Fives and Twenty-Fives Read online

  Corporal Zahn closed his eyes and bit his lip. Probably trying like hell not to laugh.

  Gunny Stout didn’t miss a beat. “Good deal, sir. Thanks for the gouge. Anything else?”

  “No, that about covers it.” The lieutenant ambled back to the hood of his Humvee to put his flak jacket and helmet on.

  Then, his voice low so the lieutenant couldn’t hear, Gunny Stout said to us, “I’m running over to the shitters after we break. In fact, I’ll give the whole platoon three minutes to do the same. You know that glistening, goddamn beautiful cock in the last stall on the right? I want a picture before it’s gone forever. One of you miscreants is a regular Leonardo da Vinci of dicks, and I’d hate to see the evidence erased for all time. Fucking tragedy.”

  After a quiet laugh, Gunny Stout turned to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “Doc Pleasant’s in the second vehicle with me. Real quick, Doc, take us through the casualty plan.”

  And I stood there, in front of those Marines. Right there, nineteen years old. Big ears, red hair, and a missing tooth. Two dozen Marines listened to me as I told them all the different ways and everything I’d do to save their lives if the time came for it.

  “You get hit, you follow the steps,” I said. “Apply self-aid. Use your medical kit. Do what you can. Buddy aid comes next. Closest Marine to the casualty is responsible. Use the wounded Marine’s medical kit on him. Save your medical kit for yourself. Make sure you got your tourniquet where you can get at it quick. Be able to apply your own tourniquet in under ten seconds. Bright red, frothing blood is arterial. Get a tourniquet on it. And if you go down, stay down and don’t thrash. I’ll get to you.”

  Then, like always, the convoy team huddled up in a big circle with Sergeant Gomez in the middle.

  “Everybody touch somebody,” she said.

  We all bent at the waist and put our arms on each other’s shoulders. Even Lieutenant Donovan. He couldn’t just watch. Not for the deep breath.

  Sergeant Gomez filled her lungs. So did we.

  Then she let it out, loud and theatrical. So did we.

  “That’s right.” She laughed. “Deep breath, no worries.”

  She passed it off to Corporal Zahn, who said a prayer, and we mounted up.

  We drove across base to the entry control point and waited there for a big supply convoy to clear the gate. I sat in the backseat, next to Gunny Stout. I recognized Lieutenant Donovan’s voice, all confident and clear on the radio, while he let movement control know that we were twenty-two packs in six vehicles headed to Saqliniah through downtown Fallujah. They cleared us through the gate, quick. Even moved us ahead of a few other convoys in the departure order. They did that for the route-clearance teams.

  We made the left turn onto Route Long Island and picked up speed. The lead vehicle got out in front about two hundred meters. The other vehicles got their spacing, fifty meters apiece. We spread out in the desert and tightened up in the towns. Each vehicle kicked up a rooster tail of trash that came down like confetti on the vehicle behind it. Off the road, everything turned beige. It was hard to find the horizon with the desert blending into the buildings, blending into the smog.

  We passed a few little, nameless towns on the road north to Fallujah. Two or three buildings deep on each side, filthy and falling down. The Iraqis lay plywood sheets down over the sewage so they could get in and out of their houses. Sometimes, through an open door, we’d see the courtyard of one of those little fortress homes, thick with green plants and flowers. We’d wonder aloud, between the sewage, the garbage fires, and the pretty green courtyards, just who the hell these people were.

  Something else: Over there? In the Middle East? They line the side of the road with yellow and black curbstones. They do it on all the roads, even down a hundred miles of highway. I didn’t know that before I went over there. You could look out the window, down at the curb, and tell how fast you were going by how quick it went between yellow and black. I guess that was the point of it.

  The turret gunners waved red flags to warn off civilian traffic. The Iraqis, in their beat-up little trucks and twenty-year-old Japanese sedans, they all pulled off the road. They knew what the red flag meant. Meant we don’t stop. Don’t come near us. The gunners also kept ammo cans filled with flares strapped to the turrets. If a car ignored the flag and came within a hundred meters? Gunner would launch a flare. At fifty meters, they’d put two M16 rounds into the road right in front of the car. They loaded tracers for the first five rounds in every magazine so the Iraqis couldn’t miss seeing the shots.

