An Enemy Within (2 page)

For a moment, this was him. Bouncing on his father’s knee, all chuckles, after Pop came home from the timber yard, the smell of fresh pine on his rough workclothes. Mom scurrying from the kitchen, wiping her hands on that red apron, constantly praising the Lord for giving them this gift, their only one. A boy who was so cherished they cried when he told them he was joining up.

‘But why?’ they pleaded.

It was a question he had been trying to answer to himself ever since.

His earpiece suddenly crackled to life, his forward obs man from the alley. ‘We’ve just got several old dudes down, Lieutenant.’

‘All meet up outside,’ he barked, carefully laying the baby down next to its mother, jumping to his feet. He felt flustered, aware his men were watching him. He wanted to reach out, touch the wall to steady himself. God, he wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere but here.

He pressed a button on his radio. ‘B unit, come in.’

‘Yes, Lieutenant.’

‘Got anything, Sergeant?’

‘All clear and secure. No casualties. Body count fifteen, sir. All male, look like Hajiis to me – loads of weapons, too.’

‘Thank Chri… meet up. You stay put. Someone your end shine one.’

Outside, lifting the rifle to his eyes, he peered through the night-sight into the distance, saw a flashing light.

‘You got a fix, Lieutenant?’ the sergeant said.

‘Yeah,’ he said, exhaling loudly. ‘Yeah, I see you.’

It was only a video, the voice had teased him. But, for the love of Jesus, this was no game.

*  *  *

A heavy silence hung, pall-like, inside the Bradley as it rumbled back to base.

McDermott dimmed the light, but the pale orange glow still caught faces frozen in sombre reflection.

P.J. began to cough, desperately trying to clear his throat. The noise grated, even above the clanking of the twin turbo diesel engine. McDermott turned his head to look. P.J. raised his hand to cover his mouth, pressing back hard. The lieutenant could see he was starting to retch.

‘Halt,’ McDermott shouted, the Bradley coming to a quick stop. ‘Outside,’ he gestured to the grenadier.

Others sat, unmoved, until they heard P.J. throwing up. Two more dived for the rear door, just making it in time. McDermott swallowed hard, could feel the bile rising in his throat. He reached for a water bottle, taking a long gulping drink.

He mustn’t be sick, not in front of his men. Stooping, he worked his way to the open ramp. Deep, measured lungfuls of the night air quelled the feeling. He gazed up into the starless sky, a shudder running through him. Rubbing tired eyes, he felt them moist on his fingers.

‘Let’s hit the road,’ he finally urged, handing water bottles to those in need.

Just before starting off, Bobby-Jo fingered a CD he’d picked up at the base, a thumping, heavy metal band he thought would rock them all the way home after the operation. The guys liked
his choice of music. He glanced at the cover but put the CD back in his rack, figuring it would have to wait for another day.

Halfway back to base, Joe Herman broke the silence, suddenly exclaiming that intelligence had screwed up big time. ‘No women and no children,’ they’d assured.

It was true, McDermott thought. He’d read the intel briefing many times, practically knew every word off by heart. They would claim mitigation, of course. Impossible to get everything right.

But where did that leave him? What would everyone say?

Numb, and lost in his own world, visions of the baby flooded his mind, setting his hands trembling. Rubbing sweaty palms down his trousers, he glanced out of his forward periscope, only a mile to base. Sudden fear screwed up his insides. What sort of charge would he be on? His unit had wiped out harmless civilians – under his command. It wasn’t his men’s fault. Only he would carry the can. He’d step forward, take full responsibility and accept whatever they threw at him. A court martial? He’d be disgraced, annihilated, his whole life in ruins. The thought churned his stomach.

Just before they parked up, McDermott reflected that during the attack, he’d also called them ‘Hajiis’. Back in Kuwait, preparing for the invasion, he promised himself he’d be different. He shook his head, disgusted with himself that he hadn’t even stuck to that simple vow.

McDermott ordered each of the team to say nothing to anyone. The major would instruct them further after debrief.

Finally dismissing his men, he waited for everyone to disperse then headed for a quiet spot, which he found in the shadow of a palm tree. For several minutes he knelt on a patch of damp turf, seeking God’s guidance and offering a prayer for the dead. He wondered what the baby was called, but knew he would never find out.

He strode purposefully towards the major’s office, his mind set.

There, he believed he would be in the deepest trouble a soldier could ever imagine.

*  *  *

‘Come in.’ McDermott’s CO was an experienced tough-nut major named Walter Douglas, early forties, from a good Boston family. He rose from behind his desk.

McDermott stood nervously to attention. He’d tuned himself for the onslaught he thought was coming, his body braced. Would the major shout and bawl, flay his very soul with a terrifying, barbed attack, and suspend him from duty there and then?

‘At ease, Lieutenant, take a seat.’

McDermott gulped, licked his lips, his mind at once in turmoil. Was he hearing correctly? He took a faltering step backwards as the major approached.

Smiling, the major extended his hand. McDermott shook it limply. ‘I… I don’t understand, sir.’

Gesturing McDermott to sit, the major pulled up a chair beside him.

‘I bumped into your staff sergeant in the corridor earlier – a damn good result, Lieutenant.’

The words hit him like a Force 10. For a moment, they took his breath away. His jaw dropped, rendering him speechless.

‘Lost for something to say, Lieutenant?’

McDermott puffed out his cheeks, ran a hand over his cropped head. ‘Well, I just don’t know. A good result, sir? But the dead civilians – a baby, women, old men. Intelligence said…’

The major waved his hand dismissively and leant forward, elbows on his knees. He studied McDermott, this tall, lean figure, the hair cut so close he could hardly tell its colour. Rarely had he seen a smile on the boyish features. Come to that, many of his men were still only boys. McDermott was another of those thoughtful, serious young guys the Academy seemed to
be turning out these days. Maybe a touch too sensitive for this job. Sometimes it didn’t do to think too deeply.

‘Never mind intel – they don’t always get it right. We don’t live in a perfect world.’ The major stood up, walked towards his desk. ‘How old are you, Lieutenant?’

‘Twenty-five, sir.’

‘First real action?’

‘Kind of.’

‘Look, son. The units under your command took out a bagful of terrorists – fifteen less insurgents to worry about. Who knows how many of us they might have killed if you hadn’t gone in there. Sure, it’s mighty upsetting to see the innocents caught up in this – but this is war, Lieutenant. I’ve seen it all; Kuwait, Afghanistan, now Iraq, and I can tell you it’ll only get dirtier and uglier no matter what they say back home in Washington. They wouldn’t know shit from gold. You struck gold tonight – I’ll be informing divisional HQ.’

‘I… I just can’t get that baby’s eyes out of my mind, just staring at me, helpless.’

The major pulled out a half bottle of bourbon from a drawer, poured them both a slug. Alcohol, taken by any of the troops, was strictly off-limits. Even so, an illicit market flourished in the locally-produced whisky and the clear moonshine the soldiers called ‘Hajii juice’.

‘Knock this back, son – purely medicinal.’

McDermott downed it with a grimace.

‘Trooper, you go and get some chow. It’s just collateral damage, that’s all. It happens. Tomorrow it’ll be different. I’ll speak to every member of the team personally – we all say nothing about the side damage.’

McDermott stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He managed a half-hearted salute, wheeled about, and left the office.

His appetite non-existent, he went straight to his room, taking great care not to disturb his sleeping fellow officers.
Without bothering to undress, he took his Bible from the top drawer of his bedside cabinet, and began reading by the light of a small torch, searching frantically for solace.

It was open at the Old Testament, Leviticus,
chapter five
. His eyes came to rest at verse 17: ‘And if anyone doth sin and does any of the things the Lord has commanded not to be done, though he was unaware, still he is guilty and shall bear his punishment.’

He read the verse repeatedly, staring vacantly at the ceiling. Unable to sob, unable to sleep.

A pair of brown eyes haunting him.

2

Just after sunrise in Baghdad. And on the type of cloudless morning that greeted Matt McDermott, it wasn’t hard to forget there was a war going on.

A few moments of peace before the construction contractors started up, before the night patrols came rumbling in, before the next rota moved out after only six hours off. Relaxation? Forget it.

Now the sun peeped tantalisingly over the skyline, merely temperate before its 100-degree heat of early spring.

For the next hour or so it would be what his folks back home in Parkersburg, West Virginia called ‘fair weather’. McDermott lifted his head to the warmth and tried hard to capture the boyhood essence of mornings such as this with Pop; a fishing spot up the Ohio River where they would stop with the camper and clamber down a steep slope through the trees to the water’s edge.

Mom would always tell them to ‘watch for those bears’ before they set off. But the boy, to his great disappointment, never once clapped eyes on a black bear, although Pop often enchanted him with tales of their habits. Now, he knew that throughout their long winter hibernation, the black bear never eats, drinks, urinates or defecates.

The snarling growl of a nearby bulldozer starting up broke his concentration. He closed his eyes tighter, desperate to remain wrapped in his memory’s comforting embrace. But thick acrid diesel fumes assailed him from all directions, forcing him back to the stark reality of a country in chaos.

His shoulders were stiff from last night’s concentration at the Bradley’s monitor screen. Flexing his head from side to side,
little clicks cracked from his neck as he crossed the parade square to the officers’ mess. The baby’s face peered at him. Several times he shook his head sharply to rid himself of the vision.

A mass of feelings fooled with his mind. Was the major right, that it was just collateral damage? Innocents were bound to die, he knew. They’d talked about it at the Academy. But had they ever seen the repercussions? Had any of them picked up a dead baby and seen those blissful eyes?

And what would Mom and Pop say if they ever found out? It would destroy them, then he in turn.

Right now, he felt hibernation would be a wonderful gift from God.

As he neared the mess, he could see a newly-arrived detachment being put through its paces before it got too hot. He glanced their way. Kids, most of them. Blameless so far. Clean hands. Would they soon have blood on them? Like him? So engrossed in his thoughts, he almost missed their sergeant’s salute, recovering just in time to return it.

The door to the mess was closed when he reached it. With a trembling hand, he turned the handle, taking a deep breath before going inside.

The place was packed. The clatter of cutlery on plates sounded its own discordant symphony. Soldiers eating was always a noisy affair. Panic immediately rose in his stomach as he glanced around. Any second now he felt their eyes would be upon him. It would go deathly quiet. Someone would shout out. What would they say?
Murderer
. No,
child murderer
. They’d point his way; accusatory fingers like darts at his soul. All hell would let loose. They were bound to know what happened by now. Someone would have talked.

But, as he stood transfixed, the only reaction was a gentle chiding to ‘move along the line’. A sudden feeling of relief swept over him.

Scouring the breakfast menu and surprising himself, he chose
a huge rib-eye steak, mashed potatoes, and gravy. A fellow lieutenant beckoned him to join his table. They had been at the Academy together.

‘Hey, Matt. You outside the wire today?’

‘Later. Me and the boys got ourselves a stand-down for the morning – had a late night.’

‘Yeah, I heard something. Sounds like a top result, congratulations. I’d like to hear about it.’

McDermott shot him a suspicious look. Deducing the remark held no trace of the sarcasm, the derision, he felt would have been justified, McDermott simply said, ‘Maybe… we’ll have a coffee sometime.’

Then his fellow officer shook his friend by the hand and saluted him, striding off purposefully into the unbearable heat and the dust.

McDermott idled over his coffee. Would the major be able to keep a lid on it, like he said? If so, for how long? And how would McDermott be able to recount the raid to anyone without lying? And with God as his witness? His heart grew heavy at the very thought.

Closing his eyes, he said a silent prayer for himself and his men for later when he would be out commanding a foot patrol, dodging the bullets and the rats in the raw-sewage-filled gutters, piled high with mountains of stinking garbage in every hell-hole of a street.

And, all the time, not knowing which pile hid the bomb.

*  *  *

The heavily fortified Green Zone covered some four square miles, a vast area of tree-lined grand boulevards housing the private villas of Saddam’s Ba’athist cohorts and his half dozen bombed-out palaces.

McDermott’s unit had been hurriedly installed within this myriad of avenues, primarily as part of the protection force guarding the hundreds of civilians arriving daily to help set up
the headquarters of the new Coalition Provisional Authority which would run the country.

Leaving the mess hall and turning left into a road that had not yet been cleared, McDermott made his way along a pathway between the rusting wrecks of two Mercedes cars. His gunner, Joe Herman and driver, Bobby-Jo, appeared from the opposite direction.