The MRAP is a clunky machine with a hole punched through the roof and a gunner’s mount bolted on, allowing a junior Marine to poke his head out and swivel around behind a big ass gun. Usually a 50 cal, which is a pretty cool weapon. It’s close to a hundred pounds and the barrel is almost four feet long. Teenagers with that kind of firepower make a lot of dick jokes.
I used to think MRAPs looked badass too, but then I rode in one. Now I’m pretty sure the months of getting thrown around in the back of this thing are going to end up as bullet points on my final physical. Another thing my recruiter forgot to mention.
Screw it. More disability money for me.
Lance Corporal George is manning the gun and smoking cigarettes with a horseshoe of wintergreen Skoal in his bottom lip. He’s also downing energy drinks and picking through an MRE that some other Marine has thoroughly rat-fucked, leaving only the crackers and a tiny packet of instant coffee. He crouches down so he can see me and nods at me before speaking.
“POG.”
I snort and grin at him. “Bitch.”
We’re both right. George is a little bitch, and I’m not a grunt. I’m a “Persons Other than Grunts,” a radio operator. The only one in the platoon. It’s weird being the only POG around a bunch of grunts. I’m not even a permanent member of the unit, I’m just attached while they need me. And honestly, these guys don’t really need me. Luckily they haven’t figured that out yet. Or maybe they have and they let me hang around anyway.
George chuckles and shakes his head at me.
“Errrr.”
I shake my head back at him. “Errrr.”
You can tell a lot about a Marine’s motivation level by his “errrr” usage. “Errrr” is a variation of the Marine Corps chant or yell or whatever it’s called, “Oohrah.” I don’t know shit about where that saying came from. Most of us don’t. But that doesn’t stop us from screwing with it in the hopes of pissing off an officer.
If you hear a Marine say “Oohrah” then he’s probably a boot fresh out of bootcamp. Or he’s been out for decades and hangs out at the local VFW, trying to recreate the glory days. “Errrr” is harder to explain.
You hear it a lot from Marines deployed to combat zones. “Errrr” is the sound of acceptance and defeat. It’s the sigh of the well-meaning Marine with death on his mind and the flight back home getting closer, the Marine who earned a Combat Action Ribbon not because of some epic fire fight, but because a vehicle in his convoy hit an IED and, except for a few perforated eardrums, all was just fine.
So when George and I say “errrr” to each other, soaked in sweat and chain-smoking with full cans of dip protruding from our bottom lips, we both know exactly where the other’s motivation level lies. George sighs and slaps his hands on his thighs.
“Alright. Stay motivated, POG.”
He flashes me a cock-salute, his right hand saluting just above his cock instead of his forehead. I return the sault. He grins and stands up, the upper part of his torso disappearing through the hole in the MRAP.
George is a goofy dude. He’s rail skinny and wearing the usual getup for Marines in Iraq, dessert cammies with thick salt lines and fresh sweat poking out around his flak jacket. There’s pouches and pockets galore on his uniform, and every one of them is filled with random bullshit like sunflower seeds, notebooks, a camera, an eight-point cover, and probably a picture of a naked woman torn out of a Hustler.
I’m dressed the same, lounging with my feet up and the radio receiver tucked into my Kevlar so I can hear if the Lieutenant calls out. I for sure have a picture of a naked woman, from some British nudie mag I stole—excuse me, “tactically acquired”—a couple months back.
George reaches his hand down through the porthole.
“Hand me an empty bottle, POG.”
I lean forward and dig through the trash in the back of the MRAP and find an empty water bottle. I reach out and put it in his hand and lean back in my seat.
“There you go, fuckface.”
“Errrr.”
The Police Station in Rahaliyah is as good a place as any to hangout and pretend there’s a war going on. I’ve been here for months now and it seems like no one’s getting any action. This isn’t what I thought Iraq would be like. Some shit hits the fan every now and then though. We heard about some Army guy getting his legs blown off somewhere near Ramadi. But who knows if that’s true. I could see it going down though.
Not even a week before, we got sent out to check for IEDs in some patch of desert somewhere. I don’t have enough rank to know the specifics, but I’m guessing the dude that planted the damn thing called our CO to tell him there was a bomb in the area. And then our CO sent us to see about it without a Combat Engineer or a metal detector.