  The kill line was twenty-five meters. A vehicle crossed twenty-five meters or accelerated into us at any point? The gunner spun the turret and fired for effect. Machine-gun rounds through the windshield and into the engine block until the vehicle came to a stop. Then the gunner would drop down into the crew compartment for better protection. A vehicle that accelerated into us was gonna be a vehicle bomb. Almost always.

  I looked out though the front window and recognized Corporal Marceau, standing behind the gun in the turret of Lieutenant Donovan’s Humvee. The other corporals acted hard to establish their place in the pecking order. Not Marceau. Everything amused that guy. Even his own stripes. Just as I focused in on him, I heard him come up on radio.

  “Gomez, Zahn. This is Marceau. Roll freq to Convoy-Two.”

  Convoy-Two was a channel reserved unofficially for the NCOs. A place where they could pass radio traffic in private without worrying about the lieutenant listening in, or the gunny. I decided to eavesdrop and changed the channel on my radio.

  “Listen,” I heard Marceau say. “You two deserve to know that most of those penis murals are mine. And I’ll be honest—I don’t think I can quit cold turkey. Over.”

  Zahn and Gomez, in separate vehicles, both keyed their radios just to let Marceau hear them laughing.

  Marceau kept going, deadpan. “So here’s my compromise: I’ll keep drawing penises, and you can go ahead and put me down as a volunteer for the overnight shitter watch. Out.”

  I smiled and rolled back to the main convoy channel.

  As we moved through the battle spaces, little territories carved out on the map, Lieutenant Donovan radioed the unit that controlled the area ahead of us and requested passage through. When we got close to the bridge into Fallujah, he radioed the Amphibious Assault Battalion. They controlled the highway traffic through there. “Tracks,” we called that battalion, because they spent all their time in floating tanks. Amphibious assault vehicles. Tracks for short. Always strange, you know? Seeing those floating tanks out in the desert.

  Lieutenant Donovan asked to use Phase Line Fran, the highway that ran from the Euphrates River bridge straight through the center of town, to the highway cloverleaf on the eastern side. This was Main Street, Fallujah. An exposed, crowded route, but the fastest way to get to the track on Route Lincoln, disabled by an IED blast. Gunny Stout needed to get there fast to check for secondary devices. The track’s commander had been up in the turret and got hurt bad. So, the officer running the command center knew exactly what Lieutenant Donovan was talking about. Cleared us for Phase Line Fran without much discussion.

  The Marines on guard at the bridge waved us through, and Phase Line Fran opened up. Convoys in front of us pulled over and blocked the side streets. We accelerated in a tight little pack, six prey animals at a sprint. I sat in the backseat, driver-side, Gunny Stout across from me. Heat poured in through the turret hatch—so hot you could hardly open your eyes. It stank like diesel fuel, too. A drop of sweat rolled onto my lips, tasting of salt and soap. I licked all around just to get more of it. Anything to clear the diesel fuel and garbage out my mouth.

  Arab chatter filled the streets around us. An imam making a speech from the mosque got louder as we passed, more pissed off. The buildings along Fran were all shot to pieces. Looking down an alley, I saw two guys in jogging pants and ratty T-shirts with rags tied around their mouths. Not their whole faces. Just their mouths. They sta
rted running.

  I went for the intercom, but Gunny Stout saw it first and keyed his radio. “Actual, this is Hellbox. I got two guys, military age, running south down what looks like Route George. Also, up ahead on the left, two hundred meters, I got a red dump truck idling. Looks like two guys in the cab. Young guys. Can’t see their hands. Over.”

  Gomez came up on the net. “Roger. I see it, too. Over.”

  Donovan joined in, sounding a little bored. “Roger, I see it. Your call, Gunny.”

  Gunny Stout glanced at his map, looked out at the dump truck, and frowned. He bit his lip and keyed his mic. “Push.”

  We rolled by the dump truck, the two guys in the cab watching us the whole way.

  “Gunny?” I had to shout, almost.

  He looked up from his map.

  “Why are we pushing through?”

