The Watch (11 page)

He better be here or else! Tanner repeats.

We find Grohl in a fetal crouch on his bunk. He’s facing the wall, iPod headphones jammed into his ears. I sit down at the foot of his bunk. He doesn’t stir.

Jackson leans over him and yanks off his headphones.

What the
fuck?
Grohl yells, spinning around with his hands clenched.

Doc’s here, Jackson says equably. You’re supposed to be on guard shift, dude. Tanner’s fuckin’ seething.

Fuck that, man. Leave me alone.

You gotta get a grip, dude, Jackson says.

It’s okay, I tell Jackson. I’ll take it from here.

Grohl watches me sullenly.

I point to his iPod. What you listening to?

He answers in a reluctant monotone: Gethsemane.

Is that a band?

Yup.

I don’t think I’ve heard of them, I tell him. What kind of music do they play?

Jackson answers in his place: They’re kind of progressive rock, but metallic.

Grohl rolls his eyes, but sits up. They’re not fucking prog, they’re post-prog, he says irritably. And they’re not “metallic,” whatever the hell that means. They’re death metal, but with an aggravated melodic arc. Okay?

All right, man, Jackson says, have it your way. They’re like OMG fucking brutal death metal.

Bullshit, Grohl says. Gethsemane is not OMG fucking brutal death metal. Gethsemane is a band that’s way beyond that kind of classification. When they write a song, it’s not like they’re trying to be as satanic and obscure as possible like some cheesy death metal band. They just write from the heart. Some of their songs sound like death metal, some sound post-prog, some have math rock or grind-core influences, while some others are just mellow ballads. And that is what makes Gethsemane a fucking awesome band.

I got news for you, bro, Jackson says. Mellow ballads are the tool of the undereducated.

You’re a tool, Grohl snaps.

Whatever, dude, Jackson says. He turns to me. If you’ve heard of Dream Paranoia, they’re a bit like them.

Grohl bends toward me. Don’t listen to him, Doc, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. Dream Paranoia completely lost it after
Downhill
. Christ, my dad listens to Dream Paranoia. Then I played him Gethsemane, and he didn’t like it because of the singer’s growl. So I kicked his face in and buried him alive in the basement. You don’t fuck with Gethsemane.

Jackson giggles. No kidding. I did the same with my mom after I got her to listen to Amesoeurs. We’re brothers, you and me.

But Grohl is having none of it.

Amesoeurs! he spits out with contempt. Talk about cheese-eating surrender-monkeys!

So they’re French? I venture.

Yup, Jackson says quickly. Then, nettled by the attack on his favorite band, he says: And what about Gethsemane? They’re fuckin’ Canadian.

Scandinavian, Grohl corrects him. There
is
a difference. Just goes to show how much you know.

Don’t you guys listen to any American bands? I say mildly.

This time they both round on me. Like what, Doc?

Jackson says: Like some fuckin’ commercial boy band with an aggregate shelf life of ten days?

Grohl adds: Like babbyy babbyy babbyy ooohhhh and I was like babbyy babbyy babbyy ooohhhh?

Oh, I don’t know, I reply. What about Pearl Jam?

They stare at me in genuine astonishment. Then Grohl says wonderingly: You gotta be fucking kidding, right?

I’m thirty-one, but I suddenly feel ancient.

Tell you what, Doc, Grohl says kindly, if you lend me your iPod, I’ll download some Gethsemane for you. You can start with
Black-water Daze
. You’ll see. They’re like no other band. Even the artwork on their albums is sick as hell.

On our way to the Hescos, he adds: I fucking
hate
Gethsemane. I swear, the first time I heard them I ’gasmed all over myself after just two minutes. They make me feel all guilty for not listening to them from birth, and after every song I can’t function for, like, two weeks. Awestruck every time!

We reach the ECP, and Tanner marches over to greet us belligerently.

Well? he demands of Grohl.

I can explain, I interject, but Tanner asks me to stay out of it.

Grohl hangs his head. I’ve been sorta fucked up in my head, Sarn’t, what with Spitty and everything …

Tanner takes a step back and purses his lips. He looks disgusted.

Tell you what, soldier, he says, I got a good cure for that problem. Double shift.

I begin to protest, but Grohl says softly: It’s all right, Doc, I guess I kinda asked for it.

