Kaboom (43 page)

I looked over at SFC Hammerhead, who grinned fanatically. “The best part about this,” I said, “is all of the air force personnel running around in their PT [physical training] uniforms, looking at us like we're crazy.” Apparently, the sight of infantry squads dressed in their full combat kits searching vehicles and clearing buildings was not common within the confines of the Green Zone. “I mean, Green Zone or not, we're still in Iraq, right? Did these chair-force faggots not get the memo?”

As if on cue, Captain Frowny-Face's voice crackled across the radio. “Gunslinger 56, this is Gunslinger 6. We're dismounting ahead and going to check out this building complex on our right, per division's orders.”

“Roger that, sir,” I replied. “We'll meet you on the ground.”

“Have fun!” SFC Hammerhead boomed, as I opened my door, while Sergeant Secret Agent Man, Specialist Gonzo, and two other soldiers dismounted from the back.

“Now I know why you insisted on driving,” I muttered back at him. “You're a cagey one.”

“Sir,” he said, “I've been in the army for ten years. I can smell bullshit a mile away. Let me know if someone starts shooting and you need some firepower. Until then, I'll be right here.”

“Check and check!” After flashing him a thumbs-up for good measure, I rounded up my makeshift squad, and we joined Captain Frowny-Face and his men fifty meters to our front, next to a large, lightless compound. The austere, black silhouette of Assassin's Gate, a sandstone arch that marked a prominent entryway into the Green Zone, loomed in the background.

Since arriving in Baghdad in the early afternoon, we had found no signs of—or even any clues about—the reported VBIED. The real highlight of the mission thus far had been the movement south from JSS Istalquaal along Route Senators, known affectionately as “EFP Alley” throughout Coalition forces stationed in Multinational Division-Baghdad, or MND-B. It had been a few months since I had genuinely feared for my life, but the trip through EFP Alley certainly qualified. Every piece of trash and every shadow we drove by threatened a certain blast that never came. It had taken a few hours for my nerves to steady back out.

As we walked up to our commanding officer's location, we found him already talking to a man of African descent at the front gate. At least it's not humid here, I thought, as I breathed freely in the nighttime air. The drier air was a vast change from Hussaniyah, as were the greenery and tall palm trees that spotted the Green Zone landscape.

“I realize this is a contractor's facility,” Captain Frowny-Face said to the man, “but we are still going to check it out. I'm not going to tell you again. Open this gate now.”

The African man's English didn't seem to be great, but he understood enough of Captain Frowny-Face's tone to open up the gate.

“Matt,” our commander said to me, “take your guys around to the south side. We'll stay over here. Check every fucking thing out, especially all the cars. If it seems stupid, it probably means you're doing the right thing.”

“Roger that, sir.” There was a time and place for my sarcastic banter, and I knew this was not it.

We moved to the south side of the compound in a diamond formation, with the radio operator, Specialist Gonzo, and me in the center. We came across an empty parking lot and three trailers housing confused Africans in their pajamas. After explaining to one of them why we were there, I learned that they were Ugandans working for the same security contractor that employed their countrymen on Camp Taji.

“But . . . we are in Green Zone,” the man sputtered. “Why would car bomb be here?”

“That's a good question,” I replied. “And one I don't have an answer for. We're just playing it safe, I guess.”

Predictably, we found nothing of interest in the lodging trailers, minus a bottle of lube I made the soldiers put back.

I sent my report via the radio to Captain Frowny-Face, who told us to remount the MRAP and stand by for further guidance. By the time I got settled back into my seat, Lieutenant Mongo was speaking to our commander on the radio, giving him a SITREP from his platoon's end of the Green Zone.

“Roger, Gunslinger 6. We've cleared all the way to the Unknown Soldier monument roundabout. Any word on how long we're going to be out here? In another hour, we're going to be the only ones walking on the streets.”

“Negative, White 6, just continue mission.” Captain Frowny-Face seemed just as frustrated by the inanity and the repetitiveness of this mission set as we were, but the unwritten rules of command prohibited him from venting out loud. Such was not a burden, however, that anyone on my vehicle carried.