  “Two guys in the truck.” He shrugged. “Suicide bombers come one at a time.”

  We turned north at the cloverleaf and rolled about ten kilo­meters up to the intersection of Route Lincoln and Route Golden. We spotted the disabled track, charred black on one side, leaning hard to the right and half off the shoulder. The explosion had ripped off the tread and opened the turret. It wasn’t smoking, though. Another track, undamaged, sat just outside the cordon farther down the road. Someone inside kept spinning the turret to scan the desert.

  We popped out. Did our fives and twenty-fives.

  Lieutenant Donovan waved to Gunny and me. He was right at the edge of the security zone, staring down at the blown track. He walked back and forth, kneeling every few seconds to get a look at the track from different angles.

  Sergeant Gomez walked over to Donovan. They had some quiet words before she took off at a fast walk. She pointed to the security Marines, yelled for them to push out and get farther back.

  The blown track had been second in line, so it wasn’t a pressure switch that set off the bomb. Someone had let the first one pass, then triggered the device when the second track got in range. Someone had to be watching.

  Lieutenant Donovan motioned for us to come forward. Me, Gunny Stout, and the other bomb tech, Staff Sergeant Thompson. They studied the road as we walked, looking inside every crack.

  Gunny turned to me with a smile. “This looks good, Doc. Should be real quick.”

  “Okay, Gunny.”

  “You trust me, right?” He laughed to make sure I knew he didn’t really mean it. That he would never, could never, ask for my approval.

  But it didn’t look good. You could tell right away, from how Gunny Stout and Staff Sergeant Thompson whispered. From how the blown track held Lieutenant Donovan’s attention. When did that guy ever pay attention to anything?

  It was the grenade launcher.

  See, those tracks weren’t really tanks. They were armored personnel carriers, had to be light enough to float. They had thin armor, and a turret-mounted, automatic grenade launcher instead of a cannon.

  The explosion, it had ripped open the turret and the ammunition-storage box inside, scattering live grenades all around the desert like Easter eggs. No one had told us about the grenades before we rolled out. Complicated everything and had everybody spooked. Gunny Stout’s equipment could sniff for explosive material, and it was registering off the charts. But was it because of the live grenades everywhere, or was a second bomb up ahead?

  Gunny Stout and Staff Sergeant Thompson started poking around with the robot. Lieutenant Donovan and I leaned against the Humvee and watched them work. I had my trauma bag and backboard sitting on the hood, ready to go. Lieutenant Donovan had his radio handset pulled out through the window so he could answer when the company commander called looking for updates. Maybe since we were the only ones doing jack shit, he started chatting me up.

  Where you from in Louisiana? Do you follow college football? Getting your mail, all right? Crazy, pointless stuff. I tried to ignore him. Finally, the radio squawked and he had someone else to talk to. It was Tracks, looking for an update.

  “Roger. We’re on-site. They’re working with the robot now. No estimate on when they’ll have it cleared . . . Roger, stand by. I’ll have an update in five.”

  Gunny Stout walked over, shoulders tight. “Can’t find any secondaries, sir.”

  “So you think it’s clear?”

  Gunny lifted his eyebrows, chewed his lip.

  But the lieutenant needed an answer. “Push the track off the road and wait for recovery? Get that hole filled while we wait?”

  “Yes, sir,” Gunny said. “Sounds like a plan. But first we’ll need to clean up these grenades.”

  Lieutenant Donovan whistled. “Do it with the robot?”

  “No. I’ll have to pick them up by hand. Each one. Pile them up and reduce.”

  Donovan winced. “Goddamn, Gunny. Are you sure?”

  Gunny shrugged. “It has to happen, sir.”

  And that was it. No more discussion. Gunny Stout walked out into the blast zone, not even wearing his suit. He told the lieutenant he couldn’t pick up so many grenades with that bulky suit on, and the lieutenant didn’t argue with him. Just nodded and went back to walking the perimeter, reminding his Marines to cover their sectors.

  But they couldn’t stop watching Gunny. None of us had seen anything like it. He bent down to pick up live grenades, one at a time. All alone, a hundred meters away. One at a time and calm as could be.

