The Watch (9 page)

I heard you were stung by a wasp, Sir?

Yes, can you believe it? I go through a vicious firefight without a scratch, and then I get stung by a fucking wasp.

Do you want me to take a look?

He waves me away. It’s only a wasp, Doc.

He turns to look out of the window again. That’s when Whalen walks in.

I just called KAF about that smoke in the sky, he tells Connolly. It looks like it’s somewhere over the Arghandab River Valley.

And …?

They’re investigating. I’m waiting to hear back from them.

The birds went in that direction, I remark.

Connolly looks at me irritably. Thanks, Doc.

I’m sorry, Sir, I reply. That was a stupid thing to say.

I’m gonna call KAF myself, he says suddenly. He walks over to the desk and sits down with a thud. He stares at me. You better turn in for a while. You look like you’re about to drop.

So do you, Sir. So do we all. But you’re probably right. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion.

He listens to me but seems distracted.

I walk out while he sits at the desk all hunched up.

Back in my hooch I lie down on my bunk and pick up a book.
Habits and Customs of the Native Tribes of Kandahaur Province
, by Lieutenant Colonel Sir Rupert Jollye, Her Majesty’s Gordon Highlanders, 1897. I read a page with effort and put it down. I slip on my iPod headphones and scan for something easy to listen to. I click on “Desert Angel,” by Stevie Nicks. She sings me to sleep.

I couldn’t have been sleeping more than a few minutes when I realize that someone is nestling against me. I turn to my side with a start. It’s Sarah. She lies there smiling serenely. Her body feels soft,
pliant. I stroke her breast, touch her nipple. She runs her hand through my hair. I press closer to kiss her when I glimpse a man lying on the other side.

I wake up with a gasp, then sit up. My heart is pounding wildly. I’m sweating, my breath coming in gasps. I fold my hands around my knees and force myself to breathe slower. I feel old, spent.

I push back on the bunk and gaze at Sarah’s picture on the wall. She’s tied back her heavy bronze hair and stares at the camera fixedly. We’d just had an argument, something silly; I don’t even remember what it was anymore. I look at her intently, then stretch out on the bunk again. I lie there staring at the ceiling, thinking about how stuffy it is in here, willing myself to fall back to sleep.

It
is
stuffy, Frobenius agrees as he leans past me and opens a window. Outside, the sky has cleared up after the rain. Across the street, a man is shaving at an open window. He’s short, squat, his white shirt unbuttoned to his navel. Soapy water runs down his neck; he contorts his face hideously as he shaves.

D’you think you could get a bead on him from here, Dave? Frobenius asks.

Dave Hendricks glances over indifferently. He aims an imaginary sniper rifle at the man. From this distance, easy, he says.

Frobenius says: This town is dead, man.

Hendricks says: It’s Vicenza, Nick, not Frankfurt.

Yeah, whatever. It still sucks.

Hendricks suddenly pushes back from the table and stands up.

Ya’ll going somewhere, Lieutenant? Whalen asks.

Yup. I’m heading into town. Time to party.

He puts on his jacket and glances at Frobenius. Nick?

Oh, I don’t know.

Still not over Emily, eh? Hendricks says, grinning.

Let’s not go there, shall we? Frobenius warns, his voice suddenly steely.

Sorry, bro, I was just sayin’ …

Don’t.

Hendricks puts his hands up. No offense. I don’t suppose you’re in the mood, then?

Frobenius looks at Whalen, then at me.

Whalen avoids his eyes. I nurse my beer silently.

With something like a sigh, Frobenius rises to his feet. He puts on his jacket and cap and glances at us again.

Whalen continues to look away; I stare back at Frobenius without speaking.

Abruptly, he says: Fuck this.

There’s always that, Hendricks says deadpan.

Frobenius grimaces.

Well, gentlemen, he says tonelessly, good evening.

We watch them walk out, the barroom doors swinging shut behind them.

Lieutenant Frobenius is going to pieces, Whalen observes. He’s drinking too much, whoring too much. I don’t like it.

He’s his own man, First Sarn’t.

That still don’t mean I gotta like it.

At their age, what else have they got to do? It’s all bars and floozies.

Whalen rubs his hands together so hard they turn a pasty white.

Still, he says, I know he’s hurting. I went to their wedding, you know. It was by the water. On the Hudson. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. She’s a good kid.

