Princes of War by Claude Schmid Read Free Book Online Page A

States.
    Moose believed two types of soldiers came to gyms: those who worked their bodies patiently and hard, and those, the majority, who wanted to look as if they did. He definitely considered himself in the first category. Some of the men wore the official grey-shirt-and-black-pants Army PT uniform. Others, like Moose, wore their uniform pants and the brown t-shirts and still had on their boots. Black hard rubber-tile mats covered the floor. A half-size basketball court took up the rear of the gym. The place was noisy. Men shouted and grunted, and the clanging of metal on metal rang with motivational noise.
    Moose and his work-out partner, a platoon soldier named Tyson, exercised hard for about an hour. Each looked at the other like a winning gladiator, powerful and dominant.
    The two worked out as often as their schedules allowed. Moose typically pulled Tyson along, the way a lead dog pulled a dog sled team, motivating, hot breath panting, legs running, trash-talking when necessary to keep him moving. For Moose the workout was a piece of exertion art, a physical performance. Attentive to all the exercise details, with just the right weight and form, he pushed himself until his body screamed but didn’t break. He knew exactly which machines worked what muscles and could make his legs and arms and back perform at their natural peak, but he didn’t care about the look as much as he cared about the psychological effect.
    Tyson, on the other hand, loved the look. Soldiers regularly saw him make a show in front of mirrors and say, “I love me.” He’d twist and turn, showing off his body as well as the 18-inch-long red and yellow lizard tattooed on his right shoulder.
    Now Tyson was on an inclined bench, pressing 75-pound barbells in each hand. Noticing his accelerated breathing, Moose leered.
    “OK, man?”
    “You’re killing me.”
    “Bullshit. Die a little, get stronger, live a little longer.”
    “I’m working it, man, working it hard. Cut me some slack.”
    “Yes, you are.”
    “It’s all good, but you’re killing me.”
    National flags of more than 20 Coalition countries hung on the gym walls. Most soldiers noticed these and took some satisfaction in the international teamwork, but few could identify half of the flags. Even Macedonia, a new country, had a flag. All the guys in the room, however, were Americans. No other Coalition members were on this FOB, nor most others.
    “You’re a beast, Moose. Where’d ya get that stamina?”
    “Running from my old man.”
    “Huh?”
    “He’s worn out a set of boots every year on my ass.”
    A couple of civilian KBR employees manned the check-in counter and periodically policed the facilities. Against the wall by the counter stood two large white freezer-type storage units holding hundreds of water bottles. Cardboard signs taped on each of the coolers read: “Take a cold one, put a hot one in.” Somebody had scribbled, “That’s what she said,” on one sign.
    Moose and Tyson finished their workout. They signed out and walked outside, heading for their hooches. Outside of the gym, loud electric generators drowned out other sounds. They passed four green and white porta-johns. The plumbing didn’t work in the gym.
    “What you doing after chow?” Tyson spoke loudly, to cut through the noise.
    “Got laundry to do. Machines are less crowded later. Next time I go to war, I’m bringing a maid.”
    “Want to do mine while you’re at it?”
    Both men smiled. “Haha. What’s the compensation?”
    “Compensation? How about I agree to rescue your ass if the shit goes down?”
    Tyson laughed at his own proposal. But Moose knew that if the shit hit the fan, Tyson wouldn’t hesitate to rescue him. And he’d do the same for Tyson. It had to be that way.
    Moose responded. “Who rescued who from those seventy-five-pound barbells?”
    “Just testing you, old man. Hey, some of the guys gonna sit around and shoot the shit tonight. Gonna come?”
    “Don’t think