Craig Dilouie: Tooth And Nail

“Until now, our mission has been to protect the hospital and ensure the orderly flow of cases through the triage process,” Bowman adds. “Now the hospital is full up, as I’ve just informed Captain West using the mission code. This means the orderly flow of cases is about to hit a dam. We’re shutting off both entrances in thirty minutes.”

“The good citizens of New York are not going to like that one bit,” Sergeant Ruiz points out. “Could get ugly fast.”

“Any word on the non-lethals, sir?” asks Sergeant McGraw in his heavy South Carolina drawl.

“The Captain says that’s a November Golf, Pete.”

In other words, a “no go.”

McGraw rubs his nose. With his barrel chest, handlebar mustache bristling on his upper lip, and heavily tattooed forearms, he has an intimidating appearance. When not soldiering, he is usually riding a Harley across the Bible Belt with his young biker girlfriend, hammering down on the big slab. “Kind of hard to do crowd control with what we got, LT,” he says. “We’re armed to the teeth and can’t use any of it. You know that.”

“We have bayonets. That should make an impression. Hopefully, it will be enough.”

“And if it ain’t, sir?”

Bowman looks into his non-coms’ eyes. He knows what they are thinking. Back in Iraq, they’re thinking, the streets are still littered with American good intentions, blood and bodies and undetonated munitions. Hundreds of thousands of civilians died there, many as a result of stray American ordinance. You simply can’t use the kind of firepower that American infantry carries around and not expect civilians to get killed, especially in built-up areas. Accidents happen and they cannot afford accidents now that the civilians are their fellow citizens. To do this mission properly, the soldiers need batons, shields, riot control dispensers, snipers on the roof and birds in the air. But they have none of these. There are Army units all over the country needing the same equipment and there is simply not enough to go around. Due to the usual logistical foul-up, they do not even have CS gas grenades commonly issued to infantry in urban deployments.

Instead, they are packing heavy firepower and plenty of bullets.

“We stick with the ROE,” Bowman answers. “Remember that we’re in somebody’s house here.” The rules of engagement for this mission in urban terrain: Return fire only if you are fired upon directly by a hostile force that is clearly visible. Which should be almost never.

He adds: “And we keep our force concentrated. Between Lyssa and everything else, we’re down to seventy-five percent strength. I don’t want to see any part of this platoon peeled off and overrun by a mob of pissed-off civilians looking for medicine.”

They know they are basically in a no-win situation, a “bag of dicks” in Army lingo. Ruiz whistles through his nose. Lewis mutters, “Man, this is jacked up.” Kemper smiles and says: “Embrace the suck, gentlemen.”

Bowman raises his eyebrows. “OK. If the crowd gets out of hand, we’ll put on respirators, fire some smoke grenades and maybe the civs will think it’s tear gas and run for it. It’s a long shot, I know—”

McGraw is grinning. “Satisfactory, sir. It’s worth a try, sir.”

“All right, then. Get your men ready to muster in thirty minutes.”

The best way to take down a police helicopter with an RPG

while playingGrand Theft Auto

The boys of Third Squad are the night shift, and this being day, they are enjoying some rack time, sprawled on their bunks in a large room in the cool basement of the hospital, where Second Platoon has been billeted. Three of the boys are sleeping soundly after a debate on the best way to take down a police helicopter with an RPG while playing Grand Theft Auto . Corporal Hicks, sweating bullets, does push-ups on the floor. Grunting, he switches to sit-ups. Boyd smokes quietly and reads a letter from home, idly running one hand over his bristling skull and mouthing the words oh, man repeatedly, while McLeod, the platoon ne’er-do-well, leafs through a copy of Playboy , calling out, for anybody caring to listen, names, hobbies, measurements and, assuming unlimited funds, how much he would pay to have sex with them. The Newb sews a rip in his uniform, cursing steadily at having to perform yet another goddamn mind-numbing Army chore when he could be dreaming, while Williams cleans and oils his M203A1 carbine and grenade launcher and at that moment is pretty sure he’d shoot somebody in the face for a hot fajita burrito with sour cream and extra corn salsa. A good soldier can break down a rifle in fewer than thirty seconds and reassemble it in less, and Williams knows his business. He grew up in Oakland hustling and gang banging, and he is a long way from that world, even though he feels right at home with the big, dumb, earnest kids of his platoon, this melting pot Army. He shakes his head, smiling and remembering. He has some stories to tell when he gets back. He is still alive to tell them. A boom box stolen from an upstairs nurse’s station plays a loud, steady stream of music. Today it is hip hop, yesterday it was rock and roll, tomorrow who knows. As long as it’s loud.

“Man oh man, at least a million dollars,” says McLeod, checking out the centerfold. “At least. I mean, Jeezus. Hey guys, what’ll you give me for a quick look at these hooters? Do I hear a buck? I swear they’re real. Any takers?”

Williams shakes his head. It’s all they ever talk about—that special Suzie Rottencrotch back home, their mythical sexual prowess, the hot nurses upstairs and what they are going to do to the world’s women when they get out of the Army. He looks up as Sergeant Ruiz enters the room and says, “Hey, Sergeant. What’s the word?”

“The word is you morons aren’t sleeping when you’re supposed to be getting your Zs,” Ruiz barks back at him, glaring with his intense eyes. “And not wearing your masks when you’re supposed to, either.”

“We didn’t wear the masks in Iraq, Sarge,” McLeod says. “How come we have to wear them here?

“Because in Iraq, we weren’t living in a hospital filled with people dying from the Black Death, shit-for-brains.”

McLeod grins, racking his wit for a good retort, but Ruiz has already moved on. “Get out of your fartsacks and get your shit on, ladies. LT has some work for us and we’re on the move in ten minutes.”

Boyd looks up, his eyes gleaming. “My sister’s got Lyssa. I got this letter from home.”

The boys stop and stare at him.

“My mom says they’re burning bodies outside town. She even told me how they do it. They dig a trench to make an air vent, right, and then they build the pyre with wood. They put the bodies on top and burn them up. The town council got totally freaked and started doing this. This is all the way on the other side of the country. The letter took over a week to get to me.”

“Sorry about your sister, Boyd,” Ruiz offers.

“This was over a week ago,” Boyd says, staring at the letter in disbelief. “She could be dead by now.”

“Did somebody say they were burning up bodies?” says Ross, whom everybody calls Hawkeye because of his uncanny accuracy with an M4 carbine. He has just woken up and is still bleary from sleep. “Man, that is extreme.”

“It’s got to be bullshit,” says McLeod. “Some cities are digging mass graves to store the bodies temporarily, but they’re not burning them up, for Chrissakes.”

“If they were paranoid enough, they might,” Williams says.

“What I’m saying is: What am I doing here in New York?” Boyd wonders. “Why aren’t we guarding a hospital in Idaho, like in Boise? I should be there. I should be home with them. I could at least be in the same lousy state. I have to call my mom.”