Princes of War (6 page)

The gym was full of sweaty male bodies and reeked of sweat and clothes that needed washing. The facility was an old Iraqi Air Force gymnasium, now filled with heavily used weightlifting equipment, both free weights and nautilus. All of it had been shipped in from the States.

Moose believed two types of soldiers came to gyms: those who worked their bodies patiently and hard, and those, the majority, who wanted to look as if they did. He definitely considered himself in the first category. Some of the men wore the official grey-shirt-and-black-pants Army PT uniform. Others, like Moose, wore their uniform pants and the brown t-shirts and still had on their boots. Black hard rubber-tile mats covered the floor. A half-size basketball court took up the rear of the gym. The place was noisy. Men shouted and grunted, and the clanging of metal on metal rang with motivational noise.

Moose and his work-out partner, a platoon soldier named Tyson, exercised hard for about an hour. Each looked at the other like a winning gladiator, powerful and dominant.

The two worked out as often as their schedules allowed. Moose typically pulled Tyson along, the way a lead dog pulled a dog sled team, motivating, hot breath panting, legs running, trash-talking when necessary to keep him moving. For Moose the workout was a piece of exertion art, a physical performance. Attentive to all the exercise details, with just the right weight and form, he pushed himself until his body screamed but didn’t break. He knew exactly which machines worked what muscles and could make his legs and arms and back perform at their natural peak, but he didn’t care about the look as much as he cared about the psychological effect.

Tyson, on the other hand, loved the look. Soldiers regularly saw him make a show in front of mirrors and say, “I love me.” He’d twist and turn, showing off his body as well as the 18-inch-long red and yellow lizard tattooed on his right shoulder.

Now Tyson was on an inclined bench, pressing 75-pound barbells in each hand. Noticing his accelerated breathing, Moose leered.

“OK, man?”

“You’re killing me.”

“Bullshit. Die a little, get stronger, live a little longer.”

“I’m working it, man, working it hard. Cut me some slack.”

“Yes, you are.”

“It’s all good, but you’re killing me.”

National flags of more than 20 Coalition countries hung on the gym walls. Most soldiers noticed these and took some satisfaction in the international teamwork, but few could identify half of the flags. Even Macedonia, a new country, had a flag. All the guys in the room, however, were Americans. No other Coalition members were on this FOB, nor most others.

“You’re a beast, Moose. Where’d ya get that stamina?”

“Running from my old man.”

“Huh?”

“He’s worn out a set of boots every year on my ass.”

A couple of civilian KBR employees manned the check-in counter and periodically policed the facilities. Against the wall by the counter stood two large white freezer-type storage units holding hundreds of water bottles. Cardboard signs taped on each of the coolers read: “Take a cold one, put a hot one in.” Somebody had scribbled, “That’s what she said,” on one sign.

Moose and Tyson finished their workout. They signed out and walked outside, heading for their hooches. Outside of the gym, loud electric generators drowned out other sounds. They passed four green and white porta-johns. The plumbing didn’t work in the gym.

“What you doing after chow?” Tyson spoke loudly, to cut through the noise.

“Got laundry to do. Machines are less crowded later. Next time I go to war, I’m bringing a maid.”

“Want to do mine while you’re at it?”

Both men smiled. “Haha. What’s the compensation?”

“Compensation? How about I agree to rescue your ass if the shit goes down?”

Tyson laughed at his own proposal. But Moose knew that if the shit hit the fan, Tyson wouldn’t hesitate to rescue him. And he’d do the same for Tyson. It had to be that way.

Moose responded. “Who rescued who from those seventy-five-pound barbells?”

“Just testing you, old man. Hey, some of the guys gonna sit around and shoot the shit tonight. Gonna come?”

“Don’t think so. I’m on Sergeant Cooke’s list for 2200 guard duty. Need to fit some beauty sleep in after dinner,” Moose answered.

“What a wuss,” Tyson scolded.

Moose, annoyed, said, “We’ll see. Maybe I’ll take a six-pack of Red Bull from the DFAC and stash them for later. Uncle Sam’s contribution to me.”

They passed the post office on the corner, then the finance office where they could draw a cash advance on their pay, and proceeded down the road that would take them past the battalion headquarters. The company area with their living trailers was another 400 meters beyond that. Dust as powdery as flour rose up from the road to greet them as they walked. Moose could feel the grit collecting in his saliva.

