Matt Gallagher - Youngblood

Back in Iraq, hot whispers and quiet sobbing were coming from the other side of the plywood wall separating the phone stalls, and my attention drifted that way. I listened for snippets of Alphabet’s conversation while my brother’s voice continued blitzing the receiver, their words slowly intertwining.

“Met this group of undergrads,” Will said.

“How could you?” Alphabet said.

“A senior, I swear. Naughty little thing.”

“We were supposed to get married.”

“Short, brunette, curvy.”

“Drunk. What kind of excuse is that? Why were you even out with other guys?”

“She said we needed to find someone for her friend.”

“Tell me everything. What you did. How you did it.”

“All about it.”

“Why.”

“Barely remember what happened.”

“Tell me why.”

“Needed an ice pack for my bottom lip the next day.”

“Why!”

“Wild one.”

Alphabet slammed his phone down and left the room, white as a root. I made a mental note to check on him. Dear Johns always meant suicide watch.

“So that was my weekend,” my brother said. “Speaking of, how are things with Marissa?”

Marissa was the last thing I wanted to talk about, and not just because I didn’t know how things were with her. So instead I explained my walking, talking leadership challenge, focusing especially on how Chambers felt about counterinsurgency.

Will was unimpressed. “You need to get rid of him,” he said. “I had noncoms like him. They’re cancers. Cut him out, it’s that simple. Talk with your company commander yet?”

“Captain Vrettos is overwhelmed by all the Sahwa stuff. He’d just tell me to ‘drive on’ or something.”

“What about your platoon sergeant? Sipe. He’s the senior enlisted on the ground. He should be all over this.”

A green fly had made its way into the phone room, hovering near the ceiling. I slid off a flip-flop and put it on the table. We’d been keeping a running tally, companywide, and I was tied for third place with twenty-four confirmed kills.

“Nice guy, but he’s checked out,” I said.

“So this Chambers guy is essentially the senior noncom in the platoon?”

“Pretty much. And the guys really respond to him.”

I braced for a lecture about establishing authority, but surprisingly, Will held back. He seemed too concerned for reproach. “Any soldiers have your back?” he asked.

“My vehicle crew. But they’re all joes. And the Doc. There’s Sergeant Dominguez, but he just got his stripes a couple months ago.”

“That’s fine. You have eyes and ears in the ranks. Use them.”

“Okay.”

“Listen, Jack, this kind of thing could prove problematic. ‘War is war’ assholes were great for the army when I deployed, but they’re only trouble now. We’re not going to kill our way out of Iraq, you know that. If you don’t rein him in, something could happen that sticks. Like, professionally.”

“That’s why I called. What should — what would you do?”

I took a swipe at the fly, midair. I missed. It buzzed furiously in response.

“Go to higher. You on good terms with the battalion commander?”

“The Big Man? Think so. He’s always slapping my shoulder and telling me to keep it up.”

“Good,” he said. “If you could find some piece of hard evidence about this old murder, a witness or something. Someone reliable, not the drunk. Then go to the battalion commander, explain that you aren’t accusing anyone of anything, but you think it’s best he be moved to another unit until the issue is resolved.”

The fly circled the plywood wall and landed. I let it crawl for a few seconds until it stopped moving. I needed to be quick. And firm.

“It’s not a matter of whether he actually did it. It’s a matter of finding someone reputable who says he did.”

“Got it,” I said.

“Good. Keep me updated. And call Mom and Dad, or at least e-mail them once in a while. They’re worried. Won’t leave me alone because of it.”

“How they doing?” I looked under my sandal and found number twenty-five. “I know I should call more, but when I do, it’s always — I don’t know. Like, I tried to tell Mom about the poverty over here. She kept telling me to fight to stay compassionate, which, no offense, isn’t a concern right now.” I swallowed. “You know?”

My brother loosed a sharp laugh. “Think about it. They’re children of World War Two vets. They met at a hippie protest. Now they’re two-time military parents. It’s complicated for us? It’s complicated for them.”

“Hell of an American story,” I said.

“Something like that,” he said. “Just stick all the bullshit into a compartment in the head. Lock it away. You’ll have time for it once you get back.”

“Cool.” I didn’t feel like talking anymore, and I needed to think about things. “Hey, I gotta go. Talk soon?”

“Sure, Jack. Be safe. Be strong.”

I hung up and shook fly guts off my flip-flop. Crossing the first-floor foyer, I stepped outside onto the smoking patio. Translucent camo nets were draped from the overhang, forming olive walls of faint light, like we were shrouded in a castle of seaweed. The walls swayed with the wind. I remembered why I didn’t come out here often: the rectangular patio always smelled of wet cigarette. A pair of sergeants from third platoon sat in lawn chairs with cigars in hand and rifles in their laps, talking about midnight raids from previous deployments. Beyond the concrete blast walls ringing the outpost came the sound of a scooter backfiring, causing both sergeants’ heads to snap up. Then they each laughed and accused the other of being a fucking pussy.

I chewed over Will’s counsel. It seemed a little cold. But some situations call for pragmatism, I thought. The sergeants went back inside with playful salutes, and the streets went mute. Droning prayers from the large mosque to the north proved my only company. For once, I didn’t mind them. I took in a deep breath of wet cigarette and watched the green camo nets ripple slowly with the wind, marking time.

Man oh man, LT, is first squad pissed at you,” Hog said.

I laughed from the back hatch, watching our headlights strike through the countryside dark. The road air was brisk, and I tried not to swallow any kicked-up gravel.

“Because they’re pulling outpost security tonight instead of third squad?” I asked. “Seems silly.”

“Don’t mess with a man’s schedule over here, sir. It’s bad juju.”

Dominguez was right about that. But I wanted to talk to Fat Mukhtar without Chambers there, so I’d switched things around. Given his hostility to meetings with locals, he hadn’t fought me on it. He’d just said, “Enjoy the chai, sir,” through a mouthful of dip, snuff bits covering his teeth. Then he’d gone back to reviewing Sipe’s plans for the sentry shack at the front gate.

Our Strykers pulled up to Fat Mukhtar’s. Two of his guards, wearing khaki button-downs, pulled aside razor wire so we could pass. Palm trees lined the entrance to the compound, part of a small Sunni hamlet west of Ashuriyah, one of many in the area we referred to collectively as the Villages.

Fat Mukhtar had owned two villas before he became a Sahwa militia leader, and built two more since. In the daylight, we would’ve seen buildings painted eggshell white with gold trim, staggered in pairs, forming a square. Now we saw them as dim gray outlines, winding and weaving formlessly like dotted lines on a map.

“Always reminds me of a drug palace. Like Scarface ,” Hog said.

“Shut up,” Dominguez responded.

“I’ll shut up when I finally get out of this hole. I pin on corporal next month and get my own fireteam. Your wetback ass is gonna miss me!”