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Bazwaya, Iraq – November, 2016

       Ahmed went first into the suspiciously quiet house at dusk, looking for threads on the floor. “Aha!” he exclaimed with a giddy smile. He found a hair-thin wire stretching from the hinges of the front door across the living room to the house’s rear entrance, where a warhead sat upright next to a load-bearing column. Any additional movement from the front or the back of the family home would have detonated it, brought the house down, and buried the entire platoon.

Their commanding officer was currently recovering from a rocket blast. The unit was, otherwise, in high spirits. They lounged in full tactical attire. Ten Iraqi soldiers in a second-floor bedroom. The house showed signs of a hurried departure: a cracked teapot, toys on the floor, a child’s backpack. Ayman a tall and handsome Iraqi with a London accent, was in the corner interviewing a lean corporal. “Did you see the attack that injured the major?”

Ahmed decided he wanted to fuck with them. He stood up and walked over, baring his gap-toothed grin. “What is there to eat around here?” he asked the room. “I know. I know. How about Ayman? Ayman is delicious.” He grabbed Ayman’s belly and shook it, licking his lips while looking him in the eyes. The men laughed. Ahmed always did this kind of thing.

“Leave him alone, Diab,” said the interviewee.

“You’re right. Can you believe how fucked up that would be if Ayman got blown up with us in Mosul? He doesn’t even have a gun.” Ahmed put his hand to his ear, doing an impression of a phone call. “Yes. Hello. Mr. Oghanna. I regret to inform you your son has been killed in action in Iraq.”

He put the phone to the other ear and imitated the journalist’s father. “Killed in action? What do you mean ‘killed in action?’ Ayman was just taking pictures.”

He switched ears again. “Ah yes, sir. But sometimes...shit happens.” The men laughed. “Ok...bye-bye now, Mr. Oghanna. May God be with you.”

He switched ears again. “Wait, wait! What about my son’s body? Will he be sent back to Britain? I want a proper burial for him.”

The other ear. “Ah, yes...you see, the thing here is there is no body to bury. Ayman was obliterated by a suicide bomber... Daesh employs a lot of foreign fighters to drive the car bombs. It was probably some asshole who came from Britain...just like Ayman.” Ahmed wiggled his head and licked his teeth while smirking. “Well, we have one of his toes. And if you want, we can scrape some of his brains and intestines off our uniforms if that makes you feel any better. Hello? Hello? He hung up.” The room went hysterical. They needed that. More likely than not, one of them would be obliterated in the next day or two.

“Does anyone know where Major Salaam is, or if our orders have changed?” Corporal Fathalla said between spitting pistachio shells. A murmur went around the room.

“Oh great, big Major Salaam always telling us ‘no bleeding.’ “No bleeding, Diab,” said Ahmed. He grabbed the collar of a nearby soldier and pointed in his face. “No bleeding, Jabouri. You bleed; I stab you!” Jabouri chuckled and nodded “No bleeding because I want to free the people of Mosul as soon as possible and show them all how big my dick is.”

He went to the doorway and held his right hand in the air while pretending to swing an extra-large penis with the other. Ahmed described an incident from the previous day involving the soldier in the room:

They stood in a vigilant perimeter around a town square. Major Salaam, in a black beret, reviewed a map with another officer on the hood of a Humvee. “We’re wandering around the square like a bunch of cows. Major Salaam is looking over the map. Then, out of nowhere, a rocket comes flying at us and hits five meters from him. WHOOOAAA!” Ahmed threw himself onto a pile of sandbags and shut his eyes there for a minute. “That idiot could have killed six of us. But he couldn’t even hit the major screaming his ass off. He turned to run, and Private Hashem put three in his back.” Ahmed held a pretend rifle at a high angle. “Koosumak. Then we carried Salaam to the medic. He’s ok, but a million dinars says he told Ayman not to put that in any articles.”

Ahmed put himself on the ground next to Ayman and grabbed his shirt, pretending to be his injured commanding officer. “Listen to me, you bitch. You tell anyone about this, and I’ll send you to the front to test the ground for mines. Eh eh....eeerrrr.” He pretended to pass out. The laughter came to an abrupt stop. “Ay, what’s wrong? Did I fart or something?

Ahmed, still on the floor, looked behind him. Major Salaam gave him a kick between the shoulder blades. “On your feet, Lieutenant!” said the officer.

“Major Salaam! My apologies, I was just having some fun with the men. I have nothing but respect—,”

“That’s enough, Lieutenant.” He stared hard at Ahmed for a minute, preparing to discipline. “Ha ha! You do actually sound like me.” He patted Ahmed on the shoulder and neutralized the tension. “How is everyone doing? Any bleeding?”

Ahmed jabbed a finger at Ayman. “Only from Ayman’s vagina!” he said. “But thanks god he is not pregnant!” replied Ahmed before winking at the Brit. The men giggled, but Ahmed has pushed his luck. They chorus in that they’re ‘doing well.’

“Great to hear,” continued Major Salaam. “We move out at 0700 tomorrow. Expect heavy resistance. The Americans have decided to cease strafing runs during the night to minimize civilian casualties. The enemy will be fresh. So, get some food, and get some sleep.”

The men started to file out of the room. Salaam stopped Ahmed as he’s about to exit the doorway. “Um, not you, Diab. You’re on guard duty. Daesh has been sending more of those drones to drop grenades on us. Stay sharp and….” He grabbed Ahmed’s hair and pulled his forehead underneath his chin. “If you ever make jokes about me again, you’ll be clearing houses with both arms tied behind your back. Do you understand me?”

“Of course, sir. Thank you.” Ahmed saluted and made for the rooftop.

- - -

Ahmed watched the low, foreboding skyline of Mosul with his rifle at the ready as if looking for a bird to shoot. He was serious and focused. No one to entertain right now. Ayman came up with two plates of food and handed one to Ahmed.

“Oh my god, Ayman. You’re the man. You know that?” He took the food and handed Ayman his rifle. “Here, just do me a favor and shoot if you see anything flying this way.” Ayman took the gun and looked through its scope. Ahmed snatched it back. “Gimme that back. What the fuck do you think this is? Show and tell?” he joked. Ayman smiled as Ahmed examined the dish. “No, you’re a lifesaver, brother. Thank you very much,” said Ahmed, mouth full.

“I’m just returning the favor.”

Ayman was referring to an incident the previous week, where Ahmed had diverted a suicide car bomber that had been heading straight towards him. Five men could have been killed that day. Instead, only the suicide attacker died.

“Hey, do you have a lighter?” asked Ayman.

“Ok. But I don’t have very many, so it’s going to cost you one-thousand dollars.” Ahmed pulled out a bundle of ten lighters held together by a rubber band.

“Ok. I’ll pay you tomorrow.”

Ahmed held out a lighter. “For tomorrow, it’s two-thousand dollars.”

“Are you scared about tomorrow?” asked Ayman.

“Not to die. Only to live without my brothers…or my legs.” He looked at his pants. “That and my wife and son would probably like me to make it back. Are you scared?”

“Yes,” replied Ayman.

“Well, just don’t shit your pants...that was very distracting.” The pair chuckled as an odd buzzing sound started to materialize.

“Well, what do you know? Ha ha.” Ahmed aimed down the site of his M4 Carbine. Ayman looked out hundreds of yards away and shielded his face from an eastward breeze that peppered his cheeks with particles. A faint green light was flying towards them. Ahmed held the weapon tight, then fired. The object spiraled to the ground and emitted a small explosion. Ahmed lowered the rifle with a satisfied grin.

“Who says this shit can’t be fun?”