The Human Body (6 page)

The guys watch the chosen ones get dressed in front of their cots. They do it ceremoniously, like ancient heroes, although nothing more than a routine patrol at the village bazaar awaits them.

Cederna struts around the most, because he's also the fittest. If there were an Achilles, son of Peleus, in Third Platoon, Charlie, it would be him; that's why he had the first verse of the
Iliad
tattooed on his back just above the waist. It's written in Greek—the tattoo artist copied it, with some inaccuracies, from one of Agnese's high school books—and Cederna has her read and reread it in his ear when they're in bed.

In shorts and a T-shirt, he plants himself in front of Mitrano's cot; the corporal has already figured out what's in store for him and gets up reluctantly, his eyes sad.

“Did your parents have any children that lived?”

“SIR, YES, SIR!”

“I'll bet they regret that! You're so ugly you could be a modern art masterpiece! What's your name, fatbody?”

“SIR, VINCENZO MITRANO, SIR!”

“That name sounds like royalty! Are you royalty?”

“SIR, NO, SIR!”

“Do you suck dicks?”

“SIR, NO, SIR!”

“
Bullshit!
I'll bet you could suck a golf ball through a garden hose!”

“SIR, NO, SIR!”

“I don't like the name Mitrano! Only faggots and sailors are called Mitrano! From now on you're
Fatbody
!

“SIR, YES, SIR!”

“Do you think I'm cute, Fatbody? Do you think I'm funny?”

“SIR, NO, SIR!”

“Then wipe that disgusting grin off your face!”

And on and on, until Mitrano kneels down and offers his neck to Cederna, who pretends to strangle him—and actually does choke him a little, enough to make his face turn a bit purple. Mattioli urges him not to quit; the others laugh like madmen, even though they've seen the performance dozens of times. Cederna is able to quote the first forty minutes of
Full Metal Jacket
from memory, line by line: Mitrano is his Private Gomer Pyle, his designated victim, and like the soldier in the film, he's not enjoying it one bit. When they're done, he climbs back on the cot and curls up, minding his own business. If he doesn't go along with the game, Cederna slaps the back of his neck so many times it gives him a crick.

Now that Cederna has everyone's attention he can continue getting dressed. The senior corporal major's equipment includes: a TRU-SPEC combat shirt, an eggplant-colored Defcon 5 armor carrier vest with coordinated accoutrements, a Kevlar helmet, an ESS Profile TurboFan mask, a pair of Vertx pants with a gusseted crotch and articulated knee (they're the most expensive and fit decidedly better than any other tactical pants), Quechua socks and briefs, a Nite MX10 quartz watch with GTLS whose dial and hands are illuminated fluorescent green even during the day, a pair of Otte Gear waterproof gloves, a keffiyeh, a pair of 12×25 binoculars, a Condor T&T belt, elbow and knee pads of the same brand, an ONTOS Extrema Ratio knife with a 165-millimeter steel blade, a GLX grenade launcher, a CamelBak canteen, a Beretta 92FS tucked into a thigh holster, a Beretta SC70/90 assault rifle, Lowa Zephyr GTX HI TF task force desert boots, monocular night vision goggles with IR illuminator, and seven magazines with appropriate ammunition. Aside from the firearms and the helmet, the items have all been ordered via the Internet. In the inside pocket of his jacket there is also a photo, a selfie that Agnese slipped into his backpack as a surprise, a three-quarters shot in which she's wearing a thong and barely covering her breasts with one arm, enough to make your eyes pop out of their sockets. Sixteen kilos and two thousand euros' worth of equipment: when he has his weapons on him Cederna feels different, more clearheaded, more alert. More fit. More cocky.

“I'll buy you some peanuts,” he says to his buddies on his way out. He goes by the cot where Ietri is still lying in his skivvies, green with envy (though his nose, ears, and shoulders are red from the severe sunburn he got), slaps him sharply on the thigh. “Be a good girl,
verginella
.” Ietri raises his middle finger.

