Fives and Twenty-Fives (10 page)

“So. Dodge. You have anything? Personal items?”

“No. In Ramadi they told us to leave everything there.”

“All right. Then first thing to do is set you up with gear. Here, this one.” He pointed to the truck at the end of the row.

We got into the truck and Frank turned on the radio. I knew the station from Fallujah, and the voice of the singer. Gehan Rateb. The hot Egyptian television host. I thought of what the jihadis would do to the Fallujah disc jockey with the audacity to play her music, if they ever found him.

Frank turned the dial before I could ask if he liked Gehan or thought she was hot. He landed on a station with an American disc jockey. A woman.

“Welcome back to the
Country Convoy
, with Specialist Kristy . . .”

“We’ll skip the supply warehouse and just drop you off with your unit,” Frank said.

“We’re broadcasting live from the Green Zone on Armed Forces Radio . . .”

“Engineer Support Company is top of the list for a terp, so you can start out with those guys. Maybe another unit down the line.”

“Before we get back to that great country music, a quick rundown of Green Zone events . . .”

“You’ll get uniforms, flak, helmet, hoods, sunglasses, and boots. Maybe a medical kit . . .”

“At thirteen hundred, we have yoga by the south pool . . .”

“No weapon, though. Terps don’t get weapons.”

“At fifteen hundred, we have water aerobics in the west pool . . .”

“Engineer Support Company gets outside the wire a lot. They fix things. Roads and pavement. They build checkpoints, too.”

“At twenty hundred, we have the weekly movie by the north pool . . .”

“You’ll go out with them and deal with civilians. Sometimes civilians get too close and the marines shoot up a car.”

“The movie this week . . . 
Cast Away
, starring Tom Hanks.”

“Those guys over at Engineer Support shoot up a lot of cars by accident. You’ll go and apologize for them. Got it?” Frank lit a cigarette and switched off the radio. “Also, you talk to the Iraqi Army for them. Regular
jundi
s mostly, but a few officers, too. So if you have politics, or family with politics, or family at all, or religion, or opinions, or anything . . . now you
don’t
. Understand?”

We drove past the hospital and the dining hall. Massive, metal-framed tents covered in white vinyl, with generators and air conditioners off to the side.

“So, Dodge. Shiite or Sunni?”

I looked out the window, at the Americans waiting to get lunch. “Neither. I am a Jew.”

Frank laughed. “Sure, me too. But seriously”—Frank slapped me on the knee—“hey, you listening?”

“Yes, I am listening, man.”

“Don’t tell them anything. Do not tell. Anyone. Anything. Got it? Last week, out with some grunts over by Fallujah, we found a house with fifteen heads in it. No shit. Fifteen fucking cut-off heads. My family live in Michigan, okay? And that’s all anybody knows. They don’t know my
name
. They don’t know anything
about
me, and I’m an American, man.” Frank pulled on his cigarette. “So. What’s your name?”

“Dodge. My name is Dodge.”

“Good.”

We passed a sign reading WELCOME TO ENGINEER VILLAGE
, WHERE SAFETY IS PARAMOUNT. SPEED LIMIT 5 MPH AT ALL TIMES
.

Frank lifted his foot off the accelerator and the truck rolled past a field of armored vehicles, of a type I had never seen. Marines wearing tan, camouflage trousers and green T-shirts walked back and forth with ice chests, machine guns, and ammunition cans.

The truck glided to a halt next to a concrete building left over from Saddam’s old Air Force. Faded paint over the door read in Arabic TAMMUZ
AIRBASE, 14TH SQUADRON
. I wondered if the Americans knew that. I wondered if anyone had ever asked.

A forest of radio antennas grew out from the flat roof. A sign out front, stenciled on rough plywood, read ENGINEER SUPPORT COMPANY
. HOME OF THE FINEST. MAJOR R. E. LEIGHTON, COMMANDING
.

Frank put the truck in park and tapped out his cigarette. “This is you, Dodge.”

