Consequence (21 page)

I abandon the line and head toward the ambulance. Three Army officers are taking a break nearby. One of the officers who was on duty during the rocket attack tells me that both boys were struck by a rocket during the attack. The boy in the ambulance died of his wounds. The other boy was taken somewhere else, but he doesn't know where. I tell him he needs to identify the body in order to notify the family. He says, “Be my guest.”

One of the officers, a young lieutenant, reminds me of John Blee. He offers to help. The two of us climb into the back of the ambulance in order to identify the body. The lieutenant hands me a pair of surgical gloves and says, “This won't be pretty.”

I unzip the body bag. There is a cascade of images. It appears all at once, but I remember it as individual pictures. The forehead leads to a face, then a mouth, then chin, neck, shoulder, arm, part of a chest, and a space for the abdomen. I know this boy but I don't know the thing in the bag. The thing in the bag has a terrible smell. The lieutenant says, “Nothing smells like burnt people.”

I sift through the body's clothing. I invade pockets and peel back the garments. The lieutenant says, “Whoa, no, no, those aren't his clothes, brother.” I roll his skin back onto his legs. His penis is gone, cut to shreds by the shrapnel that likely removed most of his stomach. He did not die right away. His face shows the suffering. I don't know how long. It was long enough for him to feel something terrible.

I have opened the bag just below the body's waist. There is no ID card. The lieutenant helps me roll the body on its side in order to check the back pockets. Underneath, fluids have pooled. I accidentally lean up against the bag and create a channel for the fluids to flow. They drip onto my shoes and soak into the dirt on the floor. This will be the source of the liquid nightmares.

There is still no ID card. I open the bag the entire way. The body is fully exposed. The stench is angry. One of the feet is missing. In its place is a plastic bag with personal belongings and identification papers. The ID card says it is Thaer.

Bill is waiting for me at the front gate. He says he has word from CACI leadership. He says they've told me to “separate myself from this thing.” The Army will escort the families off the base. Let them give the notifications. They'll take care of the body. They'll find out where the other boy is. I hand the plastic bag to an Army sergeant and tell him the family will have to identify the body.

There are still no linguists at the front gate so the sergeant asks me to talk to the families. The families are waiting in one of the interrogation rooms. Plastic chairs have been brought in for the women. Someone has served them Coke and Pop-Tarts, the blueberry ones with frosting.

In Arabic I say, “There is a problem, one son has died, and one son is still alive.” I ask the fathers to come outside. I tell them that Thaer is dead but Walid is still alive. Walid's father cries. Thaer's father doesn't react. I decide then not to separate myself from this thing until it is finished. I escort the two fathers to the field ambulance. I speak with Thaer's father. In Arabic I say, “This will be difficult. Do you understand me?” Thaer's father follows me inside the ambulance. The lieutenant joins us. I unzip the bag to the same cascade of images. The father says, “No, this is Walid.”

The ID cards were switched. Thaer survived the attack. Walid is dead. Walid's father is standing in the shade, waiting to console Thaer's father. I deliver the bad news. Walid's father stops crying. I put my hand on him and tell him it's not necessary to identify the body, but he insists on seeing Walid. We go back to the ambulance, back to the smell, back to the bag, and back to the crescendo of images. When Walid's father starts to cry, I close the bag and take him back to the shade where Thaer's father waits to comfort him. I leave the two men alone and sit down in the shade next to the lieutenant. The lieutenant puts his hand on top of my head and says, “You should have been a chaplain.”

The ambulance arrives with Walid's body. I instruct the driver to take the body out through the checkpoints where the family will take custody. The driver tells me he isn't allowed to do that. The ambulance has no armor. He isn't permitted to drive past the interior security gates. This is as far as he can go. The family will have to carry the body through the checkpoints. This is a distance of 150 yards.

A sergeant calls me over and hands me a mobile phone. It is a public affairs officer from the Green Zone, the highly fortified American complex in the center of Baghdad. The public affairs officer tells me that an Iraqi citizen just died during surgery. Apparently he was wounded during a rocket attack on Camp Victory. They airlifted him to the trauma center in the Green Zone. They believe his name is Walid. His family needs to come to the Green Zone to retrieve the body. I say, “No, it's Thaer.”

