Sand Queen

Sand queen.

Helen Benedict.

[ PART ONE ].

CHECKPOINT.

Perhaps if she curls up very small, she wonat hurt anyone ever again.

[ KATE ].

ITaS THE BIGGEST frigging spider Iave ever seen in my life. From one hairy leg to the other, the whole thingas as long as my forearm. So I make sure itas dead first. Nudge it with the b.u.t.t of my rifle till it flips over, limp and sandy. Then I pick it up by a leg, haul it into the tent like a shopping bag and nail it to the pole beside the head of my cot, right under my crucifix. That should keep Macktruck quiet, at least for the time being. Heas terrified of spiders. a.s.shole.

The whistling is loud outside the tent today; a creepy, skin-p.r.i.c.kling sound I can never get used to. The desert whistles all day and night out here. The hissing whistle of the wind cutting past your helmet. The moaning whistle of it winnowing through the razor wire. I stand under the hot canvas a moment, just listening. And then it hits me again, that deep-down ache that makes me want to curl up and cry.

aWhat the f.u.c.k are you doing, Brady?a Itas Will Rick-man, this bony young specialist in my squad with zitty skin and an Adamas apple twice the size of his brain.

I wipe my hands on my pants. aNothing.a Rickman steps closer and squints at my spider. aLook at that thing. Itas disgusting. Itas f.u.c.kina bleeding black ooze.a aDonat talk like that about Fuzzy.a Rickman raises his eyebrows. But all he says is, aLetas go, theyare waiting.a I pick up my rifle and follow him, sungla.s.ses over my eyes, scarf over my mouth. Ducking against the wind, the sand whipping my cheeks, I run to the Humvee and cram into the back behind the other guy in my team, DJ, and our squad leader, Staff Sergeant Kormick.

aWe got better things to do than wait while you powder your nose, Brady,a Kormick shouts to me over the wind, shoving the Humvee into gear with a grinding wrench. aDonat keep us waiting again. Got it?a aGot it, Sarant.a While we drive along the dirt road to the checkpoint, the guys shooting their usual bull, I gaze out the slit of a back window into the early morning light. Dirty gray sand stretches as far as I can see, blending so exactly with the dust-filled sky it obliterates the horizon. On either side of the road are rows of rectangular olive-drab tents, their roofs droopy and covered in dust. The ones on the left are for us, the ones on the right behind the loops of razor wire are for the prisoners. But other than that, thereas nothing out there but an endless gray blur. And a tree.

I like that tree, standing outside the wire all by itself in the middle of the desert. I call it Marvin. I spend so many hours staring at Marvin that I know every twist of his wiry little branches, every pinpoint of his needle leaves. I talk to him sometimes, compare notes on how weare doing.

We rattle along for twenty minutes or so, while I sit in a daze, too tired to line up my thoughts in any kind of an order. We work twelve-to-fifteen-hour shifts, and even so I can never sleep. Itas too d.a.m.n hot and Iam sharing a tent with thirty-three snoring, farting members of the male s.e.x, not to mention the prisoners only a few meters away, chanting and screaming all night long.

As we near the checkpoint, the deep-down ache starts up again. I hate this.

Sure enough, there they are. Fifty or so civilians waiting outside the wire, baggy clothes flapping in the wind. Theyave been coming every day for weeks now, arriving at dawn to stand in the sun for hours without moving, like shrubs. Most of them are women. Mothers and sisters, wives and daughters looking for their men.

Kormick pulls the Humvee up to the checkpoint and we climb out. Hitching my rifle strap over my shoulder, I head for the wire with my team, sand blowing up my nose and down my throat, making me cough. G.o.d, what I would give for a breath of clear air, one that isnat filled with dust and the stink of burning s.h.i.t and diesel. Air like the air at home: clean, cool, mountain air.

aBrady!a Kormick yells after me, beckoning me back with a jerk of his head. aWhen you get over there tell the hajjis weall mail them a list soon. Then make aem f.u.c.k off.a aYes, Sarant.a aAnd Brady? Get a move on this time.a Iam not any slower than anybody else, but I do what he says. What list heas talking about, though, I have no idea. There isnat any list. And even if we did have one, how in Christas name am I supposed to tell these people, aWeall mail you a list of the prisonersa when we just bombed all their houses and mailboxes, tooa"if they even have mailboxes in Iraq?

