for a moment, he put these two dismembered guys on polished metal tables in a well-lit morgue. He pictured them naked and washed, wounds exposed and visible. Imagining this, he recreated all the details of their destruction.
Then Moose remembered a 10-year-old kid who had his left hand blown off when a mortar round that he’d carried home to show his father exploded. The father was unhurt. He carried the boy to the Wolfhound convoy to seek aid.
And there was Ramirez, and the two Civil Affairs soldiers.
Moose reached forward and stroked the big .50 cal.
D24 hit a sharp bump on the road.
“I’m still here!” Moose yelped.
“Ayeee, yep. Passed your flying lessons. Been there. Done that,” rejoined Cuebas.
“You didn’t pass, buddy.”
“The hell I didn’t. The next time we come to a bumpy area, I’m undoing your harness. Let you fly out and join Hajji on a pilgrimage.”
“You might get away with it, Mex. You could sneak daylight by a rooster.”
“Ayeee. Not a Mex. I’m Puerto Rican.”
“I’m the Mex, and I like to party,” said Ortiz, D24’s driver.
“Drop the bullshit,” Cooke ordered.
“Slowing down,” Turnbeck reported. “More congestion ahead.”
“Fucking move,” Ortiz said. “Geeeet out of the way!” The car driver couldn’t hear this, but he finally crawled to the side of the road.
“Sometimes we must scare these people shitless,” Moose said, after a pause.
A car that looked like a taxi came down the wrong side of the street.
“You idiot.”
“We’re smart and we’re doing it.”
The Wolfhounds jumped the street median and drove against the civilian traffic. The oncoming cars pulled hurriedly to the side. A man and three children rushed across the street. He grasped two of the children’s hands as if he were afraid he might lose them. One was a girl, maybe 12 or 13 years old. The other two were boys, perhaps between six and nine. All wore filthy clothing, clothing probably worn for weeks.
The Wolfhounds approached a bridge.
“Slow mover on the overpass. Left to right,” Turnbeck reported.
“And right to left,” someone called out, as a second vehicle drove onto the overpass, going in the other direction.
The first car was almost directly above them on the overpass as D22 drove under it.
Seconds later, as D24 drove under, Moose remembered a story he had heard about a VBIED detonating on a bridge and blowing it up.
The platoon merged on a wider highway, and traffic became lighter. A cart full of propane tanks stood on the left side of the road up ahead—a man, probably the dealer, standing beside it.
“Propane. Exactly what I love,” said Moose, as the convoy passed.
The tanks, rusty and beaten up, looked as if they had been hauled out of a landfill somewhere. Propane tanks had been used in bomb attacks. The Iraqis used propane for kitchen cooking.
More road bumps, this time potholes. The road looked carpet bombed.
Moose noticed several cots on the roof of one house. In hot weather, some Iraqis slept outside on their roofs. Most neighborhoods had no air conditioners.
“Red stationary vehicle. Single occupant,” reported Turnbeck.
Seconds later, he said, “No problem. Think it’s a woman. It is a woman.”
Two mules strolled off the right median, a large brown one and a smaller white one.
“Rather see horses,” said Lee.
“We ought to make soldiers out of them,” Moose suggested.
“Looks like you and your girlfriend,” Cuebas ribbed Moose.
“Fuck you.”
Ahead, the convoy was channeled by curbs on the side of the road and a concrete median.
“New palm trees in the median.”
“Ayeee. They need water,” Cuebas said, mournfully. “Maybe a gift from Puerto Rican taxpayers.”
“The whole country needs water,” Ortiz said. “Let’s spit on them.”
“Be quiet. Here we go,” Cooke said, as more traffic coalesced.
“Obstacle ahead,” Turnbeck reported.
Someone had pulled a big piece of bent metal out on the street to
Then Moose remembered a 10-year-old kid who had his left hand blown off when a mortar round that he’d carried home to show his father exploded. The father was unhurt. He carried the boy to the Wolfhound convoy to seek aid.
And there was Ramirez, and the two Civil Affairs soldiers.
Moose reached forward and stroked the big .50 cal.
D24 hit a sharp bump on the road.
“I’m still here!” Moose yelped.
“Ayeee, yep. Passed your flying lessons. Been there. Done that,” rejoined Cuebas.
“You didn’t pass, buddy.”
“The hell I didn’t. The next time we come to a bumpy area, I’m undoing your harness. Let you fly out and join Hajji on a pilgrimage.”
“You might get away with it, Mex. You could sneak daylight by a rooster.”
“Ayeee. Not a Mex. I’m Puerto Rican.”
“I’m the Mex, and I like to party,” said Ortiz, D24’s driver.
“Drop the bullshit,” Cooke ordered.
“Slowing down,” Turnbeck reported. “More congestion ahead.”
“Fucking move,” Ortiz said. “Geeeet out of the way!” The car driver couldn’t hear this, but he finally crawled to the side of the road.
“Sometimes we must scare these people shitless,” Moose said, after a pause.
A car that looked like a taxi came down the wrong side of the street.
“You idiot.”
“We’re smart and we’re doing it.”
The Wolfhounds jumped the street median and drove against the civilian traffic. The oncoming cars pulled hurriedly to the side. A man and three children rushed across the street. He grasped two of the children’s hands as if he were afraid he might lose them. One was a girl, maybe 12 or 13 years old. The other two were boys, perhaps between six and nine. All wore filthy clothing, clothing probably worn for weeks.
The Wolfhounds approached a bridge.
“Slow mover on the overpass. Left to right,” Turnbeck reported.
“And right to left,” someone called out, as a second vehicle drove onto the overpass, going in the other direction.
The first car was almost directly above them on the overpass as D22 drove under it.
Seconds later, as D24 drove under, Moose remembered a story he had heard about a VBIED detonating on a bridge and blowing it up.
The platoon merged on a wider highway, and traffic became lighter. A cart full of propane tanks stood on the left side of the road up ahead—a man, probably the dealer, standing beside it.
“Propane. Exactly what I love,” said Moose, as the convoy passed.
The tanks, rusty and beaten up, looked as if they had been hauled out of a landfill somewhere. Propane tanks had been used in bomb attacks. The Iraqis used propane for kitchen cooking.
More road bumps, this time potholes. The road looked carpet bombed.
Moose noticed several cots on the roof of one house. In hot weather, some Iraqis slept outside on their roofs. Most neighborhoods had no air conditioners.
“Red stationary vehicle. Single occupant,” reported Turnbeck.
Seconds later, he said, “No problem. Think it’s a woman. It is a woman.”
Two mules strolled off the right median, a large brown one and a smaller white one.
“Rather see horses,” said Lee.
“We ought to make soldiers out of them,” Moose suggested.
“Looks like you and your girlfriend,” Cuebas ribbed Moose.
“Fuck you.”
Ahead, the convoy was channeled by curbs on the side of the road and a concrete median.
“New palm trees in the median.”
“Ayeee. They need water,” Cuebas said, mournfully. “Maybe a gift from Puerto Rican taxpayers.”
“The whole country needs water,” Ortiz said. “Let’s spit on them.”
“Be quiet. Here we go,” Cooke said, as more traffic coalesced.
“Obstacle ahead,” Turnbeck reported.
Someone had pulled a big piece of bent metal out on the street to
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