“Fucked-up about that sniper shooting,” Tyson said. “Ain’t no place safe. I think I knew that guy. That makes nine KIAs so far in the battalion since we been here, don’t it?”

“Think so,” Moose answered, without thinking about it.

Shortly after getting back to Apache, everyone learned the identity of the KIA. That kind of bad news passed through the FOB like an arctic wind.

“Hey, what’s up with Kale?” Tyson inquired, changing the subject. “The guys are talking about him. He’s—I don’t know—out there, or something.”

“He doesn’t talk much, that’s for sure,” Moose replied, after thinking about it for a second.

“It’s like he’s lost in his own world or something. The dude is dreamy. No jokes. No more smiles.” Tyson added, curious about what Moose thought.

“I don’t know, buddy. I do remember him being more alive, more with it, back stateside,” Moose said.

“Yeah. Think so too. Remember how that dude could run? He used to run all the time. Never see him doing PT now.”

“Combat duty ain’t for everybody, Ty,” Moose commented, making an evaluation rarely voiced, but obvious to anyone who thought about it. “Does something to you, they say. Trouble is you don’t have a way of finding out ‘what’ until you’re in it.”

Everything in war was everyone’s business. No place to hide. Men stripped each other psychologically. If a man’s bowels were loose, people joked about it. If a lady back home was messing with you, it wouldn’t stay secret long. If a man was a risk to the platoon, people would know. They might not talk right away. But they would know.

“Yeah, I suppose that’s right, Moose. War damn sure ain’t for everyone. Since Ramirez, Kale hasn’t been the same,” Tyson said. Ramirez was the first—and only so far—Wolfhound soldier killed.

Tyson hesitated, wanting to get the words right.

“Certain things you won’t know until you’re right there in it. No trial run here. Here the race is always on, man! Fuck, you know that, Moose.”

“Who talks to him most?” Moose asked.

“Who what?”

“Who talks to him most?” Moose asked again.

“Probably you, don’t ya?”

“Don’t know.”

“He seems to be lugging around a pack of disappointments.”

Moose saw the problem, and remembered checking Kale out on the rooftop earlier. Kale was his friend, ever since Army basic training. Something in his head wasn’t right anymore. Moose said nothing. Tyson dropped it.

They arrived at the living trailers.

“Meet you in about twenty minutes after showers, and we’ll go eat.” Moose said.

“I’ll knock on your hooch.”

“That works. Make sure you use soap!” Moose retaliated for the earlier abuse.

“Fucker. You know it.”

Kale sat in his hooch, alone. Earlier, after Cooke released the men from the day’s patrol, the platoon sergeant had walked over and commended Kale on his professionalism during the day’s missions. He hadn’t expected it. Thinking about Cooke’s comments now, Kale flushed with pride—but he also felt ashamed. All of his life, pride had both motivated and consumed him. Sometimes, when he felt on top of the world, a tiny voice inside him whispered that the air in high places was thin and the footing treacherous.

Kale stood up abruptly and looked at himself in a small wall mirror. His face resembled one of those you saw in paintings of American Indians: a large upright chin, wide prominent cheekbones, watchful green eyes, square shoulders and a narrow waist, and reddish-brown hair that looked as if its ends were burning when he stood in the sun. Fitness came easily to him. He had the metabolism of a furnace and never gained weight. Naturally reticent, he was the type of guy who talked less than others thought he should.

“Textbook stuff, dude. You’re a damn fine soldier,” Cooke had said, slapping Kale on the helmet.

That was two hours ago, and Kale’s spirits still soared. He loved compliments the way a dog loves attention.

All his life Kale had felt as if he needed to prove something.

Was Moose hungry for praise the same way? Something about Moose made him appear permanently satisfied, as if he didn’t seek praise from other men. Kale wanted that kind of independence.

He thought again about what Cooke said, and how he’d said it. Maybe Kale did well today, but others had too. He certainly wasn’t one of the top soldiers. Guys like Moose were much better, Kale knew. Something calculating was in Cooke’s look. Was he giving genuine compliments, or was it something else?

A feeling of being scrutinized flooded over Kale again. He understood why.