When we drove through Basra on the way here from Kuwait in March, right after Shock and Awe started the war, it was flattened. Nothing but smoldering rubble. People living in lean-tos made of cardboard and sc.r.a.p. Garbage piled so high you couldnat see over it, making the worst G.o.d-d.a.m.n stink Iave ever smelled in my life. Corpses lying in the streets, smashed and gory, like those run-down deer on the highways at home, only with human faces. But Kormick always gives me the job of talking to these people. Heas got the idea that the sight of a female soldier will win hearts and minds. Weave just pulverized their towns, locked up their men and killed their kids, and one GI Jane with sand up her a.s.s is supposed to make it okay?

The minute I step in front of the checkpoint wire, the same old havoc begins: civilians shouldering each other to get near me, waving photographs and screeching. A checkpoint is supposed to be secure, but ours is nothing but a plywood shack no bigger than a garden shed, a rickety wooden tower, a razor-wire fence and a handful of badly trained reservists with guns. And sand, of course. Lots and lots of sand.

aImagine being on an empty beach looking out at the ocean,a I wrote to Tyler once. aNow take away the ocean and replace it with sand all the way to the end of the frigging world. Thatas where I am.a I miss Tyler so bad. The soapy smell of his hair, the warmth of his big body up against mine. And his eyesa"he has the prettiest eyes you ever saw. Cinnamon eyes. Weave been dating since eleventh grade, which is funny acause when I first met him I didnat like him at all. I was into cla.s.s clowns those days, show-offy bad boys, not quiet, nerdy types like Tyler McAllister, who mumbled and blushed whenever we talked. But then he invited me to see him play guitar and sing at a place called The Orange Dog, and I was so surprised that a geek like him even played guitar I said yes.

The Orange Dogas in Catskill and the closest thing to a music club we have in our corner of upstate New York, although it doesnat serve alcohol, which is the only reason my parents allowed me to go there at seventeen. I asked my best friend Robin to come with me because we made a good boy-hunting team: Robin tall and dark, with creamy skin and big brown eyes; me small and freckled, with frizzy red hair and eyes so light theyare almost no color at all. She picked me up in her rusty, third-hand Saturn and drove us the forty minutes south it takes to get to Catskill from Willowglen, our hometown. That was a big-deal expedition for us back then.

Soon as we walked into the club, I felt happy. It smelled of wood and beer (it had once been a bar), just like a music club should. On one side was a counter, where you could buy hippie things like carrot cake and iced mocha. Scattered around were ratty old couches and chairs that the owners probably rescued from the town dump. Colored lampshades hung low from the ceiling, making pools of soft light over the mismatched coffee tablesa"the place looked like a living room after itas been trashed at a party, which I thought was perfect. Robin bought us each a root beer, and we sank into a couple of stained red armchairs and stretched out our legs to admire our tight jeans and high-heel boots.

The club filled up pretty quick. Farm boys and local teenagers on the lookout for girls. A few boozy old men whoad probably stumbled in by mistake. Me and Robin smirked at each other. We were much more sophisticated than any of those folks. They were hicks. We, of course, werenat.

I had no idea what to expect from Tyler that night, if this was a date or if he was just collecting an audience. I didnat know a lot about boys yet, since Iave got no brothers and Iad never had a regular boyfriend. Every boy Iad tried dating had turned out to be either a two-timing dips.h.i.t or stunningly dumb.

So we sat there, Robin tall and graceful, me short and gingery, until they finally turned off the music and lights and shone a wobbly spotlight on a single high stool on the stage. Then Tyler walked on, looking way cooler than I ever imagined he could, with an acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder, a tight black T-shirt and long hair swinging into his eyes. He perched on the stool, like a million other singers have, I guess, his guitar on one knee, and I donat know why, but suddenly I was ridiculously nervous. I felt like Iad known him for years. Like the two of us had been waiting for this performance all our lives, working for it, building up to it. Like this was going to make him or break him and I really cared.

Later that night I found out that Tyler wasnat a geek at all. He was just in love with me.

That was two years ago, and a whole lot of s.h.i.tas happened since then. Tyleras in college now, back at home, studying music and playing gigs. And Iam stuck in the middle of this frigging desert, like Iave been for almost three months, surrounded by jabbering civilians and wondering what the f.u.c.k Iam doing here.

