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by N. Jed Todd
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Staff Sergeant Lister stared through dust settling on the windshield at the Iraqis gathering in the shade of doorframes and gates, women of all ages and young children, a scattering of old men. Sharp moves and wide gestures framed the arguments as the palm groves and raised earthen wall, just high enough to trip over, framed the town. One way in and one way out, and both were blocked by a cluster of American gun-trucks and Bradleys, lines of sand-colored troops rushing out like fire-ants after an ice cream cone.
The plan had been for Lister and his truck-mounted loudspeakers to slowly drive a circuit around the town, explaining the cordon-and-search rules for the families left in the farmhouses, while the troops and the Bradleys communicated the implied threat of what not cooperating might bring. That had been the plan, and a good one, but like most plans it briefed better the night before than in the hard shimmer of a summer day, dust and piles of dead chickens coating the wind. The taste of death and a horizon that hid all traces of city and civilization had the troops nervous, and they were already fanning out into arrowheads ambling towards the houses.
“Reynolds, you and Gaspar record a script to play over the speakers, then the three of us will do face-to-face before the search teams get there. Crawford, you stay with the truck and broadcast. Gonna go catch Captain America up there and get an escort.” Lister climbed around the computers and radios and gear carefully to get out, making sure to pull the handset for the radio from the clip on his vest just before it pulled him up short.
He clipped his rifle in and waddled over to the tall officer knife-handing directions to his troops, remembering what he’d said at the briefing the night before. There had been some kind of coarse joke, something about how this ‘score’ would be a big one, something to make up for being extended a few more months in Iraq and having their prime Baghdad digs given to the new guys while the old-timers were relegated to chicken farms and empty sand. There’d even been some chuckles to it, but it wasn’t clear whether the troops were more laughing with or at. Most of them just sat there and took the kind of detailed notes that would answer all the questions the rest of the squad could dream up, knowing all the things that could go wrong on a patrol. Captain Amarth may have been a glory hound, but his troops were just doing a job, and even if Lister reported to the one, he was there for the others.
In Bosnia before the current wars began and Afghanistan after, Lister had seen the difference good PSYOP could mean. He’d seen harder men than these go from stormtroopers to Frank Capra ‘aw-shucks’ heroes when faced with clouds of children the same as children anywhere – seen what happened when ‘us against them’ turned into ‘both of us protecting you against them.’ But this was his first deployment as Team Lead himself, and as he watched the troops setting up their perimeters and moving into the village as smoothly as coyotes flanking goats, he wondered if a PSYOP baby who’d never humped a load as an infantryman could win their hearts and minds the way the ones who taught him had.
“Sir? Captain Amarth? If you guys can give us five mikes before starting the searches, I’ll have my driver broadcast instructions over the speakers while Gaspar and I talk to the families. Just need the security detail so Sergeant Reynolds and I can focus on the talking.”
Amarth didn’t fully turn to face Lister, but his arms stopped their metronomic up-and-down pointing and his feet stopped tapping in time. He leaned his hip against the worn rubber of the tread.
“Security ‘detail’? I can spare one guy, PSYOP, just one. I’ll need everyone else back here for setting up a collection point and guarding the munitions. You can have Rocko there… Just keep the farmers from getting in our way. Women and children don’t scare me. And you and Rocko will do the talking, I need your boy up there to stay with the truck. Two per truck, like we briefed. One gun, one wheel.” His eyes were invisible behind the black lenses, and with the headphones for the radio he looked more ant than man. But only men twitch that way, grimace pulling up first one cheek than the other, neck like a bobble-head going too fast through a school-zone.
“I…Roger. I can take one, just give me time to get out there and explain. You’ll want to set up a collection point here and get comms back and all anyway, right? Five minutes. That’s what you brought me for.” Lister stared at the reflection of his helmet bouncing in Amarth’s lenses.
“Five fucking minutes, PSYOP. I told you the fucking schedule, don’t blame me if you can’t keep it. Rocko, keep him on beat, right?”
Rocko stepped out of the shadow of the Bradley, walked over to Lister. He nodded once, as Amarth lost interest and walked away. Lister peered around, sized up the locals waiting in front of the mud-brick walls. As he did, two old men in clean but threadbare suits and a younger man awkward in pressed jeans and a tee-shirt stepped forward, striding to meet the staring soldiers head on.
