The Watch (8 page)

Garcia says: Adios, Lieutenant, Sir. Have a safe journey.

Ramirez says: Courtesy Pan American Airlines, First Class. Way to go, Sir. Whoo, whoo …

Tanner simply grips my hand hard.

They hoist me onto the bird, and someone straps down the stretcher.

Connolly darts over. He’s talking to me, but I can’t hear him above the din of the rotors. He waves and backs out, and another stretcher slides in beside me.

A while later, the Black Hawk’s filled. We take off with a lurch
and bank away from the ground. The rising sun spools through the windows of the bird and slathers the valley red. It lights on the face of the man in the stretcher next to mine. It’s Mitchell.

Someone sticks a needle into my arm. I swallow hard.

I’m going home.

MEDIC

O
NE.

Two.

Three.

Four. I watch as Jackson and Grohl count to four and heave the dead Talib to the ground. Grohl lets go early and the dead man hits the ground at an awkward angle, arms flailing. I glance at Schott as the squad’s leader to see if he will say anything, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Jackson and Grohl pick up the next body and this time it’s Jackson who flings the corpse so that it falls heavily on its head.

I can’t keep silent anymore and tell the men to slow down.

Why? Jackson asks, somewhat defiantly.

Because they fought honorably and deserve our respect.

Oh come
on
, Doc, Grohl drawls, spitting chew so that it lands right next to the dead man’s head.

No, I say firmly.

For Chrissake! Jackson snaps. What are you turnin’ into?—some kinda bleedin’ heart Judas-goat-towelhead-hugger?

I laugh. I’m as much of a Judas-goat-towelhead-hugger as you guys are a bunch of Heathers, and you know it.

Then I add: How do you think they would have treated us under similar circumstances?

Staff Sergeant Schott clears his throat. I don’t even wanna begin to imagine, he says. He runs a bandaged hand over his shaven head.

Exactly, I say, and we’re supposed to be better than them, right?

They killed Sergeant Espinosa, Jackson says in a low voice. He shoots me a disgusted look. They killed Konwicki and Folsom and Terry and …

I cut him off: Brandon Espinosa was my friend. We were buddies from way back in Iraq. He was a soldier who lived by the soldier’s code and died a soldier’s death. He’d have been the last person to waste my time with explanations of how the U.S. Army treats dead enemies on the battlefield.

The men stop working. In the half-light of dawn, their dust-caked features are a startling white. Some of them clench their fists; others grow visibly tense.

Schott raises his hands conciliatorily.

All right, all right, Doc, no need to get all pissed off.

I say: I was trying to make a point for a reason, Sergeant.

The boys get what you’re saying.

Why are we the ones doing this anyway? Jackson says. It’s the fucking ANA that should be on the case.

They skedaddled, man, Grohl drawls. There’s no ANA left on base.

Motherfuckers! Jackson says.

That’ll do, Jackson, Schott snaps.

I think it’s bullshit, personally, Jackson says sullenly, but when they go back to work, they treat the remaining bodies with a bit more consideration.

I take a deep breath and step back and watch the Black Hawk take off from the landing zone on the other side of the base. It banks steeply, gaining elevation as it veers off toward the south with the two Apache helicopters flanking it. I say a mental good-bye to Nick Frobenius and the three injured grunts on board. The day is rising, the night’s cold air solidifying into a milky mist. The base and the plain surrounding it grow lighter by the moment, each shaping itself out of the shadows. I watch the three birds until they dwindle into specks in the distance. I stare at the sky, motionless, until I feel an arm on my shoulder.

Doc, I don’t want this to sound wrong, Schott says quietly. If I didn’t respect you, I wouldn’t be saying this, but you gotta understand the boys are hurting—hurting bad—about our losses. You gotta understand these are kids in their teens and twenties. They’ve come through a lot together … and then this happens. They’re exhausted and in shock. I don’t want others walking all over something that’s important to them. You gotta understand. If there’s anything we have to respect, surely it’s their feelings and not the fuckin’ Taliban who killed their buddies.

I turn to face Schott. I have to close my eyes: his youthful features are twisted with pain. I’m a medic, Sergeant, I say gently. These aren’t merely bodies to me. You can’t take out your anger on dead men. You know what I’m saying?

I know.