Sometimes I wish I’d actually step on one of those fuckers just so some officer would have a bad day. But I know better than to assume an officer would be held accountable for my bloody stumps. That and, with my luck, I’d probably bleed out. And they don’t send you a disability check if you’re dead. So, I watch my step.
We scanned the area and found it. Or, said another way, Doc stumbled on it when he happened to look down between his legs and see some wires poking up. It didn’t go off. He lived.
George finishes his cigarette and lights another one. I do the same. The day is as miserably hot as it was the day before, and the day before that. The inside of the MRAP is one of the few places we have to escape the heat. Sure, it’s an oven in there. But it’s not in direct sunlight, so it’s the closest thing to AC we get. But the MRAP can’t save us from everything.
Not even two drags into my newly lit cigarette and Sergeant Bryan, a 6’6” chaos machine with arms as thick as my thighs, jerks the backdoors open. I’m not supposed to be smoking in the MRAP. Sergeant Bryan knows this, and now he’s got a decision to make—be cool about it, because it’s Iraq and every day sucks, or fuck me up somehow. He decides to fuck me up.
“Private First Class Eidson, smokin’ in my goddamn MRAP. Good, bitch. Get your fuckin’ gear on and grab the SAW and get your fuckin’ ass out here right goddamn now.”
“Aye Sergeant!”
I put out my cig on my boot and take my M16 off my lap and grab the SAW. The M249 Squad Automatic Weapon is a “Light” Machine Gun that weighs something like, I don’t know, too fucking much. I toss the sling behind my neck and lumber toward the back of the MRAP. I can hear George laughing from the gunner’s mount.
“Have fun, POG.”
“Fuck you, bitch.”
The backdoors to the MRAP are wide open, so I step just outside the door and jump the three- or four-foot gap to the ground. My knees creak under the weight of my body, the SAW, my flak jacket, and my Kevlar. It’s easy to ignore the strain in my knees because I refuse to imagine the damage I’m causing to my body. I’m sure I’ll regret it someday.
But again, fuck it. More disability money for me.
Sergeant Bryan points to the far side of the building. “Okay bitch, go ‘round back of this shithole and pull security.”
“For how long?”
“As long as I fucking say, POG bitch.”
“Aye Sergeant.”
I’m really rolling the dice on my well-being today. Sergeant Bryan shows me mercy and ignores my passive-aggressiveness, turning around and fucking off to wherever demons go in their free time. I start the short journey around the building to “pull security,” which likely means standing in the sun and trying to avoid becoming a heat casualty. As I walk away from the MRAP, George calls out to me.
“Hey POG.”
I turn around. He raises his sunglasses and blows a couple kisses at me. I pretend to catch them in my left hand, put them in my pocket for later, and flip him off. He grins and takes another drag off his cig. He’s probably my favorite Marine in the platoon. But I’ll be damned if I ever tell him that.
The Police Station looks like a Soviet-era apartment complex. Some Iraqi Policemen wearing light blue button-ups with black boots, black pants, and black berets stand around and do their best to look official. It’s hard to take them seriously. They rarely know what they’re doing and most of them disappear for three or four days when they get paid, leaving the station largely unmanned.
That, and it’s no secret that some of them are Taliban just biding their time and waiting for the opportunity to take out a couple Marines fucking around and not paying attention. We call this a “blue on green” incident, which is a lovely little euphemism. Many days I secretly wish for my own blue on green incident.
Just aim for the head, boys. I don’t want to suffer.
I make my way to the back of the station to stand around. The area I’m protecting looks like a typical backyard in America, minus the grass and kiddie pool. The compound itself is maybe five or ten yards bigger than the Police Station and cordoned off with Hesco barriers—giant boxes filled with dirt, made of fabric liner and aluminum mesh—with concertina wire stacked on top. The makeshift barriers are ten feet tall and three or four feet thick and wrap most the way around the perimeter. And for some reason, there’s a massive water tower inside the barriers and right next to the Police Station.
A couple dudes from the platoon are up on top with some sniper gear that I know next to nothing about because I barely know my own job, let alone cool shit like the specifics for most weapons I see on a daily basis. I find a decent spot behind the station and post up, the SAW hanging off my body and my morale at an all-time low, as I prepare to defend the base against nothing.
