Roy Scranton - War Porn

“Yes. This far.”

“Yeah… Well, I should go hit the gym. It was nice to talk with you, Qasim.”

“Okay, yes. Very nice to talk with you, Specialist Wilson. You see, we can all speak together, Iraqi and American. Friends, yes? But soon I must go from Baghdad and return to Baqubah. My wife is sick. I think you will not see me for many weeks. But someday we meet again, insha’Allah.”

He gently shook my hand, then touched his heart.

“Stay safe, Qasim. Salaam a-leykum.”

“Leykum a-salaam, Specialist Wilson.”

arabs, much more so than westerners,

express emotion

in a forceful, animated and exaggerated fashion

We woke up Porkchop and Geraldo. “Get up, fuckers. You’re relieved.”

“Where’s Sergeant Gooley?” Porkchop asked, blinking.

“Sergeant Reynolds is SOG.”

Reading took off his Kevlar and set it on the Jersey barrier. His buzz-cut hair glowed a sickly brass in the fluorescent light, a field of bruised pennies.

“Where Sergeant Reynolds at?” Geraldo asked.

“He’s right behind us,” I said.

“Aight. We out.” Geraldo took his rifle and stepped off down the road. Porkchop followed and they met Staff Sergeant Reynolds at the clearing barrel, where he watched them clear their weapons.

When there was a pause in the radio traffic, I picked up the walkie-talkie: “Red Steel Main, this is Red Steel India. Radio check, over.”

“RED STEEL INDIA, THIS IS RED STEEL MAIN, ROGER OUT.”

Staff Sergeant Reynolds came up, glowering at us with his bug-eyes. “Reading, I want you to have your Kevlar on at all times,” he said.

Reading turned his face away as if he hadn’t heard.

“Now listen up, men, you need to make sure you police this AO. There’s cigarette butts in the dirt back there. This is a high-visibility area and the sergeant major’s gonna come through. And get inside the guard shack, too.”

“Hooah, Sergeant,” I said.

“Now what do you do when you open the gate?”

“One of us goes up and the other one covers him.”

“Right. Now, if you’re gonna open the gate, I want both of you up there, one to handle the door and one to watch outside. Somebody could shoot an RPG right through there. That’s what I’d do, if I was them. I’d come by in one of those pickups and send somebody to knock on the door, and when you opened the gate, I’d shoot an RPG right through. Bam! Then what? Huh? You gotta think tactically. Now, what do you do if somebody comes over the wall?”

“Shoot ’em!” Reading barked.

“Right! Then call it up.”

“Nobody’s coming over the wall, Sergeant. It’s like fifty feet high.”

“That’s what you think. That kind of complacency is what gets soldiers killed.”

“Roger, Sergeant.”

“And when the ICDC come through, I want you to check each one. Don’t let the other hadjis do it. They could have bombs hidden anywhere.”

“No way,” Reading said. “Hadjis fucking stink.”

“Roger, Sergeant,” I said. “We’ll take care of it.”

“You know these ICDC,” he said. “They’ve taken an oath, but they could still be Fedayeen or al-Qaeda or who knows what. Just because they’re on our side doesn’t mean you can trust ’em. One ICDC with a hand grenade would jack up your whole day. What would happen if they got into the chow hall? Check, and double check.”

“Shit, I wish they’d blow up the chow hall,” Reading said.

“Roger, Sergeant Reynolds. We’ll search each one ourselves.”

“Okay. You guys already set for breakfast and everything?”

“Roger, Sergeant.”

“Make sure you do your radio checks.”

“Just did, Sergeant.”

“Okay. I’ll be back in a couple hours, and I expect this AO to be straight.”

“Roger, Sergeant.”

“And Reading, keep your Kevlar on. Carry on, men.”

We watched Staff Sergeant Reynolds walk away.

Reading giggled. “In the case of an all-out assault, I’m gonna shit myself and throw it at ’em. Take that, hadji! Shit bomb!”

It began with a knock at the gate, prom-prom-prom. The sliding rusted metal door, thirty feet wide and twenty feet tall, trembled from the pounding.

“F’tal bob,” I said.

Reading snickered.

The two ICDC stared at him.

“F’tal bob, motherfucker!” I shouted, pointing at the gate, pointing at the younger of the two hadjis.

The light was a clear yellow-gray, the sun a white smear still low in the sky.

The younger hadji got up and picked up his AK and started walking out toward the gate.

“See who it is,” I said.

“You,” Reading said back, not looking up from his Game Boy. “I’m in the middle of a level.”

“Fuck your level. Go see who it is.”

“Why you such a bitch, Wilson?”

“Because I hate freedom, motherfucker. Go see who it is.”

“Whatever,” Reading said, pausing his game and setting it on his chair. “Don’t touch my game.”

“I’m gonna kill your fucking Metroid, is what I’m gonna do.”

Reading flipped me off and walked around the barrier, putting his Kevlar on as he went.

“Hey, John Wayne. Forget something?”

Reading turned back at me, scowled, and shook his head. He came back for his rifle, picked it up, and went back toward the gate. The ICDC had unlatched the gate and was throwing his weight against it, sliding it open with a rumble and a creak. Reading held his weapon at the ready.

A hadji in civilian clothes stood outside the gate with a gym bag. Thin and scraggly, with messy black hair and a large mustache, he wore a checkered work shirt, track pants, and sandals.

“ID,” Reading said.

He pulled out his Iraqi Civil Defense Corps badge and showed it. Reading checked the badge against the man’s face and nodded, directing him inside.

“Come here,” I shouted, waving him forward. I stood, picked up my rifle, and slung it at the ready. I nodded to the older ICDC sitting smoking against the shack wall. “Check his bag,” I said.

He lurched up and went around the Jersey barrier and when the hadji came up he took his bag and poked through it.

“Pat him down,” I told the older ICDC. I pointed at the one in civilian clothes and spread my arms and legs. “Search, search,” I said.

The one in civilian clothes mimicked me and the older one patted him down.

“Turn around,” I said to him, swirling my finger.

He stared at me.

“Turn around,” I shouted, swirling my finger again.

He turned to face the gate. The older ICDC patted him down.

I swatted at the Iraqi’s ass and said, “Check here, yeah.” I cupped my groin. “Check his package.”

He shook his head and grimaced, but I repeated my order, so he stuck his hand between the other man’s legs and batted it around.

“Mota dudeki,” I said. The hadji in civilian clothes laughed.

The guard stepped back, scowling, and tapped the man on the shoulder, who turned back around grinning.

“Go on,” I said, pointing down the road at the ICDC barracks. Meanwhile, more hadjis had showed up for their shift, and Reading checked their IDs and lined them up. I gestured the next one forward. First one by one, then in twos and threes, then one big gaggle, and at last the last stragglers.

The sun was up now, the morning chill burnt off.

Soon two new ICDC in ill-fitting fatigues and old boots came to relieve the two at the gate. The old shift handed over their AKs and secondhand flak vests and the new shift took up positions in the cheap white plastic chairs.

“Well, that was exciting,” Reading said, returning to Metroid.

I took off my Kevlar and dug through my backpack. I pulled out a Maxim and an FHM and a Harper’s, and the ICDC leaned toward me staring. I gave them the Maxim and kept the other two for myself.