The Watch (33 page)

I put down the book impatiently and start pacing. In a corner of the hut, Shorty stirs to his feet as well, woken up by my restlessness. We pace together. Then I smear some Nutella on a couple of MRE crackers. I give him a cracker as well, but without the Nutella, and ignore his protests: the dog has a sweet tooth. I’ve decided to take him back with me when I go home. An army base is no place for a dog. Besides, Jenna has a thing for animals, and it’s time the twins got their
first dog. But I’ll keep it a surprise: I won’t tell them until it’s time to collect him at the airport. I grin in anticipation at the thought of it, but then my mind shifts back from future pleasures to the hellish present.

I sit down at my dust-covered desk and lean forward on my knees. The ground beneath me is clay seamed with fissures, while here and there are bowl-shaped depressions kneaded from the heels and soles of countless boots. A bat flicks against the Plexiglas window; at intervals, the call of an owl echoes down from the mountains. I dab at the sweat on my throat with a handkerchief and ineffectively swat the huge black flies that torment Shorty. All day long there are flies, and at night the mosquitoes join them. As I fight the inertia that threatens to overtake me, I feel a familiar dull rage at the thought of yet another sleepless night leading to the blinding heat waves of another day. I pick up the book again, hesitate, and then chuck it away.

You really ought to read it … Frobenius counters in my head before I cut him off: Go somewhere else, Nicko. I’ve no time to chat. Maybe I got the wrong fucking kind of education, but for me, to act is all.

But don’t you see, it’s precisely because of the inbuilt oppressiveness of this place that the locals came up with war as a solution? It’s a vast release from the heat and the dust and the flies.

Oh, yeah? Well, tell that to the broad squatting outside in the heat and the dust. She seems pretty content.

The broad outside …? Do you mean Antigone?

Whatever, Lieutenant. I’m not interested.

A high-pitched whine from Shorty interrupts my train of thought, and I smile at him with relief and say: Good dog.

I decide to go out to the Hescos, check the perimeter security, and breathe some fresh air. Maybe that’ll help me sleep. I put on my boots, throw on my fleece jacket and a bandana, and escape the hut. Shorty slips out with me, trotting at my heels. Past the flaps of the tent, the cold hits us with force. Shorty barks in anticipation, while
I hunch deep into my jacket. Together, we walk past the company’s colors fluttering high on a pole. We used to fly Old Glory too, but Battalion had us pull that down because “we weren’t in the country as an occupying force.” I wince at the memory and think: Yeah, right.

My first stop is the mortar pit, with Pratt, Barela, and Ramirez on duty.

Ramirez is looking through the thermals attached to his M-4. He glances at me as I crouch down beside him.

How’s the imaging? I ask.

It’s a sex toy, Sir, he says with a grin.

Glad to hear it, I say dryly. As long as something’s keeping you awake …

I ask him for his rifle and look through the TWS. I press my face against the rubber cup encircling the eyepiece to activate the display and cooling mechanism. Then I zoom in on the cart in the field. The cart glows as a diffused white oval against a black background. There’s no movement: she must be asleep. I look for a few seconds and then hand the rifle back to Ramirez.

Pratt says: When I look through the TWS at the cart, Sir, I see a giant eye, and she’s in the middle of it.

Is that so?

I’m a’ tellin’ you, Sir, I can feel her heart beatin’ in the darkness and reachin’ right out to me. It make me sad. Real sad.

I see. Well …

I get up and begin to walk away, then suddenly feel a spurt of irritation and turn around. I don’t mind your feeling sympathetic toward her, I say abruptly, but you need to keep it under control. Eyes on the ball, eh? There’s no place in war for a sentimental soldier.

Are we wagin’ war on a disabled girl, Sir? Ramirez unexpectedly pipes up. Is that what we’re doin’ now?

No, I reply, taken aback. No, of course not! You must know what I mean.

I guess it’s been heavy, Barela says, our havin’ to sit here and look
out at her. It ain’t like she’s some badass terrorist, with all due respect, Sir. She’s just doing what any of us would have done in her place. Most of us, at least.

It’ll be heavier still if you let your guard down and we’re attacked in the middle of the night, I respond. Remember what happened two days ago. You don’t want to end up as a casualty in a CQB you coulda prevented, soldier.

I … I suppose we just have a feelin’ she’s different, Sir.

How do you know that? I say sharply.

Nothing tangible, Sir.

Then park that feeling.

Yes, Sir.