Soon this old couple pushes through the crowd and hustles up to me, the woman clutching her husbandas arm. They both look unbelievably ancient and withered. The woman is draped from head to toe in black, her cheeks lined with a million tiny cracks, her dark eyes watering under her wrinkly brow. The man is white-haired and knotty, with a tiny brown face like a walnut. Holding each other tight, they hobble up close, and thatas when they realize Iam a female. The usual snort of surprise, like Iam some clown the U.S. military shipped out for their entertainment. Then they try to press the advantage.

aLady, look,a the old man says in a garble that sounds vaguely like English, and his wife pushes a photo at me with a trembling hand. aMy son. He here? Does he live?a I look at it, not because Iam interested but because thatas my job. A wide-eyed Arab with a Saddam mustache, same as a million others. I nod like I know him and the old couple gets real excited. The woman even smiles, five teeth missing. Her whole wrinkly face is so full of hope that I have to turn away. We have seven thousand prisoners in this place and more coming in every day. How the h.e.l.l am I supposed to know anything from some c.r.a.ppy old snapshot?

aIf heas here, Iam sure heas safe,a I say.

aThank you, thank you lady soldier!a the old man answers, his voice quavering. That makes me feel bad.

aGo home now,a I tell him and the crowd. aWhen we have a list of the detainees weall let you know. But you gotta go now.a I wave my arms in a shooing motion.

Nothing changes. The civilians just keep pressing around me, hollering and shoving their G.o.dd.a.m.n photos into my face. I shouldnat even be here by myself in the middle of a bunch of locals like thisa"one of them could shoot my head off any second. I glance over my shoulder. Where the h.e.l.l is zit-face Rickman? Heas supposed to be my battle buddy, out here with me, watching my back. But no, heas over behind the wire, nice and safe, chewing the fat with PFC Bonaparte, popularly known as b.o.n.e.r. Iam alone. As usual.

aGIRL, WHY YOU balled-up in the bedclothes there? Come on out now, or Iall pull you out myself, like I did yesterday. You didnat like that, did you?a Yesterday? The soldier canat remember yesterday.

A wave of cold as the nurse pulls off the sheet. Wet gown bunched and p.i.s.s-stinky. Back throbbing.

aOh, honey. You had a rough night, huh? Come on, up you get and weall wash you nice and clean.a The nurse wraps her big arms around the soldier and drags her out of the hospital bed, wet and reeking.

The nurse and the soldier dancing the waltz of shame.

[ NAEMA ].

IT HAPPENED lAST night, while we were squeezed around my grandmotheras table eating supper. Only a week had pa.s.sed since we had fled the war and our home in Baghdad to take shelter in Grannyas village house near Umm Qasr, so we were still shaken and disoriented, and trying to work out how to make sense of our days.

aI want you two to keep up your studies while weare here,a Papa was saying to me and my little brother. aAnd no excuses.a aBut I left all my books behind, so I canat study,a Zaki replied, gripping the edge of the table while he teetered on the back legs of his chair. aIall help you protect the house instead, Papa.a My father smiled, the lamplight glancing off his thick gla.s.ses, and reached out to tousle my brotheras hair. aDonat be silly, my boy, youall study five hours a day. Then you can help me. And sit up before you break Grannyas chair.a Zaki ducked away from Papaas hand, but he obeyed. aMusicians donat need school,a he muttered, smoothing his hair carefully back into place over his brow. aWe are artists.a I laughed. Poor Zaki. Only thirteen and he thinks he has the talent to be a rock star. I can hear little evidence of it when he thumps away at his guitar. All he has are dreams. But we indulge him anyhow, for what is a child without dreams?

aNaema will tutor you,a Mama said firmly. She was bent over the table, her long back curved, serving her mother lentil soup. Granny Maryam is so old that most of her teeth are missing and her hands shake, so she has difficulty eating without spilling. aShe can keep you up on your English and science,a Mama continued. I am the English speaker in the family, my big talent, although Papa, too, can speak it quite well. We used to practice together by listening to the BBC.

aBut Naemaas a rotten teacher! Sheas always blowing up at me.a aDonat talk that way about your sister,a Granny scolded in her creaky voice. aWe must alla"a Furious voices outside. A pounding at the door, so violent it seemed about to knock down the house. aWhatas that?a Granny said, her eyes wide with fear.

aSoldiers!a I whispered. aAmericans!a aAll of you in the back room now!a Papa ordered.

aOpen up!a the soldiers bellowed, kicking the door so hard it strained on its hinges.