  No one said a word.

  I had my backboard and kit ready to go, the closest man to him. The sun crawled up right on top of me, heated my helmet like a griddle. Sweat poured down my face and the wind pelted me with tiny grains of sand. I rolled my shoulders every few minutes to set the body armor a little higher and shifted from one foot to the other.

  Gunny Stout used hand signals in the blast zone. Radios were no good. Could set off bombs. He scratched out a little hole in the sand for the grenades and waved to Thompson each time he put one in there. Three more grenades. Two more grenades. One more. He put the last grenade in the hole and then stood with two fists held over his head to show he was walking back to the secure area.

  Behind me, someone exhaled and shouted, “Hell yeah!” Someone else started to clap. Sergeant Gomez got on them in a heartbeat, telling them to shut the fuck up.

  Gunny Stout put both hands on his rifle. About halfway back, when I could see his face clear, he smiled and mouthed the words, “Trust me?”

  I smiled back a moment too late. His face went stiff. He looked through me.

  It took me a second to register the shots, but then I turned around and saw a red dump truck coming at the cordon from the south. Two young guys in the cab. Zahn was back there, already putting tracer rounds in the deck. I turned back to Gunny as he made a move, about to break into a jog. Then he was twenty feet in the air, twisting and coming apart, his rifle and boots spinning away from him.

  That sound. That groan chasing a clap. It hit me a second later. The shock wave knocked me on my back and my helmet cracked against the pavement. Bits of dirt and gravel rained down on my face. I couldn’t hear a thing.

  I turned onto my stomach to look for him. Focused in on a shape in the center of the highway. I watched it roll over. I’m sure of it.

  I made it to my knees and searched for my bag. Thompson, already on his feet, ran by me at a dead sprint. He made it about twenty meters before another device went off. It came from his left side in a sickly, gray puff.

  I was still deaf, but I could tell it was smaller than the first one. Frag clipped Thompson’s left leg and swept out his feet. He cartwheeled over. His left cheek hit the ground before the rest of him. He arched his back and reached for his leg.

  Then he clinched his teeth and kept going, crawling toward Gunny.

  I stood and found my bag. Still couldn’t feel my legs. Could barely walk. I took a step toward the shape in the center of the highway. My hearing came back and I heard shouting at the rear of the convoy, and shots. I turned and saw Zahn putting rounds through the windshield of th
e dump truck. Painting the glass red. Cracks grew with each shot, till finally the dump truck rolled into the deep sand, its engine compartment spewing steam and hot motor oil.

  I got my balance and took another step. The feeling came back to my hands and feet. I picked up a foot and took another step. Right as I felt like I had the coordination to start running, something hit me from behind and put me on the ground. Thought it was another bomb, at first. Then I felt a pair of arms wrapping around me.

  “Stay down, Doc. Stay down.”

  It was Lieutenant Donovan.

  “No. I’m going to get Gunny.”

  “Doc, he was dead before he hit the ground.”

  “No. I saw him roll over. I can get to him.”

  “Doc. You didn’t see that. He didn’t roll over.”

  I threw an elbow into his ribs. Tried to break his grip. Then I thrashed hard and managed to break free for a second, until he wrapped his elbow under my shoulder, put his palm on the back of my neck and forced me right into the ground. My cheek scraped against the black asphalt, hot as hell.

  “Sir, let me up. Lemme go get him.”

  “It wasn’t a grenade, Doc. Okay? They missed something. Secondaries all over the place.”

  I tried thrashing again, but hardly got my hips off the ground. He had me pinned with my arms out in front, palms flat. From under the rim of my helmet, I could just see the shape of him. I dug my nails into the pavement and burned my fingertips, trying to dig my way to Gunny.

  “We get Staff Sergeant Thompson, Doc,” Lieutenant Donovan said. “We get him back to the cordon.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Listen.”

  “Fuck Thompson,” I said. I really did.

  “Doc. Look over to your right.” Lieutenant Donovan got quiet. “The curb,” he whispered.

  I knew what it was the second I laid eyes on it. A black curbstone, not set in concrete like the others. It was a different color black, too. More gray than black. And it looked new. No scuff marks.