Fives and Twenty-Fives (6 page)

Probably won’t see you before then.

Anything you need up there? Anything I can bring you back? I’ll probably be sleeping on Landry’s couch. Call you if
anything changes.

Les.

The Rule

I leave a note on the kitchen table for my dad and sneak out the front door quiet as I can. I tiptoe out to my truck before he wakes up. Walking barefoot over the cold, sharp gravel so as not to make noise. I put my boots on in the cab and bundle up with lined leather gloves, the old woolen watch cap pulled down tight over my brow. My overnight duffel gets thrown in the truck bed. The trauma bag gets put on the passenger seat next to me. I always bring it with me on long drives. Why not? A useful thing to have, depending.

I let the truck idle slow and quiet across the driveway, not even touching the accelerator till I turn onto the highway. I imagine the route up to New Orleans for later tonight. Picture all the roads and towns and intersections up ahead. Thorough and detailed like a convoy brief. Like how Gunny Stout gave the convoy brief. Before Lieutenant Donovan took it over, anyway.

Gunny Stout used to make Marines lift my trauma bag so they knew the weight of it, showing them that I
earned
my way. That I wasn’t a goldbricker—not some nasty sailor doing a little combat tourism.

“Pack your own trash,” Marines said. Earn your way.

No one packed their own trash like Gunny Stout.

“Five and twenty-five’s the rule,” he said. Gunny Stout had a lot of rules, but five and twenty-five, that was most important.

He was short, five-seven maybe, with sandy hair and freckles. Must have been almost forty, but in his body armor and sunglasses he looked like he could’ve been in grade school. The sunglasses hid the wrinkles around his eyes, and the flak jacket smashed the folds of middle age flat around his waist.

“At a halt, you stay in your vehicle and scan,” he said. “You look around, five meters out from the wheels in every direction. Inside five meters, our armor plate is vulnerable to frag. Vulnerable to blast overpressure. A shock wave can rip the doors right off. You spot a wire, or two rocks stacked on top of each other, or a patch of disturbed dirt, you call it out. You spot a piece of trash that seems too heavy, you call it out. If it holds your attention for more than two seconds, you call it out.”

I stood next to Gunny Stout when he gave the brief. He said it helped the Marines to see a corpsman next to the bomb tech. Everyone stood still when he talked. The only Marine allowed to move around during the convoy brief was Sergeant Gomez. She circled us like a sheepdog, making sure we all paid attention. Michelle Gomez, her full name. Found that out a long time later.

Sergeant Gomez owned that platoon. She and Corporal Zahn, the two of them. They ran it as a team. Not because she needed Zahn for anything. Gomez had motivation to spare. Marines a foot taller than her would flinch when she came up on them. Just her voice could break bones. Full and Texan.

She looked the part, too. Always kept her hair tied back and out of her eyes. Shiny, black hair smooth as a feather. If a strand or two fell down and tickled her cheek, she’d curse and step away to tie it right back. I watched her do it in the morning once, before reveille, behind the barracks hut when no one else was awake. She sat on the steps with her hair down, hands working it back into a bun. I couldn’t help but stop to watch. She noticed me and narrowed her eyes, all mad. Like, what the fuck you looking at? Turn around. Get back to work, asshole.

Gunny Stout stopped talking as a cargo plane came in low over the lake, right on top of us. He never raised his voice, Gunny Stout. And he never looked at planes, even when all the other Marines did. Even Lieutenant Donovan and the other officers, standing off to the side while Gunny Stout gave the brief. They all looked up like it was the first plane they ever saw.

Lieutenant Donovan had brown hair, brown eyes, and real good teeth. Had a bit of weight on him, but was tall enough to wear it, just barely. A real southern college boy, the lieutenant. Like he was on his way to an outdoor jam band festival one day, took a wrong turn, and somehow ended up in the Marines. He sat on the hood of his Humvee, his flak jacket and helmet stacked next to him while Gunny Stout gave the brief. The rest of us, the enlisted? We showed up to the brief with our gear already
on
. Sergeant Gomez made sure of that. The lieutenant, though, he could take his time, I guess. Cross his arms and watch with gold bars on his collar. Happy to be called “sir.” Happy to let Gunny Stout run the convoy. Happy to let Sergeant Gomez and Corporal Zahn run his platoon.

