War Porn (21 page)

One night, the Hizbis all left. The trenches and guard points around the city emptied, leaving ghost uniforms and boots and helmets, as if the men had evaporated where they stood. There were rumors US Marines had been seen in Al-Rusafa, on the east side of the Dijlah. Rumors the Kadhimaya Mosque had been bombed by stealth jets. Rumors Saddam had ordered the Fedayeen underground. Rumors Saddam was dead.

Suddenly, tanks in the streets. Humvees running down the avenues, heavy guns lobbing explosive rounds at houses and shadows. Rifles, machine guns, now the chatter of small-arms fire peppered their days and nights.

They quit going out. They locked the gate. They spoke to their neighbors through a crack in the second-story window. They didn't go onto the roof. More explosions, more shooting. One night they listened to a tank roll down their street. They heard it stop. They heard the whine of its turret and heard its gun fire, the sound of hell cracking open, then again, feeling it throb in their bellies, knees, and thumbs. They bowed their heads and prayed. Allahu akbar, la ilaha illallah. They heard a machine gun go
tock-tock-tock
, then the tank rolled away. It's target had been an empty house. Two gaping holes like blank eye sockets watched the street.

And more bombs fell. Allahu akbar, cried the muezzin, la ilaha illallah.

The blind man sat listening to the thunder, rubbing the stub of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It was late. “Ah-ham,” he muttered.

Trouble had come again, as it had before and before and before. He remembered the British biplanes of his youth, when he'd first joined the army, the way you could hear the click of the bomb releasing—poisonous gray eggs tumbling into the Kurdish lines. And then
. . . 
He remembered the Tommies in their pointy helmets, marching the road to Baghdad. Before them, the Turk—but he could only faintly summon the Turk. Until the Revolt and the Great War, the press of world events had seemed distant.

There was so much to remember, so much to recall. So much to see and know and feel, so many dead to hold on to. So many dead. Even one life was too full. Even one life was so long and bloody, he could hardly bear it.

But that's what the poem was for. It was all there, his first love and his last, his long-dead father and long-lost sons, the fall of Baghdad and the coup d'état, the many revolutions. He remembered Mohammed al-Sadr's Independence Guard and the revolt against the British, the bright hope—he was what, fourteen? The shining dream of
nation
. . . 
He remembered fighting the Kurds, his years in the army, his wife, young, the late twenties, the days of hope as the people grew slowly to become
Iraq
—then Independence: 1932. There were celebrations.

We might as well have been mourning, he thought, for all the good it did us.

In the Assyrian revolt, he killed Assyrians. In the Shi'a revolt, he killed Shi'a. He helped protect the Turkish Petroleum Company, then the Iraqi Petroleum Company, as they pumped out the people's wealth and the people's oil. A coup, an assassination, another coup, the British returned and occupied Basra, Umm Qasr
. . . 
The collapse, the Farhud, Iraqi Jews blamed and murdered, banished. And then, in 1948, the Catastrophe, the diabolical birth of the Zionist state and the war in Palestine. He led his men through the Jezreel Valley and up the Tell el-Mutesellim, which the Jews call Har Megiddo, fighting the Zionists, and many good men died. All for nothing.

It was all written down, and all for nothing. And many years later, when he dared speak his mind, when he dared utter the truth, was he not punished? Saddam had struck him down—but had not killed him, and that was his mistake. For do I not yet write? Do I not mark the truth in my book? Do I not chronicle my poem for the ages, to be sung by my children's children's children? They would blind me, but I see the truth. I see the truth and I write the truth, and our truth shall outlive theirs.

He jabbed the stub of his tongue against his teeth and pressed his pen to the blackened page. Another sura remained to be written.

Qasim gathered his strength. He was better now, though his hand was still weak. He'd decided: staying in Baghdad was cowardice. He went to Mohammed and asked to use the Toyota to go home to his wife in Baqubah.

Mohammed was proud but worried. There would be many dangers, not just the Americans. There were looters, Fedayeen—who knew? And where would you get benzine if you needed it? And what would you do if something happened? Qasim agreed that it might be difficult but argued that he should go sooner rather than later. No one knew when, or if, things would settle down. There might never be a better time than now. “I understand,” Mohammed said, “but you're still healing. Stay a few more days.”

“I'm strong now, Uncle. I've waited too long already.”

“Qasim, you're still weak. You're not well enough yet. I can't let you go alone. It's too dangerous.”

“Uncle, please,” Qasim said, going to one knee before Mohammed at the kitchen table. “I have to go.”

“No. You have to wait. I can't spare myself or Ratib to take you, and we need the Toyota here. This is more of your foolishness. Wait until things calm down, and we'll figure something out.”

Othman watched the discussion from the other end of the kitchen, fiddling with his lighter. Then he tapped it loudly on the table. “I'll go,” he said.

Mohammed waved the idea away. “Don't be an idiot.”

“I'll go with him. I can shoot, I can drive. I know the roads. We both know some English.”

“A fool and a cripple. What a team.”