Tanner turns on his heel and stalks back to the ECP, while I linger there uncertainly. Grohl props up his M-4 against a sandbag and gazes at the mountains. You know, Doc, he says contemplatively, going back to what we were talkin’ about earlier on, I’m not religious or anything, but every time I look up at those slopes I get these goose bumps all over, and then it’s like all I can hear is Jens singing “Death Whispers in My Head.” That’s when I realize … if I had a religion, he would be my god.

I cough. Who’s Jens?

Gethsemane’s vocalist, he says with reverence. And the ultimate fucking guitar god. Jens Lyhne.

Amen to that, I say.

I pat him on the back and turn to leave just as the C.O. walks over from his hut. He says: I just heard from Battalion. They’re gonna resume Black Hawk flights in a couple of days. Which means that’s how long you’ll have to put up with your friend in the body bag. Sorry about that.

Two more days!

He glances at me sardonically and says: I’m told that there are certain tribes up north who refuse to go through with a burial until a full week has passed, in the belief that anything less is both disrespectful and immoral.

Couldn’t we move him to where the ANA huts used to be, Sir? I mean, there’s nothing left there after the insurgents blitzed it.

He pauses and thinks about it. I suppose we could do that … But
you’d still have to watch over him. Tell you what. Why don’t you talk to Lieutenant Ellison? See if we can move the damn thing.

Should I tell him that that’s what you ordered, Sir?

All right.

Thanks, Sir.

Sure thing.

He climbs the Hescos and eyes the bodies lying in the field.

No one come to pick them up yet, eh? he asks Tanner.

It’s very unusual, Sir, Tanner replies.

They’re being sensible. They know they’ll get mown down if they try.

Still, it hasn’t stopped them in the past, Tanner remarks. I don’t know what to make of it.

I don’t think we have to make anything of it, Sergeant—it’s not our place. But I’m certainly not going to stand around having them rot in front of our eyes and smell up the base. I’ve asked Sergeant Tribe to round up a couple of squads and bury them out beyond the LZ where no one can see them. Out of sight, out of mind.

Tanner asks him if he’s intending to have the three men lying at the end of the field buried as well.

Nope. The light’s fading fast, and I’m not taking any chances. They’re too close to the mountains, and we don’t know who else might be holed up there. If they’re still around tomorrow, then we’ll deal with them.

In a lowered voice, he asks if he can speak to me in private for a second.

We walk out to the wire, and he says: Battalion also informed me that a rescue team searched the site of the Black Hawk crash. He pauses and clears his throat. They accounted for everyone. There were no survivors. I’ve told all the officers, and I’m going to make a general announcement tomorrow. Right now I think it’s more important for the men to get some rest.

Of course, Sir, I tell him. I can’t think of anything else to say.

We stare at each other and then, simultaneously, turn to gaze at the mountains. The evening light softens his features, his expression a meld of youth, sadness, and fatigue. He badly needs a shave—as do I—and he seems to have visibly lost weight during the past twenty-four hours. I’m sure I look no better, but I can’t resist glancing at his hand where the wasp bit him: the swelling has reduced and it now looks blotchy and inflamed.

Just then, a flock of crows passes over our heads, and we both look up.

Have you seen Shorty since the firefight? he asks suddenly.

The dog? No, not that I can recall, Sir.

Hmm. He’s probably still hiding out somewhere.

Spitz usually knows where he is, I say without thinking, then pull up short. I forgot, I say stupidly.

He stands up very straight, but when he glances at me, he seems gentle, resigned, almost defeated. He runs his hand over his face and shakes his head.

Do animals mourn, Doc? No, don’t answer, he says. That was a rhetorical question. A slight grimace deforms his mouth. This is war, isn’t it? It’s what war does. In less than a month, I’ve lost my two most experienced officers …

He lights a cigarette and tosses away the match with a gesture that indicates both helplessness and an excess of fatigue. His hand is trembling, I notice. He takes a single puff and chucks the cigarette away. He nods at me as if from a great distance.

I’m going to get some sleep, he says. You know where to find me if you need me.

About to leave, he catches himself. What are you doing here, by the way?

I was just about to go to the medic tent, Sir.

Tanner walks over at that moment.

Connolly nods at him. How much longer are you here?

Three more hours, Sir.

Don’t forget that your next shift is from 0400.

Not a problem, Sir.

The C.O. nods tiredly and walks away.