Gunny Stout didn’t work for him, really. Lieutenant Donovan had the road-repair platoon, out filling potholes all day. Just that road repair had six vehicles and enough Marines to pull security while they did the work of patching the holes. It was tough work, too. Dirty and hot as hell in that body armor. But worse than that, those potholes always had another bomb under the rubble. And I do mean always.

So it made sense we roll with them. We only had the one vehicle, the bomb disposal team. Gunny Stout, Staff Sergeant Thompson, a driver, and me. We didn’t even have a spare body to man the gun turret up top, though anyone could’ve jumped up there in a pinch.

We’d go first, check the hole, and clear whatever new bomb was put in there overnight. Then Lieutenant Donovan’s guys, they’d come in behind us and get to work, filling the hole and patching it with concrete. First, they cut the jagged asphalt from around the edges to prep for aggregate. Then they carried those heavy bags of concrete over to a beat-up, old mixer. Just pouring down sweat inside that body armor. Had to watch for snipers, too. Never could stay in one place for too long or they’d take fire. Sergeant Gomez always nipping at their heels, telling them to hurry the hell up.

Gunny Stout kept going when the plane noise faded away. “When the vehicle commanders roger-up,” he said, “clear inside five meters, then the dismount team executes the twenty-five-meter sweep, on my order.” Gunny’s voice got tight. Not loud, just
tight
. “Dismount team, eyes up.”

Most Marines stared at the dirt during a convoy brief. Tucked their hands inside their body armor and rested their chin against the ballistic plate. But when Gunny Stout said, “Eyes up,” they rolled their shoulders back and locked onto him. In unison, you know? Like one creature.

“When I say go, do not hesitate. Three seconds.” He held up three fingers. “Every door open. Every door closed. All Marines working a tight search pattern in three seconds. It takes three seconds for a triggerman to initiate a device, and you can’t let that happen while that armor seal is broken. Move with a purpose. No sidebar conversations. No laughing.”

Sergeant Gomez explained it to me, once. How Marines managed to do everything in time, on a silent drill count. She smiled and said, “Oh, you mean that Snap,
Pop
?”

It was how they spoke. How they did every little thing: Snap,
Pop
.

Satisfied, Gunny Stout tapped his notes. “Right. Dismount leader, when you confirm no devices, no threats to dismounted troops inside twenty-five meters, return your team to the vics. On my order, or as you were, on the lieutenant’s order, we set security.” He pointed to Lieutenant Donovan. “You all right with that, sir?”

Lieutenant Donovan looked up and smiled. “Sounds fine, Gunny.” He crossed his arms and swung his dangled feet off the hood of the Humvee.

He had that Alabama gentleman’s drawl, the lieutenant. I never could tell—was he even paying attention? Was he just relaxed? Lieutenant Donovan had a gunnery sergeant of his own. Gunny Dole. But that guy never went outside the wire. A fat pension-grubber on his last deployment. He’d wander around the company office talking about the promotion boards coming up. Talking about his retirement. Talking about his deployments to the Philippines in the nineties. How much
fun
they were. Not like
this
shit, he’d say.

Gunny Stout never talked about anything but the mission. He gave us a smile and looked around, studying us.

The turret gunners wore bandannas to keep the sweat out their eyes. Under her helmet, Gomez wore the sleeve of a green T-shirt stretched out over her hair. Corporal Zahn had grenade pouches on his flak to hold cans of Skoal. We all wore tan flight suits. Flame resistant, for a little extra protection.

Gunny Stout looked to Lieutenant Donovan. “You have anything to add, sir?”

“I do.” He nodded. “Just one quick item.” He jumped off his Humvee and strolled into the briefing circle, glancing over at the command building to make sure Major Leighton was watching from the steps before he addressed the platoon. “This isn’t the best forum for this bit of gouge, I know. But the company commander wanted it passed to all Marines before noon today: He’s fed up with the bathroom graffiti. He says he’s over it. The stalls in comfort trailers get painted today, and we’re due for new Porta-Johns tomorrow. So, it’ll be a fresh slate. All graffiti removed. Then, starting tomorrow, if any drawings of penises or gossip about female Marines shows up in the bathrooms . . .” He paused and peeked over at Sergeant Gomez, kind of an embarrassed look on his face. “If the company commander sees anything like that, he’ll have the first sergeant post a twenty-four-hour watch in the shitters with orders to check each stall as Marines come out.”

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.