“Mohammed, my friend, it's only seventy-five kilometers. I'll go visit your sister-in-law, drop off Qasim, and I can be back the next day or the day after. I have an old friend in Baqubah I'd like to check up on. Consider it a favor—to me. I want to see your nephew do the right thing. Let me help him.”

Mohammed frowned, remembering the day he'd picked Othman up from al-Amn al-Amm, the Directorate of General Security: his face bruised, teeth missing, wincing as he got in the car, but smiling and joking as if nothing had happened. They said goodbye soon after, Othman going into exile in Lebanon, Mohammed not knowing if he'd ever see his friend again. He remembered Othman reciting from the Qu'ran the day he left: “Does there not pass over man a space of time when his life is a blank?” This time felt different, but how could you know? And what could he do? A man must follow the recitation of his soul. Mohammed shook his head in resignation. “Fine,” he said. “Fine.”

Qasim thanked Othman and Mohammed, then ran upstairs to pack. The two older men said nothing for a long time, smoking in silence until Mohammed stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “Bring the car back safe,” he said, “or Thurayya will kill both of us.”

The poet's eyes gleamed. “Insha'Allah.”

babylon

Nothing is over: This is the story of a long-haired half-crazed Vietnam vet, harassed by small-town lawmen, lost on his one-man mission of vengeance. Back in the war, he was part of a ragtag team of misfit soldiers, hand-picked for a suicide mission to kill Hitler. Good and evil. He's a downed fighter pilot. He's red and white and blue.

 

This is the story of the sword. Gun. Dawn

patrols blacktop sit guided in a bad hundred feet drowned

gulf

military units added to the

brass shell dogs devour battle

 

so they too were made of vanity and 72 hours not from the stories of previous wars. Violence inflicted on the largest burden themselves, some of which depicted pyramids and the rest shocked of no-man's land. Lee Marvin leads a ragtag gang of misfits through the hell of war and loss of innocence as they fight for freedom and America from the deserts of North Africa to the forests of Germany. He's an idealistic young officer leading his all-black regiment on a suicide attack on a coastal fortress. No-man. Through me tell the story of one man's rage and the razing of an ancient city. He's an idealistic young officer charged with cowardice for refusing to send his men to their death on a suicide attack

 

new reports

electricity

 

widening the circle of direct blame for shooting it up my ass. On first setting eyes, alas, my son, harassed by small town artillery emplacements, a bridge no more. Night and day did I glory in misfits hand-picked and leads a ragtag
bunch of strength to all in Troy both men and hell. From the glory. A young man discovers commando war nothing, for no one pilot develops a tenuous ragtag bunch of All-American right hand like a lizard but that's not hell, a bunch of ragtag boots lying like getting my machine impression of his wife the flow I mean when I voted for hell, horses in administrative succession, running the Achaeans divide the fate DETAINEE-07's allegations

 

a tale of courage and honor, loyalty, grace under pressure and the will to win. He's a young, dedicated soldier sent up the river to kill a rogue agent. He's a drunk, grizzled vet sergeant fighting bureaucratic bullshit to transform a ragtag bunch of misfits into a steely band of killers, leading them to glory in the assault on Grenada. The allegations of

 

this man alone, unsupported, allegations of abuse, his statements available, Peleus, for he is mightier than you. Nevertheless, intel interests dogs and vultures, and a load of grief would be lifted from my damage Iraq's eyewitness reports, life, both Iraqis cried: The British Academy has committed Muslims. Like people attacking a library. Ragtag. A young glory. An Army Special Forces operative goes up the river. A young man joins the Marines and becomes a photographer and is sent to Vietnam and learns that war is hell is hell. War story. A retired Special Forces operative returns to Vietnam to rescue his POW buddies. This is the story of the Center in Washington D.C. where he practiced for conventions of war or rules had no way to confirm they were the war near equipment in civilian areas, maintaining Abu Ghraib largely with Iraqis of “no intelligence” a lot firmer, particularly his own military; a final atrocity exploited for detainees were meant to be “exploited for” many shops know coalition forces prisoners scooped up in this way soon flooded the keepers taken all the campaign on the harsh terrain of disadvantages nighttime sweeps gave Saddam 48 hours on the harsh terrain of detainees at Abu Ghraib whomsoever Allah overcrowding difficulties

 

the Iraqi Academy of physical abuse while stuck here

 

This is a story of we happy stuck here. This is the story of a ragtag bunch of misfits picked for a suicide mission to stuck here. A young man. From the ragtag clutches. A noble, professional Special Forces commando learns that war is young. A young hell and ragtag bunch of All-American misfits fight Japs in the South Pacific and learn war is war. A bunch ragtag of young ragtag learn the true meaning of discipline and camaraderie and war and war. A young
maverick risks everything to save his father from the Libyans. A ragtag bunch of Australians go halfway across the world and learn war is is. This is the story ragtag young man.

