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checked in via PRC-77 radio with the CP. We’d make up troop movement statistics and give them bogus coordinates for enemy OPs.
Our fuckstick major had sent us on the mission without one ounce of support—no arty, no planes, no mortars, not even a lousy fifty-cal. team a click or two back, ready to burn out some brass. Not shit. And our captain didn’t squeak once about it. Sure, he told us he did, he told us he yelled and screamed and told the major he’d fuck the major’s wife and mother when we got back stateside, but we knew that wasn’t true. We were in tight with the major’s driver, who told us that Captain Frost said something along the lines of, Fuck ’em. So that’s how it goes with a Global Peacekeeping Force in place, we figured. Fuck the snipers. Give ’em shit for chow, fuck ’em on the hot
showers, fuck ’em out of Bob Hope and Steve Martin and Brooke Fucking Shields.
Two months into the operation, the USO swung together a show in the middle of the desert, Hope and Martin and Shields and some country musicians, because they assumed we were all hicks. The sniper teams were chosen for the twelve quotas from our regiment, but somehow a long-distance range opened up, the range we’d been trying to get time on since landing in country, of course on the day of the USO show. We had a good shoot, and we needed the rounds, we needed the rifle time, but, still, we were up- set over missing the Creature from the Blue Lagoon, teenage mas- turbation princess for us all. As amends, the major slated us to go to Thanksgiving lunch with President Bush and his white-haired wife, and they screwed us there, too. Word suddenly came down that the Theater Command in Riyadh was ripe for enemy action. They needed snipers in six positions 24-7, starting the day before Thanksgiving. Two days after Thanksgiving we saw pictures of the president and the First Lady in Stars and Stripes, pumping fists and waving; they even had desert cammies on, boonies even, and right up there, with his nose ass-deep in the president, our fuckstick major, plus Captain Frost, three admin pogues, the comm chief, and, no shit, the major’s wife. The major’s wife was some shithot thinker with a foreign policy graduate degree from MIT, and there she was, in our fucking desert, advising the president. The major himself had a poli-sci degree from Harvard, washboard stomach, and fifteen-thousand-dollar smile, full of recollections from vaca- tions on the Vineyard and brunch in Kurt Vonnegut’s kitchen. The bastard major walked out of the gas chamber yelling, Mustard gas and roses! Mustard gas and roses!, like he ever read the fucking
book, like Vonnegut ever gave half a fuck about the Zeros.
We rented hospital rooms from the Brits for five American a day, and when we were tired of the drinking and fighting in the basement, we’d take a girl upstairs. Thomas the Brit had turned the basement into a bar. He had a fold-up fake oak dance floor and stacks of Marshall amps blasting music.
It was early evening and we settled down to buying five-dollar juice drinks for some prostitutes. My partner, Cash, had already diddy’d up to the fourth floor with his regular girl, Sunshine. All of the girls working for Thomas were Filipino and they had hus- bands who worked for Texaco or they were the sisters of women whose husbands worked for Texaco. Ten miles from the hospital, Brits and Americans and Frenchies lived in an expat oil worker compound. Many of the men had wives from the islands, mail- order matrimony on the cheap.
Cash was the ranking sergeant. Mathis and Boner, two of our newer snipers, were worried about lying to the command about where we were. Before he ran up to his room, Cash gathered us in a huddle. Stick to the story, Cash said. They teach that at boot camp. Stick to the story. Always lie when you fuck up. Never leave a dead or injured marine on the battlefield. A captain tells you to diddy out of the area and leave your buddy there, you put a