We got out and walked under the awning, up to a plywood door bolted to the wall. Bad carpentry, that door. “Ghetto rigged,” as the Americans would teach me to say.

Frank knocked and a marine with a pistol on his hip answered. Young and tall. Blond. Well muscled. A river of cold air spilled out with him.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah. Hey. I’m with intel support. Dropping off your new terp.”

“He cleared?”

“Category one. So, he can live with you guys, but he’s a no-go for secret spaces.”

“Not coming in
here
, then.” The lieutenant stepped outside, letting the ghetto-rigged door close behind him.

“Wait. Lieutenant Cobb. Sir.” The voice came from inside. Then the door popped open again and another marine came out. Older and out of shape. Smiling like he was well practiced.

“Yeah, Gunny?”

“Road Repair Platoon’s due for a terp, sir.”

“How’d you come to that conclusion, Gunny?”

“Lieutenant Wong over at Bulk Fuel Platoon got the last terp. Before that, you guys over at Construction Platoon got the plasma-screen briefing board. I’m just saying, sir. You know—just trying to keep it fair for my lieutenant, is all.”

“Fine. Take him over there. Clear it with Major Leighton when he gets back.”

Now another voice approached, this one full of command. “I’m back. Make a hole.” He walked by us, this Major Leighton, wide-shouldered and bald with a white scalp burnt red from the sun. He pushed through our little crowd and walked into the cold room. “The memorial service is over,” the major said from inside. “Everyone should be back soon. Get this shit squared away.”

The lieutenant and the fat gunnery sergeant marine stood up straight. “Aye, aye, sir,” they said in unison.

Once Leighton was gone, the lieutenant turned to the fat gunnery sergeant. “Listen, Gunny. Do whatever you want. I have no time for this.”

“Thank you, sir. Corporal Jones can handle my desk while I’m out.”

“Yeah. I know he can.” The lieutenant disappeared behind the plywood door, not even trying to hide his dislike for this out-of-shape marine, this smiling politician. I did not like him either.

“Hi, how are you? I’m Gunny Dole.” He forced his hand into Frank’s palm and shook it hard. Up and down like a whip. “Road Repair Platoon chief, senior enlisted. I spend most of my time here, though. Working with the operations section. Making sure everything goes smooth. Lieutenant Donovan and Sergeant Gomez pretty much got it handled over at the platoon. Not much need of me.”

All that explanation, all those excuses, and we had only just met.

“So, who’s this guy?” He pointed at me.

“Dodge,” I answered before Frank had the chance. I put a hand on my chest. “A dependable car.”

Gunny Dole slapped my shoulder. “I had a Dart myself, for about ten years! That was back in the day, though!” He laughed, by himself. “Here, follow me over to the platoon. Let’s get you a cot.”

We walked around the squat concrete building, out back to a dirt patch guarded on all sides by tall, earthen berms. The whole company, all those Americans, were tucked right up against the edge of the plateau. I wondered if they knew that everyone down by the river could see them, clearly, moving around up there.

They kept an area of dirt, about thirty meters square, empty and smooth for exercise and such. Plywood huts, long and skinny with doors on either end, were arranged around the empty square three deep on each side. They had room enough inside each for about twenty beds.

“Most of the company’s over at the chapel,” Gunny Dole said, and then stiffly, “Memorial service. We took a KIA last week.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Frank said. Clinical and detached, like he had tried before, many times, to say it well but had learned that there was no right way.

“Yeah.” Gunny Dole put his hands in his pockets. “He was a good guy.”

It was the first thing I heard him say that I believed.

Gunny Dole knocked on the door of a plywood hut in the back row, built closest to the berm at the edge of the plateau. When no one answered, he pushed it open. “Anyone home?” He turned on the lights.

“Here, Gunny.” A young man sat on his bunk at the far end. He had been sitting in the dark.

“Hey, Doc. Not at the chapel?”

“Gear watch. Someone had to stay back.”