 

Stuck here. Stuck here. This is the story of valor, duty, and the cost of war. A young camaraderie. This is the story of a
young man
who learns war always has a cost. A young wacky. This is the story of a wacky bunch of ragtag misfits trying to escape from Nazi prison. A wacky bunch of ragtag misfits running an Army hospital in Korea. A ragtag maverick valor war. This is the story of a young man's war, the story of we happy few.

your leader will
control your fire

 

(operation iraqi freedom, 2004)

 

fear is not shameful

if it is controlled

 

 

The plane tilted on its side and through the window in the
opposite bulkhead Baghdad whirled below, taking my stomach with it. Men and women in brown DCUs turned green as we spun plummeting in a banked spiral. The guy across the aisle puked in a bag and his buddy cheered.

We rolled against the sky, then at the last minute flopped flat and came in straight. The engines growled down into the final approach, and we dropped the last few inches slamming to the deck.

They downloaded our bags and we threw them in the back of a five-ton. The truck took us to a staging area. Contacting Battalion to arrange pickup, I was surprised by how eager I felt to see my fellow soldiers—I had to make sure they were okay, but as much as that I just wanted to see their faces. They understood. They knew this shit world we lived in, knew it all better than anyone I could talk to back in Oregon. I realized as well that I was itching to get back
outside the wire. The berms, palm trees, and sand around me seemed not just familiar but comforting. Normal. I wanted to scan rooftops. I wanted shots fired. I wanted ninja women in abayas, hadjis in man-dresses. I wanted to hear and talk
salaam a-leykum, ishta, uskut. I wanted my rifle.

It was hard to believe I'd just been back in the land of shopping malls and big hair, showing my ex-girlfriend photo after photo: this is my humvee, this is Captain Yarrow, this is Camp Lancer, this is the UN before, the UN after. How was it possible that just a few weeks ago I'd come down into Portland, rain drumming on the plane's windows, feeling the war slip off like an old jacket?

When I got off the plane, there was my ex-girlfriend
and another girl, an old friend, and we hugged and kissed and
grinned. In the parking garage by the car, they lifted their skirts and showed off their matching Superman panties. My heart was full of love.

All the long ride home while the girls talked to me and each other, I scanned overpasses for snipers and watched the shoulder for IEDs. I kept reaching back for my rifle, startled that I'd lost it, and eyeballed cars passing on 205, feeling spooked, thinking I need a drink, I need a smoke, how the fuck long do I have to do this alone?

Now, after weeks of being apart, she'd be there waiting for me.

Geraldo showed up in C7.

“'Sup, Wheat Thin.”

“Good to be home, Cheeto.”

“You missed a dope barbecue.”

“Anybody get killed?”

“Naw. Burnett some caught shrapnel from an IED. Like a thumbtack. Purple Heart's tomorrow. You have yourself some fun?”

“I didn't know what to do with nobody shooting at me. I got laid, though. Any word on redeployment?”

“Saying April.”

“April, huh?”

“What they say.”

“That's like ninety days.”

“Ninety days be ninety days.”

On the way back to the CP, I watched the West Side DFAC go by and the road to Gate 5. The route I had run in the mornings and the fenced-off mosque. We passed Battalion Maintenance, the mini-PX, and the hemmet lot, finally pulling into our compound. I didn't know whether to cry or scream or shit myself.

I got out and downloaded my gear. On my way to draw my weapon, I ran into Nash and Sergeant Chandler.

“What are you doing here, Sergeant? I thought you were getting out.”

“Yeah, so did I,” he said.

“What d'you mean?”

“Three days before my orders, I get fucking stop-lossed.”

“Say what?”

“Stop-loss. No-Movement Orders come down for all units in support of OIF. Nobody ETSes out of Iraq anymore.”

“What the fuck's that mean? You don't get out?”

“Not till we get back.”

“That is some fucked-up shit. But it's only ninety days, right?”

“So they say. But enough about my troubles. How was leave?”

“Fucking-A, man. I ate everything. I drank everything. I got fucked. I saw the new Lord of the Rings movie, which was awesome. And this—you gotta check this out.” I dug through my backpack. “You and me, Sergeant, we're
Person of the Year
.” I handed them the
Time
magazine with the 1AD guys on the cover.

“No shit.”

“Yeah. There's a big article in there about how fucked up it's been for 4-27.”

“I guess we're too boring.”

“It's weird man, coming back. At the Dallas airport, there was this line of flag wavers, and anytime anyone found out I was in Iraq, they got all serious and shit, started thanking me and telling me what a great thing it was I was doing. I didn't know what to say. Like, hell yeah, fuck hadji! I mean, what the fuck?”

“Bet you got a lot of ass.”

“Sure, well
. . . 
I was fooling around with my ex, but
. . . 
if I'd wanted, there was definitely opportunity. I mean, what chick doesn't wanna fuck a war hero?”

I left them with the magazine and went to draw my rifle. As I crossed the motor pool, I seemed to be walking through a dream. I felt too relaxed. Everyone else was depressed and hateful, just like I remembered, but the difference was me: I was okay. I could see our frustrated rage, our barely checked aggression, our loneliness, our desperation, and for the first time ever, I could see it without belonging to it. If I can just hang on to this, I thought, I'll get through. Everything'll be fine.

Later I talked to Bullwinkle and he said yeah, that lasts about three days.