ADAM
Baghdad, Iraq
Summer 2006
M4 Carbine rifle ready,
Sergeant Adam Wegener scanned the street, skimming from window to rooftop. Nerves
on edge, his neck and shoulder muscles strained to keep him focused. His heart
thumped against his ribs.
Patrol leader Lieutenant
Clifton moved his troop with caution through the street, Adam’s fire team at
the rear. They’d done street sweeps many times before, but this one was
different. Something was not right. Apprehension took hold of his insides and
squeezed tight with every step.
Adam turned and walked
backwards a few steps, establishing eye contact with Corporal Scottsdale. He
nodded at the big guy’s expressionless face, assurance at having Big Scott
cover his back. He checked on the other two members of his team trailing his
left, Corporals Andrews and Bradley, and faced forward again.
The neighborhood seemed
unnaturally quiet. No children walked to school, no laundry hung outside
windows on this breezeless day, not even alley cats explored the overflowing
garbage containers.
From a corner of his eye, he
caught a movement in one of the windows. Wood shutters slammed closed against
the windowpane.
A loud boom burst the air.
Adam hit the dirt, his head pounding the pavement. The world went silent. He
spat blood mixed with something solid. Parts of his body armor and uniform had
been ripped off, along with patches of skin. He rose to his knees, his hands
searching for his rifle. Finding it, he clasped the rifle in his arms and
crawled. He moved as if swimming in a viscous liquid, not knowing which
direction to take. He saw only clouds
of smoke.
He screamed the names of the
soldiers in his team, not sure if his voice even worked. He couldn’t hear a
damn thing. His elbow landed on something hard, a boot. He moved his fingers up
the leather, across the twill fabric of the pants, until his hands sank in soft
flesh and wetness. The man mumbled something, his voice muffled and distant.
“Big Scott, that you?” Adam shouted.
A shower of bullets rang by
his side. Helmet gone, he ducked and covered his head. His ears popped from the
pressure, jump-starting his hearing.
“Take cover.” Big Scott’s
voice penetrated the sounds of warfare.
He scrambled to his feet,
hoisted Big Scott on his shoulder, and dashed to the nearest house. He kicked
the door and threw himself and Big Scott inside. Propping the injured soldier’s
back to one wall, away from the windows, he snatched the M9 Beretta pistol from
the holster mounted on his chest rig and forced it into Big Scott’s hands.
“Cover the door.”
Rifle raised and ready, he moved
from room to room to secure the small house. He entered the kitchen, coming
face-to-face with an old woman. Sitting motionless on a wooden chair, hands
clasped on the Formica table in front of her, she stared down Adam’s raised
barrel.
Keeping an eye on the
wrinkled, tanned face, he scanned the kitchen. No place for anyone to hide, not
even a closet door to check behind.
“Anyone else in the house?”
She held her stare,
unflinching.
Adam tried to recall Arabic
words he heard Fadi, the interpreter assigned to his patrol unit, say in
situations like these. But he couldn’t recall a single one.
“Where’s your husband?”
The woman blinked. She
craned her neck to one side, looking past him toward the front of the house.
The white scarf covering her hair slipped down to her shoulders, revealing gray
strands pulled back in a tight bun. She lifted the scarf and refastened it
under her chin.
His hand shook. He aimed a
loaded weapon at a woman the same age as his mother. Hell, she even resembled
her.
“Rajul? Rajul?” Was that the right word for man? Why was she so
calm?
The only point of entry was
the door he came through. He heard heavy movement outside. The sounds of
shouting men grew closer. The old mother could yell to alert the insurgents any
second. He snatched a towel hanging on a hook to his left, and held his index
finger to his lips, motioning for the woman to go with him to the front room.
She followed without
uttering a sound.
Adam pointed his weapon for
her to sit on the cement floor. He tore the towel into strips and kneeled in
front of her.
Big Scott moaned. He slumped
to one side, pistol aimed at the door.
“I got you, man. Have to
secure the old mother first.” He used a towel strip for her hands and tied another
around her mouth.
He turned to Big Scott, got his first aid kit
out of a side pocket on his torn pants, and dug for supplies. He applied bandages
to Big Scott's bleeding midsection. Keeping pressure on the wound with one
hand, he pulled the radio from his pack and reported to his platoon sergeant
they were trapped inside one of the houses.
“Damn it, which one?”
Lieutenant Clifton’s voice crackled.
“Don’t know. Scottsdale’s
injured. It’s bad.”
“Andrews, Bradley?” The
lieutenant screamed back.
“God damn IED was right
under them. Can’t confirm.”
“Second platoon’s six blocks
away. They’re en route and—”
A loud explosion silenced
the radio. Cursing, he flung the radio across the room.
“Hang in there, big man. QRF’s
on the way.” There was no way the Quick Reaction Force could come to their
rescue if they didn’t know where they were.
“How long?” Big Scott’s
voice came out calm, surprising him.
“Ten minutes.” He fumbled
with more bandages. Could second platoon make six blocks in ten minutes? It was
possible. “Stay with me. Think about that sweet girl you got back home. Sandy,
right?”
He slumped beside Big Scott.