“This is fucking retarded!” Sergeant J crackled from his gunner's hatch. “I mean, I have done some seriously stupid-ass, retarded shit in the army, but this is by far the most fucking retarded. We are searching for a car bomb
in
the goddamn Green Zone. News flash: If a terrorist already got a VBIED in here, it would have fucking exploded already! These fucking colonels and generals need a commonsense sergeant or staff sergeant permanently assigned to them to keep them from doing stupid-ass shit like this.”

SFC Hammerhead arched his eyebrows and laughed. “Let it all out, man. Tell us how you really feel!”

About an hour after we cleared the Ugandans' trailers, Captain Frowny-Face again spoke on the company net. “All Gunslingers, the division commander wants to speak to all of us in fifteen minutes. Grid to follow for location. Do not be late. I repeat, the division commander will be speaking to us in fifteen minutes. Do. Not. Be. Late.”

Whoa, I thought. The division commander was a two-star general. Maybe this VBIED threat existed after all. At least I'm not in Kuwait this year, I decided. And at least I only have three months left, instead of fifteen. Thank God for small wonders.

We followed the patrol to the linkup location, a small parking lot off the main drag. It nestled up to a small, lush garden that buzzed with evening insect activity, and as soon as I dismounted, a large mosquito made a play for my neck. I smacked and killed it and saw Specialist Gonzo do the same thing on his arm. “Damn mosquitoes are trying to give me Iraqi SARS,” he said with a smile.

We stood around for a few minutes, correcting each other's inevitable uniform deficiencies, like loose strands, muddy boots, or unauthorized rifle enhancements. We knew we needed to look as pretty as possible for the general and his entourage. During this time, Lieutenant Mongo's platoon and the mortarmen/tanker combo platoon drove up, parking in Stryker coil formations. Lieutenant Dirty Jerz and his platoon had been left at JSS Istalquaal for force protection—which none of them seemed to mind—when the frago came down on December 23.

Shortly thereafter, four jet-black suburbans peeled around the far corner, coming to a screeching halt in front of us. The doors opened, and a multitude of sergeant majors, majors, and colonels stepped out, smiling widely, calling over soldiers, and handing out Christmas cookies and hot cocoas. The soldiers reacted tentatively at first, put off by all the rank in front of them, but eventually their stomachs drove them over en masse. The sergeant majors and majors and colonels all smiled widely and proudly.

“I thought this was going to be a speech or something, sir,” I said to Captain Frowny-Face.

“So did I,” he responded, clearly as shocked as I was. “So did I.”

I noticed my bootlace had come undone and bent over to retie it, slinging my rifle in the process. When I stood back up, a stocky man about my father's age faced Captain Frowny-Face and me. He wore two stars on his uniform. “Evening son,” he said to me, slapping me heartily on the back. “Thank you for what you're doing here and what you've done for your country. Have some cookies. It looks like you could use them.” He held a plate of frosted sugar cookies in his right hand like a waiter.

I did as told and took three cookies for good measure. And so my division commander, a man with a very gruff and very demanding and very hard
reputation, fed me cookies on Christmas Eve in Baghdad with a large smile on his face. My eyes felt as big as saucers, and I didn't relax until the general walked off with Captain Frowny-Face to get a company commander's take on the ground situation. Halfway through my second cookie, the division sergeant major shoved a hot cocoa in my hand. “Here you go, Captain,” he said with a wink. “General's orders.”

I thanked him, walked away, and found Lieutenant Mongo and SFC B standing nearby. “Hold me,” I said to Lieutenant Mongo. “I don't know what to think about anything right now.”

He laughed and draped his large wing around me. “Neither do I. But I do know these cookies are delicious!”

The general and his entourage left fifteen or so minutes later, and we continued our mission for another two hours before receiving word that we could call it a night. Some of the soldiers slept in their vehicles, but most of us made the short trek to temporary housing. It was worth the walk for a mattress.

I awoke Christmas morning to SFC Hammerhead poking me in the ribs. “Time to wakey-wakey, sir,” he said. “More car-bomb fun awaits!”

“Fuck,” I said, usually the first word I uttered every morning, whether trapped in Baghdad or not. A few seconds later, when slightly more cognizant, I added, “My mom wrote me a note. She says I don't have to go to war today.”