Before anyone could stop me, I ran and unbolted it. If I speak English to these Americans, I thought in my innocence, they will not hurt us.

aNaema, get back!a Papa shouted.

If only he had not! Perhaps then we would have remained calm and these terrible things would never have happened. But who can know? No, I cannot blame Papa.

The soldiers tore in, first one, then another, then a third. Hideous in their bulky uniforms, their faces obscured by goggles and helmets, their huge guns thrusting, voices roaring fury and insults. They pushed me aside as if I were nothing but air and rushed at my father. With a blow to his head, they knocked him to the ground.

aPapa!a Zaki shrieked. We all know how frail Papa is, how his legs were broken again and again by Saddamas torturers. How his heart almost burst with the pain.

One of the soldiers turned on Zaki then, little Zaki, not even tall enough to reach my chin and as thin as a reed, and kicked him in the stomach. He doubled over with a cry. They threw him facedown on the ground next to Papa.

aStop, please!a I begged in English. aHe is only a child!a But they did not hear me. I had no voice to them, no existence.

My mother clutched Granny, who was wailing, all her memories of Saddamas brutes flooding back, I am sure, those men who had stormed into her house just like this and dragged her husband to his death.

Two soldiers stamped their filthy boots down on the necks of Papa and Zaki, pushing their poor faces into the floor. Then they bound their hands behind their backs and pulled those horrible pointed hoods over their heads. I could hear Papa choking and Zaki whimpering in terror.

aStop!a I cried again. aThis is a child, my father is sick. They will suffocate! Please!a aShut up!a a soldier barked at me, and he pushed me so hard into Mama and Granny we fell against the wall. All I could see of his face was a twisted grimace of hatred and fear.

They pulled Papa and Zaki to their feet by their bound wrists, as if they were sacks of grain, not human beings, and jabbed their guns into their backs, pushing and kicking them out of the door. I ran after them just in time to see two soldiers pick them up and throw them into the back of a truck, surely breaking their bones or tearing their flesh. I heard Zaki cry out in pain. But my father was silent.

aDonat hurt them!a I pleaded. aPlease donat hurt them!a aWhy have they done this?a Mama cried, clutching her head as they drove away. aWhy?a And that is when I felt the anger grow over me like a skin. That is when I became merciless and numb.

So this morning, as I walk the four kilometers from Grannyas village to the American prison, I am determined to do whatever it takes to find out what has happened to our mena" both my own and those of my companions. Poor Umm Ibrahim, her face drooping and mournful, whose husband was arrested and killed by Saddama"she tells me her three sons have been swallowed by this prison now, leaving her with n.o.body. Little Abu Rayya and his wife, who have already lost two children to the Iran wara"they were forced to watch their remaining boy and only comfort being beaten and s.n.a.t.c.hed in the night, just like Papa and Zaki. And Grannyas friend, old widow Fatima, who has been making this walk every day for three weeks alreadya"her brother and sole support is also incarcerated there.

aDo they tell you anything at the prison?a I ask this widow on the way. aIs your brother all right?a aI do not know, little daughter,a she replies, shaking her old head. aThey tell us nothing. All we can do is wait.a When we reach the prison at lasta"and the walk is long and frightening, with soldiers roaring down the road in their tanks and trucksa"we see that many other families are already there, standing in a crowd beside the coils of wire that block the prison entrance. So we go to stand with them, burning under the sun and buffeted by the wind, ready to endure the same wait as any who have been beaten into pa.s.sivity by war and history.

While we stand hour after hour, most of us silent, some of us murmuring thin a.s.surances to one another, I look through the pitiless wire to the prison beyond. The British and Americans are in such a hurry to incarcerate us that they have not even taken the time to build a real prison. It is nothing but tents. Row upon row of them pegged to the sand, their olive sides already bleaching in the sun, the air between them thick with dust, the coiled wire around them bristling with a million sharpened blades. And as I look, it occurs to me that, to the soldiers, this is not a prison but a protection. They have barricaded themselves in here, safe and blind behind their wire and checkpoints, while the rest of us, sisters and daughters, parents and grandparents, are out here in the real world, suffering the real worldas suffering.

