Undream the Echoes

Liam
12.25.2001

I am at war. It is Christmas and I am at war. I have no family, no Elle, only my brother soldiers who suffer through this day with me. I have always hated Christmas and now I hate it even more.

It is hot. I thought I knew hot, when the New England summers turn as brutal as its winters, when the sun pours its hatred onto the earth and makes me sweaty and tired. But this is a different kind of hot. This is the kind of hot where there is not a single molecule of water in the air; my tongue is nothing more than a dried up lump resting awkwardly in my mouth, making it nearly impossible for me to speak. Although we are the Air Force and land is not our specialty, today we do not have any missions so there is no reason for us to be in jets fighting in the air or rescuing wounded soldiers. But of course the lieutenant isn’t going to let us off easy today, so instead he’s taking us marching for fifteen miles so we can “build character” or some shit like that. We are walking through a small town, which is extremely dangerous since there are suicide bombers fucking in every corner, but then again everywhere here is dangerous so who the fuck cares. I lick my cracked lips, trying to moisten them, but my saliva has already boiled and evaporated into the air. Water, water, that is all I want. But of course I cannot have it.

My uniform is thick and my boots are heavy and the gun strapped around my shoulder weighs me down, but I cannot take anything off to cool off – officer’s orders. I am sweating profusely and I will my body to stop because I am dehydrating myself, but my body doesn’t listen.

It is so hot, so mother fucking hot, and yet oddly enough I feel like I’m stranded in the arctic. The heat has made my body go numb and I march with my brothers like a zombie, devoid of feeling. We wish to stop and get some water but we must keep moving because our officer told us to. Because our officer told us to. That is the sentence that repeats itself over and over in my head. If I had a choice I would not be here, I would be at home with my wife, drinking lots and lots and lots of water… But I did have a choice, and I made it years ago when I signed up for ROTC. Now it is too late and I cannot go back. I am in Afghanistan, at war, on Christmas day, and there is no one to blame but myself.

“I’m so dried up I don’t even think I can take a piss.” The man who has just spoken is Justin. He’s a year or two younger than me, with embarrassingly fire-red hair and a face full of unflattering freckles. He’s the complainer of the group, and although most of the time we all hate him for being such a baby, I’m willing to listen to him whine today. Lieutenant Rutger might hear his requests and maybe he’ll let us stop for some water. (But if not then the lieutenant will just be pissed and smack Justin upside the head, saying something like, “Shut your sorry trap,” like he usually does.) Basically, the reason why I’m practically willing Justin to complain to Lt. Rutger is because there’s a chance he might help us out, but if he doesn’t, then at least I won’t be the one getting a beating.

I glance at the redhead and notice he looks just as shitty as I feel. I hope that I don’t look as bad as him, because he’s pale and his lips are bleeding from being so chapped and I think he’s going to throw up on me. “I feel like my balls have shriveled up under this goddamn sun,” he adds.

“Since when do you have balls, Timberlake?” This comes from my friend Harry. He’s always the one cracking jokes and teasing the younger soldiers, even at a time like this when all of us are so fucking miserable. That’s why he and I get along so well. He is the jokester; I am the story teller. When we are all feeling depressed and homesick and tired of the war, Harry will crack a joke or start a friendly fight and our miseries will be forgotten. And when we are all feeling okay (or at least not too shitty, for there’s no such thing as feeling ‘okay’ around here), I am the one to tell stories – whether they are happy or funny or sad – and I remind everyone how good home is, how much we miss it. And it inspires us, it pushes us forward to keep fighting, no matter how much we hate everything. The hope of returning home is powerful.

Together, Harry and I are the backbone of our troop. We keep people laughing and hoping because that is all we have to live off of. He and I have formed a bond that is not quite as strong as the brotherly bond between Landon and me, but at the same time it is just as strong and maybe even stronger. Although Harry and I are not real brothers and although we have only been companions for a few months, we have gone through things that most people cannot even dream of enduring. Landon and I have grown up together, but Harry and I have killed together. Landon and I share the same blood; Harry and I have spilled the same blood.