Hours later and I’m drenched in sweat and out of water and I’m as miserable as I’ve ever been. In moments like this, frustrated Marines have a tendency to imagine how they might kill the person responsible for their misery. I imagine how I might kill Sergeant Bryan.
I could have a “negligent discharge” that finds its way to the center of his face. I’m a POG, so it probably wouldn’t surprise anybody. Plus a little “green on green” incident might shake things up a bit, make it exciting around here. But I’d probably end up in the brig. I should be more tactical about it.
I wonder if there’s a way to trick Sergeant Bryan into stepping on an IED. That would take care of him. Actually, no. He could live through that. And for some reason, a legless Sergeant Bryan crawling across the ground and screaming “POG BITCH COME HERE RIGHT GODDAMN NOW” is more terrifying than the 6’6” muscle-bound asshole with tiny calves currently haunting this compound. Whatever. I give up. He can live.
I wipe the sweat out of my eyes and scan the area. The patch of desert I’ve been tasked with protecting is filled with loose trash and mounds of sand and half-empty water bottles. It also smells like actual shit, as if someone relieved themselves in the corner. The Hescos cast a small shadow on the far side of the compound and I briefly consider tucking myself into the corner and taking a nap. I’m sure Sergeant Bryan would love that.
A tiny head with thick black hair pops up on the other side of the Hesco barrier directly in front of me. I’m so dehydrated that it doesn’t even occur to me that this might be something I get to shoot. Instead, I just stare at the black-haired orb and wonder if it has any water. Moments later, what’s attached to the head pops up and I see that it’s a little boy. He’s cute and has light brown skin the sun hasn’t hardened into concrete yet and a wide smile. He flashes his teeth at me and, despite my irritation, I smile back.
My response prompts the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen. He pulls himself up onto the Hesco and stands up, being careful to avoid the c-wire in front of him. He’s tiny, maybe five or six years old, and wearing dark brown pants with a white t-shirt. He grins and waves at me. I smile and wave back. He laughs and cups his hands in front of his mouth to hide his excitement. He turns around and speaks to someone below him. My hands tighten around the SAW and my trigger finger goes stiff next to the trigger.
The little boy crouches down and lends a hand to someone and starts pulling. Moments later, there’s another kid, and ten minutes after that, there’s a gaggle of them on top of the Hesco barrier. Nine of ten of them, and they all want something from me.
“Mister mister, chocolah?”
“Mister mister, water?”
“Mister mister, biscuit?”
Kids asking for biscuits used to confuse me. The first time a kid asked me for a biscuit, my dumbass thought he meant the flakey, buttery biscuits I’d have for breakfast back home. Then I realized the Brits, who are also running around Iraq and doing military things, call cookies biscuits and they probably came through Rahaliyah at some point and infected these poor kids with their British bullshit.
As if we haven’t done enough damage to this country, already.
I stop answering the kids, but that only goads them on. They start jumping up and down and yelling their requests at me and smiling and laughing and playing and just being overall happy. Most of them are young boys, with a few little girls and an older boy or two mixed in there. The young boys and girls are mostly wearing normal pants and shirts. The older boys are wearing man dresses in various shades of brown.
I used to wonder why I didn’t see more white man dresses out here. Most photos you see of Arabic dudes online show them in long white dresses. I think we don’t see them often because they’re for formal occasions, but who the hell knows. Either way, I mostly see light brown, dark brown, and black man dresses.
And sure, whoever started calling them man dresses—probably a pissed-off Marine or Army dude—did it to be a dick. But the Arabic word for the man dresses is “thawb” and that literally translates to “dress” so, at least in this case, our teasing isn’t entirely insensitive to the local population. Just the ones who understand sarcasm.
Some of the younger kids have given up on getting chocolate or water or biscuits from me and are playing games with each other. Two little boys hold hands and bounce up and down, laughing at one another and trying to be the one who jumps the highest. The little girls are spread out and stand slightly apart from the group, watching and grinning and holding their little hands up to their mouths to contain the excitement trying to spill out. The little girls tend to wear brighter colors, pinks and reds and light blues.
