the experience. Indeed, having the experience and recording it for others were his sole reasons for being there. He couldn’t shut down and get on with whatever task the sergeant or corporals assigned him. He played his part by opening up his senses to the madness of battle, letting it burn its terrors and banalities directly onto his cortex.
He savoured the taste of the dust in his mouth, the gritty, choking, dog-shit and tangy metallic diesel flavour of it. He noted the struggle of a green bejewelled bug caught in a wad of gum, stuck to the side of Alcibiades’s boot; tried to freeze in his memory the smell of the man next to him, a cloying miasma of body odour, stale farts and wintergreen Skoal chewing tobacco. He studied the contours of the street, the way the ancient biscuit-coloured buildings snaked away, slightly uphill. The yellow-green, foul-smelling stream of raw sewage and trash that flowed down-slope towards him. The soldiers themselves – some cool and frosty, others sweating but focused, most of them scared out of their minds.
Lieutenant Euler took shelter behind a pockmarked stone pillar, which may well have stood on the same spot since the time of Mohammed. He was on the radio with a map in his hand, looking at something Melton couldn’t see. The radio operator kept security, his carbine traversing along the rooftops, looking for snipers, RPG gunners or any other Iraqi in desperate need of a new weeping asshole in the middle of his forehead.
Bo Jaanson was doing the standard shoot, move and communicate drill, moving the soldiers, infantry and cavalry both, around the restricted battle space of the narrow street like a brutal chess master. Some soldiers would balk, while others would execute on command. With some, Jaanson calmed them with a pat on the shoulder and a few fatherly words, the way one would handle a terrified horse. With others, it was a boot imprint on the ass. Melton couldn’t help but smile, having been there himself.
He saw a bird, swooping up and away to escape the sudden eruption of slaughter, suddenly fly apart in a spray of feather and blood as some stray round punched right through its frail body. The remains dropped into the dust, raising a small puff of dirt, and the body twitched for a few seconds as dumb electrical storms raged through its shattered nervous system.
Alcibiades saw it too. ‘Fuck me, man. Not safe for man or beast in this motherfucker. I say call in Air and let them fucking hammer this place back to the Stone Age.’
‘Hooah,’ Melton said before he could stop himself. He tapped Al on the shoulder. ‘Got any dip, Specialist?’
Alcibiades pulled a can from his hip pocket. ‘Got a whole log before we left. I’m about half through it, so you’d better make me look good. Hooah?’
Melton took the can of Skoal and nodded. ‘Hooah, Specialist. Fucking hooah.’
The dip in his mouth and the can returned to Alcibiades, he tried to lock himself down on reality. But no matter how hard he tried to anchor himself in the real world, time always seemed to warp and stretch before snapping back on these moments, almost as though it too had become an actor in the conflict, constantly turning and folding in on itself to better examine the deeds of the frail, ridiculous little creatures who raged through its currents. It may have been four minutes or many hours before the Apaches arrived overhead and announced themselves with a
‘Apaches will do,’ croaked Alcibiades. ‘I feel like dancing every time they play my tune. Sing it, fuckers!’
Melton stayed down, rub-fucking the ground, as the fire from the soldiers of the Rock of the Marne tapered off. For a brief interlude, silence as heavy as an old coat lay over them. Then he heard the crunch of boots moving across broken masonry, through the ringing in his ears. The rattle of equipment as men darted forward. The metallic click and slide of a mag being swapped out.
Slowly, carefully, he raised his head over the cover. Their concrete beam had been badly chewed over by gunfire. Pockmarks and dark scores pitted and scarred the surface. One rusted spike of rebar glistened in the sun, a silver fang sliced out of its dull, reddish length by the impact of a single bullet. Melton let his peripheral vision take over for a second, scanning for any movement that would indicate the presence of a lingering threat. Perhaps a window pushed open to accommodate the barrel of a sniper’s rifle. Or a door creaking backwards into a darkened hut, from whence some maniac in a dynamite vest might emerge shouting ‘Saddam is great!’ before detonating himself. But there was nothing. The Apaches had cleaned up the ambush, and probably a fair number of unlucky innocents as well.
Alcibiades arose beside him like an apparition, the muzzle of his rifle sweeping through a narrow arc in front of them, covering the men who were scoping out the rubble under which their attackers had died. Melton waited for the call of ‘Medic!’
It never came. Whatever injuries the troopers had taken did not require immediate intervention. He kept his personal weapon to hand but consciously dialled back on the tension compressing his whole body into an impacted mass of nerve endings. They’d survived another one. The brigade and most of the 3rd Infantry Division had been remarkably lucky so far. Fewer than fifty KIA after days of fighting, and all of them lost in close-quarter battles like this one. Out on the desert plains, where they’d first engaged the Iraqis, it had been a pure slaughter of the foe. Nobody had any idea of the enemy’s casualties, but in this sector alone it had run into the thousands. Perhaps more than ten thousand by now.
Lieutenant Leo Euler appeared beside him, handing back a receiver to his radio operator. ‘D’you get all that, sir?’ he asked the reporter. ‘Gotta keep the folks at home informed.’
It was an attempt at light banter, but the young officer’s eyes were too tired and far away to carry it off. ‘Sleep when you are dead’ became a soldier’s unofficial motto.
Bret Melton nodded absently and spat onto the ground, the nicotine slowly infiltrating his wired nervous system. ‘Any casualties, Lieutenant?’ he said.
Euler shook his head. ‘Nothing serious. No sucking chest wounds or lost limbs, so I’ll count myself a happy man. Worthless Fedayeen fucktards. Sometimes I think they shoot high and wide, praying to get fucking captured.’
Saddam’s volunteer militia had borne the brunt of the fighting in the crossroads towns and although they’d handed out some grief here and there, as a fighting force they seemed to be tasked with holding up the Coalition forces and making them ‘waste’ ammunition and lives. The Coalition didn’t have the troops to provide POW facilities so without an order per se, the higher-ups let it be known that there would be no quarter. Some units in 3rd ID had taken up the old practice of flying a black flag from an antenna. It didn’t take long for the Iraqis to figure out what that meant.
As a tactic, Melton had to admit that sending your worthless troops forward as bullet-catchers made some sense. Everyone knew they weren’t pushing on to Baghdad now, that’d be insane. The British and US forces