“Shut the fuck up Hairball, I didn’t ask you for your fucking opinion,” Justin shoots back. “And my name isn’t Timberlake.” Harry had given Justin the name Timberlake because he is ‘a fucking pretty boy, so gorgeous, oh so gorgeous, I bet all the girls swoon after you, just like that ‘N Sync kid,’ as Harry would taunt in a singsong voice. It obviously isn’t true because Justin is pretty fucking ugly, but the name Timberlake is a way of making fun of Justin without really trying, so of course it caught on. The entire troop calls him it now, even Rutger.

At the beginning of my time with my troop, Justin’s foul mouth made me flinch. But now all of us brothers speak in this indecent brogue, myself included. We speak as if everything is fucking something else; Look at the fucking sky, it’s so fucking blue; I want to know who the fuck ate my potato-fucking-chips; Anyone fucking want a piece of fucking gum? and so on and so forth. The word fuck is like a one-syllable release of stress, as if every time we say it we feel better. And it sort of works.

Justin and Harry are pushing each other’s shoulders now as we march, but what started as friendly bantering is quickly becoming aggressive. In this land it is hard to refrain from violence, not even from your own brothers; here, violence is just a way of life, as natural as breathing. “Easy now, Timberlake, we wouldn’t want your pretty face to be punched in, now would we?” I cut in, stepping in between the two men to break up their soon-to-be-fight.

“Oh look Hairball, your lover Mr. Husband has come to your rescue,” Justin sneers. Everyone in the troop has a name – and they are not just nicknames, but actual names, or at least replacement names that we can use while we’re at war being different people. The names are our masks to hide our brutality, because this way, in the Land of Desert and Blood, we are known as killers – but once we are home, we can go back to calling ourselves our normal names, we can go back to being the people who once were. Our replacement names will be forgotten and so will the heartless side of us.

My name is Mr. Husband, as retarded as that is, but I got it because I am the only one in the troop who is married. When the boys stay up late to share pussy stories about that time they hooked up with this blond chick or when they fucked the slut with the great legs, I always remain quiet, determined not to disgrace Elle. Her secrets are mine to keep and I will not share them with anyone, not even my brothers. Of course I have been teased for this, but once everyone realized that I have great fucking aim and I’m one of the best fighters in our troop, my respect had been regained.

Harry is about to retort something clever to get Justin started again, but at that precise moment

BANG

there is an explosion. A cart that had been selling fruit is blasted to pieces; people in the street scream and flee. A horse that was just there isn't there anymore and the street is covered in blood and guts. I hear Harry saying, "The horse just blew up. The horse just blew the fuck up." We've heard about terrorists strapping bombs to animals and setting them off when soldiers walk by, but we didn't actually think that the rumors were true.

All of the sudden there is another

BANG

from somewhere else.

“Get down!” the lieutenant orders but he doesn’t really need to say anything. We all know what to do. Already, we have broken formation and found refuge behind cars or the corner of buildings. I realize that I have already taken my gun out and am ready to shoot at any time – the action had been so fluid and quick that I don’t even need to think about what I am doing. Defending myself is now a natural instinct.

But we don’t have a reason to shoot. Everyone has fled and the street is empty. There is no bomber in sight, which most likely means that the second explosion was a grenade thrown from a distance. Lt. Rutger seems to believe the attack is over because he’s already creeping out into the street, his hawk-like eyes scanning for any threats. He finds none and says, “All right boys, everything’s fine. Just a few minor explosions. No one’s hurt, right?” From behind a street cart Justin complains that he got cut from a flying piece of wood, but we all ignore him; we all have scratches too but we’re not bitching about it.

We all saunter out from our hiding spots slowly, our guns held up and ready. Rutger may think it is safe but you never know. That’s one thing I’ve learned about being in war – you can never assume things and you can never feel safe. My gun has become my best friend.