The older boys haven’t given up on trying to score some food and trinkets from me. While their younger and more distractable companions play and bounce and try to keep their balance, they go in on me with the requests harder than before.
“Mister mister, you give me water?”
“You give me sunglass?”
I snort at his question. “My sunglasses?”
The sound of my voice snaps the younger boys and girls attention back my way. Now they’re all looking at me and yelling “mister mister sunglass!” This is a new one. It’s pretty funny, actually. The older boy, the one who first requested my sunglasses, is really going in on me now. He’s gotten a response and he sees his chance.
“Yes mister, sunglass, you give me sunglass?”
I laugh and stand my ground. “Fuckin’ no my man.”
The kid looks disappointed. He’s another little handsome dude, black hair with light brown skin and dark brown eyes. He’s super lanky and wearing a brown man dress and his face gives away every emotion. He’d suck at poker. He still has a look of disappointment on his face. He and his minions can’t understand much English, but they definitely know the word “no” and they absolutely understand a head shaking back and forth.
The older boy doubles down. The smile melts off his face and his eyes narrow and the tone of his voice shifts from high-pitched and urgent to low and kind of sarcastic. It’s like all the personality drained from his body and all that’s left is blank space where his face used to be.
“Mister mister, you give me M16?”
What the fuck? Did this nerd just ask for my M16? I laugh out loud to the group. They brighten up and laugh back at me, like they’re in on the joke. The kid must have learned the word “M16” somewhere along the way and now associates it with “gun” broadly. That’s my guess anyway, because I’m holding the SAW and my M16 is back in the MRAP. But I don’t expect this kid to know the differences between American weapons.
Now they’re all chanting for my “M16.” Little boys and girls and older boys bouncing around and laughing and yelling and reaching out toward me. It’s pretty funny and a little bit cute, in a fucked-up way. I laugh.
“No, you can’t have my M16.”
They don’t get every word, but they’ve heard “no” so they get the gist of it. The little kids are still excited and yelling, but the older boy is wearing a different face. It’s definitely not happiness, or hopefulness. It’s not even disappointment.
His face is scrunched and his brilliant brown eyes are now tiny slits on his face. He folds his arms across his chest and glares at me, a solitary pissed-off statue atop a Hesco barrier of happy little children. This little dude is mad at me, I think. I grin back at him, tempting him. He keeps glaring, holding his ground.
Something about this boy’s attitude lights a little fire in my brain. I’m fine with kids begging and pestering and being happy when I’m pissed off. That’s just teasing. It’s the same shit my buddies and I do to each other when we’re mad and it’s all in good fun. But this kid’s not screwing around or messing with me anymore. He’s serious, like I owe him something. I don’t owe this kid shit, and it’s pissing me off that he seems to think I do.
I take my left hand off the bottom of the SAW and bring it to the top. I unclasp the feed tray cover and hold it up a few inches. The cover is a thick piece of metal that protects the rounds as they get pulled through the feed tray. When released from a few inches above the clasp, it makes a distinct clicking noise. Even if you don’t know the sound, you know what it means. It’s like the click of a safety, or the pump of a shotgun, or the snap of a round pushed from the magazine into the barrel. It’s more than a sound. It’s a promise.
I release the feed tray cover. It drops the few inches down and clicks into place. The kids freeze. It’s quiet now. The young ones have been stopped dead in their tracks. It’s only me and this older boy now. And he hasn’t moved a muscle.
This little shit’s calling my bluff. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. He continues glaring at me with that same blank space from before. Fuck, maybe this little guy would be good at poker I think. I’m not even mad. I’m kind of impressed, actually.
The corner of my mouth curls slightly, giving away my admiration. The older boy does the same, the tiny remnants of a grin creeping along his lips. He knows I’m bluffing. Of course I’m not going to shoot a bunch of kids. He knows the threat is all in good fun. He’d make a good Marine someday. Either way, the ball’s in his court.
I rest my hand on top of the SAW and raise my eyebrows. My expression says it all.
What’s your move, little dude?
He pushes his lips together and raises his eyebrows back at me.
“Check this shit out, Infidel,” his expression says back. Then shit gets weird.