Cederna sits up front in the Lince, on the right, and sees to communications. Camporesi drives. In back are Pecone and René, with Torsu in the middle, standing on the turret. The convoy of three armored vehicles is commanded by Captain Masiero. There's bad blood between Masiero and Marshal René—Cederna knows it and he sometimes likes to tease René about it.

He's not afraid. Not at all. Instead, he's excited. If they were to be ambushed, he knows that his reaction time to load the rifle or draw the pistol and take aim at the target would be less than two seconds; he also knows that less than two seconds might be too long, but that thought is a waste of time, so he sets it aside and focuses on the positive.

Nothing happens. The patrol rolls along without a hitch. They park the vehicles near the Afghan police barracks, which controls the road to the market. The soldiers take a guided tour inside to familiarize themselves with the place, since starting the following week they'll have to go there every day to train the Mau Maus. From the way the Afghan policemen hold their weapons, it's clear to Cederna that they're hopeless: he's ready to bet that if the politicos decide to withdraw the troops and turn the war over to them, Afghanistan will fall back into the hands of the Taliban immediately. Cederna hates politicians; all they think about is lining their own pockets and that's it.

Once they've left the blockhouse the atmosphere relaxes and the patrol allows itself a walk along the road. The armored vehicles follow the soldiers, who are on foot like tame animals. From their shoddy holes-in-the-wall, the Afghans watch the soldiers parade by. Cederna frames them one at a time in the SC70/90's sight, imagines hitting them in the head, the heart, the knees. In a specialization course he learned to breathe with his belly, so that the shoulder his rifle butt rests on remains still—it's a technique used by commandos, just what Cederna wants to become. At the end of the mission he'll submit his application to enter the special forces.

For the time being his job is anything but that of assault: Captain Masiero has distributed handfuls of candy to the soldiers and children buzz around them like wasps. René tries to disperse them, flailing his arms.

“Don't worry, Marshal. They won't hurt you, you'll see,” Masiero makes fun of him.

“We shouldn't let too many of them come near us at one time,” René snaps back. He's citing the regulations.

“Are you expecting a bomb on a beautiful day like this? If you act like that, I won't allow you out anymore. You're scaring all my little friends.” The captain bends down to one of the children and ruffles his hair. “It seems to me you still haven't understood a thing about our mission, Marshal.”

Cederna watches his leader take his lumps. He can't stand Masiero either—he'd gladly knee him in the stomach. He gives René a consoling clap on the shoulder instead, and he too starts handing out candy.

A little boy, smaller than the others and wearing a tattered smock, is about to end up crushed. Cederna lifts him up and the child lets him carry him, staring at him with wide, rheumy eyes, his nose caked with dried snot.

“Doesn't your mother ever give you a bath, kid?”

The answer is a kind of gap-toothed smile.

“You don't understand a word I'm saying, huh? No, you don't understand a word. I can say whatever I want, then. That you're lousy with fleas, for instance. Filthy. Smelly. That makes you laugh? Really? Smelly, smelly. You stink. Look at you laughing! All you want is your candy, like all the others, right? Here you are. Uh-oh, slow down. Promise me, though, that when you grow up you won't become a Taliban, okay? Otherwise I'll have to put a bullet from this in your little head.” He waves the rifle in front of him; the boy follows it with his eyes. “Torsu—hey, Torsu, come over here.”

His cohort approaches at a slow jog, followed by his swarm of kids.

“Take my picture. Come on.”

With one arm Cederna holds the child—who after trying unsuccessfully to unwrap the candy has popped it into his mouth, wrapper and all—and with the other raises the rifle in the air, holding it by the stock. It's a brazen pose, and he'll use it to beef up his online profile.

“Did I come out okay? Take another one—one more.”

He sets the boy down on the ground, takes the last of the candy from his pocket, and tosses it far away, in the dust. “There. Go get it.”