We stand, my sad companions and I, until the sun has crept from the horizon almost to the top of the sky, and finally I see a tiny soldier plod up to the fence where we are waiting. He looks as though he can hardly walk under all he carries, with his helmet like an upside-down soup bowl and his sungla.s.ses absurdly large on his little face. He looks like a child in his fatheras clothes. But of course he is no child. He is a killer and an occupier.

I watch him approach, shouting and waving his silly little arms, and I feel such hatred bloom in my heart I do not know myself. Then I notice there is something odd about him, something wrong. I look again.

It is a girl.

I would laugh out loud if there were any laughter left in me. How desperate the Americans must be to send their girls to war.

As soon as the people around me also see this soldier is only a girl, and out here all alone with us, they grow bold. aYou have killed our sons!a they shout, closing in around her. aYouare lying to us, b.i.t.c.h!a I step forward to curse her, too, but then I stop. This behavior is futile. Better to wait for the chance to offer my English to this creature of destruction, for perhaps, G.o.d willing, in return she will tell us what she and her kind have done with our men.

[ KATE ].

IaM GETTING FREAKED. No matter how much I yell and try to shoo away the wrinkly old couple and the rest of these d.a.m.n locals, they wonat budge. They just keep on crowding around me, yelling in Arabic and pushing their f.u.c.king photos into my chest. Iam just about to poke one of them with my rifle, hard, when a female voice calls out from the crowd, aI speak Englisha"do you need help?a Startled, I look around. An Iraqi girl about my own age separates herself from the mob, walks right up to me and stares into my face with no fear at all.

aYou really speak English?a I ask, amazed.

She studies me without answering. Sheas wearing a long, coffee-colored sack of a dress and a sky-blue headscarf wrapped tight around her neck and forehead. Her face is narrow, pale brown and pretty, except for her mouth, which is clamped into a thin, schoolmarmy line. And her eyes, which are huge and greenish-gold, look suspicious as h.e.l.l.

aYes,a she finally says in a low voice. aI am able to translate, if you would like.a aYou would? Cool. Okay then, tell your friends here that weare putting together a list of the prisoners and weall give it to them soon. But right now they gotta go.a aI will. But first, please, I need to ask a question. We want to know, these people and I, when our men will be released.a aI donat know,a I say, eyeing her warily. aBut tell them not to worry, we treat the prisoners well. Now get them to leave.a The girl studies me again. Sheas half a head taller than me, but thatas not saying much, since Iam only five-three. aThis is the truth, you swear?a she says. aBecause my father and brother, you have locked them up in here and they are innocent.a Yeah, right. Soas everybody in this whole friggina sandbox, according to you people. But out loud I only say, aOf course itas true. Now, tell these folks about the list and make them go. aCause this situation is getting dangerous for all of us. You included.a She gazes at me a second longer, then turns to the crowd and calls out something in Arabic. But instead of making the people leave, it only makes them more excited than ever, talking and shouting all at once. f.u.c.k. I look around again for my squad. Sergeant Kormick and b.o.n.e.r are inside the shack, where they canat see anything. Rickmanas over there, too, standing in the sand like a cactus, probably dreaming about his first grope or something, heas such a kid. Jimmy Donnellas up in the guard tower with his M-60. And DJas out on the road, searching cars. n.o.bodyas near me, n.o.bodyas paying attention, which is against all the G.o.dd.a.m.n rules. Double f.u.c.k.

The girl turns back to me. aThey say they will go, but not until they know when you will have this list of our men.a aSoon. Now tell them to scat!a I lift my rifle to my chest, barrel up.

She sweeps her eyes over my face, her expression cold. aAnd what are you doing with the children? The little boys you arrested? My brother you took, he is only thirteen.a aWe keep the boys safe in a separate compound. Now leave!a aYou mean he is not with my father?a She looks upset a moment, her cold manner gone. But then she clamps her mouth back into its schoolmarm seam. aMy brother, his name is Zaki,a she goes on. aLook,a and she hands me a photo, just like the old couple did.

