“It’s the damnedest thing, sir. Sometimes I feel the fingers. Like they’re still there.”
“Your trigger finger, too. And your joker-poker.”
“They’re the fingers that hold a guitar pick against your thumb. That’s what really pisses me off.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Bratty made a same-old-shit-for-breakfast face. “I’ll learn to play with my toes or something. The Jihadis are
“I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that, though. No matter how I cut it, I sent them out like sheep to the slaughter.”
“Sheep are meant to be slaughtered,” Bratty said. “The point is not to be a sheep. Look, sir. We’re all tired. And we’re all pissed. And we’ve drawn about the shittiest duty in this war so far, babysitting Arabs every soldier in this outfit would like to double-tap. And while we’re on the subject, I was amazed you didn’t deck that smart-ass Ranger major when he reported in. I’ll bet he’s a closet fag who drives a Volvo.”
“In his position, I would’ve been pissed off, too. This isn’t exactly a Ranger mission.”
“Well, he needs to suck it up. And I need you to buck up, sir. Don’t do this self-pity riff on me — because that’s what it sounds like, to tell you the truth. We can get right with our consciences later. You get any sleep?”
“Couple of hours.”
“How’s that coffee?”
“Bad beyond belief.”
“Glad to hear it. Wouldn’t want to think Sergeant Kiefer was losing his touch.”
“I’m going to shave and make the rounds. Want to come along?”
“I’d better stay here, sir. ‘At the still center of the turning world’.”
“That from one of the songs you wrote?”
The S-1 NCOIC approached the command vehicle.
“What now, Sergeant Yannis?” Bratty asked.
“Morning, sir… Sergeant Major. Sergeant Major, did you know the water’s still on? In the buildings? No shit. There’s still water coming through the pipes. With plenty of pressure.”
“I told everybody to stay out of the buildings. Let the rags alone.”
“The buildings are empty around here. The rags all took off. Back when they nailed up our guys, I’d bet.”
“I still don’t want anybody going on souvenir hunts.”
“Nobody’s stealing anything, Sergeant Major. There’s no looting or nothing.” The sergeant glanced at the battalion commander, then looked back at Bratty. “I just thought that, since it looks like we’re going to be stuck here for a while, maybe we could rotate people through for showers.”
“Showers?” Bratty cried, going into one of his favorite routines. “Jesus Christ! You’re just starting to smell like soldiers. I hear about any enlisted man in this battalion getting a shower before I personally hand him the soap, and he and his chain of command are going to wish they’d been captured by the J’s. Got that? You tell everybody in Hindquarters Company what I said.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.” The sergeant glanced at Cavanaugh again, then did an about-face and walked off. Radiating dejection like a disappointed kid.
“Fucking clerks,” Bratty said. “This is a goddamned Infantry battalion.”
“Why won’t you let them take showers? Just curious.”
Bratty looked at the battalion commander. “Sir, you’re a kick-ass officer. But you’d never make an NCO.”
“And why’s that?”
“You don’t think the right way. Look. All our grungies are going through a cold-turkey withdrawal after being in the fight for a couple of days. After the high comes the crash. They don’t know what they want, exactly, but tired as they are, they hear the fighting over that ridge, and it’s like laying down a scent in front of a pack of hounds. Makes them want to kill people and bust stuff. And right now, the closest people to hand that might be available for killing are the local yokels. Who, in the soldiers’ minds, are responsible for yesterday’s crucifixion scene. Under the circumstances, the task of a battalion sergeant major is to redirect the negative energies.”
“Which means?”
“I’d rather have our soldiers pissed at me and griping because I won’t let them wash their nasty asses than have them eyeing the rags and twitching their trigger fingers. Better for them to bitch about the hard-ass, pigheaded, unreasonable sergeant major.”
“Thanks for sharing your trade secrets. You know, Frederick the Great believed that his soldiers needed to fear their officers more than they did the enemy. Wouldn’t work in our Army, of course.”
“Sir, I don’t want them to
The battalion command channel crackled to life. It was the Charlie Company commander, Jake Walker.
“Bayonet Six, we got trouble in River City.” He sounded out of breath.
“What’s the situation?”
“They’re bringing corpses out of the houses. All over the place. You should hear them hollering and screaming.”
“What kind of corpses? Military?”
“No. Civilians. Kids. Old men. Everybody.”
“How many? How many corpses?”
“I don’t know… dozens… hundreds. They must’ve died during the night. Can’t you hear the screaming?”
“Hold tight,” Cavanaugh said. “And don’t touch any of the bodies. Get your men under positive control. No physical contact with the corpses. Keep your distance. Shoot anybody who gets too close. I’m on my way. Out.”
Cavanaugh turned to the sergeant major. “Get Doc Culver. Wherever he is. We’ve got an epidemic on our hands.”
As the two men exited the command vehicle and stepped into the cool, bright morning, they saw a soldier stagger out of a house, clutching madly at his stomach, then at his throat, then at his lower abdomen. Before anyone could reach him, he toppled to the ground.
NINETEEN
“Just stay back,” Chief Warrant Officer Culver yelled. Lowering his voice, the physician’s assistant said, “You, too, sir. Let me figure this out.”
“He’s dead, Chief?”
“Yeah, he’s dead.
Doc Culver began stripping off the soldier’s uniform.
“Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves?” Pat Cavanaugh asked him.
“Yeah, but I’m not. If DeSantis here has anything that could kill him since I saw him doing pushups a half- hour ago, I’m already dead meat.”
He tore off uniform parts and undergarments, ripping them with his Buck knife. When the reinforced cloth resisted, Culver’s roughness increased. He didn’t want anyone to see that his hands were shaking.
Black flies settled on white flesh, scornful of attempts to shoo them.
“Who saw him last? Who was with him? What was he doing?
The dead soldier’s skin looked unblemished. Culver yanked down the trousers, looking for spots, glandular swelling, discoloration where it would mean something other than a combat bruise.
All he found was a heat rash, raw pink inside the soldier’s thighs. “What was he doing when he ran out of the house? Tell me again. Anybody who saw him.”
“Grabbing at himself. His gut, his throat,” Bratty said. The Command sergeant major surveyed the gawking