R
eplenishments come by air, without much notice or regularity. Although requests sent from the FOB are always detailed, the bureaucrats in Herat send whatever they want, taking advantage of excess inventory: toilet paper instead of ammunition, juice when the soldiers have no water. For six days the helicopters haven't flown over the area because of the haze. Any longer and the soldiers will be forced to eat K rations. Fortunately, the meteorological situation has improved in the past few hours, the sky is once again a blazing blue and the guys from Charlie are grouped on the flat open space in front of the base, waiting for an airdrop.

The helicopter appears in the notch between the hill and the mountain, silent and tiny as an insect. The guys' eyes, all shielded by reflective lenses, turn toward the little black dot, but no one takes a step forward or unfolds his crossed arms. The aircraft descends and they can now make out the incorporeal circles described by the whirling rotor blades. No matter how many times you've seen a C-130 approach with its rear cargo hatch open, no matter how many bone-stiffening hours you've spent traveling in it, you can't help thinking how much it resembles a bird with its ass wide open.

The pallets are dropped in rapid succession; the cords of the parachutes—about a dozen in all—grow taut in the air and the white nylon canopies bloom against the cobalt sky. The aircraft makes a turn and disappears in a few seconds. The parachuted containers dangle in the air like abnormal jellyfish. Something goes wrong, though. A burst of wind slams into a parachute, which tilts over and nudges the cord of the one beside it, as if looking for company. It wraps itself around it and the beleaguered cord in turn goes into a spin. The spiral they form picks up speed, and the cords get snarled up all the way to the top, strangling the canopies. The Siamese parachutes knock into two of the ones below them, and together they form a tangled knot.

The soldiers hold their breath, some instinctively cover their face with their hands, while the cargo containers, intertwined and now lacking air support, plummet to the ground in free fall, the unprecedented speed dragging the heavy load down.

The crash raises a cloud of dust that takes several seconds to clear. The guys aren't sure what to do. They step forward a few at a time, their keffiyehs pressed against their noses.

“What a fucking mess,” Torsu says.

“All because of those air force dickheads,” Simoncelli says.

They surround the crater carved out by the cargo pallets.

Food, that's what was in them. About a hundred boxes of canned tomatoes have exploded, spraying red liquid all around, but there are also crushed packages of frozen turkey meat—pinkish shreds scattered in the sand, shimmering in the sun—canned mashed potatoes, and milk streaming out of plastic containers in several places.

Di Salvo picks up a handful of crumbled cookies. “Breakfast anyone? You can even dunk the cookies in the milk.”

“What a fucking mess,” Torsu says again.

“Yeah, a big fucking mess,” Mitrano repeats.

The pool of milk spreads around the pile, skims the soldiers' boots, and mingles with the tomato purée. The birds of prey, which have already started wheeling about in ever tighter circles, mistake it for an inviting puddle of blood. The parched soil quenches its thirst by quickly soaking up the red liquid; it stays dark for a few seconds, then forgets it was ever moist.

Very little of the meat supply is salvageable. The slices of turkey recovered from the dust are barely enough for a quarter of the men and the cooks refuse to cut them into smaller pieces because they'd end up with children's portions. What with delays and glitches, the soldiers haven't eaten meat in over a week, and when they see trays of pasta with vegetable oil again, a riot almost breaks out in the mess hall. To calm things down (and because he himself has a great desire for steak), Colonel Ballesio agrees to the first breach of regulations, authorizing an expedition of two vehicles to go to the village bazaar and buy meat from the Afghans. The soldiers chosen for the mission show up at the FOB three hours later, triumphantly greeted by whistles and applause, with a cow stretched out on its side tied to the roof.