We’re pretty much worn out, Sir, Pratt interjects quietly, and it’s prob’ly affectin’ our judgment. Sometimes it’s like I can’t feel my body at all.

Stand up and stretch when that happens, I say without sympathy.

An’ this waitin’ aroun’ is tellin’ on our nerves an’ all, he carries on, almost as if I hadn’t spoken. ’Specially if you got to do it from here. Ev’thing looks like a threat through a scope at night. It’s like havin’ tunnel vision.

I glare at him for a moment before walking off. Seconds later, I catch myself wondering why I’m so annoyed. As I pause in the shadow of the Hescos to tie a bootlace, I hear Ramirez saying: What’s up with the old man? He was gonna eat our faces in a minnit! Whoo … whoo … I’d give a hundred grand to know what’s buggin’ him.

If you had a hundred grand you wouldn’t be here, dude, Barela says.

I still can’t b’lieve she turned down my Philly cheesesteak, though, Ramirez says, abruptly changing tack. I mean, I used hot sauce an’ all.

These people are fickle, man, Barela says.

No, it ain’t that, Pratt says firmly. They jes’ don’ wan’ us here.

That’s not what the terp says, Ramirez insists.

Masood? Barela says. He’s all right.

I don’t know, man, I just don’t know, Ramirez continues. I don’t want to be close-minded or anything, but I don’t trust the Afs. I mean, think of the way the ANA fuckin’ left us high and dry during the firefight. That ain’t right, man. If I see one of those suckers again, he’s dead.

He’s not going to stick around long enough for you to get to him, Barela points out quite reasonably. Or even if you do, he’s gonna be yellin’ up a storm, calling on his hadji buddies for rescue.

It’s hard to yell when you got a barrel in your mouth, Ramirez says tersely. Besides, our Afs were Uzbek, and I don’t know if you can technically call them hadjis, or if that’s only reserved for the Taliban, who’re mostly Pashtun.

You’re probably right, Barela admits.

And the Pashtun wouldn’t run from a fight, Ramirez continues. That’s why they fuckin’ own the country. I mean, just thinkin’ about that fuckin’ sandstorm attack makes my neck go sore. They’ve been doing this crazy shit for so long, it’s prolly the only way they know to be.

An’ I agree, Pratt says. As I was sayin’ befo’ I was so rudely inn’erupted, the Pashtun feel diff’rently. This be their land, see, an’ the girl out there be communicatin’ that message to us loud an’ clear. I think that’s what’s gettin’ the Cap’n’s goat.

She’s a real insurgente, man, Barela says with admiration. I mean, she ain’t like the other squirters. She must have crawled her fuckin’ knees off to get here. She just don’t give up.

She give the place a face, Pratt observes. Before she come, this was a dump.

What can I say, you guys? Ramirez laughs. I got ninety-nine problems, and the bitch ain’t one, you know what I’m sayin’?

She ain’t no bitch, jerkoff, Pratt says quickly.

Whatever, dude, Ramirez says. I’m so tired of this place, I can’t wait to go home.

What you plan to do when you get back? Barela asks.

I’m gonna open a bodypaint shop.

Auto body an’ paint?

Naw, that’s boring. Bodypaint and tattoos. Like on chicks and stuff. I got the idea when I seen that pitcher of Demi Moore in Lawson’s hooch. She wasn’t wearin’ no clothes, but you wouldn’t know that from the way they done her up. So I thought to myself: that’s what I wanna do. And I’m gonna learn Japanese kanji to do the tattoos right. I’m done with guns and violence, man: I’m turnin’ to art.

So you not gonna ride the white pony again when you’re back in the barrio, Ram? Barela asks.

Naw, I’m done with all that.

They’re gonna miss you at the shooting gallery.

Like I tole you, I’m goin’ clean. That bitch don’t fly for me no more.

What ’bout you? Pratt asks Barela.

I’m gonna join the L.A.P.D., man, I need the adrenaline fix.

Who knows if we gonna be able to go back at all, Pratt says glumly. We been extended again and again.

Maybe that’s why Garcia tried to whack himself, Ramirez suggests.

Naw, Pratt replies. I heard it was girl trouble.

There’s a pregnant pause, and then Barela asks: Girlfriend?

Wife.

Bitch!

What about the Cap’n? Ramirez asks. What d’you guys think he’s gonna do when his time’s up?

From the way he’s been fuckin’ up lately, Barela says, gettin’ people killed and all, they’re prob’ly goin’ to kick him upstairs and make him into a general.

I miss Lieutenant Frobenius, man, Ramirez says. He was the coolest dude. Best damn officer I’ve ever served under.