I grasp his hand. My eyes are now close to his—which are icy and have a fixed expression. Schott’s very close to exploding.

Look there, I say, averting my gaze. That one has a black turban. D’you know what that means?

The question distracts him.

He stares at the body and says: I don’t have a fucking clue.

Then he adds: I guess I’m not that much into faggots.

I ignore the barb. That’s the one that goes in a body bag and stays inside the base. They’re sending out a bird to fly him to Kandahar.
The rest get dumped past the Claymores at the two-hundred-meter line, where their buddies can pick them up. Don’t go any farther. Captain’s orders.

What about the ones already in the field?

Leave them as they are. They’re too far from our lines, and we don’t know how many of their friends might be waiting in the slopes to strike back at us. We don’t want to tempt them.

Schott smiles without humor. Oh, I’d
love
to tempt them, he says.

He walks over to the corpse with the black turban and nudges him with the toe of his boot. So what’s the big deal with this guy?

I asked you.

And I told you I didn’t know.

Suddenly inspired, he turns to one of the men:

Hey Duggal. What’s the deal with the black turban? What does it say in your holy book?

Mitt Duggal stops what he’s doing and stares, his dark eyes guarded. Then: I don’t know, Sarn’t, he says slowly. I’m California Sikh. Diff’rent religion.

He thinks about it for a moment, then lights up. I bet Nate knows …

He hollers to Nate Alizadeh, who’s working with the squad repairing the breaches in the concertina. Hey, Nate! Come on over for a second. Sarn’t Schott wants to know somethin’ …

Pfc. Alizadeh, a lean, rangy 203 gunner, walks over with his arms swinging loosely. What up, Sarn’t? He nods at me. Hello, Doc.

Schott says: So what does the black turban on this guy mean?

Alizadeh looks at Schott, then at Duggal, then at me. He purses his lips.

Finally, he says: What is this? Some kinda trick question?

Schott says: You’re from Eye-ran, aren’t you?

Jackson in the back titters inanely, and it ripples around the others.

Alizadeh shakes his head two or three times with a smile of benign bewilderment.

Well? Schott demands.

Alizadeh reddens. Jeez, Sarn’t, he says softly. What do I know about turbans? I’m from downtown Dee-troit.

The men begin to gather round, looking warily first at the dead man and then at Alizadeh.

I say: I think the assumption we’re making is that you’re Moslem.

He laughs awkwardly. I’m Methodist, Doc. My mom’s Pennsylvania Dutch. She wouldn’t have it any other way. I go to church like ev’one else.

I curse inwardly at the connection I’ve inadvertently made between Alizadeh and the dead Talib, but before I can speak, he continues: I mean, my granpa arrived from Eye-ran and all, but that was way back in the forties. Both Granpa and Pa worked for Ford. Why, Granpa was in the design team that built the ’57 Ford Fairlane, the sweetest car that came out of the line that year.

Jackson—a known aficionado of the classic Detroit years—whistles softly.

No kidding. ’57 Fairlane, huh? He crouches next to the dead man and studies his black turban with as much avid attention as if it were the front grille of the Fairlane. Then: I don’t know, Nate. I mean, the Fairlane was sweet and all, but in terms of that particular year, I’d go for the Bel Air myself.

It’s Alizadeh’s turn to crouch on the other side of the dead man.

You gotta be kidding, right? The Chevy Bel Air was nothing! The next time you’re in Detroit, I’ll take you on a test drive in the Fairlane. You’ll see.

You got one?

Damn right, we got one. It fucking lights up the highway.

They go at it back and forth as the tension in the air palpably dissipates.

Then Schott collects himself and says: All right, all right. Cut it out.

He turns to me. So what does the damn turban mean?

The men wait for me to answer, but in a halfhearted manner, their attention clearly still on the car conversation.

I clear my throat, already feeling didactic even before I’ve spoken.

Well, I remark, the black turban means the man is a Sayyid, a descendant of the Prophet Muhammad.

Schott seems unimpressed: I thought the black turban meant he was Taliban.

Not all black turbans are the same. The Taliban loop theirs differently.

So …?

Grohl says: So is he a mullah, or what?

Alizadeh interjects with a crooked grin. My granpa used to say the only good mullah is a dead one. He fuckin’ hated them.

He looks at me sideways. You bin takin’ Taliban Turban 101, Doc?