The older boy, his eyes still fixed on mine, reaches down to the bottom of his thawb with both hands and grabs the bottom. The fuck is he doing, I wonder. Slightly bent over, his hands still wrapped around the bottom of his thawb, the older boy pulls up, revealing his feet, his ankles, his knees, his thighs. Fuck, I think. Please don’t keep going. He does.
Moments later, the older boy has the bottom of his man dress tucked under his chin and his naked body exposed. The little kids around him are leaning forward and over the c-wire to get a better look. The older boy, still glaring and grinning at me, flattens both of his hands as if he’s about to start clapping. He brings them both down to his dick, places a hand on either side, and starts rolling it back and forth like it’s a fresh noodle. The kids erupt in laughter.
When I first got to Iraq, I had a warm spot in my heart for kids like this. I used to cut open my MREs and pass out my favorite snacks, like the chocolate peanut butter packets or the the lemon poppyseed poundcake, and take pictures with them. They were just kids. It’s not like they had done anything wrong.
But as the deployment dragged on, I grew less and less patient. Six-hour watches and bullshit training exercises and the constant heat and officers in search of Bronze Stars demanding work details that kept me burnt to a crisp in the sun, all stretching my patience to the breaking point. Home felt so far away, and the sporadic IEDs and military deaths promised me I’d probably die two days before the freedom bird took off.
Now look at me. Pissed off with a bunch of kids having a great time at my expense. I’m a joke to them. A toy that invaded their country just for the opportunity to get fucked with by some juveniles on the hottest day of the year and the worst day of my life. It’s starting to piss me off.
There’s a surge of something inside my body that works its way through my veins like a morphine drip. My mind checks out. I go numb. There’s no heat or dehydration or hunger or feeling in my fingertips. There’s only a hatred that’s been crammed down my throat by every Marine with more rank than me—which is damn-near all of them—for the last year, during workup exercises in preparation for this stupid fucking war.
The hate quickly fills my stomach and my throat and my mouth. There’s no room for more, but that doesn’t stop them. They shove more in anyway. It pushes through to my intestines and forces my body to absorb it, infecting my blood stream and coursing through my body like oxygen hitching a ride on a blood cell. It hits my muscles and converts to violence like lactic acid, burning every fiber in my arms and working its way through the rest of my limbs.
I’m overtaken by the urge to get back at somebody, anybody, for all the yelling and the training and the abuse and the insecurities and the hopelessness and the fact that my biological father is a drug addict and that my girlfriend broke up with me via email and that all my friends are in college and I’m a stupid POG bitch in Iraq being harassed by children when I should be getting laid back home in Missouri.
Whatever love I used to have has dwindled down to almost nothing. I’m at the point now where the only satisfaction I feel is the few moments I have alone in the guard tower where I can jerk off into a sock and imagine I’m back home, debating whether I should go to Hooters or Cook Out that night. Fuck this country, fuck this war, and fuck these kids.
I raise the gun.
I point it at the kid.
He freezes and stares at me, then the muzzle, then my finger.
“Keep your finger straight and off the trigger until you’re ready to fire” rings from somewhere in my lizard brain. My stiff index finger loosens up and folds onto the trigger, wrapping around it. I feel my heartbeat in my fingertip.
The kids try and make themselves a smaller target and the older boy stares at me, then the muzzle, then my finger again.
I’m not bluffing this time.
I know it.
He knows it.
I can see the shift from defiant to scared in the boy. His shoulders drop and his pupils get wider and his hands come up to his chest and try to block his heart and lungs. His face goes white and he holds his breath. I’ve got him right where I want him.
All at once, the kids scream and turn and bolt into the desert. Even the older boy. One by one, they push and shove each other, falling ten feet to the ground behind them, sprinting toward their homes without any chocolate or water or biscuits.
The older boy is the last one I see. All the other kids bolted towards houses and shit-filled city streets, but the older boy darted right toward the open desert. He runs as fast as he can in a straight line toward nothing in particular. An open target. I let my finger off the trigger.
After I’m relieved from watch, I walk back around the Police Station towards the MRAP. George is still up in the gunner’s mount, smoking and dipping and downing energy drinks.
“Welcome back, POG bitch.”