I deliver another death notification in Arabic. Then I retrieve a CACI vehicle and pull it up alongside the ambulance. I hoist the body bag onto my shoulder. Walid falls apart. I'm not sure whether he becomes two pieces or just melts into jelly. It's like carrying a bag of water full of sticks and stones. I put the bag in the vehicle and drive the two fathers out past the front gate. A large crowd has gathered on the main road. There is a minivan with a coffin on the roof. The crowd surrounds my vehicle and takes the bag full of Walid from the back. Walid's father holds my hand and walks with me to the minivan. He kisses me on my cheek, then drives away. Thaer's father does the same. He goes on his way to retrieve what's left of his son.

I return to the front gate and go back to work. I translate for a Jordanian worker who has lost his identification papers. I meet a tribal sheik who says the members of his tribe can provide construction services for all of Camp Victory. I process Iraqis who are working on Camp Victory for the first time. I sit in the CACI vehicle and listen to the Armed Forces Network. They play the Black Eyed Peas. Bill takes me to the Bob Hope Dining Facility for dinner and I stand in line at the hamburger bar. That night we smoke cigars and drink. When I head for bed, Bill says, “Take tomorrow off.”

7.8

On Camp Victory, there is Morale, Welfare and Recreation (MWR), rooms set aside where soldiers can relax and recharge. It is almost always empty. Bill drops me off at MWR on his way to the front gate and tells me to “hang out for a while.” There are sofas, a large screen TV, a collection of books and magazines, and an enormous supply of Girl Scout cookies. There will be many questions about the Iraq war. Some of these questions will concern the general public's detachment and general lack of involvement in the war effort. But the Girl Scouts are beyond reproach. They deliver a nearly endless supply of their signature product. Girl Scout councils and troops from across the nation have banded together to supply troops in Iraq with crates full of Caramel deLites and Thin Mints.

I find a recliner in the corner, commandeer a box of cookies, and read
Maxim
magazine. I stare at Paris Hilton in white underwear. There are clean portable toilets just outside. A clean portable toilet is a good place to take Paris Hilton. When I return, a group of soldiers is setting up an Xbox. They play a violent game. The television is split into four screens. Each player hunts the other. One player in particular dominates the others, who quickly grow angry. They say, “Fuck you,” a lot. They say, “That's fucking bullshit,” or “You fucking shit,” or “Go fuck yourself.” Eventually they start tossing things around the room.

A chaplain enters. I'm still reading
Maxim
magazine. He asks the other men to quiet down and watch their language. There is a church service down the hall. It's Sunday. I'd forgotten. He says, “All of you are welcome.” He looks at me. He says, “Even contractors.” No one accepts his offer. The other soldiers agree to be quiet. When he leaves, they return to the game. The one player continues to dominate. The others say, “Fuck you,” in hushed voices. I go back to tits and Thin Mints.

7.9

I find a way not to quit my job in Iraq, which means I find a way not to ask why I'm still here. I'm a civilian in Iraq, but I find the mind-set of a soldier nearly impossible to give up. Soldiers don't ask questions. They just keep going. It's the only identity I feel I have anymore.

In the meantime, Bagdasarov takes good care of me. Bill does, too. I perform terribly at work. I stop filling out paperwork, and I spend most of my time inside the vehicle listening to the radio. I fall asleep in the front seat. Bill never tells me to get back to work.

There are new nightmares, terrible ones. Pools of sickly fluid dart around the room and nip at my heels. I'm restricted to short quick movements. I can't leave the room. Eventually I climb on top of something, but the liquid follows me there, too.

I write emails to Karin about our itinerary in the Maldives. We've decided to spend my midtour vacation there. I need to stay out of the United States in order to maintain my tax-free status. We'll spend a week on the beach. The trip will be expensive, but I'm making good money. I've pocketed more than $40,000 since January. Karin likes these emails, because they give her purpose. She likes to help me with administrative details and schedules. She likes paperwork and keeping records. She doesn't have to tell me what she thinks about Iraq, or what she thinks about interrogation, or what she thinks about the Abu Ghraib scandal. We never communicate about these things. We communicate about tax-free status, airline tickets, and packing lists.

