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Half of everybody calls bullshit on the idiots that brought them into the 15 douchebag things that just happened, including Encino Man (Fatality! courtesy, duh, Doc Bryan) and Captain America (whoever is within smacking distance). And I mean everybody, it's like this sexy orgy of insubordination. People you might not expect to see in this episode, much less taking part in the aforementioned orgy, spend the whole night being understandably freaked out and doctrinaire (Fick) or just straight-up lurking-under-a-truck freaked out (Brad) for the duration.
Let me tell you that the change in director is not that noticeable, but no amount of shirtless and/or pantsless Alexander Skarsgård -- while fucking awesome -- is equal to being without Iceman and Fick for even half an episode. Ray's genius and occasional acting are not enough.
Godfather is the totally grossest because he gives this fifty-year speech about how that H&S truck from last week had our "colors" on it, and that's the real screwby here. Um, that motherfucking truck also carried ammo like a bitch, not to mention everybody's FOOD. So yeah, it's so sad that we lost our flag. Everybody's like, "Well, without a flag, who do we know who we're fighting for?" You tell me. I would just like a food.
Ray goes buckwild on the Chaplain, and it is awesome. Evan is amazed but like, how can you be as smart as Brad and believe in God? Some faceless dude is like, "I still manage," but he really needs to read a BSG or Doctor Who recap before he decides for sure, because on that field either you believe or you don't. Existentialism is kind of gay. Speaking of gayness, Ray continues to be delightful.
Then we get to a thing that I was desperately hoping would take one episode at most, because it was so fucking fucked up in the book that it seemed to take half the pages. Basically, Alpha (Patterson, who we love, plus a bunch of dicks) are supposed to get this captured Marine out of Ah Shatra, while juggling CIA fuckers that look like aborted fetuses with clipboards trying to get all up in one's shit. And we're not even there, but, Jesus, I hate this part. I hate that it takes more than one episode to get there, is how much. I really wanted to do this in half an hour, not 90 miles over two episodes and about a hundred dead little kids. That's not war to me. I don't even know how to be all... whatever.
Okay, this is what this episode is like: Guy jumps out of a taxi all breathless and runs into the hospital. Attending ER doc says, "Right this way!" and they go up to the fourth floor, OB. And he waits for an hour, and finally one of the nurses says, "You can go right in, it's number four." So dude walks into room 4, and the bed's all freshly made, nothing on the nightstand, nobody in the room. Totally empty, with that smell. And he turns around and the doctor and three nurses are standing there, smiling. And he says, you know, "What the fuck is going on here?" And all the doctors and nurses pull off their masks, and they start laughing. And the main doctor says, "Your wife is dead! And your baby's a spastic!" And no matter how much he weeps, they keep laughing.
And we're barely halfway to the punchline. America is broken like a fucking shot to the head, bro. Fucking see you week.
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Want more? The full recap starts right below!Everybody's still encamped at the airfield, waiting for the thing. It is super tense because of all the insubordinate nonsense that went on last week, plus Trombley going nuts on those camels and children, and the fact that they're starving because Godfather decided that the Iraqis should blow up their food because he was in a hurry to conquer an abandoned airfield so that General Mattis would finally ask for his hand in gay marriage. Doc Bryan comes hopping down a hill while some Marines are making a guy recite lines from movies: Platoon, The Big Lebowski. Brad's on his back under a Humvee, pounding away at the grime on her undercarriage, hiding from everybody because he's freaking out about the consequences of Trombley's action. He's in his grave. Rudy comes to visit him under there and compliments him on working his deltoids. When he doesn't answer, Rudy crawls in beside him just to keep him company. "Brother, you need a friend?"
Rudy's not the only one who noticed how Iceman's gone glacial. Espera complains to the other team leaders. "It's jacked, Dog. We got the Iceman seriously tweaking out on us. The best fucking team leader in the Battalion, no offense..." Pappy nods, because Brad rules. "And we're losing him because some white boy accidentally on purpose tries to waste a hajji. Back in Nasiriyah, we seen Generals drop mad arty rounds on an unarmed civilian city. Must've killed thousands. And what about all those little smoking, burnt-up little hajji kids on the MSRs all hit by legit, called-in, officer-approved air strikes? Shit, we had a Battalion of doctors try to light our asses up. So fucking what? It's war, Dog." There's a whole theme running through the episode about cognitive dissonance, like, yes it's bad we killed a kid or two, but also, the ROE cleared it. "Back in Afghanistan, I thought y'all were the shit." Pappy and Kocher watch him talk. "Blowing up Taliban forts, taking out air batteries... All I heard about was his reputation, back in Afghanistan. I finally get on his team and he goes all weak titty on me?"
Trombley comes lugging water down to Manimal and Garza. "I brought some water if you want me to fill up your camelbaks. Figure I'd save you a trip over to H&S..." They ignore him and keep working. Ray's tone is heavy: "Yeah. No thanks, James." Trombley moves on. "Fucknuts thinks he can buy his way out of shooting those kid by getting us a drink of water," Manimal grunts, and Ray grins. "Yeah. I tell ya, Jacks, it's this new generation. In the opinion of this Marine, it's all that damn gangster rap and those video games that are desensitizing today's youth to violence." Manimal doesn't know the name of the movie he's in. He just looks at Ray, like I imagine he often does, and pretends to know what he means. "Yeah."
Trombley keeps walking, past Pappy's team, where Poke's still talking. "I'll tell you what is fucked. Because of that Dylan Klebold wannabe, we got an inquiry on the whole platoon." Pappy points out that Two's not the only platoon with serious issues, looking at Kocher: "You all got your hands full with Captain America." Espera laughs: "Every time he hits a pebble, he thinks the whole company's being ambushed. Captain America's gone, Dog. You see that look in his eyes? Like he's afraid if he takes a shit, hajji's gonna crawl out of his ass." Kocher is sad and agrees. "We got the best platoon commander," Pappy complains, "And the whole fucking Battalion's on his ass because he did the right thing and stood up to Encino Man." Espera notes, not for the first time, that it's command that's going to get them all killed. "Maybe Brad's got the right idea, hiding underneath his Humvee." Brad keeps pounding. Rudy is quiet with him. Rudy knows best.
Team Three is hanging out with Doc Bryan -- Baptista's giving Holsey a Portuguese lesson -- when Casey Kasem and Encino Man walk up. Everybody gets ready to duck their heads and listen to Encino Man's blathering for awhile, instead of actually working and getting their shit together. I do love his little speeches. "Been through a lot these past few days. I know there's a lot of strong feelings. I want you to think of me as the kind of commander who's not only tough and aggressive, but who also cares." Baptista bites his lip with disinterest; Holsey doesn't look up, just waits for him to do whatever it is he thinks he's doing and go away again. "I want to hear exactly what your concerns are. What I mean is that I want you to talk freely. Forget my bars for a moment." Finally, he calls on somebody. Holsey asks if it's true the Battalion flag was lost with the supply truck that Godfather abandoned for no reason.
Casey Kasem is like, so sad. Because the important part, still, is not that they abandoned their food and ammunition for no fucking reason: not the supply truck for what it was and what it carried, but the meaningless thing that is on it. Life isn't easy when you're stupid, but it can be. I mean, there are a million reasons to join the military, and more than half of them are awesome. But if you join the military because you're so weak and dumb that you need somebody to tell you what to do every second of every day -- if you've realized that fact and have made choices such that you realize the only antidote for the chaos of life is to give up personal agency altogether -- then the Marines have a place for you. And all the motto bullshit in the world is pointed right at you, to make you feel good about it. And honestly, any machine works better if the cogs don't complain, so the system is developed such that this lack of individual thought is encouraged, and necessary. Without checks and balances, though, you have no self-correction. You end up with Encino Man and Casey Kasem in charge, swearing up and down -- and meaning it -- that flags > food. For them, this is true. It doesn't make them good leaders, but it does make them good Marines. "Hard as it is for me to say, the First Reconnaissance colors proudly carried into battle since Vietnam... Are reported missing. I can tell you the loss of these colors is something that weighs heavily on Godfather's shoulders."
Wish it were a metaphor, but we're not working in metaphor. If I put before you on a table two items: a magazine filled with pictures of naked women on your left, and an actual naked woman on your right, which will you choose? If I put your rations on the right and Battalion colors on your left, which will you choose? Because Encino Man and Casey Kasem are so far to the opposite side of that concept that they'll tell you to choose the porno. That this is the more meaningful choice. That's how they are able to live, by putting the moto shit so far above the real shit that it starts looking like valor, like a better choice, to go with the things you're being told to love instead of the things you know you love. I do think that there are things bigger than us that you can't put your finger on: our country, our world, our people. But I think it's reductive and naïve -- and most of all lazy -- to go the extra step and say that the things that signify those things are more important than the things they represent. They aren't.
Encino Man is playing the management game, so he goes down the line to Baptista, calling him "Baptist" with a confused look, and Baptista rattles off some Portuguese nonsense to the effect that their equipment is fucked up and the whole thing is stupid. Encino Man readily agrees, gratefully, because all he sees is the smile on Baptista's face. What cartoonist was it, was it a Far Side, translating how it actually sounds when you talk to dogs? "Blah blah blah FIDO blah blah FIDO GOOD BOY blah blah blah FOOD blah FIDO." That's Encino Man. Thinking he's two for two, he looks at Doc Bryan. No! Don't do it! Doc tries to put him off, twice, with Holsey in the corner praying he doesn't open up both barrels like he wants to. I was horrified to think about what was about to happen, and very happy too. Every guy standing there is thinking the same screwby thing, like, "This is bad news, yes. But damn, where's the popcorn?"
"Doc, look, we're all aware how much the men look up to you. I'd like to know what you're thinking." Doc swears that he does not, but Encino Man keels pushing. Doc's annoyed enough that they're having this little meeting in the first place, because he has actual work to do, but also because Encino Man is putting him in an impossible situation. He won't leave until Doc says something, anything for Fido, but Doc doesn't have anything to say that Encino Man wants to hear. Finally he just gives up. "Are you asking me to speak frankly?" Encino Man laughs, looking to Casey Kasem like Doc's an idiot; for a second he looks just like Captain America. That'll do it.
"Well, sir, it's just that you're incompetent, sir." Encino Man's smile falls. Hard. It's almost sad to watch: "I'm doing the best I can," he says, with more presence behind his eyes than he's ever offered. He's not lying, it's just sad. "Sir? It's not good enough." Jonah Lotan is the king of the universe. Encino Man, looking like he's just been stabbed in the guts, wanders off without meeting anybody's eyes; Casey Kasem shoots death lasers at Doc and leaves too. Everybody giggles. Baptista and Brunmeier congratulate him in Portuguese. It's not that they're different men fighting one war: they're men fighting different wars. If everybody was just like Encino Man and Godfather, it would be fine. That would technically work. And if everybody were like Brad and Nate and Bryan, it would be heaven. Another hundred-hour war. But instead it's a bunch of men speaking different languages and fighting different wars, in different versions of the Corps. Screwby.
The Marines are still rumbling, half about the colors and half about what they represent, all over the camp. Captain America's doing his whole officious "Can you believe how inconvenient reality is being again?" thing he does all the time: "The radios aren't holding the proper GPS time for more than twelve hours! The time keeps drifting! Man, the first lesson that they taught us back in college, when I was working security for Duran Duran and U2, was the primacy of comms..." There is something so fucking irksome about the way he gets offended by how things actually are and does that creepy little titter, I can't describe it. I love his Rambo impersonation and general little-kid obsession with playing dress-up, but there's so much weakness involved in getting mad at reality. I cannot stand that. I think it's my number one thing in all of peopletown: bitching about how things are, and expecting everybody to cosign how fucking victimized you are by that. Kocher walks up to continue today's tradition of speaking truth to power, and as usual Captain America thinks they're BFF and on exactly the same page. "Eric! You'll be happy to know the men and I here were attempting to unfuck the comms. How Battalion expects us to fight a war with this recycled junk is beyond me!" Kocher doesn't blink: "Very good, sir. A word with you? Privately, sir?" Captain America just about does a backflip because it's all so fucking official and realistic.
Captain America stands there off to the side with Kocher like they should be drinking International Coffees and celebrating the moments of their lives: "Eric, what can I do for you?" Kocher cuts him dead. "Sir, it's about the enemy AKs you've been firing from your vehicle. You're endangering us. You're not calling your targets, the AKs sound like enemy fire." Captain America jumps like he's been stuck with a needle; his feelings are hurt. "Jesus Christ, Eric..." Kocher looks him in the eye: "Respectfully, sir? You fire an AK one more time, I'll fuck you up." He finally gets it, the sky is blue, and you can really see everything moving around in his eyes as he tries to put things back together. Encino Man walks up and Kocher tells him everything's getting squared away: "The Captain was helping us unfuck our comms." Kocher thanks Captain America kindly, and leaves.
Battalion, so we can hear Godfather's take on what a fucking fuckup he is. "...And it's based on Godfather's experience that this breeds like a fucking yeast infection. Every time an order is questioned, every time dissention is allowed to state its case, there's a corresponding decrease in overall morale." He looks at Nate: "I can't have people questioning the orders of a superior officer," he growls, and looks over at Encino Man: "And if you have a performance complaint regarding subordinates, that has to go through the proper channels." Captain America is still dazed and sad from his momentary reality experience. "Backchannel grumbling is unacceptable, gentlemen. Unacceptable!" So, basically, you can't talk about it in private, and you can't talk about it in public. That makes total sense to Godfather, because there's nothing to talk about: just fulfilling the orders from the guy up. Which brings into question why you want excellent people in your Corps in the first place. Oh wait, I remember: Because invading a country and killing people is not a job for idiots. The day war became the province of the lowest common denominator was the day war became ugly.
"Now, I know some people aren't happy about the pell-mell assault on that airfield. And I admit it was rash, even reckless. But General Mattis had to have our eyes on that airfield. And your recon teams failed in the time allotted." Nate, Captain America and Patterson stand there feeling crapped on. Encino Man stares into space. "This war isn't going well for us. Resistance in the cities is greater than expected, and the General feels we're killing far too many civilians. Godfather thinks we're going to go back into these cities we bypassed, and root out the bad guys." Oh, those ones you ignored because you wanted to wear a corsage? The ones that contained actual Republican Guard and PRG teams and extremists, rather than being a completely empty parking lot with negative strategic value? On which you're currently standing? "The Iraqis are on the fence about this war. They're only going to bet on the horse they think can win." Sixta nods, as usual, as though Godfather has not just said yet another self-evident thing that flies in the face of his own actions.
Nate asks if they can, um, ever expect to be resupplied, and Godfather is tinily irritated by this little message from the real world. "Unbeknownst to me, when I gave the order to abandon that supply truck our Battalion colors were on it." Sixta nods and Encino Man almost cries. It's really very sad, how that flag is gone. Nate is grossed out; Patterson and Barrett (the real Eric Kocher) look at each other. "Gentlemen, the loss of those colors... It's one of the most regrettable incidents of my entire career. And Ferrando takes full responsibility for it." I could never really be in the military, because that's precisely the point I would go completely apeshit. "But you should be aware that the loss of those colors will be more than offset by the battle streamers we will earn in this war." Encino Man makes a little mess in his boxers. "And we will earn 'em. That I know." Godfather, I guess because he thinks that little prayer to retardation was a fitting exit line, heads back into the tent; Encino Man gives some kind of stupid mean look to Nate because even though Godfather just basically told him to fuck off and stop making trouble, he didn't actually hear any of it. Good Fido.
That night, Lovell (the team leader with the crazy face) walks up with Pappy and Espera to where Nate and Gunny Wynn are keeping watch. They've heard Encino Man is going forward with his complaint against Nate and are none too happy. "And, well, sir, we just want to say that if it comes to the CO charging you with insubordination..." Nate stands up, cutting Pappy off and shouting faster than Ray Person: "--Shutthefuckup and do your fucking jobs. What happens between Captain Schwetje and me is none of your fucking business." He takes off down the hill, leaving the three men staring at Wunn. "Gunny, we were just trying..." Wynn explains the other part of that little quasi-meltdown, which is that Nate's also taking on a role here. "LT doesn't want this thing to mess with the platoon, and he sure as hell doesn't want anybody taking sides for or against." Nate listens as Wynn explains it to them and tells them to back the fuck down. "The shit's on the Lieutenant and he wants it to stay that way." They leave; Nate stands alone. Wynn looks back at him. Could be worse, he could do the Iceman and go live in a hole.
Captain America digs a hole, quite busily. Dirty Earl and somebody else are watching him when Kocher walks up. "Fuck are you two retards doing? Get up on that fucking gun!" The other Marine asks what the fuck Captain America's doing, and Kocher, hoping he's pulled it off, says he has no idea. "Dirty, explain this shit to me," says the Corporal, and Dirty says he's assuming it's time for a combat jack. "Captain feels the need to entrench in a solitary position before letting one fly." He's not wrong.
Cap digs and digs; he squares the sides. The respect of his men, the admiration of men he respects, men with experience and the trust and love of their platoon. The idea that we're all in this together, and that doing his best is good enough. The fact that real war is not much like GI Joe after all. If I put a cartoon on the table on your left, and the reality of war on the table to your right, which one would you pick? Finally he's dug down far enough, he thinks. He hopes. He drops the AKs into the hole, one by one. Quite a little armory, in the dirt. The kind of thing a boy could be proud of. And when he's done, he sits down on the side of the hole, and looks out into the night. A little grave for dreams, in the sand, where nobody will ever see it.
Alpha Two stares at lights in the distance. Burris counts quietly to himself; his team leader Fawcett could swear the lights are moving. "John, are they moving?" Burris tells him to shut up, and keeps counting. How many lights in the distance, getting closer? "They're too far away to lase..." Fawcett calls them in to Godfather. "We have possible enemy contact. We have 140 possible armor on the move 15 kliks due east of our position. Grids to follow. Over." Lilley's trying to get the sand out of his camera when Lovell comes running up to tell him about the oncoming army. Ray's jacking off when Walt arrives to tell Brad. "Jesus fucking Christ, Walt. Are you serious? My first combat jack." Walt shoves him. "Fuck your jack. We're being overrun by armor." Ray points down at Brad's ranger grave and Walt hops down, shaking him awake. "Brad, Brad. Alpha counted 140 T72s headed our way." Everybody runs around, shouting, getting ready.
Brad gets up out of his grave, slowly. His eyes are barely open, his movements aren't sharp; even his face seems muted and soft. Joseph Campbell calls this part the Belly of the Whale: when the hero gets too tired and fucked-with to even attempt to reconcile the screwby of his mission, he climbs into a grave for a little while. Exhausted, he won't talk to anybody and he won't do anything: he just waits for that thing, whatever that thing is that makes you a hero, he just waits for it to come back. He waits to remember, in the belly of the whale, what he's doing in this story in the first place. My favorite part is always when he comes back out.
Nate's still trying to get SA on these supposed tanks as Espera runs up: Battalion's gone Redcon One, and Alpha called in air support. Everybody talks about what they know, which is nothing. Nobody knows what kind of ammo they need, or how much, or where the enemy's coming from, or when they'll get here. Brad stands in the middle of the chaos with his eyes closed, taking it in: hearing the chatter, hearing all the supposition and the excitement. His eyes snap open: Iceman. It is beautiful.
"Ray, get on TAD-6 and TAD-7; Walt, get up on the berm and man the Mark-19. You have the thermals?" Espera does. "Warm them the fuck up and use them. Why the fuck are you two standing around with your dicks in your hands? Don't you have teams to take care of?" Pappy and Espera are relieved. "Iceman's back." Brad heads to the line, calling orders over his shoulder. "Find the reporter, Trombley. If little Miss Rolling Stone gets run over by an Iraqi tank, Ray's band won't make the cover." Trombley runs off and Brad levels his gun at the horizon. "They're moving," says I think Christeson. "You can see it." Everybody runs around, wondering if they should tear down the cami nets and fill in the holes, and through all the talking, Brad just sights the lights and figures it out. "So we're unsupplied, 24 hours ahead of the nearest Marine, and now the Iraqi Army has found us. I like the plan, Brad. It works for me." Brad lowers his gun. "It's a town." Ray stares out, dumbstruck. "And it ain't moving."
Ray's mouth hangs open; Walt asks if he's sure. "It's autokinesis. You're seeing the involuntary muscle movements of your own eyes." Ray blinks wildly. "Those lights aren't going to come any closer than they are. It's a fucking town. Thirty, forty kliks out there at least. How far out did Alpha call this?" Walt says it was called in as like fifteen, and Brad and Ray laugh quietly. Espera's running up with the thermals as Brad -- having solved the entire problem in the thirty seconds he's been awake -- tells him it's bullshit. "There's no armor." He walks on, and Espera drops beside Ray as the air support begins bombing the imaginary location of the imaginary army, halfway between the town and the unit. "Well," says Ray. "Apparently the United States Air Force thinks Brad Colbert is full of shit." They watch the dirt explode; there's nothing there. And by "nothing," I mean, "maybe some people." Just not the enemy.
Alpha Two wanders around the giant holes they left behind, where no enemy ever was, trading insults and recriminations. They're looking for a reason, but there is no reason: it's just autokinesis. A mass delusion that there was something to fight. "Eleven thousand pounds of bombs. That's some serious shock and awe," one says. Fawcett takes wilder and wilder calls from the LT, begging them to justify the attack. One, the gunner I think, holds up a TV antenna, laughing hysterically. "Check it out, y'all. That's all that's left of a hajji tank! You'll get the Navy comm for this one. We could have been overrun!" Burris tells him to fuck off, and tells the team leader, Fawcett, to just make something up. "Damon, don't be a pussy. Fucking call it in. Let's give the LT a tank. He can get his medal, we can get the fuck out of here." But Fawcett won't do it, because that's a combat jack. That's working backwards through the system, pretending there was justification for the attack and trying to fill in the blanks retroactively, which is stupid. "Assassin Two, this is Two Three. Over. We've covered three grid squares, we have nothing. I say again, nothing. How copy?" The gunner guy decides to keep his antenna, maybe pick up some X-Games on his nonexistent TV. Fawcett gets the call that they're being extracted from the non-field of non-war they called in, and the Corporal muses: "If there'd've been tanks here, that would have been fucking cool."
The LT for Alpha Two, whose name I don't know and who barely matters, calls in to Patterson that he's going to try, one more time, to justify the optical illusion and come up with something. "We're pushing three kliks north to Papa Victor , the nearest hamlet, to question the locals on the armor. Over." Patterson copies, and they stop to talk to dudes with goats. "These people are close enough to have sighted the armor," the LT says, which would be true if it ever existed. They stop -- my God the amount of drama going into this ass-backwards shit -- and Two covers the LT while he takes Meesh to go talk to randoms. So far we've not seen the best side of Burris and Fawcett, who are generally the faces of Alpha giving our guys shit, but this scene goes a long way toward justifying this episode spending so much time on them while Brad's somewhere with no shirt on.
Burris and Fawcett have been the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, but this scene is how you know that for sure. Watching the LT gabber at Meesh and Meesh pulling his usual shit with the random goatherders, they put on a little show that Carver and Herc would be proud of, here presented without commercial interruption because it is awesome.
Lieutenant: "Excuse me, Meesh. Tell the man that we come in friendship."
Meesh: "Dude, my big American friends are going to fuck you up if you don't show us some blownup tanks."
Hajji: "Habadabada? Daba daba."
Meesh: "Dude, these Iraqis love the fact that we are here. They fucking love freedom and they thought that those fireballs last night were fucking wicked, dude. You Americans have killed a lot of sand. The sand was very evil."
Lieutenant: "Meesh, I just shit my panties. Tell the nice man if he doesn't show me at least one blownup tank, I'll look very stupid and the other officers will laugh at me."
Meesh"Dude, throw me a friggin' bone here. How about a frigging pickup truck with bald tires?"
Hajji: "Habdaba? Dabity daba."
Meesh"Lieutenant, this hajji dude is totally bummed he can't save your career. He's got no tanks, but check it out, you can have his bitchin' daughter."
"And the Lieutenant's all weepy and shit. Fucking frathouse pussy." Meesh picks up the beast and follows the LT back to their trucks, all excited and giving eyebrows about the goat. Fawcett asks him what the old random guy said, and Meesh is all, "He's afraid we're going to bomb his village tonight. Meanwhile, can you believe the LT turned down an entire goat?" Meesh admits that the rations situation has him a bit hungrier than usual. They load up and the gunner's like, "You take the fur off before you eat it, right?"
Riding back to camp, the LT is finding it difficult to admit the total uselessness of the airstrike and all the bullshittery that occasioned it. He starts by saying that there was "some indication of Iraqi armor operating in the area," but slim evidence on which to base a BDA. Patterson asks if what he means to say is that there's no destroyed armor in the area. "At this time, not specifically," he says, which almost makes Patterson laugh. "Interrogative: have you found any nonspecific destroyed Iraqi armor?" He and Barrett grin at each other, and the LT gives a quiet negative. "Assassin Two, have you found any destroyed targets, military or civilian?" No, finally: "We turned a lot of dirt. Over." Patterson hangs up and stares at Barrett, amazed. "Eleven thousand pounds of ordinance dropped, and we didn't hit any armor." Barrett nods. "We didn't destroy any villages though either. Guess that sort of goes in the win column, right?"
Everybody's filling their ranger graves, sterilizing the position as best they can, loading up. Ray lugs a shovel over to Brad and starts filling in holes. Brad's sitting with his shirt off, gloriously ridiculous 2000 AD tattoo out for the world to see, brushing his teeth. Ray spots the chaplain coming over and his voice fills with dread. "Oh no. Christ-lover at my nine." Brad's like, great, we gotta deal with this now too. "Men. I'm holding a service and I wonder if you would take comfort in pausing for a word of prayer." Ray thanks him kindly, but says they've gotten the warning order for the mission -- that's the first step, the warning order, and then all the planning goes down, and then you go do the thing -- and can't spare a moment. "Looks like we're going to be moving out to kill a whole bunch more of these godless heathens for you." Chaplain gives him a look and a uh-huh, and Ray nods sadly. "Yeah, but don't worry. We will not rest until the Iraqi threat to your way of worship has been completely neutralized." The Chaplain knows damn well about the warning order, that's why he's calling everybody together. Brad is absolutely giddy, loving this whole interaction, because he knows Ray's going to ride the guy into the sunset. "Oh, the other thing. The other thing is that my team leader here, Sergeant Colbert? Yeah, he was born a Hebrew, and remains a practicing Christ-killer. So it's purely out of respect for him I feel as if I'm going to have to forgo your festive rituals." The chaplain is none too impressed. Ray and Brad get all funny and flirty about how awesome Ray is, and the chaplain moves on to One Bravo. Espera tells him to back off, because they're gearing up, but Christopher (I think) asks permission to join the service. Espera lets him go with the chaplain, muttering about how there's one in every crowd.
"I don't know why you guys are down on this shit," says Trombley. "I'm a Christian." And what a fantastic advertisement you are for Christianity, James. The Sexiest Man In Sweden For Five Years in a Row works on taking down a cami net. His mouth is running, but I can't help noticing that his abs are completely silent on the subject of God throughout this scene. "Theologically speaking, Trombley, the world's been going downhill ever since man first offered entrails to the gods." Trombley asks for the definition of "entrails," and Ray explains what it means: "Religion is gay." Trombley helps Brad roll up the net as Brad delivers a little speech: "The point, Lance Corporal... We're supposed to be a recon unit of pure warrior spirit. We're out here, forty kliks into enemy lines, and this man of God here, he's a fucking POG. In fact, he's an officer POG. That's one more layer of bureaucracy and unnecessary logistics. One more asshole we need to supply MREs and baby wipes for. And worst of all... He holds a service for twenty or so marines. Worst of all, the motherfucker doesn't even carry a weapon. When push comes to shove, even Rolling Stone picks up a gun. But this fucking ... shill of God? He can't cover a sector. He'll never hump ammo or claymores. This is a fucking war, and we're here as warriors. So on top of everything else that's expected of us, do we need to drag him along and indulge in this... make-believe bullshit?" Ray's all, "Not only do we have to worry about all the Charms you've eaten, now Brad's just pissed off God."
Which is funny, but it just looks like another combat jack from where I'm standing. Atheists like this are just as obnoxious as the kind of Christians they're talking about, for the same reason that the pseudo-debates over flag-burning or gay marriage make us all look stupid, which is that you're looking at the symbol of the thing, instead of the thing itself, and thinking it's what matters: letting the enemy dictate the tempo of your movements. What's better than winning an ideological war against straw men your enemy set up on purpose? Moving beyond the level of the representation and taking hold of the thing itself:
"No seriously, Dog, have you ever analyzed a wet dream? I mean, the mind is so powerful, it can give you a dream so real that it makes your dick come. Why can't you harness that power when you're awake? Why can't you meditate yourself into thinking you're fucking a chick so hot that you actually orgasm?"
Which is all Godfather's been asking them to do, after all. Forget the girl, forget the naked photographs of the girl in unrealistic or humiliating situations, and fight for nothing real at all. "Wait, are you talking about like jerking off without using any hands?" asks Ray, because he is already a realist. "No, Dog! I'm talking about fucking any girl you want, all in your mind." Also a realist: Brad Colbert, who busily hands out humrats to the gunners and Lilley. "It's only fair! If the Iraqis can burn our supply truck," explains Ray, "We can partake in their humanitarian rations." Trombley's still obsessing on the whole handsfree Bluetooth masturbation concept, and Ray's like, "Yeah, you need one hand at last to hold the cock book." I have not heard this term "cock book" before. It seems like false advertising in this context. "Dog, I'm talking about the power of the mind! You don't need a cock book. You don't need shit!" Ray's not sold. "Need to meditate on the perfect fuck." Walt is about halfway to where Espera is talking about: "Wasik'll jerk off to anything. I seen him punishing his unit during a screening of Pocahontas at Mathilda." Brad pronounces this "tragic," musing hilariously, "I liked Pocahontas. Wonderful musical."
Espera goes right off. "Naw, Naw, Naw, Brad. You cannot say that you like Pocahontas. The genocide of my people is turned into a cartoon musical? With a singing raccoon? I mean, think about it, Dog, the real story of Pocahontas is about a bunch of white boys who come to my land, bribe the corrupt Indian chief, kill off all the warriors and fuck the Indian princess silly. Would the white man make a story about Auschwitz, where the inmate falls in love with the guard and they go off singing love songs with dancing swastikas?" Trombley, ever helpful and desperate to be included, and ever completely off-base: "My great grandfather killed Indians. Up in Michigan? For money." Ray is, once again, amazed by the world of Trombley.
Espera congratulates him on saying the most fucked-up thing, like, ever. "Trombley, you are the first white motherfucker to say something like that to me." Trombley is pleased, because he's so out of it he thinks it's a positive. And in Espera's racially questionable dialectic, it sort of is. "Back in the fishing village where I'm from, Los Angeles? Most white motherfuckers that talk about their people, they say they got a Native American ancestor. Pretend to be down with me. But here you are coming the other way."
But Brad sees the combat jack here too, and brings it back out of the abstract: "Poke, what the fuck are you anyway? Your wife is half white, you talk like you're black, most of your friends are fucking white, and every once in a while, when you feel like it, you throw in with the Indians." Evan is amazed, still, that this conversation is even taking place. "Is it just that you're whatever race happens to be cool at the moment?" Espera gives it a second of thought and nods. "You got a point, Dog. I don't hang out with Mexicans. Mexicans got $20,000 stereos, lots of guns and every time I go into a liquor store with one, I'm afraid we're gonna rob the place. Mexicans are scary motherfuckers." Ray's bored. "What the fuck does any of this have to do with jerking off?" But before Espera can bring it back around -- and you know he could! -- Casey Kasem calls them to attention, refusing to even acknowledge Brad: "Formation, Devil Dogs. Company Commander will address you."
And boy, will he ever. I think this speech might have drop-kicked Encino Man into Captain America territory, because it is about the most wonderful thing I have ever heard. I hope Brian Wade understands what a fucking cherry role he has here. I can't take my eyes off the motherfucker. Get this shit:
"...And I know you're mad at the Battalion. Because, as you know, I've been talking to you. And I've heard you. And I know you're angry. I know you're angry that the supply truck was burned and you don't have that food to eat. You told me this, and I heard you. But you shouldn't be angry at your command. If you're angry at your command, then you are saying it was our fault that the supply truck was burned. But we didn't burn the supply truck, the enemy burned the supply truck. They took your food from you. That's the important thing to remember. It was the enemy who stole your food from you, and... You should be really really mad at them! Before we step off on this mission, I'm reminding you of who your enemy is: The enemy."
That speech is the verbal equivalent of an infinite number of Humvees driving over an infinite number of very steep hills. I cannot even believe how awesome that is. I just want to keep listening to it, over and over and over. Now partially this is because the thing is the worst thing that's going to happen in the whole story, but I must say that mostly it's because I completely love it. How great is that? "You should be really, really mad at them! Your enemy is the enemy!"
Casey Kasem thanks him grandly and does the whole atten-hut thing and dismisses everybody, and Brad quietly says to Nate, "I'm ... in awe." But Nate is not in a place where he can even ironically appreciate the awesomeness of Encino Man, obviously, because his retarded ass is going to get everybody killed in the entire world, so he walks off without a word, leaving Brad hanging. The concept of Nate Fick being in the whale for even one minute makes me want to cry for ten years.
Oscar Mike. Nate explains they're heading fifteen kliks up the ASR toward Al Hayy, screening RCT-1's movement with Alpha two kliks ahead. Minutes later, Walt spots friendlies coming toward them the opposite way, headed south. "Baghdad's the other way, ya bitches!" shouts Ray, and Trombley surmises that they're Army. "Yeah, probably ran outta tampons. Going all the way back to the PX," Ray suggests. But as they get closer, he realizes they're not Army: it's Alpha Company. You know what would take the mystery out of this shit? If like one person had a radio that worked. This is some Gilligan shit. I'm starting to feel like Captain America, to be honest. Brad asks Nate WTF and Nate doesn't know either. While Brad waits for SA on what they're doing and watches him drive back past, Patterson mutters, "The thing to remember is they'll never take a Recon Marine alive." Barrett and Patterson share a quiet, angry hoorah.
The story splits in two. Nate explains that Alpha's been detached for a different mission: A Marine supply unit was ambushed to the south, and a captured Marine was executed in the city center. "We have our own mission. Let's keep our focus."
Morale is affected, to put it lightly. Even Espera, especially Espera, goes quiet. He just stares into space. But Lilley has heard something about it: "Bro, this is what I was telling you about. That Marine from that supply unit that was captured, they strung his ass up in the middle of the town." Garza and Leon discuss how actually, he was crucified. Like on a cross. Espera doesn't blink, just stares at the road in front of him. Garza: "Maybe it's bullshit. I mean, they say they killed a thousand Marines in Nasiriyah and that's bullshit. And that thing about J. Lo? Man, she ain't dead. At least I don't think so..." Lovell asks Nate if that part's true, and Nate and Wynn look at each grimly. It's true. The worst thing in the world. Leon, I think, crosses himself; Lilley is sad, and very lonely. Trombley and Evan look at each other in the back of 1A, quietly. The roadsign says BAGHDAD as they pass. Brad stares north.
At Alpha's position, there's a Colonel talking to Patterson. I don't know who he is, I think he's from RCT-1 and not the Battalion, but I don't recognize him either way. He explains that Al Shatra is basically empty of civilians, but full of Republican Guard, plus this dead Marine. They discuss tactics and how it's going to happen. All the major streets have been renamed in English, as SOP; this time it's all after strip clubs: MSR Cheetah's, ASR Crazy Horse, ASR Seventh Veil. Alpha will be holding one of the ASRs and in reserve for the units looking for the Marine. "If the Army wants to lose a supply unit, then cut and run while a captured female soldier becomes a poster girl on Al Jazeera, that's their business. But Marines will not go down that path." It's all going down at dawn; the Navy sends in missiles to hit the Ba'ath headquarters and some barracks, and then the tanks and infantry goes in. Patterson will be targeting artillery on anything moving between the streets he's defining for the mission. "You can be as loose with the ROE as you like, this whole city is declared hostile." Patterson is, as usual, overjoyed by this.
Alpha Two, watching the city and the Republican Guard guys patrolling it, talking idly about fucking shit up. There are dead bodies scattered around their position; also random food, which Burris starts looting. "Look at all the trash from the POG supply units going north." Fawcett notes how dumb it is to have supply convoys going straight past a town where the Iraqi military never surrendered. Burris, on the other hand, is enjoying the spoils: "Check it out! Pound cake. Right off the ground! The fucking POGs got so much food, they just toss the shit." They discuss whether eating off the ground is acceptable or appropriate, but again: they're all starving. "This Marine needs more than one meal a day." Burris tries to eat, but is choking on the smell of the bodies. "That's the death smell," Fawcett grunts. "That's rotting hajji. That shit gets me hard." They talk about how the bodies are going to keep piling up; the whole crucifixion thing is pretty intense so they get a bye this time. Burris points out that one of the nearby bodies is a little kid, and Fawcett shakes his head. "Future fucking terrorist. Come dark, I'll piss on each one of those stinking dead hajjis. They fucking put an American on a cross." The gunner shakes his head. "A fucking American Marine, man."
Patterson and the Colonel are discussing a plan to set up snipers along the MSR for better coverage when somebody calls them to attention: it's more guys we don't know, escorting a CIA guy with a giant baby-head, and a man wearing an Iraqi uniform. "Colonel, I've been sent to apprise you of some late breaking developments." A Marine confirms that CIA guy's got command authority. "Backchannel authority. For all intent and purpose I'm not here." Patterson and the Colonel look at each other. CIA guy offers a playing card with a man's face on it: Ali Hassan Almajid, aka Chemical Ali, whom they believe is holed up in Al Shatra. The Colonel explains that fuck you, because the mission is getting a US Marine down off a cross and out of the city, but CIA isn't interested. "Our force is aware of that concern. Recovering the Marine is a priority but this man is the highest priority."
The Colonel starts to blow Marine smoke about how the Corps can handle it and how if the Iraqis want to put up a bigger fight just because of Chemical Ali, they can expect to have their asses handed to them, et cetera and things of this nature, but CIA's not hearing that either. "-- Colonel. This is no longer a Marine operation." He introduces the guy in the red cap, Brigadier General Zaid Alhamadi, who is the commander of what they're calling "liberated Iraq's first brigade of freedom fighters." A Russian truck drives by behind him full of very, very young Iraqi boys in uniforms. "Trained with our assistance." Great, call me in ten years when you've completely forgotten about them and left them in a shithole with no infrastructure or reason to live, so they can become terrorists and blow up some more parts of America. "They're moving into position after dark. Advance units will infiltrate Al Shatra tonight, make contact with resistance elements, and -- following the show planned by the Navy -- they attack at dawn." The Brigadier indicates through gesture that he would like to borrow Patterson's sunglasses, which are clipped to his shirt. "It's historic, gentlemen. We're spearheading what will be the model effort of joint American-liberated Iraq cooperation." Yeah, this will go well. This shit's gonna sparkle like Edward Cullen, mark my words. The Brigadier puts on Patterson's sunglasses; the Colonel and Patterson are collectively so unimpressed that, once again, Patterson can do nothing but grin like it's his birthday.
Bravo! I missed you! Sitting still on the original mission north, to Al Hayy. "Updated reports state there are small pockets of resistance south of the city... Godfather FAC is pushing Cobras north to sweep the routes. Observe everything, admire nothing." Planes and explosions fill the sky two kliks up the road. Brad notes that the Cobras spotted the Zil with all the uniformed good-guy Iraqis, and it makes everybody shiver a little bit. Ray bemoans the fact that Alpha's mission is cool, while theirs -- currently, sitting on the road waiting to keep moving -- "sucks." Nate drops by to tell Brad that they've discovered RPGs two hundred meters up the road, in a ditch, and Brad complains that they're sitting there wasting what could have been a "perfect shitting opportunity." Evan laughs, but Brad decides to go for it. Ray takes off his helmet, bored and uncomfortable in the heat, while Brad digs his little trench.
"When to shit is a big deal for Sergeant Colbert, isn't it?" Ray nods at Evan: "In a war zone, Marines shit tactically. Piss too. Sometimes the situation requires that you do not leave the vehicle regardless." It is at this moment that Evan finally figures out the whole thing with the adult diapers. Brad drops trou and craps. Ray is so bored that he starts singing "I Feel Like I'm Fixin' To Die." "And it's one, two, three, what are we fighting for? Don't ask me, I don't give a damn, stop is Vietnam..." Evan and Walt join in. "Whoopee! we're all gonna die. Well, come on generals, let's move fast..." Out by the roadside, Brad is clearly feeling some relief; he watches the fighting up ahead and sings quietly along to himself. Ray claps, to keep the time, and even Trombley joins in on the chorus. Brad hops back into the cab, a new man. "Daddy's back!" Ray congratulates him on his record time, and on managing to pull it off so quickly. "I am seriously impressed. Taking dumps under pressure, man, that is our Iceman's Achilles' heel. Or Achilles' asshole. Holy shit, Brad's our, uh, Achilles' anus!"
They sit a second and then some mortars drop; Evan jumps and adjusts his helmet. "Shit man," says Ray, unperturbed, "It's really pretty country out here." Evan points out how that's true, if you ignore the mortars dropping, but Ray's philosophical about it. "Yeah, but they're random. I mean, come on man. It's not like anybody's scoping you with an AK. It's not personal like that. You gotta let some of this shit go." Ray has never made more sense to me in this entire story. Brad gets off the radio: the Cobras didn't find anything where they were looking, so they're going to clear a couple hamlets further up the road and see if they can find anything. Oh good, invading actual homes. This shouldn't be horrendous.
They drive past a man with a goat as Nate tells them the mortars are definitely coming from somewhere in this particular village. It is implied, although he doesn't say it, that this is one of those things he's assured of. "Our mission is to detain all males and search all structures." The place is pandemonium, all these women and children running around screaming and wild, teams checking in on the radio, military-age males trying to escape north. Ray parks and chuckles. "Check it out, Brad. It's gonna be our own episode of Cops." That's remarkably what it's like. They crash into a bunch of houses, one by one, while One-B and Two force all the people onto the ground outside, screaming and shouting. They empty the houses and keep going, hut after hut, clearing them, bitching quickly. Some lady shoves Brad but he keeps working, moving to the hut and the . It's kind of a blur. Ray shouts, in one nicely appointed hut with bead curtains and a TV, "Brad, check this motherfucker's crib out! Hajji be pimpin', yo!" It does not matter how many times you say "pimpin' yo," Ziggy, you are never going to sound like anything other than a total idiot. It's just not something your mouth was made to say.
Outside, some awesome lady is giving Espera ten thousand pounds of shit. He shoves her down into the general pile of screaming kids and women, all of whom look like they're about this close to ripping his fucking head off his neck. "Chill, chill!" He looks at Lilley. "Man... This brings me back to my days as a repo man in LA. You know what I'm saying? Women are always the fiercest. You always gotta look out for the women. Doesn't matter if it's a black bitch from South Central or some rich white bitch from Beverly Hills. Don't matter if you got a gun or whatever. They'll come after you, screaming. Like women think they're protected." Funny how much of a cunt a woman turns into when you point a gun at her kid's head. They are mysterious creatures.
In the hut, Ray and Trombley find a staggering amount of drugs under a blanket. Ray's jaw drops and he picks up a packet, smells it. On the radio, Pappy tells Nate there's no sign of the bad guys they were looking for, and they get ready to leave the poor town alone. Brad nods toward the door, and Ray is clearly torn: "What about the stash?" I love this part, it's so Brad: "Leave it. We're not here to fuck with their livelihoods." Trombley leaves, but Ray wavers. Brad tells him quietly, again, to hustle. Ray hilariously vibrates for a second before he can tear himself away.
Back on the road, they drive for awhile before yet another thing happens. Guns start ripping up the road to their right, and everybody jumps out of their vehicles and dig in on the other side of the road, shouting and making sure everybody's okay. Brad has to shout to get Ray moving, and then they notice that Trombley's just standing on the road, in the middle of the gunfire, staring out, completely unafraid. Ray explains to Evan that it's a Zeus firing on them: "It's a Russian antiaircraft gun. There's a lot of barrels on that bitch." Brad keeps shouting for Trombley to get his ass under cover, but Trombley's sighting the Zeus with his binoculars, whispering quietly to himself, "That's cool!" He spots it and calls out the location as Manimal sighs with exasperation. "What the fuck is that crazy piece of shit doing?"
Nate gives the air support the grid, and Brad sends Walt up to man his gun. It doesn't take too long before the Zeus is taken out. Trombley rejoices as the planes fly over, and everyone screams as the missile hits the guys and the black smoke goes up. "All right, boys, that's lunch!" Ray taps Trombley on the helmet appreciatively: "You psycho badass." Not one to let a simple moment pass by without doing something weird to fuck it up, Trombley explains a thing about which he is the very last to know: "I know this may sound weird, but deep down, I kinda wanted to see what it feels like to get shot." Ray's like, um Brad? "I mean, not actually shot, but I just ... get more nervous watching a game show at home on TV than I do here ... in all this. You know?" Ray laughs and walks off, because Trombley just explained the total combat jack that is real life in Trombley World. Manimal comes by to pay his respects: "Not bad for an asshole." Trombley's happy; Brad finally smiles at him. He watches Trombley wander off, delirious; he's pleased for him, as far as you can take that.
Alpha Two. Fawcett points out that the Tomahawk missiles cost like a million and a half bucks, so like, you could probably buy the town and every motherfucker in it for less than it takes to blow them to hell. "Shit," says the other guy, Scott I think. "You pay me half that, I'll hump in some C4 and blow the shit up my own self." Everybody, including the liberated Iraqis, cheer as Al Shatra goes up in flames. "Pulled out all the stops for these guys, didn't we?" murmurs Patterson, and the Colonel -- who is clearly Patterson's kind of people! -- nods. "It's as if there's a plan."
day Alpha Two's wandering through the trash of the siege, picking up POG Tootsie Rolls and avoiding a huge pile of dumped Charms ("Even POGs got common sense") before they get to the liberated Iraqi position. Over the berm is a bunch of trash and flies, gun stands and abandoned machinery, but nobody alive. "Those hajjis on our side... Where'd they fucking go to?"
CIA explains that the Brig's operatives "were compromised shortly after entering the town last night" and summarily executed by Ba'ath party loyalists. "Clearly, this impacted negatively on the morale of his forces." The Colonel translates: "So your freedom fighters ran, huh?" CIA guy says something interesting and kind of mindbending, because it's sort of true and sort of right, but also sort of like comparing apples to color TVs: "Colonel, our liberation wasn't a cakewalk either. If you remember, there were some grim moments at Valley Forge." With that, he turns around and gets on a helicopter and flies away. Good.
The Colonel coughs. "We lost twenty-four hours." Lots of things can happen to a dead Marine in twenty-four hours, while you're waiting for a futile mission and another burnt hand. Patterson's just all, "Sir, it seems General Washington made off with my Oakleys." The Colonel laughs, because it turns out CIA and the Brig were right: this is exactly the correct metaphor for the historic joint American-liberated Iraqi freedom mission. The Colonel looks up at the sound of small-arms fire toward the city, and Patterson gets on comms.
Fawcett radios back a bit of confusion, because he's seeing the same thing they are: Much rejoicing, music, the gunshots being fired into the air. "We have eyes on the northeast corner of the town, and there appears to be ... some dismantling of the outer barricade, general revelry and what passes for Iraqi house music." Patterson tells him to make sure everybody knows the AKs and just for fun. "They're celebrating. They've been liberated." Barrett asks exactly who it was that liberated them, which: right? Fawcett: "Damn, they're fucking it up. I thought we were gonna fuck it up..." The Colonel notes that it's happening all along the line: Republican Guard abandoning their positions and getting funky. Patterson: "Assassin Two Three, this is Assassin Actual. Prepare your men to move into the town and find that Marine. Over."
In the town it's crazy, there is much looting and guys trying to sell crap to Alpha. They bargain without language; Burris does his whole "Habudaaba? Habidabadaba" thing, and there's a generally friendly vibe until Patterson shows up and tells Fawcett to pull them together and stop fraternizing. "Scott, take off that shit and stow it. Back to the Humvees. Get on that fucking gun!" Burris continues to chitterchat at them as the radio informs everybody that there's no engagement without hostile intent. So the "fast and loose" ROE just got bent back the other way, even though supposedly this city was clear of civilians to begin with. A truck comes rolling in with guys on it and Burris asks if they're a target. "These are the bad guys, right? We're just gonna let them get away?" Fawcett just looks at him and he slumps down in his seat, sad.
Walking through town with Barrett, Patterson goes through their new orders. "We're moving out and relinking with Battalion..." Barrett complains that they've barely even looked at the town, but Patterson's like, "Dude, I know." Everybody gets ready to move; the guys munch of flatbread. Burris is the only one that seems to be thinking about the lost Marine that was their mission, three missions ago. Nobody's got an answer for him.
Bravo. Nate explains the logistics of their entry into Al Hayy. "It's a city four kliks long, about 100,000 inhabitants. We're coming up the west side of it, then cutting across..." Basically, they go through the town in a really convoluted way, and then set up a roadblock on the other side. Then RCT-1 comes through and either takes out the bad guys or pushes them toward the roadblock, at which point Bravo takes care of it. Charlie's on point for the city, and then Bravo holds the road. The men get nervous, under Evan's eye. "I know this looks like some Black Hawk Down shit we're doing, but we'll be the ones initiating contact. Not the bad guys." That really is the difference. Espera nods and Brad calls an informal break: "All right, gentlemen, you heard the man. Let's go set up a roadblock."
Rolling through the deserted town, with prayers on the PA: it's super empty and super bleak. Trombley, Brad and Ray all stare out their windows, in private movies. Then Espera, Pappy, Leon. Up ahead you can hear Charlie engaging, but you can't see anybody. Walt's up on top of the Humvee, staring at the walls. Manimal sees a couple of women, ducking behind a doorframe near a balcony. Nate tells them halfway through the town, it's getting heavy. Here, it's dead silent: just bodies and the praying. There's a man on his stomach as they roll past, hands over his head, covered in blood. A dead man is crumpled behind him, one arm thrown across his leg. Evan stares at him as they go past. Lilley prays quietly to himself: "Lord, see us through. Lord, see us through. Lord, see us through." Espera stares at the survivor; Pappy almost whispers: "He's not a target." Nate stares down at him, and the bodies. Captain America sits very still.
Other side of town, they set up the roadblock as the sun goes down, and then it is night. Bored, Ray sits staring back toward the town, singing softly to himself. "God damn, man, son of a bitch and fuck... The price of Copenhagen just went up..." He spits absent-mindedly, and it drools down onto his shirt. "Oh shit," he says contemplatively. They sit in the quiet, staring down the road toward the darkness. Espera spots a truck, and they all pull their guns up. It drives closer, and closer, and Brad orders warning shots. The truck immediately swerves, turns around and heads the other way faster than a Benny Hill skit on fast-forward. Everybody chills out, but a second later there's another truck coming. They fire warning shots, and the truck keeps coming. "Light it the fuck up!" Wynn finally calls, and everybody unloads. More, and more and more, ripping the thing to shreds. It finally swerves off the road and falls onto its side. The men climb out of the wreck one by one, and one by one Bravo picks them off, lining them up with gunsights in their NVGs: green and black, invisible sights tracing across, and then firing. One, two, three. "Did they understand the warning shots?" Brad asks, and looks at Nate. "The ROE aren't a lot of help here."
Wynn looks at Brad, and Nate stares into his eyes. ROE's a combat jack. "We're all alone. And to our south, we've got an entire hostile town in between us and closest friendlies. And forty kilometers to our north, we've got a full mechanized division up there in Al Kut. And there's seventy of us, Brad. Holding this road." It's grim, but so honest that there's nothing to say in response. Everybody stares down the road, into the dark, wondering what's .
Six or ten trucks come along eventually; it's been long enough that the men are discussing donkey shows or something. Nate calls in artillery while they're still far enough away: "...At least two dozen military vehicles flanking us to the northwest at grid November Alpha . Over." Soon enough, the fire mission goes over, and the traffic's blown to hell.
A Marine from Charlie Company runs up to Nate, asking for Meesh. He sends Rudy with him to the other roadblock. It's a parking lot full of dead cars. Rudy looks at the cars while Meesh talks to the guy: one of them has a little girl in back. She looks five or six. She's wearing a pretty dress. Rudy's eyes are huge. They ask again and again why the car didn't stop, why it didn't acknowledge their warning shots. "Ask him why he kept coming."
Meesh's eyes are full of tears. "He said he's sorry."
"He wants to know if he can take his daughter's body." The man heads slowly back to his car. Rudy's disbelieving, but Meesh is still close to crying. "Arabs don't grieve the way you do," Meesh says. "It's different for him." How true can that be? How can that be true?
The man stares down at her body, and gathers her in his arms. She's not wearing shoes. He carries his daughter back into the night.
Bravo One's listening to radio chatter when Rudy returns. He doesn't look up or acknowledge them, just walks by. "Rudy," Brad says. "What happened up at Charlie?" Rudy doesn't even slow down.
They watch the mortar fire. "Shit's really ... Pretty, isn't it?" Brad doesn't answer, but he knows what Ray means.
day is kids, climbing around on the busted-open truck, around the bodies. Chaffin looks through the windshield at the driver: "Garza got him right between the eyes... Well, where his eyes used to be." Planes fly by, dropping missiles and returning. "Sounds like RCT-1's fucking shit up on their way through town, huh?" Chaffin grins at Manimal. "Fuck yeah, they are." Manimal looks at the body for a second and wanders away.
"I felt cold as a motherfucker shooting those guys," Espera says, thinking about the men in that truck. Traffic comes toward them, but it's just Alpha. Brad almost smiles. "Alpha's home." Little kids cheer the oncoming victors. "They think we're cool 'cause we're so good at blowing shit up," Ray says. Brad chews his dip and everybody loads up.
When Patterson and Barrett drive up, Nate asks how it went. "Brought all my men back." Nate asks Al Shatra, what happened there, and for once it's not the total tragic bleakness that keeps Patterson's mouth shut. "Nate... You wouldn't believe it, man." Barrett keeps driving; Q-Tip asks about them the missing Marine. Fawcett looks at him, but doesn't answer. They keep driving.
Oscar Mike, into the thing. Brad sings "Teenage Dirtbag" quietly to himself; soon enough everybody but Trombley -- who wasn't even born when the song was written, in 2000 --- is singing along. Ray harmonizes; they're all grinning hard in the sun, in relief. It's like taking a shower. Back behind them, Espera's still not coping: his glare is hard, out onto the MSR and past it into the distance. But up front, driving point, they're singing.
Brad thanks Ray quietly, when they're done. Ray thanks him right back.