4

Specialist Juan Cuebas, one of the Wolfhound’s Soldiers, relaxed in the company orderly room staring gargoyle-like at nothing and everything. He was deciding whether to call home. His aunt would be anxious to hear from him. Even before Iraq, she had spent many an anxious hour worrying about him. As a little boy, he’d hide from her, once for a whole day, making her search everywhere, sometimes bringing her to tears. Cuebas had a distinctly primitive look—a mottled alligator-skin face and dull wet gray eyes, like raw oysters. His tight mouth and thin narrow lips intimated confidentiality and prudence, the look of a man holding secrets. Another side of him was pure jokester. He liked that side best.

Cuebas was Puerto Rican. His remaining family still lived on the island. Both his parents had died before he started school, his father of cancer and his mother in a car accident two years later. His aunt had raised him while caring for her own three children. She became his surrogate mother and father. Her husband had died before Cuebas moved in. Life skills came from living; that’s what his aunt always said. Several of his relatives were combat veterans. His grandfather got wounded in the Korean War. Two uncles had served in Vietnam. One got a Purple Heart.

Cuebas fondled the brass memory chain on his wrist, which was a gift from his aunt. His uncles’ names were stenciled on it.

He joined the Army three years ago, immediately after graduating from high school. He left for basic training promising his aunt he’d write regularly. He never did. But he did call when he could. Since arriving in Iraq he’d developed the routine of calling her once a week. The calls were mostly one-way conversations; she did most of the talking. They lived in different worlds now. She asked him little. Her job was conveying to him the news of the island, keeping him connected to his home, and this she did meticulously, pausing to ask repetitive questions about his well-being but nothing more. It wasn’t her nature to be inquisitive.

Cengo came into the room.

“Ayeee. Hey Cengo,” Cuebas started most of his statements with “Ayeee,” a sound a man might make when he’s sipped scalding coffee.

Cengo nodded, friendly but silent.

Cuebas watched Cengo ready himself to leave the FOB. He got extra time off today, like the Americans. Cengo shed his American uniform and stowed it away, along with his helmet, boots, and body armor, in a footlocker inside the dayroom. Every day, like most of the other terps, Cengo arrived at the FOB and reported to work before the American patrols departed. At day’s end he would leave, unless an extended mission required staying on the FOB. The Wolfhounds controlled Cengo’s schedule.

After work, the only American-supplied thing Cengo regularly took home was his sunglasses.

He sat on the footlocker and put his sandals on. As an Iraqi Kurd, Cengo was—even before the war—a rebel inside his own country. The Kurds, about 15 percent of the Iraqi population, had fought the powers in Baghdad for centuries. More Kurds lived in the surrounding nations. Kurds were one of the largest ethnic groups in the world without a state to call their own.

Cuebas knew Cengo had a large family, but his mother’s family had been killed in one of Saddam’s chemical attacks on the Kurds. Second to Kurdistan, a country that did not yet officially exist, Cengo’s favorite country was America.

Cengo wanted to leave Iraq. Cuebas understood why. Cengo’s family didn’t have money. Now, as an interpreter he made $600 a month, royal wages in the local area. If he had a flaw, it was his hostility to the Arabs. The Arabs wouldn’t trust him. His accent made it impossible to hide his Kurdish origins. On the other hand, Cengo knew the area, knew who the important families were, and better detected dishonesty in conversations than the other terps. Two of those were older Americans, immigrants from other Middle Eastern countries. Two others were Iraqis, but their education level was low and their English barely passable. So the platoon felt blessed to have Cengo as their full-time terp.

“Wanna take some soft drinks with you?” Cuebas asked. “Put in your backpack?”

“No can do. Terrorists no like coke.”

“Ha. Ha. You don’t have to share them.”

“They no ask. If they want, they—take.”

“OK. Then we make a special coke for them. One that goes BOOM. Like what they do.”

“No. I go quick and be invisible.”

Be invisible was Cengo’s usual parting declaration. Cuebas hoped it would be true.

He walked over to Cuebas to say goodbye. As they shook hands, Cengo’s face turned serious.

“Sorry about Soldier killed today,” he said.

An hour later Cuebas was finishing dinner in the DFAC when he heard a familiar voice mention the Twin Towers. Curious, he looked over. A few seats away, Halliburton, a lanky Texan with a reputation for having the biggest and dirtiest mouth in the platoon, was talking to Moog, a knotty dark-skinned Asian-Hispanic from New Mexico whom the Wolfhounds called, “Mongrel Moog,” or just “Mongrel,” and Randell, a New Yorker with three lifetimes worth of acne and habit of making his finger knuckles pop like an Orchestra’s percussion practice.