The animal is butchered on a nylon tarp spread out on the ground behind the dormitories of the 131st, hung out overnight at ambient temperature, and roasted for lunch. Due to adverse winds, the smoke from the grill fills the mess hall, but instead of bothering the soldiers, the stench of burning meat fuels their excitement and their appetite. They shout that they want the meat cooked rare and the cooks are happy to oblige. The thick steaks come to the table nice and pink inside: planting a fork in them releases trickles of pale blood that pools on the bottom of the plastic dishes. The meat is tough and not too flavorful, but still more appetizing than the thawed turkey, which is now rotting in the garbage bins. The guys eat until they're bursting. A spontaneous ovation erupts for Colonel Ballesio, who stands on the bench, raises his glass, and recites a phrase that, given what happens later on, is destined to become famous in its way: “I tell you with a colonel's certainty that this is the best meal you'll find anywhere in all of shitty Afghanistan.”

After lunch, the guys of the Third return to their tents to rest. Torsu and a few others head for the Wreck. They've done their best to make it habitable: there are now folding tables with Ethernet cables hanging overhead, along with sticky rolls of flypaper full of dead sand flies. Michelozzi, who knows something about woodworking because of his father's trade, has built a bar counter by nailing together the boards of some walkways. It's all it takes for the Wreck to attract people from the other tents, especially at night, even though there are almost never enough drinks to restock it.

Like most of his companions, First Corporal Major Angelo Torsu also keeps hard-copy pornographic material in the double bottom of his backpack, but he hasn't yet used it: since he's been spending time with his virtual girlfriend he has something better available. It's because of her that he's subscribed to a satellite connection that costs him a small fortune and attracts the envy of his fellow soldiers. But man, it's worth it, since it means he can talk to her whenever he feels like it.

He sits down in a corner of the room and inserts the modem key. He waits for the signal light next to the name of Tersicore89 in his list of contacts to go from red to green.

THOR_SARDEGNA:
r u there?

TERSICORE89:
ciao my love

That's one of the fantastic things about his new girlfriend: she greets him in certain ways that make the skin on the back of his neck tingle.

THOR_SARDEGNA:
what were you doing?

TERSICORE89:
i'm in bed . . .

THOR_SARDEGNA:
but it's at least ten thirty in the morning there!

TERSICORE89:
it's saturday! and i was out late last night

A twinge of jealousy clenches Torsu's belly. He literally feels something shift inside.

THOR_SARDEGNA
:
who were you out with?

TERSICORE89:
none of your business

He feels like closing the laptop screen, slamming it down. He doesn't like playing games. “Bitch,” he writes.

TERSICORE89:
movie with a girlfriend + a glass of wine. satisfied?

THOR_SARDEGNA
:
who cares

TERSICORE89:
come on, stop it. how's your mission going, soldier? i miss you like crazy. i looked up the place you're at on google earth and printed the map. i hung it over the bed

With Tersicore89, Torsu has discovered that pure imagination has some indisputable advantages. First: when done at the computer, sex lasts as long as he wants, provided he restrains his hands as needed. Delaying ejaculation enables him to reach unprecedented and almost painful levels of arousal—often he feels like he's about to explode. Second: he's able to picture a woman who is exceedingly gorgeous, sexy, and tall, much more gorgeous-sexy-and-tall than he thinks he deserves (not that he's tried to construct a complete portrait of Tersicore89; for the time being it's easier to think of her as individual body parts, details). Third: the medium of the Net helps him confess certain intimate things that he wouldn't otherwise dare say out loud. Having a woman's body close by, its reality and urgency, has always inhibited him a little.

Nevertheless, for some time now he's had an urge to see Tersicore89. Not exactly in the flesh, not yet, but at least framed half-length by the webcam. It's a desire that arose in him with the approach of the mission. She excludes the possibility, but he keeps insisting, even now.

THOR_SARDEGNA:
let me see you

TERSICORE89:
stop it

THOR_SARDEGNA:
just for a minute

TERSICORE89:
it's not the right time yet. you know it

THOR_SARDEGNA:
but it's been four months already!

