catcher (âJust to give the ump some protection,â Brother Reeter said, only half joking). Samuel Lincoln was our star pitcher, but when he wasnât pitching he wiled away his time bored in the outfield, making comments to himself about the opposing teamâs batters that only Ralph Simonsen, whom he split the outfield with, and P. J. Holdeman, who played second base, could hear. Third base was covered by Truman Renolds, a tiny, quiet kid who heckled the batters with surprising meanness and who occasionally, when we were already down by a lot and sometimes when we werenât, missed incoming throws on purpose, letting the balls fly into the opposing teamâs bench and sending them diving. To round out the infield, our first baseman was a slightly olderkid named Honor Riley who wanted to be an Elder when he grew up, who we had to convince to be on the team so that we could field an almost full roster. Our only options after Samuel got exhausted on the mound was to end the game watching Truman throw his angry fastballs in the very general direction of the batters, or to watch Ralph loop the one pitch he knew how to throw (a fat curve) over and over again until Brother Reeter stormed out to the mound and told him that if he kept pitching like that even the apparition of Jesus Christ himself wouldnât be able to save his arm.
â¢
What do I remember?
John Hedis is lost on patrol. He hasnât meant to get lost, but there he is, in the alleyways and the narrow streets (that are indistinguishable, in parts, from alleyways), and he is lost. Only Reeter is there with him. Reeterâagainst the wishes of the unit, which is holed up in a building while they try to figure out where in the hell they lost Hedis along the wayâhas broken off on his own, because he thinks he knows where Hedis vanished from the group. He is sure that he saw that towering hulk of John Hedisâs body wandering, his big, dumb face distracted, slightly off route as they went through the big open square where the villagers were having their bazaar. Reeter is pretty sure John Hedis got flustered when that kid came up to him and tried to sell him the lighters with the picture of the planes crashing into the towers on them, and when John Hedis looked up, the line of his squad were nowhere to be seen.
Itâs not really John Hedisâs fault. Things have gotten pretty relaxed with their new assignment (not yet in Fallujah): just a small village, in the middle of nowhere, no real history of insurgent activity.This feels closer to what they were really qualified to do, as reserves: that is, to walk around with their weapons on safety and nod and smile at the Iraqis.
But then there is the chattering teeth of small arms fire, at once distant and close, and both Reeter and Hedis are now apart from the unitâa major screwup in standard operating procedureâand Reeter begins to run. He rounds the corner and there is John Hedis looking, bewildered, up at the towering wall of an apartment block above him. And there is more small arms fire, and then the muffled concussion of a grenade going off, somewhere back in the direction where the rest of the men are.
Reeter grabs Hedis by the equipment harness and pulls him into the nearest doorway. They collapse to the floor behind some tables and as the dim light resolves, they see they are in, of all places, a bakery. Flour hangs in the air, coats their faces, their arms. Reeter does not think it is a good idea to go back to where the other men are engaged with the insurgents, by the sound of it. The back-and-forth reports go on and on. How terrified they are, in the bakery listening to the destruction outside, half-expecting the walls to come crashing down on them. Afternoon stretches into dusk, then evening, then night.
Reeter wakes Hedis up by shaking him, whispers that itâs time to go. Together, they make their way slowly through the streets back toward the building the
â¢
What do I remember?
John Hedis is lost on patrol. He hasnât meant to get lost, but there he is, in the alleyways and the narrow streets (that are indistinguishable, in parts, from alleyways), and he is lost. Only Reeter is there with him. Reeterâagainst the wishes of the unit, which is holed up in a building while they try to figure out where in the hell they lost Hedis along the wayâhas broken off on his own, because he thinks he knows where Hedis vanished from the group. He is sure that he saw that towering hulk of John Hedisâs body wandering, his big, dumb face distracted, slightly off route as they went through the big open square where the villagers were having their bazaar. Reeter is pretty sure John Hedis got flustered when that kid came up to him and tried to sell him the lighters with the picture of the planes crashing into the towers on them, and when John Hedis looked up, the line of his squad were nowhere to be seen.
Itâs not really John Hedisâs fault. Things have gotten pretty relaxed with their new assignment (not yet in Fallujah): just a small village, in the middle of nowhere, no real history of insurgent activity.This feels closer to what they were really qualified to do, as reserves: that is, to walk around with their weapons on safety and nod and smile at the Iraqis.
But then there is the chattering teeth of small arms fire, at once distant and close, and both Reeter and Hedis are now apart from the unitâa major screwup in standard operating procedureâand Reeter begins to run. He rounds the corner and there is John Hedis looking, bewildered, up at the towering wall of an apartment block above him. And there is more small arms fire, and then the muffled concussion of a grenade going off, somewhere back in the direction where the rest of the men are.
Reeter grabs Hedis by the equipment harness and pulls him into the nearest doorway. They collapse to the floor behind some tables and as the dim light resolves, they see they are in, of all places, a bakery. Flour hangs in the air, coats their faces, their arms. Reeter does not think it is a good idea to go back to where the other men are engaged with the insurgents, by the sound of it. The back-and-forth reports go on and on. How terrified they are, in the bakery listening to the destruction outside, half-expecting the walls to come crashing down on them. Afternoon stretches into dusk, then evening, then night.
Reeter wakes Hedis up by shaking him, whispers that itâs time to go. Together, they make their way slowly through the streets back toward the building the
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