Roman’s Website

Fiction Exerpt

(will be changed regularly)

     When the rumor struck that a patrol experienced that mysterious thing called contact, everybody wanted to know everything about it. We had only seen a little action in Afghanistan and everyone was curious how things would be different in Iraq. We’d been conducting a relief in place with parts of the Third Armored Cavalry Regiment, and the battalion’s squad and platoon leaders had been accompanying the cavalry guys on their patrols to get a feel for the place.
      Lieutenant Darby wanted to know everything about it too, but without appearing voyeuristic. He didn’t want to be like that. He heard one of the paratroopers involved was one of his old squad leaders, Staff Sergeant Dahlonega, and that no one got hurt – just some local.
     In the evening, the sweat dried on Darby’s skin. Darby could not get over the salty white powder that appeared on the backs of his hands and up his forearms, like dried sand. He rubbed off little trails as he walked to Bravo Company – he’d been a platoon leader there during Afghanistan and wanted to find Staff Sergeant Dahlonega.
     Dahlonega sat on his cot, cleaning his M-4. He had blonde – almost white – hair on his head and forearms, which had earned him the nickname Snow. His eye lashes were white too. He’d been a tough, intelligent and honest squad leader for Darby. Darby had learned a ton from him, and he tried to emulate his poise and candor. Snow was also a guy you could talk to. Together, Darby and Snow walked to the chow hall.
     The cooks had made great progress – tables, chairs, napkin holders, and a pair of fans spinning overhead. Darby and Snow ate t-ration beef stew, and canned mixed vegetables, peaches in heavy syrup, and Wonderbread. The cooler evening brought Darby’s appetite back, and when he finished the stew and vegetables and peaches and bread, he ate the cube of frosted white cake. Then he drank the last of his Kool-Aid.
     “There were three tracks, like this,” Snow explained, arranging the salt and pepper shakers, and indicating the third with his finger. “Bradley, one-one-three, Bradley. I was riding in the one-one-three. We were headed this way and all of a sudden a car sped past us,” he traced the path on the table, “and pulled over here, part-way up an overpass. It was, like, looking down at us, and we headed right for it. My sector of fire was here and I saw a guy jump out and put something on his shoulder. It was hard to tell exactly what it was. The sun was behind him, but to me it looked like a shoulder-fired weapon, and I thought – oh shit. I would have shot him myself,” Snow held an imaginary M-4 to his shoulder and made a motion with his thumb. “I was ready. I switched the selector lever to fire, and was getting a bead on the guy, but the tracks all split to either the side of the road, like a Herring bone formation, like this, and I couldn’t get a shot. I think the lieutenant got him, but if I had a shot I would have taken it.”
     Darby had read about soldiers in previous wars being reluctant to engage. Everyone in Afghanistan had sure seemed eager, but few got the opportunity, and Darby was glad Snow had been prepared to do the necessary thing.
     “It’s good someone got him,” Darby said.
     “Oh, you didn’t hear what happened. After we shot him, the cavalry guys just waited there. I don’t know. For backup maybe. I was like: this is crazy, we need to sweep across the objective. The guy might still be a threat. I told my track commander and he said that was standard procedure, which is pretty fucked up if it is. Tactically. You know? Those cavalry guys refused to leave their tracks, so I went with Sergeant Bragg. By ourselves. I told the gunner on my one-one-three to cover us, and we cleared the objective, just the two of us. That’s when I saw the guy, and my first thought was he doesn’t look Iraqi. He looks American. And then I saw this big video camera on the ground beside him, and my heart just sank.”
     Darby wondered if he would have had the confidence to doubt the cavalry patrol’s tactic, or the courage to act on those doubts.
     “That’s what he put up on his shoulder, a camera, but it looked like an R.P.G. launcher. I guess he saw our patrol, and he sped ahead to get some footage.”
     “What did you do?”
     “Well, he was still alive, but when I lifted him to find the wound, I heard him exhale, and it just sounded bad, like gurgling. Not gurgling. Rattling. Like pebbles in a tin can. And I saw his pupils were all dilated, like one of those Japanese cartoons. I was pretty sure he was gone, but you can’t just leave him if he’s still alive. I ran back to the tracks and told them what was there, and the medic came out with me and started treating the guy. I told the medic to keep working on him even if he’s gone, because it’ll keep everybody calm.”