The last thing I need to do right now is admire some Iraqi chickas family snapshots, but I do it to keep her cooperating. The photo shows a skinny boy sitting on a rug, grinning up at the camera with just the kind of goofy expression my friends use on Mys.p.a.ce. His black hair flops into his eyes, which are the same green-gold as his sisteras, and heas got one of those long, bony faces thatall probably look good once he grows into it but right now seems all wrong, like the head of a grownup stuck onto a kidas body. Next to him, leaning forward in a chair with his hand on the boyas shoulder, is a clean-shaven, middle-aged man with short gray hair, thick gla.s.ses and the same long face, but a real sad smile.

Itas always so strange to look at photos of people before bad things happen to them. When they donat know yet. When theyare so unsuspecting.

aThat is my father,a the girl says. aHe is fifty-four. His heart is weaka"he has had two heart attacks already. This is why I am so worried about him. He is not well enough to live in this place with hundreds of other men, he has not the strength. My father was put in prison by Saddam, tortured by him! My brother, he is a child! And you Americans arrest them? You understand nothing!a I donat need to hear this c.r.a.p, shouldnat even be listening to it, but I might as well be polite. aListen,a I say, aIam sorry about your situation, but weave got thousands of prisoners in here. Thanks for your help, though. Really.a I hold out my hand. aMy nameas Kate. Kate Brady. As-salaam aleik.u.m.a Three months in Iraq have at least taught me how to say that. Kind of.

She glances down at my hand without touching it. aI am Naema Ja.s.sim. Keep the photograph. It will help you recognize them.a She pauses and looks at me intently, like sheas trying to see into my brain. aMiss Bradya Kate, I have a suggestion. If you will promise to look for my brother and father, I will come back every morning and translate for you, yes? These people here, they are angry. You need me to help keep control, I think.a She leans forward and points at the photograph. aMy father here, his name is Halim Mohanammad al-Jubur. And my little brother sitting there on the floor, he is Zaki Ja.s.sim. You will look for them, please?a Iall never remember those weird Arab names. In one ear, out the other. aTell me that again?a aI will write them down, if you like.a aOkay, but hurry.a I take out a pen from my utility vest and she scribbles the names on the back of the photo.

aYou will look for them if I translate?a she asks again.

aYeah, sure, Iall do my best.a I tuck the photo and pen into one of my pockets. Iam not about to tell her that I never see the prisoners, except when theyare driven in on the backs of trucks, and then theyare all zip-cuffed and hooded anyway, so all I ever see is bodies with a sack on top. Iam not going to tell her this because sheas right. I do need her.

Just then some woman squeezes between us and shoves a baby into my chest. Itas limp and gray, and skinny as a chicken. I think itas a girl but I canat really tell. Pus-filled sores ooze all over its face and arms. I back away, disgusted, but she wonat stop pressing the horrible thing right up against mea"these people never do stuff like this to the male soldiers. Iam afraid itall fall if I donat take it, though, so I grab it and hold it as far away from me as I can. It stinks. A sickly-sweet stink, like a dead rat trapped in a bas.e.m.e.nt.

I glance down at it. The baby isnat even moving. It just lies there in its little dress, draped over my arms like a rag, while its mother stares at me with desperate eyes. I know what she wants. She wants a doctor and medicine. She wants me to take her baby to a hospital. But we donat have a doctor. We donat have medicine. And we sure donat have a f.u.c.king hospital.

I push the baby back into her arms and try to make her understand that I canat do anything for her. aGo home!a I keep telling her. aGo!a She wonat move. I look around for Naema, hoping she can help me out here like she promised. But Naemaas gone.

By the time I finally get the mother to take her baby and leave, along with all the other civilians, itas eleven in the morning and the sunas burning a hole in the sky. When my unit first arrived back in March, the heat wasnat this bad yeta"we froze our a.s.ses at night, in fact. But now itas June, and the last time I saw a cloud I was so amazed that I took a picture of it. It must be a hundred and thirty degrees out here today, Iam not kidding. Imagine putting your oven on that high to heat up a pizza, then climb in, shut the door and lock it so you can never get out. Thatas what it feels like.

I drain my bottle of watera"p.i.s.s-temperature, plastictastinga"but it isnat enough. My head already feels like somebodyas stabbing it with a knitting needle, the inside of my mouthas like a dustball and Iave got nine more hours to go on my shift. I need more water, which means I have to walk over to the shack, where we keep the bottles in a cooler. But Sergeant Kormickas still in the shack and even though he doesnat give a f.u.c.k whether or not Rickman does his job right, his rules are different for me. If he sees me leave my post, Iall never hear the end of it.