TERSICORE89:
we're just getting to know each other

THOR_SARDEGNA:
i know more about you than about that bastard Cederna who sleeps in the cot next to me . . .

TERSICORE89:
if i let you see me, you won't listen to a thing I say anymore, all you'll think about is whether i'm pretty enough and about my body and my breasts, which maybe you'd like to be bigger. you wouldn't even see who's inside anymore. you men are all like that and i've already been through it, thanks

THOR_SARDEGNA:
i'm not like that

He's lying—he knows it and she can tell. His most recent relationship, with Sabrina Canton, had ended in part because of a raised mole she had on her chin. Torsu couldn't take his eyes off that dark growth. In the final weeks the mole had become gigantic, a chasm that had swallowed her whole.

TERSICORE89:
you men are obsessed with looks

THOR_SARDEGNA:
how about i let you see me?

TERSICORE89:
don't you dare!

THOR_SARDEGNA:
then you're the one obsessed with looks. are you afraid i'm not good-looking enough?

TERSICORE89:
no. that's not it. you'd put me in a situation of being manipulated. showing yourself would be like saying, look, i have nothing to hide, and that would imply that i, on the other hand, since i won't let you see me, do have something to hide, and that's manipulation

THOR_SARDEGNA:
would imply??? you talk too complicated!

Actually, it's precisely her way of talking—that is, of writing—that fascinates him. He never would have imagined that something like that could interest him in a woman. It's true, Torsu likes chatting with Tersicore89. In a few months they've each confided more secrets to each other than they've ever shared with anyone. For example, she's the only one who knows about his mother's recent stroke, and how now she drools a little whenever she eats. And Torsu, at least according to what she swears, is the only one who's read the poems she writes at night in a leather-covered notebook. Not that he understood much, but certain phrases really moved him.

TERSICORE89:
when you come back from your mission . . . maybe . . .

THOR_SARDEGNA:
they might kill me this very day

TERSICORE89:
don't even say that as a joke

THOR_SARDEGNA:
they could launch a rocket right here in the place where i'm writing to you and rip my arms and legs to shreds. my brain would squirt out of my ears and eyes, and smear up the screen and i wouldn't be able to write to you anymore

TERSICORE89:
stop it

THOR_SARDEGNA:
never again

TERSICORE89:
stop or i'll log off!

THOR_SARDEGNA:
okay okay. your tits aren't really small though, are they?

TERSICORE89:
no. they're big and firm

THOR_SARDEGNA:
describe them better

TERSICORE89:
what do you want to know?

THOR_SARDEGNA:
everything, how they look. how y—

“If you ask me, she's a he.”

The voice is very close to Torsu's ear. Frightened, he gives a little yelp and snaps the lid shut. Zampieri is standing behind him.

“What the fuck do you want? How long have you been standing there?”

“Are you sure she's not a guy?”

“Get the hell away!”

“Tersicore is a man's name.”

“She's not a guy!”

“How do you know that?”

Zampieri leans her behind on the edge of the table and crosses her arms, as if wanting to get into a long discussion. Torsu has the beginning of an erection in his pants and Tersicore89 waiting for him inside the computer. “Would you please leave?” he says, controlling himself.

She ignores him. “The Internet is full of people who pretend to be what they're not for their own smutty purposes. Men who pretend to be women, for instance.”

“Do you mind telling me what the fuck you want from me?”

“I'm just trying to protect you. You're a friend of mine.”

“I don't need anyone to protect me.”

Zampieri tilts her head. She studies her nails, chooses one, and starts biting it.

Torsu says: “Anyway, a man wouldn't write certain things.” He has no idea why he's now trying to convince her.

“I'd be able to write like a man if I wanted to,” Zampieri replies, skeptical.

“No one had any doubts about that.”

“Besides, if she doesn't want to be seen, it means there's something wrong.”

“Fuck, you actually read all of it?”

“Some. Big, firm tits. Mmm . . .”

“Shut up! Anyway, I don't want to see her either.”