Youngblood by Matt Gallagher

I asked if any of their sons had been killed in the war, but they all said no. Haitham wouldn’t pick up his phone, and we found his hut abandoned and empty. And the tension between Chambers and me simmered like a mortar round left in the sun too long. He resisted counterinsurgency-related missions and instructions, spending free time planning raids and training the joes accordingly. I responded by relaying orders through Sipe or the other squad leaders.
    The morning of May Day, we passed under the stone arch and the image of the cleric. The sky was blue and clear. In the lead, my vehicle kicked up drapes of sand until we reached Route Madison and its pavement, paid for by the American taxpayer through a contract awarded to the local power tribe, the al-Badris. At least they finished this one, I thought. The water filtration project was still nothing but a collection of pipes and cement blocks on the banks of the canal. Local gossip claimed the Tamimi tribe was to be awarded that job, until they withdrew their offer after last-minute negotiations with the al-Badris.
    Corruption, I thought, warm desert wind enveloping my face. Bribery. Gross waste of government funds. Perhaps Iraq understands democracy after all.
    My heels ached after a week of foot patrols, two blisters filled with rich, cloudy pus. I’d pop them with a knife at Camp Independence, where twenty-four hours of hot showers, uninterrupted sleep, and non–Porta John shitting awaited.
    We passed small groups of Iraqis walking the other way on the roadsides, toward Ashuriyah. Most seemed to be older men and women,though there were some children and teenagers in their ranks. The men all wore black dishdasha s and the women black burqas, while the kids dressed in an array of Western-style clothing, glowing bright like sequins against the pious robes of their elders.
    I thought they were pilgrims going to the large Shi’a mosque in the north of town. It was Friday, the Muslim holy day.
    â€œNot quite, sir,” Hog said from the driver’s hole. “The terps said it’s to celebrate a battle Ali won back in the day. Shi’as love that dude.”
    â€œYeah?” Dominguez’s voice dripped with amusement. “Who’d he defeat?”
    â€œGlad you asked,” Hog said. I didn’t need to see the wide smile on his face to know it was there. “She was important.” He went on to tell us about Aisha, the Prophet’s widow, and how her forces fought Ali at the Battle of the Camel, because of course it’d be called the Battle of the Camel.
    â€œA woman went crazy after her man died, and started a war over it,” Dominguez said. “She wasn’t a chicana?”
    A female voice filled our ears. “Emergency,” it said, the words soft as fog but demanding. “Exit the vehicle immediately, exit the vehicle immediately.”
    Everyone laughed. Hog had pressed the emergency button on the control panel. Many of the joes swore that they’d track down the body that belonged to the voice, to marry her, no matter what she looked like, no matter how old. I wondered how much money and research had gone into determining that young soldiers responded to feminine persuasion.
    A short, staccato cough of machine gun fire ripped across the desert. I felt my stomach clench up.
    â€œThat’s straight ahead,” I said.
    â€œRoger,” Dominguez said. “First platoon’s at Checkpoint Thirty-Eight.”
    The radio raged hot. Officers as far north as the canal and as far east as the highway demanded to know what sort of battle had interruptedthe war, and why. I turned off the radio and ordered the platoon to stop at the checkpoint.
    We arrived two minutes later. The ramp dropped. A white car down the road lay like a squashed slug, strangely two-dimensional under the sun. Doc Cork and others jogged ahead to where a crowd of locals was gathering, but I stayed put to look at the car straight. A