“With the lights off?”

“Fuckin’ sauna in here.”

“Okay.” Gunny Dole looked puzzled, as if trying to work out how a single light would add any appreciable heat to the whole, long room. He shrugged. “Doc, this is Dodge. Dodge, this is Doc Pleasant. The platoon corpsman. Medical guy, I mean. He takes care of us.”

I nodded to him. “Good afternoon.”

He looked me up and down and frowned. A few years younger, but skinny and gangly like me. He had some unfortunate acne left in what appeared to be the final months of his teenagerhood. His thick, red hair was cut short on the sides. Not exactly the best look.

“This is the only bunk,” the Doc said, pointing to the empty cot across from him, addressing Gunny Dole rather than me.

“Guess that settles it, then. Dodge, go grab your bunk. Doc, look after him for a bit. Get him set up with gear when the company makes it back from the chapel.”

Then, Frank and Gunny Dole left the two of us alone.

The Doc did not get up. Did not say a word or even look to me. He just sat there and stared straight ahead.

So I walked over and sat down across from him on my new bed, deciding I would let this truculent Doc speak first, whenever he felt like it. It took several minutes.

“You Iraqi?” he eventually asked.

“Yes. From Baghdad.”

“The fuck you know about Metallica, then?” He did not ask nicely.

“This?” I pointed to my shirt. “I go buy albums in Baghdad. We have a place there called Music Street. We have Metallica. AC/DC. All that.”

He nodded and lay back with his head down on the cot. Sprawled out and limp.

“What about you, man? Do you like Metallica?”

“No,” he said. “Used to. Been a while.”

“Not anymore, then? Why not?”

He sighed. “Look, I’m supposed to watch you, but I kinda need a nap. So just . . . Just stay put.”

And then he fell asleep. So I did the watching. When I grew bored, I took the Mark Twain from my back pocket and began to read, arriving by chance on the page where Sherburn admonishes his lynch mob, saying they will not pursue him in the daylight, and that “the average man don’t like trouble and danger.”

I suppressed a laugh, careful not to wake the Doc.

Soon, marines came shuffling back into the hut and sprawled out across their cots as well, with red eyes and rifles seeming heavier than usual for them.

My new friends.

After Action Report: Enemy Activity Trends

1. Anti-Iraqi Forces burning vehicle tires on roads to loosen asphalt for placement of
improvised explosive devices under road surface.

2. Anti-Iraqi Forces burying fuel accelerants, such as kerosene or diesel, with improvised explosive devices. Fuel is typically combined with soap chips, causing flame to adhere to exposed skin.

3. Anti-Iraqi Forces initiating complex attacks following improvised explosive device detonations. Typical complex attack includes rocket-propelled grenade salvo followed by small-arms fire directed at dismounted personnel. Enemy withdraws into civilian population quickly in order to avoid counterattack.

Suggested Procedures:

1. Continued adherence to the Five Cs. Confirm the presence of
a device. Clear friendly forces to minimum safe distance. Cordon area to prevent enemy entrance. Control access. Check for secondary devices.

2. Travel with a vehicle interval of
75 to 100 meters in order to prevent enemy attack on multiple vehicles with a single device. Fives and twenty-fives remain essential.

Respectfully submitted,

P. E. Donovan

Route Clearance

Paige leaves a note in my letterbox on the last day of finals. I see it waiting for me out of the corner of my eye while passing through the MBA student lounge.

“There’s a group of us meeting at Molly’s each Thursday night during the Christmas break,” it reads. “Just a way to keep up good relations. You should come. I’m inviting you. Also, why don’t you list your phone number or e-mail address in the student directory? And for that matter, why aren’t you on Facebook? Are you a spy or something? Call me.”

She includes her phone number at the bottom, with the postscript, “(My family and I are members at Southern Yacht Club. We’ve had a Catalina 36 since I was a little girl. So, if you feel like setting foot on an actual sailboat sometime . . .)”