Stephen Coonts - Combat

“Nothing’s simple until the shooting starts,” the sergeant said. “Then things have a way of coming clear. Shit, I wish I had a beer.” He settled his can on the cardboard coaster.

“Buy you one when we get back. Listen, I know it isn’t simple. But you saw the grave. And it’s not just one. And there don’t seem to be very many of them on the other side of the border.”

Crawley made a so-what face. “Most of the fighting was on this side of the border.”

“Most of the victims were ethnic—”

“Come on, sir. That’s only because these guys didn’t have the firepower. If these jokers had had the big muscle on their side, the atrocity ratio would have been reversed. I say to hell with all of them. We don’t have a dog in this fight.”

Green didn’t buy that. “When women and children are butchered, somebody has to be punished. We can’t just talk forever. For God’s sake, Bob. It has to be clear … that atrocities are unacceptable.”

The song “It’s the End of the World as We Know It,” came on the stereo.

“You really want our troops plopped down in the middle of this sewer,” Crawley asked, “trying to figure out who’s zooming who? These people have to settle their own business. What do you want, major?”

Helpless, Green looked down at the table and pruned his face. “Justice. For a start.”

The NCO began to laugh, then stopped himself. “Look, sir. It’s ugly. I’m not blind. And I’m not heartless. But I’m not stupid, either,” Crawley said. “We can’t fix this one, boss. Hell, we can’t even tell the players apart.”

Scarface dropped a pack of cigarettes on the bar and he and the proprietor lit up. Green sipped his Coke. The German stuff was sweeter than the Coke he was used to. He didn’t like it.

“We can’t just ignore genocide,” Green said. “I can’t.”

But the sergeant was in his stubborn mode. He was a good man, and honest to the nickel, Green knew, but his service and a string of failed marriages had hardened the NCO.

“Why not, major? We always ignored it before and did just fine.” His mouth hooked up on one side. “You see genocide, I see the local version of bingo night. Some of these jokers like things this way. I mean, those drive-by diplomats don’t understand that there really are evil fuckers in this world. Not everybody wants peace, boss. And people don’t execute women and children because they hate the work. Some guys like it.” Crawley had three years on Green, but he looked a decade older in the lamplight. “Or just look at it this way: we’ve got our means of conflict resolution, they’ve got theirs. We sue, they shoot. Every place I’ve been, people have their own way of settling scores. And, near as I can tell, this crap’s been going on forever in Mr. Frankie’s neighborhood. We just know about it now. Thank you, Mr. Turner.” The sergeant shook his head in naked sorrow. “I’ve been in seventeen years. And I’ve seen more damage done by ignorant men with good intentions … Christ, I ought to write a book.”

Back when the Soviet empire was coming apart, Green had been trained for special duties in the East. One of the bennies had been travel, and one of the trips had taken him to Eastern Europe, just as the locals were slipping their leash. In Poland, he had visited Auschwitz.

There were haunted places on the earth, and the gas chambers of Auschwitz were among them. The ghosts crowded you, and you felt a kind of cold that had nothing to do with thermometers. You felt the weight of death.

Auschwitz had been a benchmark for Green. He was not a particularly sentimental man, and his church attendance was erratic. But he wanted to believe in the goodness of mankind. And he believed that good men had to face down evil.

He believed that someone had to be at fault in the Balkans. Crawley was wrong about that. Genocide was not some kind of local folk tradition that had to be respected by outsiders. When the crime was a massacre of unarmed human beings, someone had to be punished.

Green longed to know who to punish. He knew that Crawley was right about some things, too. It was not simple. So Green went carefully. Waiting for clear evidence, for the muddle to sort itself out, and for more powerful men to decide what must be done.

The sergeant played with his empty soda can. They had eaten spiced sausages, green beans, and peppered rice, with crusty bread and goat cheese on the side. There had even been pudding for dessert. Frankie had pulled out all the stops, to the extent that the war had left him stops to pull. And, to Green’s relief, their host had let them enjoy the meal in peace, with no more tales of sexual conquests and the splendors of Milwaukee.

“What the hell,” Crawley said abruptly. “Maybe you’re right. I hope you’re right. Because I see us getting into this, God help us, no matter what Sergeant First Class Robert G. Crawley thinks about it. I mean, the president hasn’t consulted me personally on this one. And that guy Vollstrom, Mr. Negotiator, he’s just set on making his mark on history. We’ll be in it, alright. And then I’m going to retire on the spot and set up a concession business selling little touches of home to the GIs. You know, Hustler, Tattoo World, action videos.” He grimaced. “Maybe get this Frankie-boy to go in with me, take care of the local connections and pay-offs and shit. Start us a real nice whorehouse with the local talent. Because once we’re in, we ain’t getting out in no hurry. We’ll be here till the cows come home. And I figure I might as well make a profit on stupidity of such magnitude.”

“You’ll never retire.”

“Just watch me, major.”

“I wish I knew what was right.”

Crawley looked at him. “Sometimes, sir, right is just staying alive and keeping your nose clean.” He snorted. “Other times, the judge tells you to pay alimony. But it’s never like in those books you read.”

Green smiled. “And how do you know? If you haven’t read the books?”

“Oh, I read them alright. It just wasn’t a lasting relationship. Guard the fort, I got to take another piss. Army life’s been hell on my kidneys.”

When Crawley went past the bar, Scarface held out a glass and gave him a broken-toothed smile.

“Good,” Scarface said. “Slivovitz. Very good.”

The NCO waved him off. “I gave at the office.”

Scarface grumped his mouth for a moment, then knocked back the shot himself. He said something to Frankie in a low voice. Frankie laughed. Then they both stared across the room at Green.

“Hey, major,” their host called. “He wants to know what kind of man turns down a free drink.”

Green returned the stares.

“There are no free drinks,” he said.

Frankie laughed again. Frankie liked to laugh. “I told him Americans get this religious bug up their asses. It makes them crazy.”

Yes, Green thought. Except we don’t butcher each other over it.

Scarface caught the word “crazy.” He tapped a finger against his temple, grinning. His teeth looked like he had been in a thousand fistfights and lost every one.

“Yeah,” Green agreed. “We’re crazy, alright.”

Scarface muttered again, but he did not lose his smile.

“He says you’re crazy for not bombing those people over there. With your Star Wars airplanes.”

“Tell him we don’t want to spoil his fun. He looks like he could handle them all himself.”

Scarface liked that. But he was disappointed that Green would not accept a shot of plum brandy in the interests of eternal friendship with America.

“He says, how you going to fight if you don’t drink?” Frankie translated.

Green was tired of the game. But he had no excuse for turning his back until Crawley returned. So he said, “Tell him I’m like you. Tell him I’m a lover, not a fighter.”