from side to side.

“Marla.” I put my arm around her. She turned to me, the tears streaming down her face.

“If there's a God.” Her face was stretched tight in her anguish. “If there's a God, Birdy, where the hell is He hiding?”

There was no attack. A day of waiting and watching. A night of bad dreams, of living again the moments that flashed wildly by and that I was already not sure really existed as memory danced them in my tired brain. Those moments and countless images of body bags holding my friend, my blues-loving friend.

A chopper to Al Amarah. A transport to Baghdad. Marla sat next to me, leaned against me, and put her hand on my leg. Miller sat apart from us. She was miserable, but we were all so equally miserable that we couldn't comfort her. I thought of the Iraqi women. How long had they known the griefs they shared?

In Baghdad there was packing going on. I put clothing into
my duffel bag, deciding what to take, what to leave behind. There were questions. What happened on the mission? How did Jonesy get it?

There were many questions and I tried to answer them with some logic. But over and over I thought that we were in a war of complete randomness. Death was hiding in every shadow, lurking along every roadway, flying through the midday air. It came suddenly and randomly. There was no logic except the constant adding up of numbers. How many are dead? What are the names? Where are the pictures for the hometown papers?

As we line up for the memorial service I think of the blind child, his arms outstretched as if he were feeling for answers in his eternal darkness. And I am glad for him, that he lived for those frantic moments, even though I believe I will forget him with the passage of time. For Miller running toward him, and Jonesy giving up his dreams for that child, was what lifted all of this above fear and loathing. In that one last desperate moment, there was actually something for the blind child to reach, some higher point of humanity.

“Does anyone know what religion the young man was?” the chaplain asked.

“He was a blues man,” Marla answered.

“And an American,” Miller added. “A damn good American.”

The questions stopped. The service went on.

“Lord, have mercy on us as we feel the pain of loss, and the endless emptiness that marks the passing of our brother, and have mercy
on us as we feel sorrow for ourselves, and for all the angel warriors for whom we feel kinship. Let death be swallowed up in the victory of righteousness. Let us fear death, but let it not dwell within us. Protect us, O Lord, and be merciful unto us. Amen.”

“Roll Call Officer!”

Major Sessions, at the back of the tent, marched forward, stopping in front of the first row of chairs. She looked down at her clipboard, and then up.

“Jones!” she called, her voice wavering.

Again, the unbearable silence, the longing to answer.

“Corporal Charles Jones!”

The stillness between heartbeats held for what seemed an eternity before giving way to the grieving melody of taps.

There weren't enough tears within what was left of our squads to wash away the moment; and all the prayers and words of comfort were not enough to hold the griefs we shared. Still, we had to summon the strength to walk out of the memorial tent again, and into the brilliant Iraqi sun with the getting on of our lives.

When Miller saw me she stopped, looked up at me, with her head tilted slightly back, and covered her eyes from the brightness as if to see me more clearly. We looked at each other for a moment, and then she nodded and went on. There was nothing that needed to be said.

We got new assignments. All the specialists, the construction people and the plumbers and the electricians from our
flying squad, were reassigned to the 422
^nd
. They were given some time off and the option to apply for other units. The rest of us, Coles, Evans, Jean Darcy, Harris, were being recycled back through a training process center. I had been wounded and received a Purple Heart. Marla told me to stick out my tongue to see if that was purple, too.

“If your tongue is purple it means you can poison them when you bite them,” she announced.

We turned in our weapons to supply and then there was the coming together and the saying of good-bye. It wasn't complete, wasn't over in any real sense. I looked at Marla and hugged her for as long as we could stand it.

“Birdy, you're a trip,” she said.

We swore that we would always be in touch. I would call her a thousand times and she would write to me and we would huddle together over the years. I told her, for the first time, that I loved her.

“Birdy, when people shoot at you,” she said, “you automatically love everybody that's ducking down with you.”

“Is that all there is to it?”

“No, but it's all I have the courage to deal with right now.” Marla put her arm around my neck and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “But I'm thinking heavy on you, Birdy Boy. I'm giving you a lot of thought.”