We still got Ellison, though, Pratt says.

Ellison’s a prick, Ramirez says. It’s like he always got a stick up his ass.

That’s ’cos he new, Pratt says. They all be like that the first few months before they settle down.

He’s still a tightass. Like he’s wearin’ boots a size too small.

You gotta have patience, Barela says. That’s the first thing you learn in the barrio. That’s the way the Cap’n used to be, but he’s gettin’ old. He’s like, what, thirty or something? I mean, that’s way old! You start losin’ your facilities and ev’rything.

I grimace in the shadows. Thank you very much! I swear silently. I’m twenty-seven, you fuckheads!

They’re still talking about me in low voices when I decide that I’ve heard enough and move on. Next up on my beat is the firing position facing the LZ, on the other side of the base. Everheart, Scanlon, and Pietrafesa from Second Platoon are on watch. I’m still smarting from my last meeting, and am curt with my greetings.

How’re you doing, Everheart? I ask. And please don’t go quoting the Scripture at me when you answer.

No, Sir, he says hurriedly, rising to his feet. I won’t, Sir. I’m all right, Sir. It’s been a quiet night.

Quiet doesn’t always mean that nothing’s happening out there.

Pietrafesa’s looking up at the sky. He glances at me with a smile.

Sky reminds me of home, Sir.

We didn’t train you to look at the fucking sky, soldier.

He snaps to attention. No, Sir. I won’t look again, Sir.

I relent and gaze momentarily at the sky as well.

Home’s Hawaii, right? I ask. Same stars?

No, Sir, not actually. But I was looking at the Milky Way. It reminded me of soapsuds draping across the paintwork of a sharp black car in a wash. I used to be an attendant.

Hmm. I can see what you mean. I wouldn’t have thought of it myself. You’re from a military family, aren’t you?

I am, Sir, he says. My dad fought in ’Nam, and my grandad was in Inchon.

They must be proud of you, right?

No, Sir, as a matter of fact.

Oh? Why not?

My dad has PTSD big-time, Sir. He didn’t want me to sign up. He was, like, don’t do it, Tim, if you know what’s good for you, and I was, like, Oh, I don’t know, Dad. So I signed up.

I see … That’s a bummer. I hesitate for a moment, nonplussed, before turning to Scanlon. And what about you? How’re you holding up?

I’m totally pissed off at myself, Sir. I lost my wedding band this evening. I’m going to catch it when I get back home.

Gold band?

Fake gold, Sir. Out of a Cracker Jack box. Still and all, it’s got major sentimental value for Deedee, seeing that she got it for me, like, when she was nine. We’d been dating for a while before we got married.

Maybe we can help you out with a search party tomorrow. Tell Lieutenant Ellison I suggested that, will you?

I will, Sir. Thank you, Sir.

As I walk away, I feel myself finally hit a wall of fatigue. Relieved, I hurry back to my hut. I’m already drowsy by the time I take off my boots, and I don’t bother with anything else as I slide under the blanket. I pass out even before my head hits the pillow.

0425.

I’m woken up by a call from Battalion. Lautenschlager is on the other end of the line. He sounds wide awake this early in the morning. I know how much he prides himself on his ability to function on an
hour’s sleep. Blurry-eyed and still half-asleep, I try to focus on his words against the white noise of static on the line.

When I hang up some twenty minutes later, I sit still for a few moments, and then reach for my boots. As I put them on, Shorty trots over for his morning rubdown. I run a comb through his coat and feel myself relax even as he does. By the time I’m done combing him, my mind has cleared. We leave the hut together and are instantly enveloped by a thick gray mist.

I feel my way through the damp, cottony stuff and am quickly soaked with dew. I reach the Hescos and hoist myself up to look out past the concertina.

An entire layer of cloud has spooled down in pillars that reach to the ground. When the haze clears a little, I catch a glimpse of the ghostlike figure in the darkness of the field and feel a twinge of doubt. As I climb down from my perch, I think of Whalen’s words about war not making sense sometimes and wonder if he could be right in this particular instance. Then I dismiss the thought.

I make a pit stop at the mess tent to get some coffee. I cradle the Styrofoam cup as I make my way between the B-huts listening to the sounds of men stirring. Somewhere, a boyish tenor begins to sing U2’s “Beautiful Day.” A flock of tiny birds dips in and out of the mist trilling in high-pitched voices. The company’s pennant snaps in the breeze. The base is coming to life. It’s going to be an eventful day. I can already sense it.