Following Rutger’s bark-like orders, we fall back into formation and begin to walk again. People have returned to the street already, resuming their work or errands; incidents like this are common for them. It’s hard to faze a citizen of Afghanistan. You can tell just by looking in their eyes that they have seen much more than we have, not even in movies or in my dreams. When they look at us they do not give us looks of hatred or admiration or fear – it is scorn. Their eyes say, You stupid American, what do you know of war? What do you know of our lives? What do you know of surviving? The truth is we know nothing of these things. All we know is that they want us dead. They are waiting in anticipation for us to mess up and to be caught off guard, to forget to tread carefully on our tiptoes, or to be ended by a forgotten bomb or a stray bullet. They don’t necessarily hate us; they just know that we do not understand their way of life, and we never will, and for that they mentally ridicule us.

“We pray for rain and in return we get bombed,” Harry jokes, though his bitter tone betrays his smile.

Those are the last words I ever hear him say, because suddenly

BANG

there is a third explosion.

This one is much closer, much more dangerous. I feel a combination of heat and brutal force slam against my back and I am thrown forward. My face lands in the road and I inhale a mixture of dry dirt and dust.

Red and black. That’s all I can see. Soon my vision improves a bit and now it’s a mess of moving blurs. I think I pass out for a moment because suddenly I’m waking up and hearing nothing except for a sharp ringing in my ears. Slowly I get to my feet, ignoring the throbbing in my back, and I see my brothers scrambling around, shooting aimlessly at our hidden attacker. I know I’m supposed to be hearing screams and gunfire, but all I can hear is the ringing. Somehow I’m covered in blood.

I can’t really remember much of what happens next, which is either because I am still too dizzy from the explosion, or because when I shoot a gun I go on autopilot mode so I don’t have to think about killing. Either way, I remember firing a few times up at the tops of the buildings, where the grenade-throwing fiend would be hiding.

I slip on something slimy, and upon looking down I realize it’s someone’s intestines. I’m not sure if it’s a citizen or a fallen brother’s. Maybe it’s mine. Maybe I’ve died and I just haven’t figured it out yet.

But I must be alive because Lt. Rutger’s mouth moving and from his expression I can see he’s yelling at me. I can’t hear the orders so I just follow the rest of my brothers. We retreat from the town and flee back towards the desert, which is not much safer here since it lacks trees and shelter, but at least we’ll be able to spot someone instantly if they’re nearby.

Once we are far enough away, we all collapse on the sand. Now, on top of suffering through the murderous heat, we also have to recover from our shock, ease our heartbeats to a normal rate, catch our breaths, and try our best to ignore the stench of blood rotting in the sun. My back is still in a lot of pain and I think I’ve been wounded. I must have fallen asleep again because all of the sudden I’m opening my eyes and the ringing in my ears is gone. Lt. Rutger is shouting out names to make sure everyone is here.

“Robbie Rocks!”

“Present, sir.”

“Big Bob!”

“Present, sir.”

“Mr. Husband!”

I make a weird groaning sound and the lieutenant accepts it as a, “Present, sir.”

“Timberlake!”

“Present, sir. Wounded, but present.”

“Shut your sorry trap. Hairball!”

Nothing.

“Hairball! Harry Matthews?”

No one replies. Where is Harry?

I sit up slowly, blinking away the dots that appear in my eyes. I scan the troop but I do not see Harry’s face. Then I remember the intestines I slipped on before. I pass out again.

I wake up back at camp. It is dark out now and the shadows are cool against my skin. I am shirtless and someone has bandaged my back. Secretly I hope I do not get a scar; the other soldiers love bragging about battle wounds but I do not want a permanent memory of today. Shifting in bed, I realize that I am in an excruciating amount of pain, so much that my nerves have been overloaded and I almost feel nothing at all.

As I lay in my two-inch-thick mattress, I try not to think about anything. I try focusing on Elle, on home, on peace and safety. I suddenly remember that I got a letter from her yesterday and I have yet to reply. Wincing as I move, I slowly sit up and turn on the lamp, grabbing a piece of paper and pen that I always have on the table next to my bed.

“Harry died today,” I write. I stare at the sentence for a long time.

Finally I decide to erase it. Instead I lie, “The desert is beautiful from my plane. Afghanistan is not as ugly as a place as I thought it would be.”