Sticky stuff on his back squished. He closed his eyes, hoping to God the
sensation resulted from an injury he hadn’t yet felt, rather than the blood and
flesh of his missing team members splattered all over him. He needed to find a
way to signal their location.
Big Scott clamped a charred
hand on top of his. “Won’t make it.”
“The hell you won’t. Sandy’s
waiting for you.” He pulled himself to his feet and approached the door. “You’d
better not disappoint her.” If he opened the door and his patrol didn’t spot
him, the insurgents would be alerted to their position, and that would be the
fucking end. If he didn’t do anything, Big Scott would bleed out. He looked
back at the corporal. His friend didn’t have much time. There was only one
thing to do.
“We have to get out of
here.”
He propped Big Scott on his shoulder and
opened the door. Clouds of smoke blocked his view. Using the cover of smoke, he
edged his way along the side of the house, unable to see a yard past his face.
His foot stumbled over a chunk of cement, and he collapsed against the house,
slumping down on the dirty street, overcome by how absurd this mission was.
A clomp of boots on the
gritty pavement caught his attention. They were trapped. They could not fade
into the concrete, not a car nor a bush to hide behind, and he didn't have time
to retrace his way back to the door. He aimed his rifle in the direction of the
approaching boots and counted the steps. One man, probably a scout. Shots would
draw others.
He slung the rifle across
his chest and let it hang. Clamping a hand on Big Scott’s mouth, he stifled the
soldier’s agonized moan. Adam stretched to full height, flattened his back
against the wall, and pulled his knife.
Heavy fire erupted around
them. Bullets shattered the wall to Adam’s left. He hit the dirt again. Big Scott’s
limp body fell on top of him, pinning him down. Knife gone, he tried to push Big
Scott off. Pain shot through his body like electricity. He doubled over and
collapsed once more, trapping his rifle under him.
Leather boots slammed right
next to his face. He wrapped his hand around the ankle and tried to topple the
guy down.
“Don’t fight me, Adam. I’m
here to helb you.”
“Fadi? That you Fadi?”
“Shut ub before zey hear
us.”
Fadi took hold of Big
Scott’s shoulders and pulled him into the house. He returned to Adam and
dragged him until they were inside. He checked their injuries.
Multiple holes on Adam’s
left side bled. Big Scott lay flat on his back, praying aloud.
“Clifton knows where you are
now.” Fadi applied bandages to Adam's leg.
He sucked in a sharp breath
and tried to stay alert, his eyelids too heavy to keep open.
Fadi shook his uninjured
shoulder. “Do what you always do to stay awake.”
Adam opened his eyes.
“What?”
“Count, man. Count za bains.
Double za number if zey were very bainful, half if zey were minor,” Fadi urged
in his particular accent.
Adam’s mind kicked into
counting mode. Shit, was he crazy?
“How’d you know where we
were?”
“I heard za insurgents
shouting to each ozer.” Fadi moved fast to administer the articles in his
first-aid kit to Adam’s other wounds.
Crunching numbers didn’t do
much to alleviate his pain, but the process helped him filter through Fadi’s heavy
accent.
“At first I didn’t understand the words they were
using for directions,” Fadi explained. “Arabic has two words to indicate left.
One can mean north, depending on the dialect. I had to get closer to figure it
out, and that’s when I saw you. Clifton was very mad. Didn't want me to leave the
team, but hey, I’m a contract interpreter, not one of his soldiers.”
The woman moaned from her
corner. Fadi shot his head up and approached her.
“Who did this?”
“Needed to make sure she
didn’t scream.” Adam tried to lift himself on his elbows. He groaned, the full
force of deep searing pain setting in.
Fadi untied the woman’s
mouth, released her hands, and spoke to her, his tone low and gentle.
“She’s an old woman, Adam.
She’s trapped here just like we are. This is her home. No one and nothing is
going to drive her out of it. You didn’t need to tie her up.”
“Not taking any chances.”
Scott’s praying voice disturbed
rather than comforted Adam. He concentrated on breathing. Why couldn’t he just
pass out and be spared this agony?
The woman placed her hands
in her lap, flipped her palms upward and muttered something.
“What’s her problem?”
“She’s praying,” Fadi said.
“I didn’t hurt her. See what
else you can do for Big Scott before I lose it.” Adam found it hard to
formulate his words.
Fadi kneeled in front of Big
Scott, tore a bag with his teeth, and spread its contents over his gaping
wound.
Adam’s eyes darted between
the old mother and Big Scott. Never
hesitant Scott. Never questioning and never smiling either. Were they praying
to the same God? Would He listen?
“Tell her I’m sorry I tied
her up, will you?”
“Itlaa barrah balady,” the woman responded to Fadi.
“What the hell did she say?”
“She wants us to leave.”
“We wouldn’t be here if her
people hadn’t planted that Goddamn IED. Tell her that.” Adam spat blood.
“She meant leave her
country.”
Darkness closed in on Adam,
the bliss of unconsciousness threatening to take over. He closed his eyes.
“I'm okay with that . . .“
Shadows
of Damascus to be released by Soul
Mate Publishing mid January 2014