The good-byes were hard and filled with tears and promises. We were all going to stay in touch forever, and to keep one another in our prayers and thoughts. There were handshakes and hugs. And
Marla coming back to me and putting her fingers to my lips so that I wouldn't speak and holding me for a long moment.

Then we were at the airport again. Marla was going to Incirlik Air Force Base in Turkey and from there back to the States to train new CA ops. Captain Coles, Sergeant Harris, and Darcy were going to Doha and I was going to Ramstein, in Germany, to have my wounds taken care of and then I would be reassigned. Everybody else was assigned to the 422
^nd
and, for the most part, they were happy.

I wondered what Jonesy's blues place would have looked like. If he could have pulled it off. I wanted to think he could.

June 17, 2003

Dear Uncle Richie,

There's no way that I mail this letter off. Coles and Marla and Evans and all of my squad buddies are gone to their new assignments. Captain Miller left last night before I had a chance to say good-bye to her. Her original unit was rotated back to the States and she went with them even though they never left Qatar. Uncle Richie, I just wanted to write down that I did what I thought I had to do over here. I did it for my country and for the people I love and for myself, too. At least that's what I'm telling myself. But there's a distance between what my brain says I'm doing, which is more or less what the missions tell us that we're doing, and what I'm feeling inside. I think you probably know that, too.

I got
The New York Times
today. It was several days old but there's nothing on the front page about the war, or about Iraq. Inside th ere is a small square with the names of two more KIAs. I touched the names with my fingertips but I couldn't feel the people they represented. I'm sorry about that.

Mama said that I shouldn't be the hero type. I don't know. Maybe you have to be a hero type to deal with the bigger things that happen to you. At least you have to be bigger than life to fit all the things inside that you didn't know you could absorb before. I never thought I would see the things I have seen. So many people dead. So many with their parts blown off and them bleeding and crying. I've had to cram all of these images into my head, and it's not easy.

I tried to think about how I would tell people about my experiences over here. I was thinking that if there comes a day when someone says that we have won this war I know that I'll have doubts inside. The ones who make it home are just survivors. If there's any real winning it's that, once we get home, we'll know for sure the things we're living for. And, hopefully, we'll be more thankful for all those things.

If there comes a day that someone says that we have lost this war, I'll know that they are wrong, too. Because once you have seen a Jonesy or a Pendleton desperately reaching for the highest idea of life, offering themselves up, you don't think about losing or winning so much. You think there is more to life and you go on and you want to find that something more.

The funny thing is that the people I loved over here—my guys—could become strangers to me. What I mean is that I saw them here, and was afraid with them and cried with them here, but would I even recognize them if I saw them out there in the world? Would Marla be the same without her body armor? Or without her blond hair tucked up under her Kevlar? How about Coles or Jean Darcy? Would they look different to me in the supermarket?

What was Captain Miller about? How big is her heart? If I saw her riding a bus—maybe reading a newspaper—would I recognize her? I don't think so. I don't know if I will ever know anybody again.

Can I ever hear the blues again without crying?

Uncle Richie, I'm glad I won't mail this letter to you. Because the hardest thing to say is that I don't know if God and I would recognize each other. Why would He let such crap go on like this? How come there's so much
pain in the world if He has anything to say about it? What kind of a God is this?

The thought came to me that all of this—the training and the bombing and the people being shot, children and old people, and women and crazy-ass guys on drugs—all of it might have been part of God's plan. I'm not saying it was or even if I believe in any of it anymore. I don't know.

If I do talk about the war maybe I'll try to tell people about a blind Iraqi kid stumbling across the field, bullets flying around him, lost in his dark world.

Uncle Richie, I used to be mad with you when you wouldn't talk about Vietnam. I thought you were being selfish, in a way. Now I understand how light the words seem. If I ever have kids, I think I won't tell them much about what I did here, or what I've seen. I'll tell them something because I'll want them to know about war. But are there really enough words to make them understand?

Your favorite nephew, Robin (AKA Birdy)