The Watch (25 page)

He stops all of a sudden and turns toward me.

I don’t know about you, he says, but I can’t look at myself in the mirror anymore. I’ve stopped believing—and do you know why? He jabs his cigarette in the direction of the field.
That’s
why. Armies don’t win wars; people win wars. People feel things like sacrifice, loss, grief. The Pashtuns are in this thing as a people. And that legless girl in her cart is part of that. They know what they’re fighting for—they’re fighting for their survival, their homes, their beliefs. Okay, fine, those beliefs are fucked up, but what are
we
fighting for? We got kids here whose only option in life is either the army or methland. Sure, we also got the high-tech ordnance and every damn textbook strategy under the sun. It doesn’t matter. Their slings and stones are more powerful than our M-203s. Their nation’s more powerful than our army.

He drops his cigarette to the ground and stubs it out with his boot.

The moment that girl showed up, I knew it was over for us. If Lieutenant Frobenius’s death was the beginning of the end, then she
is
the end. Game, set, and match. I mean, think of all those who started out with us way back in Iraq—Dave Hendricks, Brian Castro, Brandon Espinosa, Bradley Folsom—all gone. And for what? For what? So there it is. I’m done now. I’ve said my piece.

I put out my cigarette. I feel just so incredibly tired, and somehow the loaded silence that follows Doc’s tirade makes it worse. Turning away abruptly from him, I say: Best of luck. I nod a couple of times and climb down from the Hescos. I gotta go, I explain. I can’t think of anything else to say. Maybe he was expecting more of a response from me, but he isn’t going to get it. I’m simply not up to it—not at this time of the night, at least. And not when I know that my guys are patiently waiting by their guns for me. They might be young, but their exhaustion is as old as time itself. All the same, I’m aware of Doc’s eyes boring into me as I walk slowly back to the ECP. The night is clotted with fog.

At 0300 my watch ends, and I head for the NCOs’ hut. Dark clouds crouch over the plain; the fog is thicker than ever. Visibility’s near zero, and everything’s in shades of black and gray. Numb with the cold, I stumble over ground covered with frost. The extremes of heat and cold are beginning to wear me down. Geography isn’t my strong point, but I guess the climate must match the altitude and location: landlocked desert thirty-six hundred feet above sea level. I try not to compare it unfavorably with the Atchafalaya and fail miserably, as usual.

I enter the hut and wake my replacement, Tanner, who’s sound asleep.

Your watch, Tan. Rise an’ shine.

He sits up on his bunk, rubbing his hands together to keep warm while I brief him. It takes him a while to put on his clothes and pack his gear, but after he leaves, I hit the sack and pass out almost instantly.

The alarm rings at 0600, and I rise to the sight of Garcia and Masood waiting outside the hut for their meetings with me. I take Garcia first: he seems much more composed than he was last night,
and I tell him that, as a preliminary step, I’ll set up a meeting with a counselor at Battalion.

The conversation with Masood is more complicated. Right off the bat I inform him that I’ve decided to move him in with Spc. Simonis. He looks surprised, and not entirely happy, which is understandable given that he’s only just arrived at the base, and I’m already shifting him around. When he asks why he’s being moved, I bring up Duggal’s complaint, without mentioning any names, and conclude that I’ve decided it’s the best solution all around.

I’ll introduce you to Spc. Simonis, I tell him. He’s a sniper. A quiet guy, unlike the rowdy fellers you were with. I’ll have him walk you around and orient you to how we do things here. I’m sure ya’ll will get along fine.

He bites his lip. I have met him, he says, and falls silent.

In that case, you’re already ahead of the game, which is good, because it saves me work. I look at him and smile. That’s all, unless you’ve any more questions …

He looks disconsolate.

May I have some time to think about this, and then come back and meet with you again? he asks.

Sure thing.

He leaves, and next up is Pratt, which comes as a surprise, given the amount of time I spent with him on the Hescos last night. He stands there with his feet planted characteristically apart, but something about his expression lacks its customary stolidity. I eye him with a vague sense of discomfort myself, not sure what’s going on.

Howdy, Specialist. What up?

He thinks for a moment, and says: I dunno if I got any issues, First Sarn’t, but there’s certain things I’d like to talk about.

Okay, shoot.

What he comes out with transforms what ought to have been a perfectly straightforward meeting into something much more complex.

D’you have any eddication about crows, First Sarn’t?

Crows? No. Dogs and cats maybe, but not crows.

He looks to his left, and then to his right, before looking back at me.

A few years back, I was workin’ on a farm in Montana, attendin’ to sheep, he says. Boy, what can I tell you, First Sarn’t. I came to love those animals. I loved their sof’ness an’ their kindness, but I hated the carrion crows that made them mis’rable. Each year in lambin’ season, the crows would swoop down in great black swarms on the newly borns. They’d peck at ’em an’ slash at ’em an’ scoop out their eyes—while they was still alive. Crows are bad news. At least vultures wait till you’re dead.

He pauses for a moment, gazing at me, while I wait for him to get to the point. I know better than to hurry him. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other and continues to look at me. At length, having received some mysterious signal to resume, he says: So what I’m about to tell happened las’ night. After I got done with my shift, which was shortly after you’d left us, I hung aroun’ the dugout to keep Barela and Ramirez company. I musta fallen asleep, even tho’ I was still standin’ on my feet, ’cos the next thing I know I’m havin’ this dream.

A dream?

Yup, things that come to you in your sleep.

Go on, Specialist, I say with a guarded calm.

In this dream, see, I was lookin’ at birds like I never seen, crows an’ suchlike, but bigger, scrawnier. They was attackin’ that girl in the cart—an’ I knows she was a girl ’cos she had her veil off an’ I could see her face an’ also that she was cryin’ real hard—and the birds kept tryin’ to hose her while she kept tryin’ to bury her brother. She’d dug a hole in the ground like the ones she’d made earlier, but ev’ry time she tried to ease the body in, those birds attack’d her an’ screamed like they was furies or somethin’, and it was bad, real bad—it was a terrible scene to watch.

He pauses again as I search through my pockets for a cigarette: I’ve a feeling I’m going to need it.

Am I goin’ too slow for you, First Sarn’t? he asks.

Inwardly I’m raging with impatience and raring to get on with the million tasks that I know are waiting for me, but I also know that if I don’t give him a hearing now he’ll simply turn up somewhere else. So I grit my teeth and say: Just keep talking.

Thanks, First Sarn’t. Much appreciated.

He lapses into a moody silence, as if remembering details.

At length, he says: There was patches of blood all over the ground, an’ more blood drippin’ from the birds and spreadin’ all across the base, like.

Why do you think the birds were storming?

I was gettin’ to that, First Sarn’t, he replies calmly.

Then he says: The meanin’ of the dream is clear to me, I think, an’ it goes like this. The crows be us, the land be where we’re at, the girl be the girl, the blood be from ev’ryone, an’ if we keep her from buryin’ him, there’s gonna be trouble, a whole load o’ trouble, ’cos that’s what the dream was all about.

He gazes at me with certainty, while I give a tight little smile, which probably comes off as a grimace, while wondering to myself why we need military intelligence when we’ve a soldier who can interpret dreams.

That’s very interesting, Pratt.

I know it must sound nuts to you, First Sarn’t, but among my people, when you have a dream like that standin’ up, you take it seriously.

I purse my lips. You’re from Fairbanks, aren’t you?

From way north of Fairbanks, First Sarn’t, a tiny settlement called Allakaket, bang smack on the Arctic Circle. That’s my home of record. Cold, dark, and isolated. Sorta like this place at night.

I guess I asked because some other people would hold that when you have a dream standing up, it’s called daydreaming.

He flushes, a slow tan spreading across his weathered features.

No, First Sarn’t, he says, I wasn’t daydreamin’. I know what that’s like. This dream was real, an’ it was diff’rent enough for me to rec’nize it for what it was.

So what do you want me to do, Pratt?

Convince the Cap’n to let her have her brother back. We’re killin’ the dead a second time round, an’ that ain’t right. He’s a corpse to us, but he mean ev’rything to her, an’ we’re keepin’ ’em both from findin’ peace—he in the ground, where he now belong, and she inside hesself, which is equally importan’. It ain’t why we’re here. We’re makin’ a big mistake.

I decide I’ve given him more than enough time to speak his mind. All right, Specialist, I say briskly. You can go now. Thanks for bringing the matter to me.

You gonna talk to the Cap’n? he persists.

I’ll see what I can do, Pratt—but I’m not making any promises.

Thanks, First Sarn’t. That’s a weight off my mind. I knew you’d gimme a fair hearin’.

He nods at me as he leaves.

I stand there for a moment, staring after him, and then I resolve to go and get some coffee to clear my head. On my way to the mess tent, I try to stifle an uneasy feeling, but once I’m there and making the coffee I’m even more distracted than before, and it takes me an embarrassingly long time to realize that Lieutenant Ellison is trying to attract my attention.

Do you have a moment, First Sarn’t?

Yes, of course, I murmur absently, while attempting to regain my focus.

You won’t believe what I’ve been dealing with this morning, he says angrily.

Oh, really? I answer as I stir sugar into my coffee. I glance at him. Coffee for you?

Umm … sure. I guess I could use it.

You and me both, bro, I think. Aloud, I ask him how he wants it.

Black, with no sugar, please.

Then he says urgently: I need your advice. The shit really hit the fan this morning. A bunch of guys from my platoon want us to return the body in our custody to the creature outside.

He couldn’t have gotten my attention faster if he’d slapped me.

With a start, I turn around to face him, almost spilling my coffee in the process. For the first time, I notice that his pallor is even more pronounced than usual. I hand him his cup without a word.

Clearing his throat, he says: At 0630 this morning, I was approached by a group of men from my platoon. They asked that we release the body of the Taliban commander to the woman outside. They claimed that, after her gig last night, they could no longer view her as one of the enemy, and our refusal to surrender her brother’s body for burial now struck them as—and I quote—“just not fair.” They ended by telling me that if I didn’t do something about it, they’d delegate a couple of representatives to talk to the C.O. themselves and try to persuade him to—and I quote again—“do the right thing.”

Having said his piece, he looks down at the ground and adds: I can only tell you that I’ve never faced anything like this before. I feel almost apologetic for sharing this with you. It’s fucking outrageous!

What have you decided to do about their petition?

He looks up at me in astonishment. Do? Why, absolutely nothing.

I take in his earnest, indignant face, and wonder if I should envy him his clarity, or chew him out instead for disregarding his men’s concerns so casually, however frivolous he may find them.

Just then I hear a cough behind me, and turn around.

It’s Heywood, the RTO. He greets us—first Ellison, then me.

Addressing me, he says: Captain wants to see you, First Sarn’t.

I turn to Ellison and excuse myself, then walk back with Heywood to Connolly’s office.

The C.O. has his feet up on the folding table he uses as his desk.
He looks completely done in, as if he hasn’t slept in days—which is probably close to the truth. He eyes me wearily as I enter.

How you doin’, First Sarn’t?

I can’t complain, Sir.

Good. He takes his feet off the desk and leans forward.

I spoke to Battalion about our problem outside, he says. Fortunately, KAF has a drone in the area and they’ve directed it over the slopes to find out if there are any insurgents hanging around. So we’ll find out about that sooner or later, and if they come back with an all clear, then we can go out and take care of Calamity Jane.

Sir …?

The LN outside, he explains.

Any word from Battalion on the corpse?

He massages his brow tiredly.

Oh, they’re flying it out tomorrow, as planned, which will come as a fucking relief, quite frankly. It’s beginning to stink up the whole base, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, and the medics have had no option but to be stoic and put up with it.

I wait for more, and he says: If we do get word that there are insurgents on the slopes, then we’ll take out the cart, clean and simple. But if the slopes are deserted—and that’s a big
if
, I know—then we’ll have to eliminate the possibility of a suicide bomber, get as much info as we can, and get rid of her … or him. She’s in the way.

Get
rid
of her, Sir?

His eyes don’t leave my face. We’ll have to come up with something, he says.

I begin to ask if it wouldn’t be wiser to wait until the new batch of ANA show up and can then be assigned to deal with the task, but he cuts me short: The ANA won’t arrive until tomorrow, and I’m not waiting another twenty-four hours while an LN holds an entire U.S. Army base hostage. Not a fucking chance—I’m waiting for word from the drone and then we’ll resolve the matter ourselves.