“Shit. GASPAR! You ready?” Reynolds, ear cocked to the headphone held in his gloved hand, nodded distractedly and gave a thumbs-up. Gaspar could have been discerned as the interpreter from a long way off. Everything on him looked about three sizes too large and the straps on his armored vest were bare of any pouch or decoration.
“Sergeant sir, are we to begin? Now? With these gentlemen?” The lilting British accent was as alien to this land as anything else that came out of an American gun-truck. Lister and Gaspar walked forward together, less than a forearm’s distance separating their chests. Rocko walked about three steps behind, rifle held casually but unobtrusively, muzzle pointed politely down and away, a constant metronome with his steps. Lister glanced back once, saw his stance and where his eyes were, and nodded comfortably. This one didn’t need to be told what to do, he had it. As Lister and Gaspar ambled up to a position in front of the three Iraqis just a bit too close for American comfort, Rocko continued to a position where he could keep both the team and the searchers in clear line of sight. Lister wanted to tell him to keep it casual, but he held his tongue. Rocko came off more aggressive than a PSYOPer, but his stance was loose enough, he smiled at the kids in the window, and even gave little Miss America waves with his off hand. He’d work.
Gaspar approached the Iraqis. He stepped in front of Lister, shook hands all around, and started in immediately with rapid-fire Arabic. The young man blinked at his formal accent, but the old man on the left smiled and squared his shoulders up, his gestures lengthening and raising his chin to get his words a bit more resonant than they otherwise would be. Lister stepped back and waited. Teaching a ‘terp to become an invisible echo was something that took time and practice, and much as it pained him, Lister would just have to deal with being a third wheel until he could rehearse with the new guy.
“Sergeant sir, these gentlemen are quite pleased to welcome you to the village, and they assure you that there will be nothing to find but you are welcome to find that yourself. With your permission, Mr. Yezid’s son here will speak to the other houses, explain the requirements. Wait in the house until the previous search, all family step outside at the knock, one person can escort but must stand with the search boss and not interfere, and no more than one rifle per family. Just as is being broadcast through the village.”
Broadcast was a strong word. Lister could make out the final English summation of the loudspeaker message, but he knew what it said already – had he not known, he’d have had to get closer to make sense of it, and no one was walking up heedlessly to the heavily armed soldiers. Lister could make out a waist-high, shaggy-haired boy suddenly start with comprehension and start a ripple of whispers in one cloud of children hiding in the shadow of a mud-brick wall.
“Sheikh, I thank you for your welcome, and assure you that we will disturb your people no more than we must. I am Lister, and I am honored to be among you, and I offer my thanks for your understanding and patience. I assure you there is no disrespect meant, but if there are strangers who have abused your trust and hospitality, it will be better to learn before the search than to find it. Is there anything you would like to mention before we start our search?”
The younger of the old men narrowed his eyes at the speech, and his worn hands started upward before being clasped again at waist level and plucking at the button of his thin blazer.
“Sergeant sir, I do not think they speak English.” Gaspar’s whisper pierced the dry air. Lister closed his eyes for a heartbeat, two, and then breathed out.
“Please tell them what I said, Gaspar.” Gaspar smiled like the father of a newborn, and shouldered Lister aside. The boy in jeans nodded abruptly and, with a shudder-step on catching site of Rocko behind him, strode quickly to the cluster of women and children in the shade, rapid-fire words scattering the lot. Lister, Gaspar, and the older man in the gray jacket trailed behind the largest knot of children. A few words and an expansive gesture or two were the next few discussions, with the old man smiling behind Lister’s shoulder at his neighbors. Beyond that, down at the edge of the town, packed earth berm close enough that Rocko took it as step for his left leg and rested his hand on his knee, the crowd wasn’t just women and children. Four men in worn work clothes and trails of sweat trailing down into their thick black beards stood awkwardly before a gate.
As Lister smiled and waved, Gaspar answered some questions from a shaggy-haired man with laugh-lines carved in his cheek. The others answered his question over Gaspar, and the old man behind Lister pushed his way to the front, heedless of the soldier. The voices climbed, and finally the shaggy-haired man waved his hands down and bounced off over the berm and into the fields. He walked for ten-seconds or so, stopped, stooped, fumbling with something hidden by the reeds. The old man and the other farmers were silent.
“Gaspar, what’s this about? What’s going on?” Lister spoke out of one side of his mouth, keeping his eyes focused the same direction as the rest.
“He asked if it was true that one rifle per family was allowed, if a single weapon would be confiscated. The others kept telling him they had nothing. He said we were reasonable men.”
The shaggy-haired farmer found what he was searching for, and with a muffled grunt, rose to his feet, holding a rifle over his head. The farmers turned from looking in his direction and studied the ground before them, consulting in low voices. Lister blinked slowly, and caught Rocko’s black sunglasses. Rocko nodded, waved left-handed back down the road at the search team. He stepped across the berm and picked his way through the same path that led to the shaggy-haired farmer, now cradling his rifle, holding it out for Rocko two-handed.
Rocko, for his part, ignored the proffered rifle. He ambled over to the spot where the laughing farmer had stooped, kicked. He bent down and fumbled with something. Standing, he rose with a gray canvas bag like a tarp, wrapped by rough hemp. Now he took the cradled rifle, placed it carefully on top of the bag, checking the chamber one-handed. He brought the load back past the farmer, the old man, Lister, walking back down the road to the search team. The farmer followed after him, stepping carefully. He handed the bag off to Amarth, who was leading an arrowhead of searchers.
“Now we’re getting somewhere! Must be five, six guns here. And at least ten mags. Michaels, grab three guys and grid off that field, see where the rest of them are.”
The old man kept his eyes on Amarth now, not turning to Gaspar. The shaggy-haired farmer, all traces of laughter gone, desperately interrogated Gaspar, flashing appeals at Lister as well. The other farmers kept their eyes in the dirt at their neighbors’ feet.
“Sir, there are at least fifteen houses here. These are household weapons, not a cache. No bombs, no…These aren’t…They’re just farmers. Nothing to…” Lister’s words trailed off into a nervous cough, bile rising in his throat.
“One rifle per household. That fucker wants to keep his gun, cool, it’s his. But the rest of these… All I see is one guy with a shitload of weapons. Unless somebody else wants to claim them…” He glanced around at the tops of many heads. “Thought not. Dumb shits.”
“This isn’t right. This will lose trust.” His words were clipped, forced out past the churning in his belly. He focused on his words, keeping his voice from rising, from begging, from turning to a whine. But on the last word his voice cracked despite his best efforts. He felt the heat rising to his cheeks, the back of his neck. His fingers tingled, and his voice to his own ears started to seem distant, robotic.
“Hey, PSYOP, this ain’t your fucking job. You did good, found me the first taste, now let me get to getting the rest, huh? Go tell them not to throw rocks or something. George! George! Where the fuck are you? Hey, get the ‘terp over here, tell these fuckers to disperse. And set up a perimeter on the far side…What the fuck, PSYOP, you still here? Want to work after all? Get out or get dirty.”
Lister saw himself turn and walk away as though he was looking at action-figures placed carefully in some shoebox diorama he’d brought for a classroom show-and-tell, one that no one else in class had bothered to do, called to the front of the class by a teacher who wanted to recognize his ‘effort.’ He spoke to the old man and the farmers, feeling like someone else was speaking, someone he felt vaguely embarrassed for. The words were forgotten as soon as they hit the air, morning dew in the desert. The Iraqis searched for their answers in his hunched shoulders, eyes that wouldn’t sit still. They spoke among themselves, turned their bodies subtly away from him. Words trailing off untranslated, he walked back to the center of the town, not even stopping at the first few houses down the next lane. The women just watched the eyes of the entourage he led, asking nothing themselves.
The searchers finished crushing down the reeds with their grid, trailing mud and seed behind them, and Lister faded from flustered awkwardness to empty repetition, barely more than the loudspeaker message himself. As Lister circled back around the other side of the village, an older woman came shouting up to the crowd speaking with him. The old man asked questions, and a cloud of children and young women split the crowd. Gaspar turned to face Lister.
“They are saying that a family gift was stolen. An heirloom, an old Turkish…What is the word, not a rifle, not a weapon for war, but for birds only?”
“Pellet gun? BB gun?”
“Maybe like that. It shoots only small stones, for birds. Many stones, all at once. It is very expensive, very old. They say it belongs to their grandfather, very important. They want to trade.”
“Trade? What do you mean, trade?”
“The Americans took the heirloom, and it is valuable. They will give money or an army weapon for it back, they just want to keep the old one. They cannot replace it now, it is Ottoman.”
“Who took it.” The words were a question, but the tone wasn’t. “I’ll try and find out, ask what happened. I can’t promise anything, but we’ll find out.” Lister turned and studied the town, breathed out heavily. Ignoring the flush rising once again, he strode back to the collection point.
“Captain Amarth! Captain Amarth! Did you take a shotgun from these folks? They say there was a heirloom shotgun stolen, they want it back. Want to offer a military weapon as trade.”
Amarth turned from where he was telling a story to a handful of older soldiers and attending radio operators. His face was dark.
“Get yourself together, little guy. Who the fuck you talking to?”
“Sir, these folks say you guys took a shotgun from them, and they want to get it back.”
“Listen to me now. One, I don’t answer to you. Two, I didn’t steal fucking anything. Three, shut the fuck up and stay in your lane.” Amarth was now within a foot and-a-half of Lister, hissing his words. His eyes glanced from side to side, his sunglasses ripped from his face and hanging now about his chin, catching the spittle from his words. A heavy-built First Sergeant came up behind them, stopped at a gesture from Amarth. Amarth stood there for a few moments, breathing heavily. His eyes crawled over Lister’s face, lingering at his eyes.
“Sir, I just think…”
Jaw tensing, Amarth turned on his heel and stalked back to his truck, past the empty gray canvas lying on the ground. He tossed over his shoulder, “Top, I have to talk to this fuck any further, I’m gonna burn down his fucking tent. Wrap this shit up, we’re done here.”
Lister followed Amarth with his eyes until he passed out of site behind a Bradley, then slowly panned over to the First Sergeant. He searched his face. His words were softer now, leaving a hook for hope.
“First Sergeant, can we just look at the collected weapons? Talk to these guys? Figure out what the confusion is, where…”
“Sergeant, think about what you’re saying. Think hard. Real hard. Then figure out where the hell you are.” His jaw clenched, and he planted his feet more firmly, his back to the Bradleys and the soldiers diligently avoiding being caught watching.
Lister breathed out. He looked around, shook himself. Looked back at the stone-faced First Sergeant. Without explaining anything to the silent crowd of Iraqis watching it all, he walked back to his truck.
“Hey, Lister, what’s going on? What happened?” Reynolds rose up from the front seat of the speaker truck.
“I… You take Gaspar and go talk to the First Sergeant. Think we’re wrapping things up. I’ll take the radio.”
He carefully clipped the radio to a loop of fabric on his vest, settled into the driver’s seat. Heavy lidded, he watched the two speak to the First Sergeant, saw Gaspar speaking to the crowd for a moment. Crawford eventually removed his sad smile from the hole of the turret, pulled himself back upright in his webbing seat. Gaspar came back and sat down in the seat behind Lister. As the trucks circled each other and lined up for the return trip, Lister moved into his place without even shutting the heavy doors. The radio sparked into life.
“All Predator elements, this is Predator Six. Mount up for exfil. Dry hole, folks, better luck next time. I say again, dry hole.”
While waiting for Reynolds to pull back from the Command truck, Lister caught sight of the Iraqis clustered at the road into the village, where the tracks of the vehicles left scars through the dirt and dust. There was laughing and playing among the children, and the women collected them as they dispersed, like shepherds before the fleecing. But the old men stood silent, impassive, faces shadowed and unreadable. Gaspar saw him staring. He caught his eye, for a moment, then looked away, pretending to study his notebook.
To Lister, though, everything in the truck was just framing, the scenery on which the real action took place. He watched the crowd of Iraqis, saw the old men speaking urgently among themselves, the children pulling at the grandmother’s hands for explanation or asking to be picked up, the younger boys laughing and pushing at each other playfully. He saw the older boys smiling differently, talking with their heads down, an arm shooting out sharply for emphasis. And he saw the oldest man, the one with the gray jacket and the sad eyes, just standing, remembering, taking it all in.
Hesitantly, carefully, Gaspar asked if he was okay.
Lister didn’t answer. Reynolds got in the truck passenger seat, slapped the dirty plastic hump between the two seats.
“Let’s roll.”
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N. Jed Todd is a father, husband, retired Army Master Sergeant, and a Texan, in that order. As a Russian linguist working in Signals Intelligence and Psychological Operations, he served in Bosnia, Afghanistan, Iraq, Kuwait, Cyprus, Mali, and Central Africa, not necessarily in that order. His wife, Ami, and daughter, Meera, tolerate him in no order at all.
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