Craig Dilouie - Tooth And Nail

The boys burst into laughter. They’ve taken to calling the Mad Dogs “Maddy” and the civilians “Hajjis” over the past few days, and hearing one of the NCOs do the same—especially their own blunt, burly Sergeant McGraw—is hilarious to them.

Many of these boys will leave their warm sleeping bags and risk their necks tonight purely out of devotion to their NCOs. They respect the non-coms. Wherever they go, the boys will follow.

“Anybody got any more glow sticks?” Rollins says. “I can’t hardly see shit in here.”

“Use your NVGs,” Mooney says. “It’ll be good practice.”

McGraw turns at the sound of Mooney’s voice, points at him, and says, “You.” He points at Wyatt. “And you.”

“I didn’t do it,” Wyatt says.

“Get your shit on, meatballs,” McGraw tells them. “You’re coming with me.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Mooney says darkly. The other boys are already tearing into MREs for breakfast. His stomach growls.

They are on the move after a few minutes. The boys of the other squads are already spilling out of the other classrooms in the wing and filling up the hallway. Most squat against the student lockers in grim silence, their carbines between their knees. Some race out of line to use the john before the company steps off. Somebody from First Platoon cranks up “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns ’N Roses on a CD player to get their juices flowing and wake up the Hajjis.

At the end of the hallway, McGraw tells them to wait, his eyes on the Platoon Sergeant, who is arguing with several civilians.

Somebody calls out for fresh batteries for his NVGs. The boys here are finishing up their last smokes, dropping the butts and grinding them out with their boots. Then two soldiers from First Platoon’s Weapons Squad show up carrying a crate of ammo between them, and start passing it out.

Top up, they say. Put a mag in every spare pocket. Bring as much as you can carry.

Mooney steps closer to the Platoon Sergeant and listens in on his argument.

“You will be okay here if you keep your heads down and don’t attract attention,” Kemper is saying. “There’s plenty of food. We had crews filling up every bottle and bucket in the place with tap water. You’ve got extra gas we siphoned from the refrigerated trucks, so you’ve got a good supply of fuel for the generator.”

“Your duty is to help these people, Sergeant,” one of the civilians says.

“My duty is to follow my orders.”

“You work for us, goddamnit.”

“I work for the U.S. Army, Ma’am.”

Kemper walks away, nods to McGraw, and continues down the hall, which suddenly grows increasingly loud and chaotic as the NCOs begin ordering and dressing their squads for the movement. Adding to the confusion is the fact that the CO made some last-minute changes to the order of march, promoting some of the sergeants to the rank of LT, combining squads, and otherwise rebuilding a new overstrength company on the fly from the wreckage of a battalion. Some of the boys are shouting out names, panicked; entire squads appear to be missing.

Mooney turns around and sees Martin and Boomer tagging along with their .30-cal M240. Martin gives him a thumbs up. Mooney frowns. He never knows if Martin is being nice or an asshole. In Iraq, giving somebody a thumbs up is the same as giving them the finger.

“You know what’s going on?” he whispers.

Martin shakes his head, grinning.

“No talking,” McGraw says.

They turn the corner and enter an empty hallway. Soon, the sounds of what’s left of First Battalion recede into the gloom.

Kemper switches on the SureFire flashlight attached to his carbine.

“Turn that thing off,” a voice says in the dark. “I’m right here.”

“Yes, sir,” Kemper says.

Captain Bowman steps out of an empty, dusty-smelling classroom, a glow stick dangling from his load-bearing vest. The monochromatic light stick, like the NVG phosphor screen, is purposefully colored green since the eye can distinguish between more shades of green than other phosphor colors. He’s the only one of them who has a light source.

Kemper says to the MGR and AG, “I want you to set up the thirty-cal here, pointing that way. We’re going to the end of this hallway. If you hear shooting, you keep your cool and hold your fire. If I say shoot, you start shooting anybody with a flash light or a glow stick. But only if I tell you to shoot. Is that clear, Specialist?”

“Hooah, Sergeant,” Martin says.

“Good man.”

The Captain gives Mooney and Wyatt the once-over. Mooney stands at attention and says, “Sir, Private Mooney reports!”

Wyatt echoes the ritual.

Bowman smiles at them. “Always you two. At ease, men.”

“What are we doing here, Sarge?” says Boomer.

“It’s personal,” Kemper answers.

Martin and Boomer finish setting up the M240. The group moves down the hall.

Ahead, in the darkness, Mooney hears murmuring voices, occasionally punctuated by a strident yell. His stomach begins a series of flying leaps. He suddenly feels certain that something bad is happening. And that something very, very bad is going to happen.

The Captain is talking into his handheld.

“I’ve got a couple of the men with me, but I’ll be coming around the corner to talk to you alone,” he says into his handset. “All right?”

Mooney gave up his own radio after his recon mission, so he doesn’t hear the response. But the Captain keeps moving, so it must be all right.

“Here I come now,” Bowman says, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hold your fire. Don’t shoot. We’re just going to have a conversation.”

The Captain turns the corner and disappears.

Kemper follows closely until he reaches the corner, then squats down, listening. McGraw whispers to Mooney and Wyatt to prepare for action on his command.

Mooney drops to one knee, feeling the comforting cushion of his kneepad, sweating in his BDUs. His heart pounds against his ribs and his blood is crashing in his ears. The moment Captain Bowman disappeared around the corner, the tension began mounting until it has now become almost impossible to breathe.

“Todd, sorry we have to meet like this,” a voice says.

Lieutenant Bishop , Wyatt whispers.

“Same here,” Bowman answers.

“Well, we’re not going, as you can see. We’re going to stay here and rebuild.”

“I understand.”

“We don’t want anything to do with your war. We’re not in the Army anymore. And we’re not going to die to keep the memory of a dead country alive.”

“I understand. But I still need to talk to the men.”

“Go right ahead. There’s nothing you can say to change their minds, though. They already survived one massacre. They’re not going to walk into another.”

“Men!” Bowman says.

The Captain’s voice echoes through the hallways until it becomes a ghostly murmur.

“Men!” he repeats. “You can stay here. We’re not going to force you to come with us. What’s done is done. It’s all right.”

“That’s nice of you,” Bishop warily. “What do you want in return?”

“One of you is a traitor against the United States, and must be punished.”

“And who—what are you doing?”

A pistol bangs loudly, echoing sharply in their ears with an almost physical impact, making them flinch.

Another bang. A wave of cordite in the air, tingling the nose.

Mooney can sense McGraw tensing ahead of them. He can smell the man’s nervous sweat as he prepares to rush forward and provide cover fire for the Captain. But nothing happens. The seconds tick by. The deserters do not shoot.

The ringing in Mooney’s ears slowly fades.