Aww, that’s sweet, I say mockingly.

I mean it. It was real.

So she loves him?

More than he thinks.

Then why’d she leave?

Because she loves him.

All right, what is this? A riddle? From everything I’ve heard, she was frickin’ hard on him. And more than a bit judgmental.

Whalen winces. Aren’t they all?

He downs his beer, then looks at me. There’s a movie playing that I want to see. It’s in Greek, with English subtitles. Interested?

I raise my eyebrows. With subtitles … jeez, I don’t know, First Sarn’t.

Aw, c’mon. I don’t want to sit in a movie hall all by my lonesome self.

I think for a moment, then: Why not? It isn’t like I got a hot date waiting.

We walk down to the movie hall. The cobblestones are still wet from the rain, and slippery. Whalen insists on buying my ticket, so I wait in the lobby and look at the poster with
Irene Pappas staring out fiercely at the world. I think she’s gorgeous.

The picture’s from 1961; the hall’s half empty. It’s an old print, and white blips and flashes spark across the shadowy screen. I feel my eyes blurring from the combination of too much beer and too much straining to read the subtitles. I begin to regret coming, when, with her voice pitched low, Pappas seems to address me directly:

        
I will bury Polyneices. I will do what I must do

        
And I will die an honorable death
.

        
I am his family, his kin, and kin will lie by kin
.

        
Mine will be a holy crime
.

She reaches out of the screen and shakes me by the shoulder.

Wake up, Steve, she says urgently.
Wake up!

I start and sit bolt upright: Pfc. Serrano has his hand on my arm.

He says: I’m sorry, Doc, but the captain wants to see you in the command post. Immediately.

I peer at my watch: I’ve been asleep for less than twenty minutes.

What’s going on? I ask, but Serrano’s already on his way out. I’m not sure, he calls out over his shoulder, but I’m on my way to get First Sergeant Whalen and Lieutenant Ellison.

I swing myself off the bunk with a sense of foreboding. I throw on a shirt, pull on a pair of shorts, tie my boots. For a moment I struggle with the laces. Then I run out.

The stars are still out, but they’re fading fast. The mountains tower over the landscape. The mist has spread evenly on the ground, and it is damp and thick.

I catch up with Whalen just as he’s about to enter the communications hut, which also serves as the base’s command post, a fourteen-by-eight-foot space filled with radios, maps, and computers. Inside, it’s already crowded. Beside the C.O., Lieutenant Ellison, Sergeant Tanner of First Platoon, Sergeants Bradford and Eric Petrak of Second Platoon, Staff Sergeants Ashworth, Flint, Tribe, and Schott, and the radio telephone operator, Heywood, a number of other NCOs pack the hut. Connolly looks at us as we walk in. He’s unusually pale, as if some essential spark has gone out of him. He glances at his watch, then announces in a flat voice, without any preliminaries, that, about thirteen minutes ago, we received the news that the Black Hawk carrying Nick Frobenius and the others crashed about twenty-eight kilometers due southwest of us. All personnel on board are feared lost.

Something like a collective groan escapes from the men. There is no other sound. Not once does Connolly look up. We see nothing but his own and the RTO’s bowed heads as he speaks. He says that as yet we have no indication of what might have caused the crash. What’s more, one of the two choppers that were sent from Kandahar Airfield to rescue any survivors from the Black Hawk crashed in its turn in the same area, leading to a decision by Battalion to ground all helicopter flights to Alpha Company until there was information on the causes of both accidents.

He goes on to report an attack on the ground troops dispatched to the Black Hawk’s crash site. He adds that although there are no signs that that attack was related to the one on our base, we need to remain vigilant.

He pauses for a moment and looks at Whalen and Tanner. He suggests that they get some sleep since Lieutenant Ellison’s volunteered for first shift. Whalen turns on his heel and walks out without a word: he’s taken the news of the crash hard. Connolly tells Tanner that he’ll have him relieve Ellison when his time is up. Bradford and Petrak are next as he divvies up responsibilities. As I listen to him, I find myself comforted by his efficiency and composure. Then I realize that he’s talking to me. He pauses and stares at me expectantly. His face is impenetrably calm, but deep lines around his mouth pull it downward.

Is that okay by you, Sergeant? he prompts.

I’m sorry, but what was that again, Sir? I ask, abashed.

