the American patrols departed. At day’s end he would leave, unless an extended mission required staying on the FOB. The Wolfhounds controlled Cengo’s schedule.
After work, the only American-supplied thing Cengo regularly took home was his sunglasses.
He sat on the footlocker and put his sandals on. As an Iraqi Kurd, Cengo was—even before the war—a rebel inside his own country. The Kurds, about 15 percent of the Iraqi population, had fought the powers in Baghdad for centuries. More Kurds lived in the surrounding nations. Kurds were one of the largest ethnic groups in the world without a state to call their own.
Cuebas knew Cengo had a large family, but his mother’s family had been killed in one of Saddam’s chemical attacks on the Kurds. Second to Kurdistan, a country that did not yet officially exist, Cengo’s favorite country was America.
Cengo wanted to leave Iraq. Cuebas understood why. Cengo’s family didn’t have money. Now, as an interpreter he made $600 a month, royal wages in the local area. If he had a flaw, it was his hostility to the Arabs. The Arabs wouldn’t trust him. His accent made it impossible to hide his Kurdish origins. On the other hand, Cengo knew the area, knew who the important families were, and better detected dishonesty in conversations than the other terps. Two of those were older Americans, immigrants from other Middle Eastern countries. Two others were Iraqis, but their education level was low and their English barely passable. So the platoon felt blessed to have Cengo as their full-time terp.
“Wanna take some soft drinks with you?” Cuebas asked. “Put in your backpack?”
“No can do. Terrorists no like coke.”
“Ha. Ha. You don’t have to share them.”
“They no ask. If they want, they—take.”
“OK. Then we make a special coke for them. One that goes BOOM. Like what they do.”
“No. I go quick and be invisible.”
Be invisible was Cengo’s usual parting declaration. Cuebas hoped it would be true.
He walked over to Cuebas to say goodbye. As they shook hands, Cengo’s face turned serious.
“Sorry about Soldier killed today,” he said.
An hour later Cuebas was finishing dinner in the DFAC when he heard a familiar voice mention the Twin Towers. Curious, he looked over. A few seats away, Halliburton, a lanky Texan with a reputation for having the biggest and dirtiest mouth in the platoon, was talking to Moog, a knotty dark-skinned Asian-Hispanic from New Mexico whom the Wolfhounds called, “Mongrel Moog,” or just “Mongrel,” and Randell, a New Yorker with three lifetimes worth of acne and habit of making his finger knuckles pop like an Orchestra’s percussion practice.
Halliburton said, “When those two towers went down in flames, I knew what I had to do. I made up my mind that fucking day.” He bent forward over his plate and spooned up a mouthful of creamed corn. Mongrel Moog, tearing open a plastic packet of salad dressing, looked as if he wanted to respond, but thought better of it.
Everyone knew why everyone else had joined the Army. Or at least their claimed reasons. For most of the youngest guys, it was 9/11. Everybody defended their reasons 24/7. Pretending not to believe each other was a kind of game.
Mongrel, after scratching his crotch, spoke up. “I’d already made up my mind by then, but after 9/11, I didn’t have to worry no more about persuading my Mom. It was a done deal, dude. She never said another word.”
“Those Fuckers,” Halliburton continued, referring to the 9/11 attackers, shaking his head with disgust as he spooned up more corn. “Ain’t nobody in this man’s Army going to rest until we bury those bastards.”
“Sure better not,” Cuebas answered.
Mongrel and Halliburton, two of the youngest guys in the platoon, looked at Cuebas. Neither had noticed him until this point. Mongrel reached over and acknowledged him with a fist bump.
“You brothers are still wet behind the ears. Surprised the boys
After work, the only American-supplied thing Cengo regularly took home was his sunglasses.
He sat on the footlocker and put his sandals on. As an Iraqi Kurd, Cengo was—even before the war—a rebel inside his own country. The Kurds, about 15 percent of the Iraqi population, had fought the powers in Baghdad for centuries. More Kurds lived in the surrounding nations. Kurds were one of the largest ethnic groups in the world without a state to call their own.
Cuebas knew Cengo had a large family, but his mother’s family had been killed in one of Saddam’s chemical attacks on the Kurds. Second to Kurdistan, a country that did not yet officially exist, Cengo’s favorite country was America.
Cengo wanted to leave Iraq. Cuebas understood why. Cengo’s family didn’t have money. Now, as an interpreter he made $600 a month, royal wages in the local area. If he had a flaw, it was his hostility to the Arabs. The Arabs wouldn’t trust him. His accent made it impossible to hide his Kurdish origins. On the other hand, Cengo knew the area, knew who the important families were, and better detected dishonesty in conversations than the other terps. Two of those were older Americans, immigrants from other Middle Eastern countries. Two others were Iraqis, but their education level was low and their English barely passable. So the platoon felt blessed to have Cengo as their full-time terp.
“Wanna take some soft drinks with you?” Cuebas asked. “Put in your backpack?”
“No can do. Terrorists no like coke.”
“Ha. Ha. You don’t have to share them.”
“They no ask. If they want, they—take.”
“OK. Then we make a special coke for them. One that goes BOOM. Like what they do.”
“No. I go quick and be invisible.”
Be invisible was Cengo’s usual parting declaration. Cuebas hoped it would be true.
He walked over to Cuebas to say goodbye. As they shook hands, Cengo’s face turned serious.
“Sorry about Soldier killed today,” he said.
An hour later Cuebas was finishing dinner in the DFAC when he heard a familiar voice mention the Twin Towers. Curious, he looked over. A few seats away, Halliburton, a lanky Texan with a reputation for having the biggest and dirtiest mouth in the platoon, was talking to Moog, a knotty dark-skinned Asian-Hispanic from New Mexico whom the Wolfhounds called, “Mongrel Moog,” or just “Mongrel,” and Randell, a New Yorker with three lifetimes worth of acne and habit of making his finger knuckles pop like an Orchestra’s percussion practice.
Halliburton said, “When those two towers went down in flames, I knew what I had to do. I made up my mind that fucking day.” He bent forward over his plate and spooned up a mouthful of creamed corn. Mongrel Moog, tearing open a plastic packet of salad dressing, looked as if he wanted to respond, but thought better of it.
Everyone knew why everyone else had joined the Army. Or at least their claimed reasons. For most of the youngest guys, it was 9/11. Everybody defended their reasons 24/7. Pretending not to believe each other was a kind of game.
Mongrel, after scratching his crotch, spoke up. “I’d already made up my mind by then, but after 9/11, I didn’t have to worry no more about persuading my Mom. It was a done deal, dude. She never said another word.”
“Those Fuckers,” Halliburton continued, referring to the 9/11 attackers, shaking his head with disgust as he spooned up more corn. “Ain’t nobody in this man’s Army going to rest until we bury those bastards.”
“Sure better not,” Cuebas answered.
Mongrel and Halliburton, two of the youngest guys in the platoon, looked at Cuebas. Neither had noticed him until this point. Mongrel reached over and acknowledged him with a fist bump.
“You brothers are still wet behind the ears. Surprised the boys
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