Roy Scranton - War Porn

It went like this: report for guard mount at 0750, then you’re on duty in the sun till 1400. Then you clear your weapon and walk back to the barracks and sleep until 0100. You get up in the dark, get ready, and make it to guard mount at 0150, pull duty until 0800. The sun’s come up. Then you go eat breakfast, jerk off, and sleep until 1300. Guard mount 1350, on duty till 2000, clear your weapon, walk back to the barracks in the dark, think of some other life you lived once, sleep, get up at 0700, back to guard mount at 0750, and the cycle repeats. Light, dark, dark, light, night day whatever.

Reading played Metroid in the doorway. I sprawled on the cot inside the shack, drifting in and out of consciousness. The two ICDC sat outside in the night, smoking and looking at body-spray ads in FHM.

“Shit, man,” Reading said.

I ignored him.

“Shit, I’m so bored, I’m bored of Metroid.”

I lay still, pleading with God to make him silent.

“I know you’re awake. When you think we’ll get off this shit?”

“Let me sleep, fucker.”

“All you fucking do is sleep.”

“That’s because I don’t drink all those fucking Red Bulls.”

“Shit keeps me alert. I’m a killing machine!”

“You’re a fucking talking machine.”

“Shit, man. Shit! When you think we’ll get off this?”

“Never.”

“We gotta get off sometime.”

“Nope. Never. The unit’s gonna redeploy to Germany and they’re gonna leave us here to guard the ICDC gate. We’re mission essential. We’re the tip of the goddamn spear.”

“I wanna go out on patrols like the other guys.”

“So tell Lieutenant Krauss you wanna go out on patrol.”

“He’s pissed at me because I shot up that house.”

“You shot the shit outta that house.”

“There was a dude with an AK up there, I swear.”

“Yeah, he was up there fucking your mom.”

“Shit. Whatever. He was up there.”

“That’s why you got taken off the SAW?”

“Yeah.”

“Dumbass.”

“What’d you do to piss him off?”

“I don’t fucking know, man. I read a book one time. I just fucking do what I’m told.”

“Well, you musta done something.”

“Maybe he wants me to watch your dumb ass, make sure you don’t shoot up the gate.”

“Whatever.”

The radio popped: “RED STEEL MAIN, THIS IS RED STEEL FIFTEEN. BE ADVISED WE GOT A VEHICLE STOPPED ACROSS THE ROAD.”

“ROGER THAT, RED STEEL FIFTEEN.”

“Hey, that’s our tower.”

“RED STEEL FIFTEEN, THIS IS RED STEEL SEVEN. MONITOR THE VEHICLE. IF IT STAYS LONGER THAN FIVE MINUTES, CALL US BACK.”

“ROGER, RED STEEL SEVEN. STAND BY.”

I sat up and grabbed my Kevlar. Reading paused his game. We looked at each other, reaching for our rifles.

“RED STEEL SEVEN, THIS IS RED STEEL FIFTEEN. THE VEHICLE HAS LEFT.”

“ROGER RED STEEL FIFTEEN, RED STEEL SEVEN OUT.”

I dropped my Kevlar and lay back down. Reading dug through his backpack and pulled out a Red Bull.

“Hadjis coming,” he said. “Ali and Ahmed.”

“Ali Dudeki?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

The two hadjis came in. Ali was tall for an Iraqi, with a stubborn, mischievous face. He made a game out of grabbing guys’ nuts, though ever since Porkchop hog-tied him with zip-strips and left him like that for an afternoon, he was less inclined. Ahmed was shorter, a hunchback, and some kind of NCO—he was always harassing the guards, berating them, checking their AKs. With us he played the clown, shouting the handful of obscenities he knew in English over and over. Ali seemed to be Ahmed’s sidekick; it was clear the hunchback ran things.

“Sadiki! Sabah an-noor!” Ali shouted.

“Ali Dudeki,” Reading croaked, not looking up from his game.

“Fuck shit, shut up!” Ahmed barked, slapping Ali on the back of his head. “Yeeeeeah,” he crooned, twisting his head back over his hump.

“Ahmed, sadiki,” I said, sitting up. “Shaku maku?”

“Very good, very good, yeeeeah! No problem!”

“Sadiki,” Ali said, lifting his eyebrows and pointing at my bag, “you bring ne ficky-ficky?”

“No, Ali. No ficky-ficky.”

“Tomorrow and tomorrow, Sadiki? Any o’clock? You bring ne ficky-ficky?”

“Maybe if you’re good.”

Ali smiled at me, then tiptoed over to Reading. Reading, absorbed in his game, seemed not to notice the big man as he reached out slowly for Reading’s nuts. Then, in a swift blur, Reading dropped his Game Boy, grabbed Ali’s wrist, and lunged up, pulling his arm around his head and lifting him into the air, then bending him onto the concrete. Reading fell on the big hadji, pinning him with his knees, slapping his face.

“Shit fuck, shit ass, shit!” shouted Ahmed.

“You mota mota good, huh?” Reading asked Ali, slapping him, “You mota me, huh? Mota mota? Ali Dudeki? Ali Menuch?”

Ali grinned and tried to cover his face and buck Reading off, but Reading had him wrapped up. “You fucked with the wrong motherfucker, Ali. Now you’re getting zip-zipped.”

“No, no,” Ali begged. “No zip-zip. Sadiki no zip-zip.”

“Then knock it the fuck off!”

“No zip-zip. Ali no zip-zip.”

“Alright, fucker,” Reading said, standing and helping Ali to his feet. “No zip-zip—this time!”

Ali stood up and smiled shyly at Reading. “Sadiki,” he said, very seriously.

“What, fucker?”

“Tomorrow and tomorrow, you bring ne ficky-ficky? Any o’clock?”

“No, you fucking faggot.”

“Tomorrow you, you, meshi meshi, ficky-ficky?” Ali pointed at Reading, then at himself, then at the gate.

“What?”

Ali made moon eyes at Reading. “You, you, meshi meshi? Mota? Mota?”

“I think he wants you to go home with him,” I said.

“No fucking mota, dudeki!”

“Yeeeeeah!” Ahmed crooned. “Shit! Fuck! Shut up!”

Ahmed the hunchback went outside and started talking to the ICDC. Ali sat on the edge of my cot until I kicked him in the hip and he walked off, staring at Reading, who resumed his game. After a minute, Ahmed called Ali away.

“Fucking fag,” Reading muttered.

Explosions in the night. We tumble out of bed and throw on our armor and wait for more mortars. Silence. Half an hour later someone comes and tells us stand down. The next day there’s a pit gouged out of the earth behind the guard shack.

Two EOD sergeants and a first sergeant from DIVARTY come down and do crater analysis, stepping in and out of the hole, divining esoteric data.

The radio squawked: “MEEEOW.”

“What the fuck?”

“MEEEOW.”

“It’s the fuckers in the towers.”

“MEEEOW.”

“THIS IS RED STEEL SEVEN. WHOEVER’S DOING THAT, YOU BETTER KNOCK IT OFF RIGHT NOW.”

“MEEEOW.”

“Fucking retards.”

“LIMIT YOUR RADIO TRAFFIC TO ESSENTIAL MESSAGES. I’M SERIOUS. RED STEEL SEVEN OUT.”

“OR I’LL FUCK YOU IN YOUR EYEBALLS! FUCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!”

“THIS IS RED STEEL SEVEN. KNOCK THAT SHIT OFF. RIGHT NOW. I’M SERIOUS.”

“MEEEOW.”

Clouds hung low over the mucky earth, turning everything gray. Shots had been fired at the guard tower in a drive-by, so everyone was on alert. Staff Sergeant Reynolds warned us Sergeant Major might be coming through. Reading worked his thumbs on the Game Boy.

“What fucking day is it?”

“Today?”

“No. Yesterday, motherfucker.”

“Yesterday was the day before.”

“What day today?”

“Fucking shit day.”

“Tuesday?”

“Whatever.”

Two ICDC guards sat smoking, flipping through my copy of the Vanity Fair issue with the big Michael Jackson exposé. One of the ICDC was younger, chubby, trying to grow a mustache and failing, the other was slightly older, his face pocked with acne scars. I watched them look at the fashion shots, the pictures of Neverland Ranch, the ads for J. Lo perfume and Patek Philippe watches.