SFC Hammerhead laughed. “Sir, what more do you want? You got a bed, a personal wake-up, and a general delivering goddamn Christmas cookies. I can guaran-dam-tee you that didn't happen the last time I was here.”

I sat up and rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I muttered. “I know all about the last time everyone was here. No roofs on the outposts and no shitters, either. It was worse than the Marne and Bastogne put together. And half of you guys used slingshots instead of rifles because supply didn't have enough guns. Blah blah blah.”

“Cranky this morning?” SFC Hammerhead laughed again. “Man oh man, you are not a morning person.”

Thirty minutes and a quick shave later, I sat in our MRAP as we followed Captain Frowny-Face's vehicle to the crossed-sabers landmark, also known as the Hands of Victory, or the Swords of Qadisiyah. Built in 1989 by Saddam Hussein to commemorate Iraq's supposed victory in the Iran-Iraq War, the Hands of Victory had become the war equivalent of a tourist trap for American soldiers in search of a photo opportunity in central Baghdad, something all
of the Gunslingers took advantage of, as well, on Christmas day. This former parade ground also served as an excellent command-and-control location for Captain Frowny-Face, as he maneuvered the two line platoons around the Green Zone battle space.

After we took the obligatory aforementioned photographs, and while we waited, most of the soldiers slept. Specialist Gonzo and I, though, had serious, earth-shattering subjects to discuss in the back of the MRAP—for instance, the mid-1990s gangsta' rap rivalry between Tupac Shakur and the Notorious BIG, which ended with both men being killed in drive-by shootings.

“I liked Tupac more,” I said. “I mean, ‘Hit 'Em Up' has to be the greatest revenge song of all time.”

Specialist Gonzo nodded. “Yeah, but Biggie's music was more fun to dance to. Like ‘Hypnotize'!”

“True.”

“And he has a movie coming out.”

“Also true. That is pretty gangsta'.”

Specialist Gonzo started chuckling. “How do you know what's gangsta', sir? Aren't you from the suburbs? In Nevada?”

I pursed my lips together in mock annoyance. “Please, I'm the subject-matter expert for all things gangsta' rap,” I stated. “I even got a ‘Thug Life' tattoo.”

“Oh yeah?” I had Specialist Gonzo rolling now. “Where's it at?”

I grinned maniacally. “I Sharpie it onto my knuckles. That way, all the crackers working for the Man can't pin me down, you know what I'm saying? I'm like a guerilla gangsta'.”

“Sir,” Specialist Gonzo wheezed between giggles, “you're out of control.”

“Tell me something I don't know. I used to be normal before Iraq. It's the army's fault.”

An hour or so later, a pair of contractors—one middle-aged man and one very attractive blonde woman with silicone-enhanced breasts—drove up in their sedan and distributed Oreo cookies and Gatorades to all of us, wishing us a Merry Christmas.

“Maybe coming down here wasn't so bad,” Sergeant J said between cookie bites. “There's no way the cooks up at Istalquaal would be this friendly, even today.”

We spent the rest of the day and part of the night continuing to clear the Green Zone, compound by compound, block by block. We found no sign
of a VBIED or even a VBIED in construction. That night, we rotated through the dining hall at Camp Patriot for a very full and fattening Christmas dinner. The next morning we woke up and drove back to JSS Istalquaal, this time taking Route Tampa north instead of Route Senators. My nerves appreciated this adjustment. When we arrived, I headed to my room, where Lieutenant Rant found me.

“How was it?” he asked.

“You mean other than the giant palaces and the general's Christmas cookies?” I shrugged my shoulders. “It was still Iraq.”

A couple days after
I rang in the New Year with a near-beer in the shower, I stood in the back of a large formation assembled in front of the battalion headquarters on our JSS. I should have been paying attention to the American flag being lowered down the flagpole and the Iraqi flag subsequently being raised in its place, a symbolic gesture resulting from the passage of the SOFA by the Iraqi parliament. But I wasn't. Instead, my mind walked an existential ramble along the cliffs of possibility, daydreaming about lost ideals and what kind of man went to war to observe instead of kill.