The Watch (30 page)

I blame the dream on mefloquine. I’d like to stop taking it—and to hell with the ever-present threat of malaria. So I stay up the rest of the night listening to the whine of the mosquitoes, unable to go back to sleep.

D
AY
.

We got news today of a drone attack a couple of days ago on a group of insurgents who’d crossed over the border. That same night, a joint operation by Special Forces and Afghan auxiliaries wiped out a Taliban stronghold due south of us. Connolly passed on the good news to the company, and the men cheered. Neither engagement was directly related to us, but we count every blow against the enemy as payback for Hendricks and Castro.

Later, Connolly caught Pfc. Gaines walking around in a flat wool pakol cap he’d taken from one of the casualties on the mission into the mountains and told him to take it off. When I asked him about it later on, he said: Unlike the colonial Brits, we’re not going native. Not while I’m in command.

D
AY
.

I paid a surprise visit today to the ANA huts on the other side of the motor pool. For once, I decided not to pull them up for infractions. As if in gratitude, one of them gave me a stem of black cumin, with the grains perched at the tips of the sharp, delicate ends. He told me with a smile that if I kept it under my pillow it would perfume my dreams.

Another man asked to recite a poem in my honor. When I agreed, he told me, wistfully, that it was melon season in Kunduz, where he was from, and the poem was dedicated to the sublime taste of the fruit. He said that the Mughal emperor Babur pined for these same melons and once swore that he was willing to renounce his throne and the entirety of his wealth in exchange for a single fragrant melon from Kunduz. But then he started giggling uncontrollably while trying to read the poem to me, and I realized that he was high on hash. I asked him what he did for a living before the war, and he replied that he’d worked in a brick kiln since the age of seven. It seems he was sold by his parents to the owner of the kiln, who was also the ra’is of their village, to pay off an old debt, but I couldn’t tell if that was the truth or the hash talking. If the former, then I couldn’t help but wonder whether he was conceived by his parents for the express purpose of settling the debt. Once again, that would be entirely within the realm of plausibility, given what I’ve learned about the country and its people.

E
VENING
.

The first time I saw Tarsândan, I thought I’d arrived at the far ends of the earth. It reminded me of Death Valley, only worse. Now I don’t even notice the desolation anymore. Sometimes I’m even moved by the subtlety of the desert palette, or the brilliance of the desert sunrises and sunsets. Tonight, for instance, the Milky Way resembles a
glittering freeway across the sky. Doc tells me the locals believe that the Milky Way is the path traced by Buraq, the Prophet’s horse, on his way to the heavens. I look up—just as our ANA Uzbeks begin their evening prayers—and see how that could work. The Uzbeks hold up their palms before their faces and chant “Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim”—“in the Name of God, Most Gracious, Most Compassionate.” It used to annoy me at first, but I’ve since learned to appreciate the rhythm their prayers give to the day. Their kneeling silhouettes flicker against the starry sky.

Some distance from them, in the open area next to the motor pool, I set up to do my evening Tai Chi exercises. To my left, Pfc. Serrano’s listening to his MP3 player and waving his arms around like he’s at Burning Man. Whalen’s in his hooch playing blues guitar. The air smells sweet, and it is damp from the mist. A shooting star arcs across the sky with a brilliance that takes my breath away. I surprise myself with my own sense of contentment. It just goes to show: there’s beauty even in the bleakest backwater.

N
IGHT
.

It’s a beautiful morning. The temperature’s in the upper sixties, the sun’s dipping in and out of cottony clouds, the sky’s an iridescent blue. I’m marrying Emily on the grounds of Mills Mansion, its bright green swathe of lawn sweeping down to the Hudson. She hesitates before slipping the ring on my finger, and I try to contain my impatience, aware that the boys are waiting for me to get it over with and join them. As the minister pronounces her blessings, I look up at the clouds and close my eyes. Then I say a hurried good-bye and shoulder my pack and rifle. I run between the serried ranks of guests down to the river, where my platoon’s arrayed in formation. I turn to wave good-bye and stop short when I see the shadows stretching across the sun-drenched lawn. Emily’s wedding gown has turned to black.
I want to call out to her, but the words don’t come. She gazes at me with an ineffable sadness.