7.10

A few days after carrying the body bag full of Walid, I send an email to CACI asking for a $50,000 raise. I write that I was hired as an interrogator but I'm also doing the job of a linguist. I write that there are no other CACI employees with my skill set. The email is confrontational, angry, and unprofessional. It still feels wrong to quit, so I'm trying to get fired instead. When I'm not fired, I surrender. I terminate my contract with CACI. When I tell Bagdasarov, he quits, too.

The next day, Ferdinand arrives in Baghdad. He quit in Fallujah. He hitched a ride back to Baghdad with an Army convoy. He hasn't told anyone from CACI. He's heading home on his own. He doesn't care what anyone from CACI thinks.

I'm glad to see Ferdinand. He's funny again. He tells good stories and helps me forget where I am. I'm glad we're going home together. He has another job lined up with DynCorp, where he'll work as a security contractor protecting VIPs in Iraq. He has all the phone numbers and contact information of the people I need to call. They've heard about me and are willing to bring me on. I'll need to attend a short training class in Arizona, qualify on weapons, and then deploy with the team at the end of the summer. When I ask Ferdinand about the NSA, he says, “Hook me up!” I agree to walk him through the hiring process when we get home.

I feel bad about leaving Bill. He was a good team leader. I think things might have been different if there had been leaders at Abu Ghraib like Bill. We go to dinner one last time at the hamburger bar and talk about our time outside the front gate. We do not talk about Walid or Thaer. We agree to reconnect back home to drink and smoke.

 

8

Ferdinand, Bagdasarov, and I sit in the terminal in Baghdad waiting for a flight out of Iraq and complaining about CACI. We haven't completed our contract term, so CACI is not obligated to pay for our trip home. I'm given a one-way ticket to Fort Bliss, where I'll be required to turn in my gear and pay for my own transportation back to Bethlehem. CACI threatens to withhold pay for any gear that isn't properly returned. Once we finish out-processing at Fort Bliss, we're on our own. Ferdinand, who has worked for contracting companies in Bosnia, says he's never heard of a company operating this way before. He says it is bullshit and he says CACI can keep his final paycheck and shove it up their ass. He tosses his gear in the trash and tells us to do the same. He says, “They're just going to toss it when you get back to Fort Bliss.”

In Kuwait, Ferdinand gets in touch with an old friend who works as a supply contractor in Kuwait City. He picks us up from the American airbase and drives us to the mall. We eat mozzarella sticks at TGI Fridays, surrounded by young military-age Kuwaitis who flirt with German girls from a high school tour group. Ferdinand and I ride the escalator in the mall. There are cell phones, sunglasses, and a Starbucks. We spend the night at an apartment complex with a pool and a Jacuzzi.

Ferdinand's friend offers to take care of our travel plans back to the United States. He tells us to take our CACI gear out back and leave it in the Dumpster. It will be cheaper for me to fly straight home to Pennsylvania than to buy a domestic ticket from Texas. I decline the offer.

Ferdinand drives us back to the airbase. We sit at the food court. Even though there's Burger King, KFC, and Pizza Hut, Ferdinand insists we order sandwiches from Subway. He's lost thirty pounds since Abu Ghraib. In Fallujah, he and another contractor went on the Atkins diet. They made a wager about who could last the longest. The loser had to shave his head, and Ferdinand lost. His thick black hair is growing back now. He keeps it short. He is trim and muscular, handsome. He looks like a bodyguard.

I don't remember much from that last day in the food court. I will miss Ferdinand.

8.1

Bagdasarov and I fly to London. I buy a Toblerone and Orangina. We fly to Chicago. I buy popcorn. We fly to Texas. We turn in our gear. The man at supply inspects our gear before tossing it in a large bin labeled “Recycle.” Bagdasarov asks him about the bin. The man says the gear is out of date. It will either be destroyed or sold to a surplus store. He says, “Some homeless guy will get it.”

Bagdasarov and I go out to dinner, watch a basketball game, and eat more mozzarella sticks. We say little. We return to Fort Bliss to check out and walk back through the processing areas where new contractors are preparing for deployment to Iraq. Michelle Fields is briefing a new group of CACI employees. We stand nearby and listen to what she has to say. She tells them body armor and weapons will be issued in Kuwait. She says they'll have the best armor available, and likely be issued M4s, though some employees still have M16s. Armored vehicles will be waiting for them in Baghdad. She says, “You'll have everything you need.” When she finishes, she hands out CACI tote bags filled with T-shirts and mouse pads.