Pfc. Jackson joins us as he leaves. He asks Tanner: What was that all about, Sarn’t?

We’re going to be on guard duty again early tomorrow morning, Jackson.

No shit. How early?

Four.

Fuck.

Yes.

All four of us?

All ’cept Grohl, Tanner says, and then smiles crookedly: This ain’t a fucking spa, soldier.

Jackson gazes at him blankly for a few seconds before averting his face and returning to his position. I can’t tell if he’s pleased that Tanner’s omitted Grohl, or disheartened by the prospect of yet another night of inadequate sleep. Whatever it is, something about his reaction obviously bothers Tanner, and I reckon he’s about to pull him up for it, but then he appears to relent. Turning to me, he says: I have to remind myself that he’s only nineteen.

Good call, Sergeant, I say quietly.

We turn to look at the unusually subdued Jackson and catch him trying to disguise a yawn by breathing out through the corners of his mouth.

On my way to the medic tent to relieve Svitek, I stop by Ellison’s hooch to talk to him about moving the corpse, but he’s sound asleep and dead to the world. I listen to him snoring exhaustedly for a couple of minutes—it’s probably his first sleep in days—and resign myself to waiting until the next day.

The fog is thick on the ground when I set out to find him the first thing the following morning. Bradford’s passing by the medic tent, and I ask him if he’s seen the lieutenant.

He’s either at the ECP, Bradford says, or else somewhere along the Hescos.

There’s a sharp wind blowing again, and it whistles through the base. The grunts on duty at the ECP tell me that Ellison is checking up on all the men on watch. So I spend the next hour stumbling around the Hesco perimeter in search of the elusive lieutenant, a more difficult task than usual because the fog makes it impossible to see more than two paces ahead. I follow in his tracks, determined to find him. As I go from one guard post to another, it appears to me that most of the men have put the firefight behind them, and yet I can sense a residue of lingering tension as, heads hunched into upturned collars, rifles held at the ready, they squint to see through the uncertain light. Everything seems curiously dreamlike in the dawn light and the dissipating fog. The optics of the fog make it appear as if the men and the huts are all floating above the ground. From time to time, I lose sight of my surroundings completely, and then it’s as if I am no longer part of this world but somewhere else altogether. This odd state of mind must be an aftereffect of the events of the past twenty-four hours, some kind of delayed reaction to the battle itself. The feeling of dislocation is extreme, as if my nerves are strained and I’m experiencing at one and the same time all the contradictory stages of a dream. Equally unnerving is the fleeting nature of this sensation, because every time the fog thins and I can see around me again, I am brought back squarely to the present. What heightens the sense of unreality is the absolute silence across the base, as if the mist has dampened all its usual sounds. Instead, everyone seems to wordlessly watch the play of fog on the field and the mantle of clouds that first settles on the mountains and then lifts slightly, though not so much that the sun can break through. There’s no trace of life outside—with
the exception of the three corpses at the very end of the field, all else is a bleak wasteland—and at this time of morning even the ubiquitous desert crows are missing.

“By and by, though, as a pale pinkish light seeps through the clouds, the slopes are once more visible in the distance. From their foot, a narrow trail ascends slantwise until it bends at a sharp angle, climbing in a fairly steep zigzag between ridges and pine trees until it vanishes behind a scrim of fallen rocks. It continues out of sight through a high valley that extends far into the chain of mountains. It is in this region of sharply alternating light and darkness that Lieutenant Hendricks and Sergeant Castro met their end a few weeks ago in the course of a reconnaissance patrol. Since then, we’ve refrained from venturing into the mountains, although there’ve been rumors of Predator drone attacks and Special Ops missions in retaliation for their deaths.

Gradually the sun eases out of the clouds and makes its presence felt on the plains. As it grows warmer, I take off my jacket. The lower slopes begin to light up, and soon the first rays of the sun sweep across the field and illuminate the base. The first birds appear: not crows, but two slow-moving vultures of enormous wingspan. They circle high above the bodies at the far end of the field but for some reason do not land. Two or three crows appear as well, but seem to be intimidated by the presence of the vultures and fly off into the mountains. Moments later, a hawk swoops down from a high peak and drives off the vultures. And yet, despite all of this aerial activity, perhaps because of the remaining strands of mist, over everything there reigns this peculiar, muffled stillness.