Princes of War by Claude Schmid

the footing treacherous.
    Kale stood up abruptly and looked at himself in a small wall mirror. His face resembled one of those you saw in paintings of American Indians: a large upright chin, wide prominent cheekbones, watchful green eyes, square shoulders and a narrow waist, and reddish-brown hair that looked as if its ends were burning when he stood in the sun. Fitness came easily to him. He had the metabolism of a furnace and never gained weight. Naturally reticent, he was the type of guy who talked less than others thought he should.
    “Textbook stuff, dude. You’re a damn fine soldier,” Cooke had said, slapping Kale on the helmet.
    That was two hours ago, and Kale’s spirits still soared. He loved compliments the way a dog loves attention.
    All his life Kale had felt as if he needed to prove something.
    Was Moose hungry for praise the same way? Something about Moose made him appear permanently satisfied, as if he didn’t seek praise from other men. Kale wanted that kind of independence.
    He thought again about what Cooke said, and how he’d said it. Maybe Kale did well today, but others had too. He certainly wasn’t one of the top soldiers. Guys like Moose were much better, Kale knew. Something calculating was in Cooke’s look. Was he giving genuine compliments, or was it something else?
    A feeling of being scrutinized flooded over Kale again. He understood why.
     
    4
     
    Specialist Juan Cuebas, one of the Wolfhound’s Soldiers, relaxed in the company orderly room staring gargoyle-like at nothing and everything. He was deciding whether to call home. His aunt would be anxious to hear from him. Even before Iraq, she had spent many an anxious hour worrying about him. As a little boy, he’d hide from her, once for a whole day, making her search everywhere, sometimes bringing her to tears. Cuebas had a distinctly primitive look—a mottled alligator-skin face and dull wet gray eyes, like raw oysters. His tight mouth and thin narrow lips intimated confidentiality and prudence, the look of a man holding secrets. Another side of him was pure jokester. He liked that side best.
    Cuebas was Puerto Rican. His remaining family still lived on the island. Both his parents had died before he started school, his father of cancer and his mother in a car accident two years later. His aunt had raised him while caring for her own three children. She became his surrogate mother and father. Her husband had died before Cuebas moved in. Life skills came from living; that’s what his aunt always said. Several of his relatives were combat veterans. His grandfather got wounded in the Korean War. Two uncles had served in Vietnam. One got a Purple Heart.
    Cuebas fondled the brass memory chain on his wrist, which was a gift from his aunt. His uncles’ names were stenciled on it.
    He joined the Army three years ago, immediately after graduating from high school. He left for basic training promising his aunt he’d write regularly. He never did. But he did call when he could. Since arriving in Iraq he’d developed the routine of calling her once a week. The calls were mostly one-way conversations; she did most of the talking. They lived in different worlds now. She asked him little. Her job was conveying to him the news of the island, keeping him connected to his home, and this she did meticulously, pausing to ask repetitive questions about his well-being but nothing more. It wasn’t her nature to be inquisitive.
    Cengo came into the room.
    “Ayeee. Hey Cengo,” Cuebas started most of his statements with “Ayeee,” a sound a man might make when he’s sipped scalding coffee.
    Cengo nodded, friendly but silent.
    Cuebas watched Cengo ready himself to leave the FOB. He got extra time off today, like the Americans. Cengo shed his American uniform and stowed it away, along with his helmet, boots, and body armor, in a footlocker inside the dayroom. Every day, like most of the other terps, Cengo arrived at the FOB and reported to work before