You’re gonna have to hold on to the corpse until the birds can fly him out of here, he repeats patiently.

That’s fine, Sir, I answer.

He nods tiredly and then, after a moment, dismisses us.

The mist is beginning to thin out as I leave the hut. A few rays of sunlight spear through the ragged wisps, but almost at once the sun dips back behind a bank of clouds. The plain around the base retreats into shadows. The mountains merge with the clouds. The air becomes perceptibly colder. The thought crosses my mind that if there is an afterlife, it must look like this.

I head to the medical tent, where a rank and penetrating odor reminds me of the dead Taliban in the body bag. Spc. Chris Svitek, the unit’s other medic, is in attendance, and he’s wearing a face mask. He pulls it off as I walk in, and his face is gray, disgusted. He stalks out of the tent and clears his throat copiously before reentering.

Can’t we park this fucker somewhere else? he says heatedly. Having to breathe his fug is frickin’ insane!

Like where else, Specialist?

Over by the motor pool, where the ANA huts used to be, for instance. No one ever goes there. My God, at this rate, I’m gonna need a chemical suit to survive this stint.

It’s gonna get worse, I reply. We’re holding on to him until they fly the birds out, and they don’t know when that’s going to be.

Aw, man, that’s fuckin’ unbelievable!

I’ll ask First Sarn’t about relocating him, though it’s probably going to be a negative.

Why?

Because this guy’s high priority, that’s why, and we’re supposed to watch him like a hawk before the birds come for him.

He’s dead, Svitek points out. He ain’t going anyplace.

I’ll ask the First Sarn’t, I repeat. It’s going to have to be his call. Or maybe I’ll talk to Lieutenant Ellison.

Svitek pulls a face, but doesn’t say anything else.

A faint breeze makes the canvas of the tent sway slightly, and at each movement the entire structure creaks. I feel exhausted, dizzy, and realize that I’m no good to anyone in this state. The first order of my day is to catch up on my sleep. I tell Svitek I’m going to be napping in my hooch.

Lucky you, he says with feeling.

I’ll be back before you know it.

I pat his shoulder in sympathy as he puts on his face mask again, and then I walk out and take a long, deep breath of fresh air.

I pass the mess tent on the way to my hooch. The men are just finishing up their morning meal. The air smells of cigarette smoke and coffee, but unlike most other mornings, everyone is silent.

I sit down on my bunk and remain there for a while, motionless.

I wonder if I should take a sleeping pill, then decide against it. The hooch feels overheated as always, but I hardly notice as I sink into weary, dreamless sleep.

I wake up when Grohl pokes his head in to report that Svitek wants to know if I’ve found out about relocating the dead Taliban. Grohl’s face is red and puffy; he looks straight ahead as he speaks, avoiding my eyes. Then I recall that Pfc. Spitz, who was on the bird with Frobenius, McCall, and Mitchell, was Grohl’s bunkmate.

How you holding up, Grohl? I ask.

Okay, he says inaudibly.

When I ask again, he turns around and leaves.

Outside the hooch, the day is now a dark shade of gray. The sky is cloudy, overcast: there’s no sign of the sun. Combat Outpost Tarsândan’s all hunkered down in the shadow of the mountains.

I walk over to the Hescos to ask Ellison about the dead insurgent, but Ellison’s no longer there. Instead, Whalen paces back and forth between Pratt and Ramirez. He nods at me briefly.

Why are you here? I ask. I thought it was Ellison’s shift.

I couldn’t sleep.

When I eye him with concern, he says: Don’t even go there, okay?

How long do you plan to stick around?

Tanner’s relieving me at 1600.

I leave him alone, realizing there’s much about grief that can’t be put into words. Instead, I gaze out at the deserted field. Past the Claymores, the corpses are still lying in a straight line at the two-hundred-meter marker. Farther beyond, I count three more bodies. A cloud of raucous crows keeps them company.

I’m taken aback that no one’s shown up to collect the dead. Soon they’re going to be stinking up the entire base. I wonder if the others are thinking the same thing. I observe Pratt, who’s leaning against the Hescos and staring at the mountains impassively, but Ramirez, true to form, is fidgety. From past experience, I know him to be notoriously volatile in situations where there’s nothing to be done but wait endlessly, and I wonder how much longer he’s going to be able to keep still.