in recruiting took you in,” Cuebas jabbed.
“Shit,” Randell said.
“I was born a killer,” Halliburton protested. “They saw killer in my eyes when I walked in. Now I’m here. We need to get down to business in this place.” He hunched back over his food, leaning so low he looked worried someone would steal it.
“We, the few and the brave,” Mongrel offered, not sure if he had the line right.
“Shitttt,” Halliburton grunted, “that’s the Marines you thinking about. The few and the proud.”
“You’re thinking ‘home of the brave,’ Mongrel,” Cuebas said.
“Tell you one thing, I’d give my left nut to be the guy that puts a bullet in Bin Laden’s head.” Mongrel smirked and looked around, seeking praise.
Cuebas whistled to get their undivided attention, seeing a perfect opportunity to spring a trap.
To Mongrel, he said, “I’d give your left nut to blow away that bastard, too.”
All laughed. Cuebas picked up his tray and got up to leave.
“Eat me,” Mongrel replied.
Cuebas looked back. “What? Your boy, Halliburton, not making you happy anymore?”
Mongrel, flustered by Cuebas’ retort, dribbled bits of food out of his mouth.
Cuebas walked away, chuckling. Another score by an insult artist. He claimed victory if he left them sputtering.
After 9/11, Cuebas felt vindicated. He’d joined the Army just over a year before the attack. In the early days, he watched his fellow citizens’ surge of patriotism with a combination of amusement and a where-you-been-all-this-time bravado. Nonetheless, he didn’t begrudge those joining because of 9/11. It was an excellent reason. Yet in his way of thinking, they’d needed an extra push, a push that he didn’t require.
He of course wouldn’t deny he too got caught up in the post-attack patriotism. Everyone did. Even his aunt, and he’d never heard her say an angry word. She’d called Bin Laden El Cabrona. Son-of-a-Bitch. And the letters! Cuebas had received dozens of “thank you for your service” emails and letters, including from folks he didn’t remember. His aunt had distributed his address. One letter had come from his high school English teacher. He’d had a crush on her in school. She wrote to him as if he were a rock star or something, even calling him “hot stuff.” Once, four or five months after 9/11 while back in Puerto Rico on leave, he’d thought of looking her up with ideas of her thanking him in another way. He’d decided against that. The mass support made everyone feel proud to be a soldier.
But this was Iraq, not Afghanistan. Few thought they would be putting a bullet in Bin Laden’s head here. So why were they here? Cuebas didn’t need explanations. He wasn’t sure it mattered. The thing was, some Islamic bastards here were fighting us—just like those 9/11 terrorists did. Better here than back home. It made sense to him.
5
Wynn walked over to a new wooden picnic table under a grey tarpaulin near the FOB's mini shoppette. The outside heat sizzled. Even the bugs sought shade. He sat down, hoping for a bit of privacy. The rug and jewelry shop trailers were to his right. The barber shop further up, and beyond that the Burger King and Pizza Hut stands, arranged in trailers like vendors at a county fair. He had just gotten a haircut, and now planned to finish his weekly report for CPT Baumann. Wynn looked around. The FOB used massive quantities of wood. Where did it come from? Someone said that America shipped it in. As far as he knew, Iraq had no forests. New guard towers with four massive telephone pole corner supports. Bus stops. Outdoor furniture. Indoor shelving and partitions and desks. Army engineers were hard at construction, erecting new American-style things on top of the war-damaged Iraqi stuff. It made you think. But those were unimportant thoughts.
What was important for him was understanding this part of the world. Everybody asked the same questions: Do Iraqis want what we want? Can we
“Shit,” Randell said.
“I was born a killer,” Halliburton protested. “They saw killer in my eyes when I walked in. Now I’m here. We need to get down to business in this place.” He hunched back over his food, leaning so low he looked worried someone would steal it.
“We, the few and the brave,” Mongrel offered, not sure if he had the line right.
“Shitttt,” Halliburton grunted, “that’s the Marines you thinking about. The few and the proud.”
“You’re thinking ‘home of the brave,’ Mongrel,” Cuebas said.
“Tell you one thing, I’d give my left nut to be the guy that puts a bullet in Bin Laden’s head.” Mongrel smirked and looked around, seeking praise.
Cuebas whistled to get their undivided attention, seeing a perfect opportunity to spring a trap.
To Mongrel, he said, “I’d give your left nut to blow away that bastard, too.”
All laughed. Cuebas picked up his tray and got up to leave.
“Eat me,” Mongrel replied.
Cuebas looked back. “What? Your boy, Halliburton, not making you happy anymore?”
Mongrel, flustered by Cuebas’ retort, dribbled bits of food out of his mouth.
Cuebas walked away, chuckling. Another score by an insult artist. He claimed victory if he left them sputtering.
After 9/11, Cuebas felt vindicated. He’d joined the Army just over a year before the attack. In the early days, he watched his fellow citizens’ surge of patriotism with a combination of amusement and a where-you-been-all-this-time bravado. Nonetheless, he didn’t begrudge those joining because of 9/11. It was an excellent reason. Yet in his way of thinking, they’d needed an extra push, a push that he didn’t require.
He of course wouldn’t deny he too got caught up in the post-attack patriotism. Everyone did. Even his aunt, and he’d never heard her say an angry word. She’d called Bin Laden El Cabrona. Son-of-a-Bitch. And the letters! Cuebas had received dozens of “thank you for your service” emails and letters, including from folks he didn’t remember. His aunt had distributed his address. One letter had come from his high school English teacher. He’d had a crush on her in school. She wrote to him as if he were a rock star or something, even calling him “hot stuff.” Once, four or five months after 9/11 while back in Puerto Rico on leave, he’d thought of looking her up with ideas of her thanking him in another way. He’d decided against that. The mass support made everyone feel proud to be a soldier.
But this was Iraq, not Afghanistan. Few thought they would be putting a bullet in Bin Laden’s head here. So why were they here? Cuebas didn’t need explanations. He wasn’t sure it mattered. The thing was, some Islamic bastards here were fighting us—just like those 9/11 terrorists did. Better here than back home. It made sense to him.
5
Wynn walked over to a new wooden picnic table under a grey tarpaulin near the FOB's mini shoppette. The outside heat sizzled. Even the bugs sought shade. He sat down, hoping for a bit of privacy. The rug and jewelry shop trailers were to his right. The barber shop further up, and beyond that the Burger King and Pizza Hut stands, arranged in trailers like vendors at a county fair. He had just gotten a haircut, and now planned to finish his weekly report for CPT Baumann. Wynn looked around. The FOB used massive quantities of wood. Where did it come from? Someone said that America shipped it in. As far as he knew, Iraq had no forests. New guard towers with four massive telephone pole corner supports. Bus stops. Outdoor furniture. Indoor shelving and partitions and desks. Army engineers were hard at construction, erecting new American-style things on top of the war-damaged Iraqi stuff. It made you think. But those were unimportant thoughts.
What was important for him was understanding this part of the world. Everybody asked the same questions: Do Iraqis want what we want? Can we
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