Kaboom (22 page)

“Shouldn't we call the imam?” I asked, referring to the clerical head of the mosque.

“I think it's too late for that,” he replied. “We're almost done.”

I followed his steps into the main room of the mosque. My infidel boots met a hallowed floor made of solid grey concrete. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with holy texts. Scattered pages and a few books lay on the floor beneath the shelves, left there by hasty Task Force Cobra soldiers. Rugs, mats, and blankets were heaped together all around the room, and I somehow doubted that was how the imam kept them organized.

I arched an eyebrow the APL's way, and he blustered out a response. “We're trying to be as respectful as possible,” he said. “Really.”

The APL's radio buzzed. It was Steve requesting his presence in an adjacent room. As I started to follow, however, I heard the oh-so-distinctive sound of glass shattering outside. Please, tell me that is a drunk Iraqi dropping a bottle, I thought. I knew it wasn't.

I walked out of the mosque to a side street located on the far end of the building, next to the initial target house. I found four Task Force Cobra soldiers standing around a white car underneath a streetlight. The driver's side window was smashed in, the glass scattered in the car and on the ground
below it. One of the soldiers was sizing up the butt of his rifle against the rear window on the driver's side, while another one of the soldiers showed him the best place to strike the glass. I guessed this was a Ranger NCO conducting an impromptu window-breaking session with a Ranger Joe.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

Four massive, thick shapes turned toward me simultaneously. I suddenly felt very alone, very small, and very cognizant of being an officer. I realized it would be far too easy for these giants to stuff a strange, lecturing, 140-pound lieutenant into the car through the broken window.

“Just conducting a class,” the Ranger NCO said matter-of-factly.

“Right. I'm not trying to be gay or anything, but we'll have to deal with this tomorrow; you won't. So don't break anymore locals' car windows just because you're bored, okay?”

Five seconds passed, and three of the soldiers turned toward the Ranger NCO who originally spoke.

“Roger,” he said.

“Roger what?” I responded sharply. I'd never been one to abide rigidly by proper military decorum, but these guys were out of control.

“Roger, sir.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” I turned around, started walking, and took a deep breath. What did they feed these guys, I thought, horse tranquilizers? I was glad they were on my side.

I walked back to the mosque and met Steve and the APL on the front steps. I told them about the car incident, and while the APL was contrite, Steve just barked a laugh and said, “They did? Those fuckers!” Having found nothing of significance in the mosque, we walked back to the combat outpost, two detainees in tow. Ten minutes later, the detainees and Task Force Cobra flew away to Baghdad in their helicopters.

Captain Whiteback called the imam that night and apologized profusely. Nevertheless, there was a protest at the front gates of the combat outpost the next morning by local Sunnis outraged that infidels had violated their mosque. It threatened to turn into a full-blown riot until Captain Whiteback called in the Sunni sheiks and threatened to take away their Sahwa pay if they didn't disperse their people. The protest ended shortly thereafter.

(OR THE LOST SUMMER)

 

Rumble, young man, rumble.

I sat alone in a Porta-John
mumbling to myself. I held a flashlight in one hand, and my rifle stood upright in the corner, muzzle down. I had locked the door already, something I kept checking repeatedly.

It had been a long day. A really long fucking day. So I fled to my sanity box and decided to work through things: