Fives and Twenty-Fives (23 page)

“Yeah, they just arrested
all
those guys,” the turret gunner said. “Anyone over like, twelve, got the flex cuffs!”

“We saw a number of men on the street when we passed through, sir,” I tried again. “None of them tried to hide from us.”

“Damn, got more coming in, too,” said the turret gunner. “The
jundi
s put on their big boy pants this morning!”

“Sir, I’ve always found that, most of the time anyway, when they know about the bomb, they get off the street beforehand.”

“Look at this guy over here! They sure fucked
him
up!”

“They didn’t seem to be expecting it, sir,” I finished, unsure of who I was even talking to anymore.

“And
that
guy’s bleeding out his ear!
Look
at that shit.” The kid in the turret said, smiling, like punctuation on my thought.

Franco gave a heavy sigh when he finally spoke, to no one in particular. “All in all, that’s a pretty good day’s work, I’d say. For the Iraqi Army, in any case. Pretty well organized.” He turned and asked the men in the Humvee, “Anything else? Anything jump out at you?”

They shook their heads.

“All right then. Good work today, Marines.” Then to Dodge and me: “Let’s go see Colonel Hewrami. You guys like tea?”

“Sir, can I get my corpsman over here to help out with some of these guys? Like that guy there. He might have a broken collarbone, the way he’s leaning over like that.”

Franco put his hand on my shoulder. “I know it sounds crazy, Lieutenant. But it’s really better to let the Iraqis deal with this. I’ll make the suggestion, though. And thanks for offering. Good thought.”

We walked toward the nearest Iraqi barracks as two more trucks came through the gate, beds piled high with bound and hooded men. As three empty trucks went back out, I tried to get a fix on where the alfalfa man knelt relative to the others so I could find him later.

Franco tapped my arm. “You see that little building over there by the river?” He pointed to a decaying shack with a corrugated-­metal roof nearly rusted through. “That was a British Army officers’ club during the First World War.”

“Oh.”

“Sure was. I found a few artifacts in that rubbish pile over there. Rank insignia, a few buttons. I found some pictures of what the club used to look like, too—on the Internet. Real classy. Might put together a little shadow box when I get home.”

“That sounds interesting.” I pushed the words out like rocks. My tongue, heavy and dry.

“I’m an adjutant by trade, but they tapped me to lead this team so I could get some command experience ahead of the lieutenant colonels’ selection board next year.”

“Oh.”

“And listen, Lieutenant—as far as what the
jundi
s are doing out in that field? It’s their country. They know it better than we do, right? We have to stay a little hands-off in this job.”

“I understand, sir. But still, I do think we can help out some with medical stuff.”

“Crazy out here, you know? I did some deployments in the nineties. Floats. Just floated around and made port calls. Looks like
those
days are over.”

We approached an Iraqi officer on his cell phone. Taller than the other Iraqi men, slim and clean shaven with a full head of brown hair.

Franco held up his hand. “Fareeq Hewrami!” he called out to the man.
“Marhaba!”

The Iraqi officer waved with the two fingers hugging his cigarette, but kept the phone to his ear and walked in small circles while we waited.

Franco turned to Dodge. “When he’s off the phone, could you tell him I’d like to have some tea and talk about what happened out in town today?”

Dodge didn’t reply. It was impossible to know, with the sunglasses and Nomex hood still hiding his eyes and face, but I felt certain he hadn’t taken his eyes off me since I’d pulled him away from that thirsty prisoner.

Finally, Colonel Hewrami finished his call and dropped the cell phone down to his hip.

Dodge addressed the Iraqi colonel, speaking quickly while gesturing to Franco and me. Dodge finished and offered his hand for Hewrami to shake, an American habit he’d picked up from us.

Ignoring Dodge’s hand, Hewrami pointed to Franco. He said a few words, waved the cigarette at his phone, then put a hand over his heart and walked away.

Dodge spoke softly behind his hood, almost to himself. “He says that he’s sorry. He has to keep talking to his commander in Baghdad, and that we should kindly go to his office and watch television. Someone will bring us tea while we wait.”

“All right, let’s go have a seat,” Franco said. “You like tea, Pete? They have great chai.”

As we crossed the asphalt, I scanned the field again in a final effort to isolate the alfalfa man in the crowd. Only I couldn’t. There were too many trucks now, and too many men on their knees.

Franco, Dodge, and I went into the barracks building and walked down a short hallway to Hewrami’s office, guarded by a stern-looking Iraqi soldier. Franco led us through without acknowledging the man. A small television was mounted high on the wall, playing an American movie from the eighties that I’d never seen. The characters spoke in dubbed French, with Arabic subtitles running across the bottom of the screen. Major Franco flopped down in an overstuffed, leather armchair with a familiarity that made me think the seat was more or less reserved for him.

Hewrami had a window-mounted air conditioner with motorized vents drifting between the floor and the ceiling. The room must have been below seventy degrees. Dodge and I, installing ourselves on the couch, began to shiver in our damp flight suits. A framed tourist map hung behind Hewrami’s desk with the word
Kurdistan
splashed across it in festive letters. The room smelled like soap. The walls were bright white. Recently scrubbed.

A small, shirtless Iraqi soldier in tight-fitting shorts emerged from a side room with tea to warm us while we waited. Franco took a sip and gestured at the framed map. “Colonel Hewrami is Kurdish, you know. Years of experience with the Peshmerga. Fought against Saddam.”

“Oh.”

“In fact,” Franco said, chuckling, “he still gets two paychecks. One from the Kurdish government, and one from the Ministry of Defense in Baghdad. Pretty sweet gig.”

I raised my eyebrows and nodded, pretending to enjoy my tea, though in truth I had trouble pushing the hot liquid over my swollen tongue.

Just then, Colonel Hewrami entered the room, a young Iraqi man in jeans and a soccer jersey following him. Neither acknowledged the three of us already sitting down. The young guy in the soccer jersey sat in a chair near the door and started watching the movie. Hewrami moved around his desk, stood by the high-back chair, and emptied his pockets. Phone. Keys. Cigarettes and a lighter. A small pistol. He sat down, lit a cigarette, and rubbed his forehead, pointed at Dodge, said a few words, then shifted his finger to Major Franco.

“The colonel wishes to thank you for the assistance rendered by your men today,” Dodge mumbled behind his mask.

Franco’s face lit up. “Well, tell him that’s what we’re here for! There’s anything else he needs, just let me know. Also, Dodge, please ask about the men out in the dirt. Are they suspected of involvement with the bombing today?” Franco looked away nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair with hands behind his head as if the question was an afterthought. He was just curious.

Dodge translated for the major.

Hewrami made a dismissive gesture, spoke for a moment, and clicked his tongue.

“The colonel suspects that all of the men in town are terrorists,” Dodge said. “And that today’s bomb is simply more proof.”

Then Hewrami became animated. Before Franco could answer, the colonel sat up in his chair and ranted loudly, turning away from the television and speaking directly to Franco with sharp words. Twice, he slapped his desk. Franco furrowed his brow and nodded gravely, as though he understood.

Dodge translated, “He says that tomorrow his soldiers will go out and walk through the town, taking money from all the businesses and merchants. They will give all this money to the family of the grandfather and the two little girls who were so tragically killed this day.”

Franco took a deep breath. “Yeah, let me check with my boss before you go and do that? Maybe I can get some funds for the family from our civil
affairs
people, so you won’t need to bother about that.”

Dodge translated, and Hewrami scoffed. He leaned back in his chair and spoke calmly.

Dodge turned to Major Franco. “The colonel says the money is good but it is better for the people in town to know the terrorists cannot give them anything the new Iraqi Army cannot take away.” Then, as if editorializing, Dodge added, “He wishes for them to be afraid.”

Franco stared down at the floor a moment, as if searching for some rhetorical avenue forward. Then he sat up with a start and turned to me, the brightness in his face renewed. “Colonel Hewrami, I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed. “I’ve forgotten to introduce you to this young American officer, Lieutenant Donovan, who was just missed by that bomb. He’s here to resupply us.”

Hewrami looked at me while Dodge translated, said nothing, then looked back at the television.

But Franco wasn’t finished. “Lieutenant Donovan told me earlier today this has been the most interesting day of his deployment so far.” Franco reached out to put a hand on my shoulder but, unable to quite reach, turned his hand over to point my way instead. “He told me how honored he feels to be in the field with the new Iraqi Army.”

Just then the young Iraqi in the soccer jersey, who’d been so quiet and still that I’d forgotten about him, let out a great laugh. “Is that right?” he said with an accent even more proper and British than Dodge’s. “Well, bully for
you
, old boy.”

Dodge’s chest heaved and pushed out a breath, half cough, half growl. His hands shook.

Major Franco didn’t seem to notice. “Go ahead, Dodge,” he said excitedly. “Translate. Tell him.”

I imagined the things Dodge might say in Arabic, knowing Major Franco and I wouldn’t understand him, and made a snap decision before Dodge could speak.

“Sir,” I said to Franco, “I need to get back to my trucks and supervise that off-load.”

“Of course. Of course.” Franco slapped his knees. “Colonel Hewrami, I’ll go talk to my people and get back to you on where we stand with that situation out there. And I’ll see you at dinner, I hope.” Franco stood, cleared his throat, and smiled. Dodge and I stood, and Hewrami gave a brusque wave as we left his office.

We shuffled down the short hallway, schoolboys fresh from discipline at the hands of the principal, then stepped outside into the bright sun. I heard Iraqi voices and, when my eyes adjusted, found a throng of Iraqi soldiers crowding around us. They patted me on the back and posed next to me while their friends took pictures with disposable film cameras.

“I know that might have been a little disappointing, Lieutenant,” Major Franco said as we pushed through, the last word hanging in the air as if he’d wanted to say something more.

We walked through the field, past bound and staged prisoners, toward the advisory team’s headquarters on the other side. Iraqi soldiers busied themselves by picking up prisoners two at a time and leading them to their barracks. The sun was right on the top of us, tickling my scalp.

I scanned the rows of prisoners searching for the alfalfa man, but couldn’t find him. He was gone. Just then, two white trucks come through the gate, empty, and I thought, maybe. Maybe they took him back. I imagined it, the alfalfa man being driven to his donkey cart in the backseat of a white truck, ranting like a wild man, with the good-natured Iraqi soldiers gently amused by him.

I broke into a jog and left Major Franco and Dodge behind me, starting to notice the dozens of empty water bottles littering the field.

I imagined Iraqi soldiers treating the alfalfa man’s wounds.

I imagined the old man telling the soldiers, with gratitude, about a mysterious figure in a window overlooking the traffic circle, and how this mysterious figure had been playing with a cell phone in the moments before the blast.

I imagined Iraqi soldiers swarming the building, finding a cache of weapons and cell phones, cuffing the mysterious man and bringing him out to a cheering crowd.

I reached the open passenger door of my Humvee and unlocked my rifle. Putting on my vest and hood, I called out to the Marines still milling around. “Gear on!”

I smoothed my vest, waved for Dodge to hurry, and looked around for an empty patch of shrub and dirt where we wouldn’t run the risk of crushing someone during the off-load. Gomez had the convoy ready to go, save for two young Marines still working to remove straps from the air conditioners and the pallets of chow and water on the cargo truck.

Across the field, Hewrami emerged from the barracks and began talking to another Iraqi officer. The officer slapped his palm with the back of this other hand and gestured at our vehicles, pointing furiously at the empty water bottles all around his prisoners.

Zahn stood at his door, resting his hand on the steering wheel. I sat down in the passenger seat and keyed my radio. “Gomez this is Actual. Do you see that open patch of dirt, between us and the prisoners?”