Green on Blue by Elliot Ackerman

tools in the large plywood bins and crossed the firebase toward the barracks. When I arrived, it was empty. Everyone was at dinner. There were no plans for work that night, so I tookmy time cleaning up. When I went into the shower, I scrubbed my hands until the rims of my fingernails frayed beneath the hot water. Despite my scrubbing, grease still stained my steamed palms a faded black. I put on a fresh uniform and went to the mess hall. Walking alone under a shroud of night was a pleasure that surpassed a good meal.
    I took the long route so I might bump into Commander Sabir. I was anxious to hear when Taqbir would visit and perhaps bring some news of Ali. In the months since winter I hoped some of Ali’s strength had returned, that the hardships I endured allowed his suffering to ease in the hospital. I was also anxious to learn when we’d next travel to Gomal so I might see Fareeda again. It’d been some weeks since our last trip. Although my days were filled with soldier’s work, my thoughts never wandered far from my brother, or from her. When I thought of them, I thought of their suffering and felt a desperate need to save them. This became very tiring, and loving them was difficult, but then I wondered if it was possible to love something you weren’t trying to save.
    I crossed the helicopter landing zone and walked by the HESCO-walled barracks we stayed in as recruits. Our ranks wouldn’t be added to until winter. There was no time in the fighting season to train new soldiers. Naseeb now used the old barracks as a storage locker. A resupply flight had arrived while we were on patrol and pallets of rice, ammunition, and gasoline sat in the open. The cargo hadn’t made it into storage. It remained untouched by the overworked and tortured Naseeb, but with such sloppy accounting, it seemed little wonder our supplies had fallen into Gazan’s hands. It would be nothing to hide a couple bags of rice or a crate of ammunition in one of the binjos or trucks that passed out our front gate on business each day.
    At the far corner of the firebase, Mr. Jack had moved his truck fromthe motor pool and parked it next to the shack where he held his meetings. The moon reflected off the black HiLux, and inside the shack, Mr. Jack paced, his shadow crossing the lit doorway. The idea of the sandy-haired American in that room, scheming after his meeting with Atal, exhausted me.
    I entered the wide double doors of the mess hall and squinted against the glare inside. Naseeb still stood by the entrance. I got into line next to him. Most of the other soldiers had finished eating. They sat full and in a stupor on row after row of benches. The cooks spooned out my portion of greasy rice and sinewy beef and handed me an orange Fanta. I would’ve preferred to sit by myself, but Yar waved me over to where the rest of the squad took its meal.
    I joined them, but leaned into my food to avoid conversation and to continue my solitude and rest. Although not part of the Tomahawks, Qiam sat with us. Tawas had his arm draped over his brother’s shoulder. They exchanged rumors of the operations to come.
    Batoor has told the Comanches that we’ll avoid Gomal for a time, whispered Qiam. He says we’ll let the villagers see how they enjoy Gazan’s protection.
    What will we do instead of building the outpost? asked Mortaza.
    Batoor says we’ll set up checkpoints along the north road and starve the villagers to their senses, said Qiam. Then we’ll have our outpost.
    Yar kissed his teeth and spoke: We will do the checkpoints. This I’ve heard, but not to starve innocents. Through the checkpoints, we’ll find who’s been smuggling our supplies to Gazan.
    Everyone nodded at this idea.
    Maybe Atal was here today to discuss the checkpoints, I said.
    Yar fixed his gaze on me.
    Atal is no concern of ours, he replied. Some things are not for knowing and those who try become fools. Everyone nodded, not necessarilyin agreement, but in acknowledgment of