He laughs, delighted with himself, and Jackson laughs with him. Soon they’re all roaring with laughter, and Alizadeh laughs the loudest, his nativist credentials safely reestablished.

Schott continues to eye me, genuinely puzzled: I still don’t get it, Doc. What’s the big deal with this guy? He’s Taliban, ain’t he?

I give up. It doesn’t matter, I say wearily. Just zip him up and carry him to my tent. I’ll take it from there.

I watch as Jackson and Grohl pick up one of the charred corpses. The dead man’s head is attached to his neck by a mere sliver of cartilage. Grohl directs a stream of tobacco spittle at the ground as he eyes his load with disgust. Stinkin’ meat jerky, man, he says disdainfully.

One day we’ll all end up like that, I tell him. Skin’s just another costume.

He looks at me, surprised, but doesn’t say anything.

I run my hand through my hair and realize how tired I am. After the craziness of the battle, I’ve been attending to injuries nonstop, in addition to helping Connolly and the remaining officers restore some semblance of order to the base. With the departure of Frobenius, First
Platoon’s senior Staff Sergeant, Jim Tanner, has taken charge until the lieutenant’s replacement arrives. The other platoon’s led by Second Lieutenant Tom Ellison and Sergeant First Class Adam Bradford, but both are newbies to the company who took over less than a month ago when Lieutenant Dave Hendricks and Sergeant Brian Castro were killed in an ambush in the mountains. More critically, both platoons are now understaffed, and there’s no certainty that we’ve seen the last of the Taliban.

The stars vanish one by one in the dawn light.

The men finish carrying the last dead Taliban out to the field, where they’ve been laid out in a straight line. Schott studies the slopes at the other end of the field and announces: Back.

He raises the collar of his jacket and begins walking back toward the base. The men follow him with their heads down. Jackson and Grohl come last, walking backward with their M-4s aimed at the field. Everyone looks done in, their faces grimy and sweaty, their eyes glazed.

They pass me in silence, the mist winding in and out of their ranks. The sky turns scarlet. Drops of dew appear on the ground. The first rays of the sun skirt the mountains and light up the brass shells littering the field so that it seems speckled with gold and blood. The slopes disappear in the mist. Although I have my fleece jacket on, I can’t repress a shiver. Already great flocks of crows are flying out of the mountains.

Spcs. Garcia and Lee show up to collect the insurgent leader in his body bag, and I accompany them to the medic’s tent. We pass the smoldering ruins of the guard tower.

It ain’t fair, Doc, Garcia says suddenly. It just ain’t fair. Folsom just got married. Terry’s wife’s expecting their first child.

No, I say, it isn’t fair.

What’s today? he asks. Tuesday?

Yes, I reply.

He was going to call his wife today.

Who was?

Terry.

It coulda been me, Doc, Lee says. It shoulda been me. I’m single, I got no dependents.

Garcia says: Fuckin’ luck of the draw, man. Fuckin’ luck of the draw.

They fall silent. We reach the medical tent. Just as we’re about to enter, across the southern horizon a sudden explosion of color spools into the sky. It mushrooms into a giant ball. It turns orange, then red, then bright white. The men stare.

Jackson comes running up. He’s panting. What the fuck is that, guys?

Garcia smiles uncertainly. Maybe the Pakis let off one of their nukes.

It’s coming from the south, I point out.

From Eye-ran? Jackson says. He laughs dryly. Maybe I should go ask Nate.

Leave him alone, I tell him.

Just kidding, Doc. Trying to get your goat, like.

Well, knock it off and go get some rest. You’re all wired up.

Jackson slopes off.

Garcia and Lee enter the medical tent, and I direct them to put down the body bag on a table in the corner. When they leave the tent, I walk out with them. The cloud on the horizon has ballooned into a massive black sphere. A plume of smoke connects it to the ground. I dismiss Lee and Garcia and continue to watch the cloud. From the tent comes a whiff of rotting blood.

The radio telephone operator, Heywood, comes by to tell me that the captain’s been stung by a wasp. I decided to walk over to the command post to check on him, just in case.

The C.O.’s inside the hut, standing at the window, staring out at the sky. He turns to look at me as I enter. I hold back instinctively,
mindful of the rank differential. I notice that his right hand, which he’s holding out at an angle from his body, is swollen.