I stop at the front of the MRAP and look up at him. I don’t say anything. He studies my face and slowly his grin melts away. He gives a slight nod and goes about his business.
I walk around the back of the MRAP and jerk open the door. I launch the SAW inside and rip off my flak jacket and Kevlar and shove them inside too. Sergeant Bryan materializes behind me.
“PFC Eidson, what the fuck is your problem, POG?”
I turn and look at him but don’t say a word.
We face off for what feels like minutes but is probably only a few seconds.
I’m not glaring at him.
I’m not even angry.
I imagine there’s simply a blank space where my face used to be, emotionless and indifferent and staring through the eyes of a man that I sometimes love but mostly despise.
A Marine deployed to Iraq in 2009 is a Marine with no way to relieve the pressure that’s been building up inside of him. There are men to kill, but they’ve retreated for now and are biding their time. Sergeant Bryan knows this. He also knows that I would not dare cross him or lay a finger on him. He sacrifices himself to keep me sane, torturing me and screaming at me and giving me a place to direct a murderous rage I can’t blow off through my trigger finger.
He’s an asshole, a motherfucker, a piece of shit. He’s also a Saint.
And he understands the blank space staring through him.
The tension in his body loosens and the skin around his eyes softens slightly.
He breathes in slowly and sighs even slower.
“Carry on.” He walks away.
I climb into the MRAP and lounge back onto the bench and rest the radio receiver next to my ear and stare at the tip of my boots. I pull out my cigarettes and light one up and take a long drag. I feel the nicotine work its way through my body, unraveling the knots in my neck and shoulders.
What the fuck was that, I think. Is this what you joined the Corps to do? To point a gun at a bunch of little kids? Are you proud of yourself? I take another drag off my cigarette and silently wish Sergeant Bryan would’ve punched me in the face.
Suddenly George pipes up from the gunner’s mount. “Oh looky what we got here.”
I lean forward and cock my head to the left, looking out the front window. There’s a different group of kids just outside the c-wire-covered entrance to the base, no Hesco barriers to climb up on or block their view. They’re running and begging and playing and being happy.
A tiny girl in a pink button-up and a pink bowtie in her hair is in front of the group, pressed dangerously close to the c-wire. She’s timid and quiet and hopeful. I grab an MRE and tear it open and dig through the contents. I find the lemon poppyseed poundcake and toss the radio receiver aside. George crouches down to look but doesn’t say anything to me.
I jump the three to four feet out of the back of the MRAP and make my way to the c-wire entrance with the poundcake. The kids are jumping and playing and screaming at me excitedly, seeing the item in my hand. The little girl makes eye contact with me. Her eyes widen like a baby deer and she shrinks as I get closer, as if she wants to run but is too curious to move. I get to the c-wire and crouch down in front of her.
We’re one or two feet apart, looking at each other.
Her hands are balled up and covering her mouth.
She’s terrified, but she holds her ground.
She’s brave.
I give her a slight grin and stick my arm through the gap in the c-wire, handing the poundcake to her. She freezes and stares at me, then the cake, then my hand. She looks back up at me. A tiny grin creeps across her face.
She reaches out her little hands and takes the poundcake from me.
She holds it tight against her chest and her grin cracks open into a smile.
She whispers to me. “Shukran.” Her tiny eyes twinkle.
I offer a sad smile. “Afwan.”
She blinks and turns and sprints home.
There’s a lot I don’t understand about the people and culture over here, and there’s a lot that pisses me off. The Corps sold me on some bullshit and I bought it because I couldn’t afford college and thought I should do something with my life. Now I’m just a POG bitch surrounded by grunts that don’t need me and counting down the days until I can go home. I’m pissed off, scared shitless of stepping on an IED and dying, and wishing I’d have pulled myself together in high school and gotten a scholarship or something.
But hey, at least I have a shitty disability check to look forward to.
Threatening a bunch of kids, I think to myself. Get it together, dude. It’s not their fault that you’re pissed off. Do your job, shut your mouth, and make it home in one piece.
Everything else is politics.
I turn around and walk back to the MRAP. George watches from the gunner’s mount.
“Hearts and minds.”
I stop and look up at him. “Hearts and minds.”
He chuckles and take a drag of his cigarette. “Oh, and fuck you POG.”