I wake up with my own face streaked with tears. Why is it so difficult to say good-bye?

I’ll never stop believing, Em. What’s happened will never change the way I feel.

And the words that wouldn’t come … I remember them now. They are, quite simply:

My love.

D
AY
.

One hundred and twenty degrees. The earth bleached to a dry, bone-white crust. No breeze, but dust and grit everywhere. We walk around caked in dust, sinking knee-deep into dust, coughing dust. The slightest movement sends up dust clouds that hang suspended in the air like plumes. We appear and disappear as in a magic trick, swallowed by the dust and then regurgitated as dust-coated creatures. I wear wraparound goggles and swathe my head in my black-and-white checkered scarf; Doc’s clad from head to toe in what appears to be a portable tent; Sergeant Tanner’s gotten hold of a motorcycle helmet with a visor, and surgical gloves; Whalen’s whiter than the rest of us, despite being shrouded in a poncho. For the first time since our arrival here, I can’t even see the mountains. The day passes in a white haze of hot sun and burning dust. It’s supposed to get even worse the next couple of days. I can’t imagine how that could be possible.

N
IGHT
.

It’s still warm, even at night, but the wind’s picked up. It’s blowing from the southeast, directly out of the parched southern plains. Everything is suddenly filled with this wind and the dust and sand it
brings with it. The dust makes it difficult to breathe, and everyone’s retching up lungfuls of the stuff. The sand crackles underfoot, and when I lie down on my cot I can feel it trickling down my back. I try reading, but my book sheds sand: the words seem to slide off the page. I give up and watch the roof of the hut leaking dust instead. The wind buffets the door; there’s sand seeping in through cracks in the floor. It’s difficult to keep anything else in mind.

When I step outside, all I can see are vast brown clouds sweeping through the darkness. It’s as if the wind has finally uprooted something that had never stirred before but has now taken over everything, erasing the familiar world, replacing thoughts from our minds and words from our mouths—and all we can do is watch its assault, bewildered.

D
AY
.

The entire base has come to a standstill. The dust storm rages on, and it’s reduced visibility to nil.

There’s dust inside my hut, on my desk, on my bunk—I can’t move without raising a cloud of dust. I’m wearing a face mask, but I have to keep taking it off because it’s asphyxiating.

I’m dreading the prospect of going another night without sleep.

We’re all so tired, we might as well be dead.

CAPTAIN

F
UCK this.

I mean,
fuck
this shit!

I’m furious, and I see absolutely no point in beating around the bush.

I summon Whalen to my office and tell him that I’ve found out about our men feeding the LN outside the wire and that it simply isn’t acceptable. Not by a long shot.

You want to tell me what the fuck’s going on, First Sarn’t? Since when have the men had so much freedom of movement outside the perimeter? What’s the fucking terp doing running around like the fucking Energizer Bunny? Who gave him permission to talk to the girl? What’s happened to our friggin’ security SOP, for Chrissake?

He takes a while to reply, and when he does, his tone is somber.

I suppose you could say that I’ve been unlike my usual self from the moment I discovered she had no legs, Sir. When I was walking up
to her—with the possibility of a bomb at the other end—all I could think of was me, myself, and I. But when she took off her burqa, it stopped me in my tracks. I didn’t want to go on with the search, but I did, of course, and I tried to be considerate, but it shook me up. What can I say, Sir? I wasn’t expecting to find her with stumps instead of legs. There are things in war that can get to a man. This was one of them.

Jesus. I never thought I’d hear this shit from you. Are you telling me you’re using this crap as the reason to compromise the security of the entire fucking base? Jesus Christ, I could have you fired for circumventing me, Marcus!

You left the decision to me, Sir, and I did what I thought best.

Dammit, you know better than anyone else that I don’t even have enough troops to carry out half the missions they expect me to, and you just fucking sit there and tell me how your heart’s bleeding for some broad without legs, and that that’s good enough reason to do away with the most basic security procedures! I mean, why not dismantle the Hescos and take down the wires while you’re at it? Put up a fucking sign, First Sergeant, that says: Shooting Gallery, Taliban Welcome Here!

