“Everybody will get his or her pension. This is guaranteed. We took a look at it and, since so many ex-military go on to be CEOs, these pension payments could be deferred.”
After the big meeting Sergeant Koljo buttonholed the Sergeant Major of the Army outside the DFAC and said he had to do something because the Army wasn’t letting us kill enough people.
“They’re not letting us do our jobs, Sarr Major,” he said.
You should have seen the look on the old motherfucker’s face. It was beautiful.
And then Grace was killed on a dismount patrol two weeks later. Another IED. He was wearing his wings but they didn’t do shit for him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Some days you couldn’t remember the last time it had rained. It was one of those days, but it came to be a very good day because there was a sandstorm. The sandstorms were wonderful; medevacs couldn’t fly in them, so all patrols got canceled. This one was a good one. The wind blew and blew and you couldn’t see shit.
Somebody said, “Look at this motherfucker go.”
And somebody said, “Yeah, it’s really going.”
Then somebody said, “It’s raining.”
“Raining!”
We all ran outside and sure enough there were raindrops.
The raindrops felt good on your face. You couldn’t remember the last time it had rained. You had come to want rain very much and here it was. You had it. Rain.
Everybody was coming out now.
“It’s raining!”
“It’s raining!”
“It’s fucking raining!”
“I can’t believe it!”
“I can’t fucking believe it’s fucking raining!”
Then somebody said, “It’s not rain.”
“It’s not rain?”
They said:
“It’s not rain!”
“It’s not rain!”
“It’s not rain?”
“No,” he said. “All the fucking porta-shitters are knocked over.”
“Fuck.”
“It’s not rain.”
“It’s the fucking porta-shitters.”
“Fuck.”
* * *
—
THEN CAME another hot bullshit day. The heat and the light made your brain skip when you tried to hold a thought. Thoughts wouldn’t come in a straight line, and you saw translucent red stars. It was bullshit that I was on this patrol to begin with. I’d been out on an IED ambush all the night before and I was spent. Plus Koljo had shot a dog on our way back at dawn and I like dogs.
Shoo found me in the morning after I came in.
“Bad news,” he said. “You’ve got to go out again in an hour.”
I stared at him.
“I’ve been out ten times already this fucking week. What the fuck day is it? These motherfuckers are gonna work me to death, you know that?”
He suppressed a smile. “Sorry, dude. They put you on the patrol roster. I didn’t even know till a minute ago. It’ll be easy though. It’s just a census patrol. I spoke with Lieutenant Evans already and he knows your situation. All you’ll have to do is stay with the vehicles on the road.”
I nodded to say I’d make it.
The census patrol left around nine. By noon the dismounts would be suffering. I was glad I wouldn’t be with them. I’d be sleeping in one of the trucks instead. Then I’d come back. Maybe play a little cards. Maybe go to the haji shop and buy some bootleg DVDs, some Miamis. Maybe a little Wild Tiger. Go and get some dinner. The three-Humvee convoy went real slow up Route Martha; we were past OP2, the last OP on Martha, and there was no telling what might be on the road. The convoy stopped. The dismounts got out and assembled on the road. I stayed where I was in the back of Evans’s truck and I kept quiet. I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself.
I started to believe I’d really make it alright. Then Private Dallas knocked on the window: “The lieutenant wants you.”
“Wants me?”
“Yeah. He says bring your stuff. We’re moving out.”
“No. I’m supposed to stay here with the vehicles.”
“The lieutenant says you’re going.”
I had a special dislike for census patrols. Whenever we’d come to a house where there was somebody sick or ailing or in any way injured, the patrol leader would tell all the hajis that I was a doctor who had medicine. And he’d have me examine everyone. It didn’t matter that I had no medicine, no antibiotics, no drugs except ibuprofen and the two kinds of shit pills and the morphine autoinjectors. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t a doctor. It didn’t matter if the haji had a brain tumor. I was supposed to pretend to be some kind of great healer.
The first household of the day brought out an old haji who had some variety of advanced rheumatism, I think. I took a look at him. His knees were his chief complaint. He took a seat and gathered his man dress up high so that his testicles featured prominently.
Dallas said, “I think he wants you to suck his balls, doc.”
I gave the old haji a three-day supply of ibuprofen and told him to go to a hospital.
The patrol continued.
Lieutenant Evans had the sort of intentions with which you can pave a road to hell. But I loathed him. And I loathed his patrol. The sun was blazing away on us, blazing away on the scenery. After some hours of getting our brains cooked and dragging all the stupid fucking gear around and knowing it was all useless, we were worn out. Some of the guys didn’t look like they were up to it anymore.
I said, “Sir, it’s really hot and these guys are beat and we’re not accomplishing anything out here. We might want to think about heading back.”
“No.”
“Sir—”
“I said no.”
“Okay…yeah, okay. You’re right, sir. Let’s keep going. Ask all these fucking hajis how many fuckin goats they fuckin own till one of your guys has a fuckin heatstroke out here.”
The lieutenant was surprised.
I realized I had just done something insane. But I was already going, so I didn’t stop. “How many fuckin times are you gonna ignore me when I try to tell you something you need to know? I don’t tell you these things cuz I like to hear myself talk. I tell you these things cuz I want to help you. I’m trying to help you, Lieutenant. You remember when I told you not to drive in that shit cuz we were gonna get stuck? What happened? We got stuck, didn’t we? And four guys got killed. You killed my friends.”
This last part was a bit much. He hadn’t killed them and they weren’t my friends. They were more like acquaintances really. And then there was one other thing: if he hadn’t got us stuck we’d have been the ones who got killed that day. But you didn’t say these things.
I didn’t hear what he was saying. I couldn’t hear anything. I flipped him the bird and I said, “Fuck you and fuck your patrol.”
I walked away. I went back to the road. When I got there I went to Evans’s truck. Specialist Sullivan was up in the turret. He was monitoring the radio. He said, “The lieutenant says you need to come back.”
“Tell him to get fucked.”
“Really?”
“Tell Lieutenant Evans to get fucked.”
Sullivan keyed the radio: “Um…he says he’s not coming.”
Evans said that would also be fine.
Ten minutes later the dismounts came back to the road. I’d calmed down some and I was ready for something bad to happen to me. Evans waved me over to him and I went over and we walked a ways down from everybody else. He said, “That wasn’t a good thing you did.”
I didn’t want to look at him. I said, “I dunno, sir. It was fucked up of me. I apologize. I don’t know what happened. I just kind of went crazy for a minute, you know?”
“You realize I could have you court-martialed for what you just did, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not going to do that, so don’t worry.”
I said, “Thanks.”
“I’m not going to say anything to anybody about this when we get back. Nobody’s going to say anything about it.”
And he didn’t say anything.
And no one else did.
And nothing happened to me.
* * *
—
I SENT a check to Roy with a note: more Percs, Oxys would be fine.
And goddamn if he didn’t send me four 80s. Roy was paying $60 for 80s in those days. Not great.
Still, I was only snorting 20s then. A 20 would take me there. I’d get four good days out of an 80. But goddamn if the mail wasn’t slow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE