Prisoners

Like, it's easier not taking the prisoners. All those places where you know, we use the radio. All you do is lie there, peering ahead... "Uh, about two hundred yards ahead of me, seems to be a building, two hundred yard, maybe sixty yards to the right." And then you just keep your head down while they shit on the place until finally you poke your head up again, yup, doesn't seem to be any building there anymore, just a lotta smoke, and you can go see. But you wait anyway and you send some more shit in and then you do go see, and whaddya see? Aw fuck, it's burned pork again. I think there's a guy in there, front seat of that car, maybe that's a guy, hope it wasn't some civilian girl or nothing. That's like the right way to do it. You don't take any caps in your own ass, not if you do it that way properly.

So, I mean, I'm not stupid. I don't want to go in there. What am I, the Terminator? I'm not so fucking stupid. Think I'm gonna go in there yelling, "All you Ragheads hit the dirt!"? It's better to let somebody else waste em. But at the same time you know, burned pork, you can get kind of fed up with coming in and thinking, hey did these guys even know we were coming? Like, if you find em all piled up behind, you can tell soon as the shooting started they started to run like hell. And you don't know if you got them all, but let me tell you, no fucking way you go around counting, try and see how many asses you nailed because, you know, there was one outfit that got a wedding party. Do you really want to start counting and then maybe you'll see, he-llo, hey this Iraqi soldier must have been all of three feet tall, and this one two and a half feet tall... Lookee, it's a bunch of grammammas and kids.

And then you know, you puke.

So I'm saying, no, I'm not the Terminator, I'm going stay down here, nice and safe, nice and low, but all the same, you know I'm getting sick of waiting for someone else to do the job, maybe because my beetle suit is kind of hot, right, or maybe where I had sand in the nose, that's what's making me pissed off with the waiting, my nose is raw inside, and I'm sitting there thinking, well, fuck, how long do we wait? So then I'm like, "Well, I'd kinda like to go in there." And the corporal, he's, "You know, I'd kinda like to go in there too." "Yeah?" "Yeah." "I'd go in." "Yeah." "You'd go in too?" And we're saying fuck it. I mean the first rule is keep your head down, but what the hell, we end up going, "Let's go in, okay?" "We're doing it, okay?" "Okay." "Look, you're sure you're okay? "Shut the fuck up, Man, you'll make me scared to go in."

So then we're on the radio, to let them know this one gets done on foot, and then it's automatic fire to give them advance notice we wanna crash their party: "Hey homeboys, get your fucking heads down. American troops coming through!" Cover on the left. Cover on the right. And anybody in there, they can tell we're coming in. So I'm chuffing and huffing along, run ten feet, go flat, everybody gone flat spread-eagled like we're a bunch of playing cards somebody left dropped on the carpet.

There's this one asshole way over the right, he's battalion same like we are, he's giving us covering fire. "Come on, Man, that's enough fire, already. Okay?" On the radio he's breathing, "Huh-huh-huh-heeeee, huh-huh-huh" you can hear it, he can't stop and he's screaming his fucking head off at the Ragheads. He's put about a million rounds in and he puts another million rounds in. "I think it's ready for us. You can stop now." Like you can tell he's shitting himself. He's yelling, "Okay for you, mother-fuckers!" But he's not the guy going in, though he's pissing himself.

Finally, we're like, "You know, stop. Stop. Enough covering fire, already. Son-of- a-bitch, it's not them shooting back, it's you shooting at us, Asshole."

So we run up and it's fucking sand again, powder, like fresh ploughed dirt. But the Ragheads are down, right in back of the two buildings. They hear us yelling so the next thing we see is the little dark motions, not firing back at us any more, just, you know, there's people down there, trying to stay down under the windows, walking on their stomachs.

My heart's beating like it's going to explode but I'm going forward, and I've got it on the top position. Single shots, right? I'm thinking, like I'm going to fire one shot, but that shot is going to fucking take you out clean, Pal, soon as I see a piece coming up. I'll put it in right under your throat. Yeah, I'm dead, but I'm going to kill him, right?

Then they're yelling back, and who the fuck knows? Are we gonna get dead? Anybody who laid down is still alive down there. There could be thirty fucking guys just waiting for us. But then they come out all at once, lurching, all guys in uniform. I'd have done my man, but I don't need to. There's like only not even fifteen of them and they're waving, like "Yoo-hoo!" Both arms. And we figure they've got a clue, but no they all go flat again, we've already give them a chance, so it's up to them, they've got to come out. And they must be figuring, like how do we tell them we're surrendering? And we're like, they don't have the guts to surrender, God, we're gonna have to kill them, and see it.

But then they're chucking weapons at us and a minute more they're all shuffling out arms in the air and grinning, great big smiles on their faces, they go down on their knees and there's two guys pissed themselves for real, you can see the wet on their trousers. But that's fine; we're all over them, "Hands on the head, Hands on the head! Hey!" And they're all real bright eyed, fucking frozen, while we take them in. Arms are sticking out like tree branches.

They look like field labourers, you know? Dirty pants, dirty hands; It's ground in dirt, like the guys you see riding the bus out to go pick lettuce, maybe only speak Spanish or something, but these guys don't even try speaking. "Alright, keep those hands up there, not so fucking close." Walking backwards, "You first, then you –not together, Asshole! One at a time. Hey, good, slow, good, niiice-lee!"

Okay, so we get them all sitting down, group of them, and the corporal is like, "Now we gotta give them cigarettes, that's how they'll understand it's okay." So okay, we've got two cigarettes, that's all the guys that smoke'll let him have. They, like, only brought a couple of packs each and they've smoked most of them so they're not giving him any more.

Then the corporal is walking around, all the Iraqis planted on the ground like daisies, and he's trying to decide who to give the two cigarettes to. Three guys have walked around the building, we know it's clean, we're taking it easy, my heart rate is back to normal, I'm thinking right, this is not so fucking difficult taking prisoners, after all and then K-K-K-K-K-K-K-HK!! My heart rate is not back to normal. We're fucking under fire! There's guys going down in all directions, the Iraqis are screaming. It's coming from up the road. I'm popping off shots, not because I can see anything, but I'm fucking well telling them the first guy I do see up on the road is a dead mother fucker. I'm practically lying on an Iraqi and if that guy moves maybe I can't get my M15 around to kill him but I'm going to kick his head off, only he's got his arms over his head. He's not trying anything and the corporal is on his radio saying, "Hold your fire. Hold your fire. Please hold your fire."

It's that crack-head over on the right, same dumb ass that wouldn't stop firing when we wanted to go in. It's fucking friendly fire! Jesus. Corporal is keeping his voice down all nice and calm, "You are firing on an American unit."

Then the asshole starts firing again, and corporal says, "I'm going to fucking kick the ass of his squadron leader." But not one of us is hit. There's a couple of guys came that close. It seems like the shithead saw the colour of their uniforms and his gun just started going off. Of course they were all down on the ground and we were the ones standing up, so we're the guys that he came so close to nailing. Thank you so fucking much. He's trying to kill our Iraqis after they surrendered to us. That asshole was on crack all right. He knows we're there, he can even see us, so what the fuck is he firing in our direction for? But maybe it's a good thing he's on crack because he's made a lot of bullet wounds in the dirt and in the sky, and caused a couple of cases of combat diarrhea but we've still got no casualties.

We get him sorted out. The Ragheads are trying to crawl off, each guy in a different direction, each guy a little bit further. I can hear them going, snuffle, snuffle, wheeze. We have to go around telling them to come back and the motherfuckers are pretty nearly as scared shitless as we were. But the platoon leader takes the other squad on ahead past the houses, gives us a chance to stand up again. There's a couple of guys shaking like they've got Parkinson's, but we're all right. Like fuck, it's more dangerous to be seen with an Iraqi prisoner than it is to actually capture them.

Anyway, you know, we're supposed to be going on, so we're not all supposed to sit around just because we've snagged a few grimy looking Iraqi guys to baby sit. And the drill is you turn them over to the MP's. So we talk to company and he says, hey, no sweat, give us an hour. MP's'll get there, an hour and twenty minutes tops. But I know Corporal is pissed because he's thinking about the little black kid of ours that got killed, you know, like I told you, just on the second day when the round went through his helmet. So Corporal says, alright, now look, you sit here beside this rock and I am going to take the rest of the guys away, way far over left, not near that trigger-happy cunt, and we're going to go on without you. You wanted to go in and take prisoners, you get to sit here and be the babysitter.

Yeah. My ears are ringing like a fire alarm. That's what the firing does to you. So at first I don't think he's saying it. Because, hey, I'm the best guy we have at going point, but he says it's time one of the other guys got a turn. "Awww, Man. You know I'm the best at point." But he says I'm sitting tight. And he tells a couple of the other guys they're going to stay too, like I've got to keep an eye on this one, a PFC named Ronald Archer, because the Corporal thinks he's a bit stunned on it.

Well that's fine. The squad goes clattering off and I get the three of us to spread out and make a triangle so all the prisoners are in between us. That's all we got to do, sit tight, watch the prisoners, and wait for the MP's. And if the MP's don't get here straight off, we don't try to catch up to the unit. We hitch a ride back to company with them, we let corporal and the guys go on alone. So I eyeball the prisoners and they eyeball me. I've noticed that they're like, their tongues are swollen, and red and they have the deep eyes, like they've been on dialysis, you know the look, upside down eye shadow. Which means they probably want water.

So I walk about, and my ears are ringing, but that's okay, if I walk three steps each way, steady, gets my heart rate slowing down. Apart from that one bad moment, today is going to be an easy day, which is not bad for a day under fire. And all the prisoners are leaning on their arms, they look up at me, check, yeah, I'm not drawing a bead on them, they look down again. They're like listless. They lost the smiles. They look down a lot. At the ground.

I wait an hour before I put a call in and ask how far off the MP's are. But the MP's are busy and company says it'll be another hour and twenty minutes tops, and when I call Corporal says, hey, they're shooting, get off the radio, shut up for awhile, so we sit and wait. And finally me and Ron and the other guy mutter a bit, and we think, well, if we can't bring the A-rabs to the water, we can bring the water to the A-rabs. It's maybe four o'clock, maybe five o'clock right then and it can't be more than two miles. We could almost make them walk it, only they'd shoot anything in an Iraqi uniform on the road, and we'd get hit at the same time. So two guys is plenty to watch maybe thirteen limp-looking prisoners of war. They've got no fight in them, like they're embarrassed to be sitting around like that. And they're sick from the heat, for sure. I don't want to take them alive and then make them sit out in the sun till they're dead from cooking.

So I say to Ron, "Look, you go back, you don't look like hot shit." And he says "No", and I say, "C'mon, you've got the sunstroke", and he says, that's why not. "I don't think I can walk that far." So I'm like, "You want a corpsman?" and he says fuck off, so the other guy goes, leaves Ron and me to watch the prisoners. Fine. Our third guy's got the shit detail. Melvin's going to walk all the back to company, see if they'll give him a pack of bottles, and then carry them all the way back. That is, if he doesn't meet the MP's coming, or if I don't call him to say skip it, they're already here. But the corpsman doesn't come and the MP's don't come and Corporal doesn't come and the Melvin doesn't come.

I say to company, real politely, uh it's been four hours. Yeah, like wait. We're doing some clean up. Wait.

And then, I'm thinking these poor assholes are dying in the sun, so I say, "Come on, come on, we're all going to walk over thataway..." I have to wave so they can understand me, "A hundred yards thataway, move it, Stupid!" There's finally some shade. I figure they'll be better off in the shade, now there finally is shade, it's late and the sun is getting long. But I don't even get them there because Ron drops, thunk, lays out flat on the dirt. There's not a sound. All the Iraqi guys freeze and look at me and hold their hands up and I hop, hop over to him, head up, like, where the fuck did that come from? I'm looking everywhere. Nobody move! And they don't have to understand English, nobody is moving. But Ron isn't hit; there was no shot. He's, like, passed out from the sunstroke. Well, fuck, now what do I do?

So I get his M15 and then I make a bunch of pointing motions and after a bit the Iraqi guys they understand, they nod, nod, smile, they're perfectly happy to carry Ron over into the shade. Which is what I get them to do. We all get into the shade, except me, I have to sit up on a rock where I can see everybody and anybody with a weapon could get a bead on me, easy. I get on the radio again and I tell company, like Ron is out cold, there's just one of me, and can you, like maybe fucking hurry with the transportation. At that point I'm thinking maybe I'll take a reprimand for letting our third guy go off, and maybe corporal will get the reprimand too for leaving just the three of us, but I'm not like scared because I've got my weapon and how much longer can it be?

But what the officer says, is, alright, stay cool, you can get rid of the prisoners, if you can't handle it. Now he doesn't mean necessarily kill the guys. He's just telling me, use your own judgement. So, if like, I'm panicking and I waste the bunch of them, aw, that was too fucking bad. Or I could try telling them, like, to get lost if I think that's going to work. I could make them walk away from me. Company's not giving me orders. He's telling me I can take the option, because he's not helping me. Get rid of them. Great.

Okay, I can understand why I can't get any support. Sunstroke is not like taking a hit. Sunstroke is a bad headache, drink some water, take an aspirin. I can pour some water on Ron's face. What it sounds like is maybe we've got some casualties, though the firing doesn't sound bad from where I am. But the corpsmen are all tied up, and the MP's are busy, so the guy who talks to me from company ain't got the time. Deal.

I deal. I'm sitting on the rock and by and by I notice the Iraqis are all looking up over their shoulders at me, apprehensive. I'm getting the eyes from them. I've got this nosebleed by then. It's nothing but the fucking sand got inside my nose the day before, but I've started dripping down the front of my turtleshell, there's a dribble of it doesn't seem to stop, and they're staring at that. And the guys are starting to talk to each other real quiet. They're looking at me and whispering. Fucking whispering! How do I make `em stop whispering?

If I could talk to the guys I could tell them, hey, assholes, don't fuck around. Yeah, there's just one of me. But you're safe now. Just be quiet like good kiddies and you'll get some water, you'll get a nice safe stockade. Fuck your honour. Yeah, fourteen guys, you can take me. I know you can. But fuck, I'll take some of you, and where the fuck are you going to go after you kill me and the poor, goddamn helpless casualty? They're going to fucking track you down. And they're not going to give you a second chance to surrender. So don't even think it.

But I can't talk to these guys. I know they don't understand English. All they can say is "Hello, Uncle Sam." I can't reason with them, or make them any promises. All I can do is try to look as mean as possible. I sit there and glower at them, which isn't too hard, because my nose dropping spots down my chin is pissing me off.

Anyway, there's one guy and the other guys whisper at him and then he gets up. I make a motion, "Hey –Down!" and he sits down again. A minute later he starts to get up, unfolding real slow... This time when I make the motion he only goes down on his knees. He's staring hard at me, putting on a kind of a smile that doesn't look like a smile. He's asking me something. He's talking to me. He gets up and I tell him get down, so he gets down, but he gets up again, arms real wide out. Every time he gets up his arms go further out so he's starting to look like Jesus.

Now, I could point my weapon at him, but I already am, pretty much. He's trying to get up facing my weapon. So about the only way I can tell him I'll shoot him if he gets up is if I do shoot him. And right at that point I'm not scared enough or angry enough to shoot him. I'm thinking I should shoot him. I should be doing it because of Ron, because he's dead meat, helpless like that if the Iraqis get the drop on me. They're watching to see if I'll shoot and if I don't they're going to jump me all at the same time. And then they'll butcher him.

The Iraqi guy he's, like about sweating with terror, but insisting he wants to get up. And I don't know why he wants to get up, and I'm too chicken shit to kill him so I let him. I sit there and I glare at him real hard and I track him with my weapon, a few inches off. I give him a chance to show me what he wants. What he wants is to come close to me. I show him my teeth and he turns around real slow. He's dancing. He's like some fucking kid spinning in circles, only he's doing it in slow mo. Real slow around, and closer to me.

Everybody watches him and everybody watches me and I don't know what the poor son of bitch wants. Maybe he wants to tell me he's got a hole in him that needs a shell dressing. Maybe he wants to bribe me with a fist full of American dollars, only he doesn't dare take his money out. Because a couple of times he brings his arms in and motions at himself. But maybe he doesn't. He comes closer and closer. Finally he's right in front of me, I've got my weapon pointed at his legs, he's coming so close, he's telling me he wants to back into me. He's three feet from me. He's sticking his ass towards me.

The crazy dumb fuck is sticking his ass out at me. I'm like, what-the-fuck? I'm just sitting straight up glaring. That's all I can think. He's offering me his ass and I don't think he's mooning me, because the son-of-a-bitch is too scared. Okay, maybe the other guys have put him up to it, it sure seems that way. But there's nothing like "Sniff my shit, Buddy," about him. So the only other thing I can think of is he's offering me his ass, like maybe I'd want to fuck him.

I'm like, No. Uh-uh. No. Like, just go sit down, fuck off. And he stands there butt up, like as if I was stupid enough to fuck him, when it's them and me alone on a lump of rock four miles from a town that's getting shot to hell. And I mean, can't he see I have my turtleshell on, so does he think I'm stupid enough to take the thing off? Do I look that fucking stupid? He's obviously going please, though he's only talking that babble they talk. "Please... please... you dumb ass American." That's what it means.

And the other thing is, it's getting late. It's getting like seven o'clock, uh-huh and in another hour, it's not going to be long shadows, it's going to start to get dark. I do not want to be playing this game with him, whatever it is. I'm starting to think I'm even stupider than the Iraqis obviously think I look like I am. Because I'm screwed for sure. Like, leaving three guys in charge of fourteen prisoners, that was okay. Sending the third guy off, that was dumb shit. But sitting here waiting for it to get dark? That's fucking retarded. I mean, I don't deserve to be alive in the morning.

Meanwhile I'm getting the ass end of a dirt-covered pair of green pants waved up at me. I just want the Raghead to go sit down, and I don't want to hit him with the weapon, though I know he can't grab it, I'm still not going to risk it. So I reach out with my other hand and as soon as I do that every guy sitting there on the sand below me, stiffens up quivering. I'm going to push him, not hit him. But I can tell that's what they want. They want me pushing him. So I touch his back.

Holy fuck, the guy has a pistol stuffed into the back of his pants. He's got this bulky jacket on, and under the jacket there's a thirty-five automatic, one of those French or German things, stuffed down under his belt. He's trying to give me the gun. He was searched but he still has that piece in there. I don't know who missed it. My Iraqi prisoners are still fucking armed!

So I take the pistol out and the guy topples forward all hunched up and they all bury their heads something deeper into their necks, hunching like they don't want me to look at them. And I hold the weapon up and I smile around, one side than the other, "Any more of these? Anybody wanna toss another weapon or two out?"

They all hunch a bit but they're looking a whole lot less nervous. I can tell how it was. Most likely he'd stuffed it in there when they threw their other weapons out at us, thinking if we start shooting he'd have at least one chance to shoot back. And maybe he told the other guys or they asked him if he still had it and then they got real scared, thinking when I found it I'd freak and waste the lot of them.

But y'know, I'm not so strung out scared after that, because I've got me a nice bunch of Abduls there. They're not giving me no trouble. They don't want to give me no trouble. Ron, he's like, "What the fuck are you giggling about, Man?" He's lying there rolling his head around weakly, and I don't wanna tell him, yeah, I thought I was so chickenshit I'd get him butchered, so all I say is, them Iraqis have made a joke. And them Iraqis are smiling all agonized like they're trying their fucking hardest to find it funny. So I go over to a guy, kinda behind him so he can't like, make a snatch for the two weapons I'm holding, and I pat his shoulder and I do a thumbs up and he does a thumbs up, weakly, all the Ragheads are nodding and giving the thumbs up.

Now the sun is really going down. I make Ron drink more of our water and I sit on the rock, sunset's the color of my nosebleed, and Ron sits up against the rock beside me and he says, "My head fucking hurts." But then my radio goes off, it's our third guy, Melvin, he's out there somewhere, he's saying, "Where the fuck are you, Man?"

We spend like, maybe fifteen minutes, maybe half an hour before he can find the rock and by then it's so dark he can't see the colour of our uniforms or nothing. Every thing is just shades of black. He's like shaking a bit by the time he finds us. I walk him to us using the radio. He says he got some bit of a problem coming back, had to hunker down off the shoulder and there was a lot of dead Iraqis there, back at company. But the thing is, the kid is fucking superman, he's got the bottles, lots of bottles, carried `em all that way and he's got packets stuffed in him all over.

He don't understand how nice our prisoners are, just like little girls. He thinks I'm fucking nuts when I go around, make sure each one of the guys gets his own bottle of water, gets one of the cookie bars. I'm going around pat, pat trying to find all fourteen of them in the dark. I'm walking around right in the middle of them. But the ones that had the worst eye shadow, I give them two bottles each, and I make sure each guy gets one, and they each have a cookie bar, or jerky, whatever Melvin brought that I can give them to chew on. And I make sure Ron gets a couple of bottles of water in him too.

By then it's like so black, you can't see stars, you can't see the road, you can't see where the fucking skyline begins, you can't even see fire or nothing over where we can hear the shooting. It's way off, not even a yellow glow. I'm talking black here. The three of us group up. Ron climbs up on the rock right beside me, shoulder up against me, like he's leaning on me hard, I wanna push him off. Like if anybody comes at us in the dark we don't wanna be so close all they have to use is one bullet, but he don't want, you know, empty air at his back. He wants to be back to back with me.

Let me tell you, I found it a fucking long night, you know? Just at first we talked some but I didn't want anyone getting a bead on us in the dark, following our voices. I just asked Melvin what he did. And I didn't use the radio and tell them we were still out there. They knew we were out there.

A couple of times company called us, asked me if I was still alright, and I always told him yessir, I've got a quiet spot, nothing's moving, I'm not spooked. Then round about four in the morning, the guy tells me, okay we can come out and get you now. "Nah, it's quiet. That's alright." I'm like, "Don't bother, wait until it gets light and you can find us."

Because Melvin told me there were thirty, forty Iraqi guys, dead over at company, like lying out where they shot them and he don't know and I don't know, but I'm thinking the way he describes it, them out in the open and no guns among them and a lot of them with their knees up, they were like curled up on the ground when they got shot, it's maybe there's not enough MP's there to deal with a stack of prisoners, so they've just been wasting them when they bring them in.

I'm not saying that anything happened, right? Or if they had to do it, I don't know why they had to do it, I'm not asking. But what it is, I think, I'm not bringing my prisoners in there, not until I'm sure they've got enough fucking MP's to handle it. Nobody's shooting my prisoners. Yeah, if those jerk-offs are shitting themselves because there are more Iraqi uniforms around than there are American ones, I'm not gonna make them any more chickenshit by bringing another bunch of Iraq uniforms in.

It's real still and the A-rabs is all sleeping curled up on the sand, they went to sleep without saying their evening prayers or nothing. And I can tell Ron is asleep because he's lying on my knee and his M-15 is lying across my foot, he's pretty much barely holding it. I can't tell if Melvin is asleep. I can't even hear him breathing. I'm sitting up with my eyes closed, sitting bolt upright. I know if I slump down I will go to sleep for real so I'm not doing that. But it doesn't matter much if my eyes are open or closed. I can't see nothing anyway.

I'm thinking about that Abdul that offered me his ass. I'm awake and I'm asleep at the same time with my eyes closed and then this image wanders through my eyes, like a truck going by on the road, I'm like, hallucinating things because I'm so close to asleep.

At first I'm remembering the terminal down in Santa Maria, where we caught the plane, all those guys in uniform, and I feel like all those guys with their kit bags are with me. That's alright then. I'm not outnumbered. And because I'm not outnumbered I can go play.

So I shove Ron off my knee and I open up my eyes and stand up. Maybe the moon has come up or something because it's light enough to see whatever I want to although it's still dark and I see the Iraqi prisoners all asleep. I walk around in the middle of them looking. Some of them have beards you know and some don't but they all look like they've been rolling in the dirt. They're dirty. And now they're all awake looking at me. My boots don't make much noise on the soft ground.

I pick one guy that has no beard. I poke him in the chest with my hand while his two eyes stare at me tar-black and he gets up. He's holding his two hands up above his ears. He's got no expression on, but I think he's maybe my age which is twenty-two and I point the muzzle of my M-15 just into his belly, touching him maybe digging it in a bit. But he doesn't move, just keeping his arms up. No, he's not the guy had the weapon that offered to me. I don't know which guy he is. He's nobody you understand. Just an Iraqi prisoner who might not survive the night.

I poke him again in the gut with my piece. A gun is like a slut girl, you know. I mean the kind of girl who goes with anybody, you don't want to go with her because she's filthy dirty. They both can give you a hard-on even though some part of you thinks maybe you shouldn't. I've got that kind of a hard on, the gun means I can do whatever I want here, even though I don't know what I want. I never did want nothing like that. And if I were awake to think about it I'd probably be scared out of my mind because what am I doing? And doing it to some filthy Iraqi who doesn't deserve to get singled out like that?

Then he gets down on his knees, just folds up like he was about to say his prayers to me. "Open me up," I say. "Come on, open me up." I want him to unfasten my pants. And I make my voice soft because I still have my piece pointing straight at his head. But he doesn't understand me so I have to tug at his shirt and pull the button open at the top. Then he does understand because he takes his shirt off. He's got these round tanned shoulders, beautifully tanned.

When he starts to strip so do I. I heave my turtle shell off. It feels much better without the thing because it is not so hot, and not so heavy without it. I can feel the air and now the air is much cooler, better than the fucking baking heat you live through all day. All I take off is my turtle shell and I lower my pants.

Yusef is naked, he's kneeling on the dark cloth that used to be on him; his uniform is under him. I can see his nose against the little bit of light and his lower lip and his shoulders. Like, if he were a girl I'd have to get him ready for me, but he's not. I reach down and touch his tit anyway. It's just a point on his chest, but I stroke it, first one side than the other side and he puts his mouth to my crotch.

Melvin is asleep and Ron is asleep and most of the prisoners are asleep just this two or three watching us from the sand while I put my dick in the A-rab's mouth. He doesn't know what to do. He kind of mumbles at me, and I feel his teeth and his mouth is kind of dry. He makes it deep and round so I shove my prick into the back of his throat, but then there are still the teeth, more teeth than lips. I try a stroke, in and out and he scrapes me with his teeth and then he brings his lips in around me but it's just for a moment. I don't get any sensation hardly. I can't feel what I want to.

"Don't you know nothing? Don't you know how to give an American a blow job?" I say.

He takes his mouth off my prick and puts his two hands clasped together like he's begging. He looks at me over his hands. He's got this kind of thick long nose, it's Semitic, that's what it is. He looks like the old Jewish man, long, long ago who used to give the kids candy that came into his shoe-fixing shop down on Marriette Street. I don't know why it is but when I think of that I want to kiss him. I have to show him.

I get down on my own knees and put my mouth against his mouth and just for a moment he freezes up but my tongue knows what to do. I put it in his mouth and my lips against his lips and I kiss him. He lets his tongue waggle into my mouth and I suck on that. It feels real good.

But then my dick is still sticking out hard into the night air. On the horizon there are white shells going off making bright arcs in the sky. The sound of it doesn't come to me but the huddled up A-rabs keep casting dark sharp shadows every time one of those shells behind them makes a curve up and down and lights up the sky. I have a hand on the A-rab's ass and I knead on it gently. I'm like, Come on, Ho, you know what to do, real soft. Come on, Ho.

His shoulders all come up and he hunches like he's cringing. He shuffles around real slow and goes on all fours. He's holding his ass open behind him; I can see nothing but those fingers, hooked in holding him wide and then dark in the seam.

I'm so sleepy for a moment I've confused. I wonder should I be bringing my M- 15 down or not, if I ought to put that at his passage, point the gun into his tunnel. But I put my finger down and find it. I put my finger in it. Abdul gives a little grunt deep down in his throat, just a faint grunt. I find the ring tight and there is no extra room around my finger, just clamping in ass.

I put two fingers in it, working them with the muscles in my wrist. Abdul puts his head down to the sand and keeps his ass cocked up. He's okay with it. He wants me to fuck him, because he thinks I'll shoot him if I don't.

Then I kneel in close, walking in between his calves on my own knees. He has a perfect smooth ass, just like his perfect smooth shoulders. I pat that ass. I put my prick against his passage and I try to put it in his ass. But there's no give into it. I miss him. I don't get the sensation. My cock is just sliding above his ass, in the seam there, which he is still holding open. So then I fold down over the top of him. I reach down and pull his ass cheek open myself. The sky is red now. I'm all hunched up bulky on top of him, pants on my thighs, boots in the dirt and the gun that lives so close to me day or night held up tight under my arm.

I poke at his hole with my cock. I need spit. Come on, Raghead, I think. But then I know why he was so dry and toothy during the blow job. He couldn't do none of it because he didn't have the spit. He's got no spit to give me to put on my prick. So I take my own hand and put spit down there. And then my cock goes in, easy as easy although he's real tight. I feel him brace with his knees to take my weight leaning down.

It's a tight fuck.

By and by I see the A-rabs lying on the ground, all those Ragheads are watching me silently. I'm porking one of their guys and they only watch it, eyes fixed dark on me and not moving. By then I am too far into it to let a few eyes put me off my stroke. Instead I turn the A-rab over. I put the guy on his back with his knees up on his shoulders and his ass up in the air like that. I want to fuck him from the front. This way I can see his face, you know.

He's looking at me just the way the other Ragheads are, staring even though he's making it feel so good for me. I want to lean down and put my lips where I can suck on his tongue some more but I can't I have too much bulky clothing on and anyway, I'd break him in half bending down on him like that. They're all looking at me, seeing me fucking his ass.

Why are they all looking like that, just watching?

My neck hurts from sleeping sitting up.

And then I realise that they like watching it. The thing is they are turned on watching it. All those Iraqis they've got hard-ons hard as mine watching me with one of their own guys. They really like it. They've got their own stiffies from watching the show.

And then I come.

I feel the Ron's gun slip a little further where it's resting on my foot. I'm creaming my shorts and I open my eyes with a gasp. It's plain dark. And there I am still sitting up there on the rock, hard under my butt. I'm still in my beetle suit, I've got my own M-15 nestled under the other arm, and I am just waking up. I was asleep. The aftershock shudders through me as if my cock were in the A-rab guy's ass. My shorts are full of hot spunk, they're going to be all crumbly and caked when it dries.

Oh, holy fuck. A wet dream.

So then I just sit there some more, for a long time more with my eyes open or closed it doesn't matter, but my neck hurting from sitting up stiff. Ron gives a snort where he's sleeping and we ought to all three be on duty, on guard with so many prisoners as this, but I know too, the guy has been sick so I don't tell him he has to stay awake. I don't think I sleep anymore.

Then it's daylight and Melvin goes, "Holy fuck, Homie, you're the one needs a corpsman." He's looking at my nosebleed. There are only twelve guys left to baby sit. Two of them are clean gone. I do a headcount and sure enough, two of the little pricks have snuck off on me in the dark. But I get them up, the sun isn't in our eyes yet and we get walking. There was like, some kind of a village a mile back, maybe it was a coffee bar. But I know it's got buildings left, so I can get the Iraqi guys inside, in the shade before the sun comes up, out of sight until I know what I'm doing.

I'm the guy that goes point, so I leave Ron and Melvin behind me, and the Iraqi guys between them, coming along slowly. But I don't know what I'm going to find at the village, if it's gonna be Iraqi soldiers, or civilians, or American, or nobody. So I get one of the Iraqi guys to walk along with me. That way, who ever is there might –might hesitate before they open fire, either not wanta hit him or not wanta hit me. But there's nobody there, not even any dead and we hang out in the village.

I'm playing games with company. I tell them, what, yeah, we're by the big rock... no it's not such a big rock. It's a brown rock, right... no I don't see you. Where did you say you were? Oh, fuck no, didn't I say I was nowhere near the road? And meanwhile I've got Ron stumping along headed up to Company. This time I'm sending him back instead of Melvin. And he's gonna call me when he gets there, let me know if they've got a stockade set up, see if they're still shitting themselves after the casualties yesterday.

I figure, like, I just have to hang out, maybe two hours, maybe six hours, not so long, just until they have their shit together and it's safe to bring my Ragheads in. I'm delaying a bit. By now all the Abduls are looking pretty forlorn. They are looking at me, kind of anxious. Every time I take two steps all those eyes swivel around, they're watching me. I'm thinking they want water again, something more to eat than the cookie bars. But we're all out of water; I made them drink it last night.

Melvin, he's like, for fuck's sake wash your fucking face. You're creeping me out, much less the prisoner-of-wars. You look like you're Friday the Thirteenth. But like I said the drinking water is all gone, I've got nothing to clean up with. I wipe my face, I scrub it, and I get crumbles on my hands and my sleeves. "Is that any better?" "No man, it's fucking worse. You look like you've been eating raw meat."

By now I'm lying right out when I talk to company. "We're all standing right here. We're on the road. Where the fuck are you? Can't see you anywhere!" I'm trying not to talk to company, because sure I'm gonna get my ass kicked for getting myself lost like this. So I switch off and take deep breaths. I am okay. Ron is going to call me from Company, any minute now, he's going to say there's a stockade up, it's alright to bring them in.

I look at the Ragheads. It's kind of interesting having a heap of guys like that, have to do what I say, but don't understand what I'm saying. I mean, I can feel the power, right? When I'm awake I don't think about break the Geneva Convention thing and raping any of their asses. That's not the way I think when I'm not asleep. I make some remarks about the guys. "I bet that one's got a fat wife at home, bet he wishes he was home, could have a big plateful of her lamb and millet." I said that about a skinny guy. "And I bet that one drives a taxi, when he's back home." "You, you maybe, what did you do, you were a plumber, as if there's any proper water system in this fucking flea-ridden country." There's one tall guy with a wrinkly forehead, looked something like a teacher I once had, only with a sunburn, like permanent brown, and I razz him the most, "I bet you dodge out of your Koran-study-group, you go hang out in a coffee bar when you're supposed to go down to the mosque." Like it's not dissing them so bad. I don't call them shit-licking assholes, I don't say nothing to them I wouldn't let somebody say to me. I just make jokes about them, talking to them and they smile weakly.

I go around talking and then, alright, what the fuck is this? One-two-three-four- twelve-thirteen-fourteen... The two fucking Iraqs that snuck off last night have snuck back in again. I can tell which two it is, they look so nervous, sitting there like they've never been anywhere. "You smart ass punks!" I'm standing over them. Playing fucking games with me, sneaking off. Think I don't see? And meanwhile I'm like how the fuck did I get on this side of the desk, because it's just like being back at fucking high school again, my teacher standing over me razing me out for cutting class. Only now I'm the teacher. I'm razing out the two dumb ass Iraqis, don't they know they could get killed? Like, stay where I tell you to stay and don't act like I'm dumb. I'll kick your fucking asses for you.

I'm getting a bit over it, like I can see the funny side, them surrendering and changing their minds and changing them back and sneaking back into captivity like that, I'm almost ready to laugh about it when I get another call and they're saying, like "We don't know where the fuck you are, but where ever you are stay down. There's like some Towel-heads for sure moving around the houses down south. Look like they're armed, maybe civilians. You better get behind some rock while we take care of it." And I'm like, "Uh, are you sure that's not us?" Because I'm thinking, shit, we are made, it's us down in the houses and they are going to shit on us. They've seen those two numb punks sneaking around getting back in here. Now I'm going to get killed, me and my Ragheads and Melvin. "Wait a fucking second here..." But they are gone.

Okay, I'm like, stay cool. I'm going to have to stop them. I'm going to go outside and stop `em before they open fire on us. I go outside. It's getting bright, even with my sun-goggles on. I'm standing up, tall as I can, visible as I can just waiting for them to shoot me. This is an American uniform. See it? They know I'm somewhere out there. Fuck, please, look before you start shooting this time.

But there's nobody out there, nobody at all. I'm looking up on the hill over the houses, it's not got even a fucking bird out there, just sun, brown baked ground, and that scrub grass, you couldn't hide a pack of cigarettes behind it, much less a half dozen MP's and a vehicle. I stand out there and I look about. It's too fucking quiet... Maybe they are behind the houses, the other way.

But then Ron calls me, and he says, "Yeah, I'm back, everything is cool, man. It is cool here. You understand? Homie, you can come home." So I know they got a stockade, I know it's alright, I can bring my Ragheads in. But at the same time I can see something is moving, down behind the other four houses. There is a vehicle and it is not one of our vehicles. There is someone down there, maybe the civilians are coming back trying to see what's left of their houses, one with a roof down and two of them with burn marks in the windows.

Now, I don't know if those civilians have guns or not, like the MP's think they do. I do know they are about to get a big shock when the shooting starts and I do know I am too fucking close to where the shooting is about to be. So I go into the house and I start sending the Iraqis out of it. These guys, they do not want to go. They are holding their hands up over their heads and talking slow at me, "Ali-biya-alla-bi-milla-golla." "Yeah, uh-huh, Get moving." "Bismillah-mill-allah-halliah-sed." "Haul your tail, Raghead. I mean it. We are moving." Melvin is striding along ahead and I am shoving at the last ones. They hold their hands up. "Go. Fuck! GO!" They are moving too slow. So then I'm shoving them, I'm pointing the weapon at them again. I start kicking Iraqi asses. "Run you asshole! Faster! For the love of Allah, GO!"

Then KIEW! KIEW! Whiiiiiingg! Shots are cracking out behind us. "Not so fucking fast, Assholes!" They are running like fuck, all I can see is their feet kicking up dust behind, they are bolting up the hill and I am coming after them, a-humpity-clumpity, huff-huff-huff, running uphill. It's rifle fire, not American, yeah, the fucking Towel- heads had weapons alright. They are shooting at me. I don't know if they are shooting at my Ragheads or not, but my Ragheads must think so, because they are not waiting. It's two hundred yards up that hill, we make it in about thirty seconds, we are over the hill and slip-scuffing in the sand the other side, Fuck getting down, all my Abduls are lying in the dirt, peering up over their arms, flat, down the other side of the hill and Melvin is kneeling low holding his piece up, looking all around, wild. "I am fucking getting sick of being shot at."

There is another shot, KIEW! And I go, "This hill is not high enough to hide behind." So we are all running again, trying to get along further. That motherfucker with the rifle, I think there are really two of them. They are in the houses somewhere. I peer back. Could be a flash somewhere, come on show me a muzzle flash. Then fuck, KIEW! There is all this sand in my face from the bullet hitting the dirt real near me and I don't see the muzzle flash. I have to wait a bit more before I see it.

I lie on my gut, snorfling out blood, holding my gun rifle up. I know where he is. Melvin is leading our Ragheads back. I am sighting. And when he comes up I kill him. I wait just that one instant to see the colour and the colour is white, it's a civilian with a gun. I bust a cap in him. One shot. I know I hit him but I can't see him after he goes down.

Then there is automatic fire way down, back at the first houses, Ch-hhh-hhh, it sounds like chewing when it is hitting wood in a house. I know the guys that have come up with the MP's are firing. They are clearing out the houses before they come through them. The asshole is between us. I want to get on the radio and let them know it is me up on the hill here, but I keep lying flat. Someone is howling, like a little dog, wow-wow- oww, up behind me. I know someone behind me has been hit, unless they have gone weenie from panic. I know it could be Melvin. That is the only reason I look around behind me, in case it is Melvin doing the wowing, and the Iraqi guys could be coming back to jump on my ass. But it is one of my Iraqi guys stretched out and the dirt is red under him. His heels go kick-kick. Melvin is way up and back still running and the other Iraqi guys are running too. They are not good targets by then.

It is only a few minutes more before the guys with the MP's have all the buildings down there covered. They shit on the buildings so hard the walls cave in between the window frames. By the time they come to me I am sitting on the hill poking shell dressings into the Iraqi guy's shoulder. It is like raw pork. They tell me the corpsman will be here in five minutes, can I hang on?

I say yeah, and when I get up one of them pokes me in the chest, real hard and makes me sit down again. "Hey, fuck off." "You sit down while you wait for the corpsman." "I don't need a corpsman, it's him." "Yeah, you're hit. You got blood on you." I'm like, "I am not hit." He goes, "You are." "It's nothing but a fucking nosebleed." "Sit DOWN." I am feeling something dizzy, like a funny kind of a buzz on. Just for a few minutes I think Jesus, could I be hit? Like I am just a small bit out of it. Right until the corpsmen are there, and one is working on the Iraqi guy, and one guy has my helmet off and has poked all down my front the Sergeant still thinks I have a wound. The corpsman says no.

"I told you it was a nosebleed." I get up. "But you got to have a transfusion." That's the corpsman. "Are you nuts?" That's me. "Your blood pressure is way down." I've got like a quart of blood maybe a bit more than that down my front, all from a fucking nosebleed. I won't let him put a bag on my arm, but they want me to take a ride back, leaning back in the seat. I gotta sit up. I'm looking around trying to see my Iraqi guys, make sure they're all there. I count them; make sure there's thirteen more guys.

The Sergeant is, like, "How come you got fourteen prisoners? You told me you had maybe only four or five left." I'm like, "Well I lied. I'm not shooting nobody after I capture him." He's like, "You are fucking brainless." Most likely he's right. Melvin is looking all hot and mean; he's pissed off at me. "We coulda got killed, dumb ass." "Well, we didn't."

So they have the truck come up for the Iraqi guys, and they're giving them water, ready to put them on the truck when my transport is ready. My Ragheads are standing all together, drinking their water, looking at me while they get me in the transport. I'm okay. I'm just like the littlest bit dizzy. They're all still watching me, like they were before. I don't know why it's me they're looking at again, not Melvin. And I don't know how to say anything to them.

"They're going to a stockade, right?" "Yeah." The sergeant is confused. "Of course they're going to a stockade." "You're sure? You wouldn't bullshit me?" "Yeah, that's my job. Whaddya think, I'd let them go?" "No, I don't wantya to shoot them." "Hey, fuck! We won't. We don't do that." "Yeah, well you better be sure." So then they drive me off and I don't see my prisoners no more.