He looks at me with a strained expression, but remains silent.

With an effort, I control myself, and, in a more formal voice, I say: I’m not heartless, First Sarn’t, and the extent of her injuries took me aback as well. But it still doesn’t excuse what happened. Once outside the wire, the men are at grave risk from shooters in the mountains. It’s way outta line.

Where they went is well outside the range of the enemy’s snipers, Sir.

Stop throwing technicalities at me, First Sarn’t. They could have an entire fucking arsenal of heavy artillery out there, and we wouldn’t be any wiser.

He regards me with a distant, intense gaze.

With all due respect, Sir, the girl’s been out there in that beat-up
cart for one and a half days. She’s been sitting all hunched up through blazing sun and frigid night while we’re all hunkered down in our B-huts and tents. It doesn’t feel right.

Bullshit, I say succinctly. What’s the matter with you? Are you asking to be shipped out to the Peace Corps or some fucking daycare center? I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Have you gone off the fucking reservation? The next thing you’ll be telling me, you’ve changed the fucking rules of engagement and we’re sending her flowers.

He hesitates. I guess there are times when war doesn’t exactly make sense, Sir.

I stare at him, outraged. You going soft? Eighteen years in the army, and it’s come to this?

This isn’t about going soft, Sir, he says quietly. I’m drawing on all my experience to tell you that this isn’t a battlefield situation. It’s a humanitarian situation. Human terrain. Hearts and minds template.

We’re fighting a conventional war, First Sarn’t. I don’t believe in that COIN bullshit. We don’t have the manpower to support it. Where we are, the reality of the physical terrain trumps everything. Which is why every time you look at that girl, I want you to squint past her and look at those slopes, okay? She’s doing exactly what she’s supposed to do: persuading us to let down our guard so that her folks can wipe us out sooner than you can say Johnny Thunder. She’s the decoy, First Sarn’t—she’s setting us up for failure. She’s staring us in the friggin’ eyes, for Chrissake, challenging us in black and white every damn moment.

And I’m telling you that you’re mistaken, he responds calmly. If you think it through objectively, you’ll realize that there’s absolutely nothing black and white about this situation: it’s all in grays.

Once you start thinking like that, it’s time to quit. As for your objective reasoning, quite frankly you know where you can shove it.

That gets his back up. He sits down and leans forward across my desk.

I was in the army when you were in school, Sir, and I’ve seen
enough to tell you that you’re reading this all wrong. Yeah, sure, in the army we’re supposed to think in black and white because we live in a gray world 24/7 and it simplifies things, but it also leads to mistakes, and that’s where leadership comes in. That’s where it’s up to us to tell the boys what to do and what to think. And the boys are confused about the girl. She’s outside the conventional template, and it’s driving them batshit crazy.

Bullshit. The next thing you’ll have them sitting around like pansies picking posies while the enemy overruns us again. They’ve done it once—they’ve sussed us out and come fucking close to finishing us off. If we let our guard down, they’ll do it again. So her situation sucks? Big deal. Big fucking deal. I need you to go tell the men to embrace the suck and deal with it.

He gives me that long stare again. Embrace the suck, he says. Jesus. He shakes his head. So you’re gonna have us eat a steady progression of shit until we get sick? Unbelievable, Sir. We’re the U.S. Army. We’re supposed to stand for more than jes’ fighting and killing. We do the right thing.

I slap my hands down on the desk. Don’t even go there, Marcus, I shout. The next thing you’ll be asking me is when was the last time I’ve looked at the monster in the mirror.

It’s always a good idea to check that ragin’ impulse now and then, Sir, he snaps back.

I respond with an infuriated look. I’ll ask for your personal opinion when I want it, First Sarn’t. You’re my right-hand man, for fuck’s sake—my fucking Capo di Capo. You’re supposed to be the unit’s rock—its disciplinarian and enforcer. Your number one job is to support me and my decisions. There’s work to be done. Get ahold of yourself.