I pull a tube of hand sanitizer out of my vest pocket and rub it on, hoping to wash away the pus from that sad-a.s.s baby. I use the stuff so often the skin on my palms is peeling like sunburn, but it doesnat seem to help much. Iave dropped twelve pounds since I arrived in this sandpit and my period has stopped. My fingernails have turned weird, too, all weak and flabby. They keep lifting off my nail beds and flaking away like old scabs. And my hairas falling out by the handful. But then, all of us are sick one way or the other. We like to joke that you spend the first six months of your deployment p.o.o.ping your guts out, the second six months puking your guts out, and then you go home and puke and p.o.o.p till youare redeployed. Some say itas sandfly fever, some say itas contaminated water. We call it the Bucca bug.

Thatas where we are, by the way: Camp Bucca, the biggest U.S. prison in Iraq. Itas located way down south near the Kuwait border, in the poorest, bleakest part of the desert. Address: The Middle of f.u.c.king Nowhere. Itas so poor and bleak that on our way here from Kuwait, children in bare feet kept running up to our convoy, cupping their little hands to their mouths to beg for food and water, even jumping up on our trucks till we had to push them off, right into the road. Some of those kids were no more than two years old, their eyes big and black in their teeny faces. Skinny and ragged but cute as chipmunks. But when we tried to give them water, the convoy commander said we had to stop because those babies might be carrying bombs.

Iam going to collapse if I donat get some water myself, whatever Kormick says, so I take a deep breath and head over to the shack, ready to face more c.r.a.p.

aHey, t.i.ts!a b.o.n.e.r calls out before I even get close. I sigh and walk up to the shack door, where heas now standing guard. He blocks my way with his rifle, grinning like the d.i.c.kwad he is. b.o.n.e.ras called that for obvious reasons, but also because heas short and stocky, with a bony bald head like a knee. Heas fresh out of high school but he acts like his brain froze back in fifth grade.

aLet me by, Bonehead. I need water. Bad.a He runs his eyes over me, making a big deal of staring at my chest. This is a popular theme among the guys in my platoona"me having big b.o.o.bsa"but itas all a dumb joke. I was a runner back in high school, track and long distance, and runners donat have big b.o.o.bs. Theyare tight and lean, and thatas how Iam built, only skinnier than ever now. Nothing but a scrawny little soldier, orange freckles popping out by the dozen under the desert sun.

aGimme a squeeze,a b.o.n.e.r says then, leering. I know he doesnat mean it, just has to try it on like the fifth grader he is. But Iam not in the mood for his bulls.h.i.t.

aLet me by, mini-d.i.c.k. Iam dehydrated.a He shakes his head. aCome on. One little quicky?a aLook, I just had a dying baby in my arms. Leave me the f.u.c.k alone.a b.o.n.e.r just stands there grinning, still barring my way. I can see Kormick inside the shack, eating Skittles and reading some girly magazine. Iad like to avoid all this ha.s.sle and leave, but Iall faint if I donat get some water soon. I know this because itas happened to me three times already. My ears start ringing, I black out, and then I wake up with one of the guys shoving an IV in my arm to rehydrate me. After which Kormick gets on my case yet again for being nothing but a useless p.u.s.s.y.

aSergeant?a I call. aTell b.o.n.e.r to let me by, please. Iam about to pa.s.s out from thirst here.a aLet her by, b.o.n.e.r,a he says in a bored voice. He doesnat even bother to look up.

Inside the shack, I grab a couple bottles and chug a long slide of water right there.

aOkay, get back out where you belong,a Kormick says then. He looks up at me. aAnd t.i.ts? No more leaving your post, for f.u.c.kas sake.a aYes, Sergeant.a aTHATaS GOOD, HONEY-pie. You look just fine now, all cleaned up and smellina sweet. Sit down here and Iall go get your young man.a The soldier slumps on the edge of the bed and stares at the hands quaking in her lap. White and puffy. Underwater hands.

What young man?

Something beeps in a corner. The ceiling light glares. White everywhere: The raised bed. The window blinds. The walls and the floor and the ceiling. Her swollen feet. Shivering hands.

A giant clock face on the TV ticks one second. Two.

aKatie?a A tall man steps into the room.

The soldier flinches.