Fives and Twenty-Fives by Michael Pitre Read Free Book Online Page B

else?”
    “No, that about covers it.” The lieutenant ambled back to the hood of his Humvee to put his flak jacket and helmet on.
    Then, his voice low so the lieutenant couldn’t hear, Gunny Stout said to us, “I’m running over to the shitters after we break. In fact, I’ll give the whole platoon three minutes to do the same. You know that glistening, goddamn beautiful cock in the last stall on the right? I want a picture before it’s gone forever. One of you miscreants is a regular Leonardo da Vinci of dicks, and I’d hate to see the evidence erased for all time. Fucking tragedy.”
    After a quiet laugh, Gunny Stout turned to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “Doc Pleasant’s in the second vehicle with me. Real quick, Doc, take us through the casualty plan.”
    And I stood there, in front of those Marines. Right there, nineteen years old. Big ears, red hair, and a missing tooth. Two dozen Marines listened to me as I told them all the different ways and everything I’d do to save their lives if the time came for it.
    “You get hit, you follow the steps,” I said. “Apply self-aid. Use your medical kit. Do what you can. Buddy aid comes next. Closest Marine to the casualty is responsible. Use the wounded Marine’s medical kit on him. Save your medical kit for yourself. Make sure you got your tourniquet where you can get at it quick. Be able to apply your own tourniquet in under ten seconds. Bright red, frothing blood is arterial. Get a tourniquet on it. And if you go down, stay down and don’t thrash. I’ll get to you.”
    Then, like always, the convoy team huddled up in a big circle with Sergeant Gomez in the middle.
    “Everybody touch somebody,” she said.
    We all bent at the waist and put our arms on each other’s shoulders. Even Lieutenant Donovan. He couldn’t just watch. Not for the deep breath.
    Sergeant Gomez filled her lungs. So did we.
    Then she let it out, loud and theatrical. So did we.
    “That’s right.” She laughed. “Deep breath, no worries.”
    She passed it off to Corporal Zahn, who said a prayer, and we mounted up.
    We drove across base to the entry control point and waited there for a big supply convoy to clear the gate. I sat in the backseat, next to Gunny Stout. I recognized Lieutenant Donovan’s voice, all confident and clear on the radio, while he let movement control know that we were twenty-two packs in six vehicles headed to Saqliniah through downtown Fallujah. They cleared us through the gate, quick. Even moved us ahead of a few other convoys in the departure order. They did that for the route-clearance teams.
    We made the left turn onto Route Long Island and picked up speed. The lead vehicle got out in front about two hundred meters. The other vehicles got their spacing, fifty meters apiece. We spread out in the desert and tightened up in the towns. Each vehicle kicked up a rooster tail of trash that came down like confetti on the vehicle behind it. Off the road, everything turned beige. It was hard to find the horizon with the desert blending into the buildings, blending into the smog.
    We passed a few little, nameless towns on the road north to Fallujah. Two or three buildings deep on each side, filthy and falling down. The Iraqis lay plywood sheets down over the sewage so they could get in and out of their houses. Sometimes, through an open door, we’d see the courtyard of one of those little fortress homes, thick with green plants and flowers. We’d wonder aloud, between the sewage, the garbage fires, and the pretty green courtyards, just who the hell these people were.
    Something else: Over there? In the Middle East? They line the side of the road with yellow and black curbstones. They do it on all the roads, even down a hundred miles of highway. I didn’t know that before I went over there. You could look out the window, down at the curb, and tell how fast you were going by how quick it went between yellow and black. I guess that was the point of