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ext. - al nasiriyah - mid-morning

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we hold a large American flag between us.
still creased. rectangular boxes.
red. white. blue.
stars.
all that shit.
alvarez takes the picture.
we stand in front of a destroyed t-71 tank-soviet type.
smolders. Iraqi's bake inside.
im in a daze of sorts.
still buzzing from the caffeine. the copenhagen snuff; long-cut. the pilfered Iraqi cigarettes. the 72 hours without sleep.
it saturates my system to create a bizarre reality.
Superimpose: "Iraq, the Mini-Series."
Starring (in no particular order):
Vehicle Commander; the All-American.
Gunner; the irascible tattooed Grunt.
A-Gunner; the gung-ho immigrant.
Driver; Mr."By-the-books."
and guest appearances by Bing West: the affable embedded reporter. and the Dead: mostly Iraqi.
it is cinema at its best. pure imagery.
bodies tell the story without uttering a single word.
no exposition.
no voice-overs.
no deus ex machina.
scenes of brutality.
roadkill. staged. scattered about. fleeing. frozen in time.
young guys. like me. maybe you?
mustached. some kids. some women. i try not to look. can feel them seeping in. working their way deep into my brain housing group
locked away.
just waiting. just waiting.
we read a subtitle in the sky: "outskirts of town"
a muddy field.
LCpl. 3 Battalion, 1st Marines.
US Marine. dead.
we see him limp.
and it starts to sink in. our cast, including Bing, are really getting into their roles.
cutting out the air. off script. becoming second nature.
the ancient warriors in our DNA, slowly claw to the surface.
years of shellac, applied directly to our backs by women and effeminate men, begins to crack. muscles fill with blood.
something glimmers beneath all the whitewash:
a pugio dagger; a bolt-action Springfield rifle; a B.A.R. light-machine gun.
we are the Roman Legion. we are the Doughboys. we are GI Joe.
we are the bain of every hippie that ever drove his daddy's car from berkley to san fran international and spit on us.
-but back to the LCpl.
his boots. they hang out doc's vehicle. tan and worn. issued in camp horno.
maybe he stood behind me at the casting call?
did i brush against him as we waited for craft services?
don't really know the kid.
perhaps a flashback is in order?
-unfortunately the footage has been lost.
i still think of him, though.
late at night.
or when i come home from school.
wish i could just insert a DVD, instead of constantly having to regurgitate my bio.
i dont tell it well. i should write it down sometime. practice it like the rest. but i dont.
-i digress.
too many preachy commercials nowadays, dontcha think?
ext. - al nasiriyah - outskirts - mid-morning
a Peugeot.
white and orange.
LCpl tucked away.
im still folding the LT's flag.
we come to a herringbone.
wait for orders.
the XO of 1st marines, a stand up gent, notices something.
movement.
close on - white/orange Peugeot.
bodies crumpled atop each other. something stirs.
slowly.
like a slug buried in mulch, a hand slimes to the surface.
life.
guest appearance: ubiquitous Iraqi family (unpaid extras).
int. - Peugeot - mid-morning
father. mother. child.
we investigate.
father: dead. cold to the touch. blood congealing in his face. pupils dilated. relaxed. (those are the eyes of the dead).
mother: hip blown off; in shock. blood soaked. non-speaking role.
child: just an infant. leg chewed by a 25mm.
i remain composed. must not cry.
-think “on the waterfront.” Stieger and Brando, back seat of the taxi. “I coulda been a contender…”
the XO calls for a medi-vac.
i volunteer: litter bearer.
i get mom.
a robust woman. well-fed. knotted black hair. matted with blood. vacant stare. shirt ripped, big breasts flop about. large and firm. purple nipples. i look away, embarrassed.
the indignities of War.
ext. - al nasiryah - mid-morning
a blackhawk dissolves into the picture. a static negroid blob in the dust storm.
we have to move.
i grab mom. she looks up at me; through me. a faceless Grunt.
a wet day. mud and slime and hay and we all trudge through it; a Marine looses his boot in the process, wind cuts into our faces from the bird.
the back hatch lowers.
cha-chung!
we file in.
yell in bursts. the suction of air distorts our words.
the air-wingers direct us: put the woman there.
child here.
but then
i trip.
fall, actually.
mom falls too.
she has remained without lines prior to the medivac scene. now she howls in pain.
-residuals are owed.
she focuses her anger at me-the Roman Legion. the Doughboy. GI Joe.
like a wounded afghan hound, she yelps an animal plea.
"waaaaahhhhhhhh!"
guttural. inhuman. pain pure, primal.
havent heard such a wail since.
i pick her up. place her into position.
i wait with her. chopper vibrates erratically.
she’s very young to play this role of mother. can’t be more than 18.
a peasant. farmer. simple broad.
i try to assuage her pain, but what the fuck am i gonna do?
smile ? say its going to be alright-the Marines have landed?
who's writing this shit??
someone calls my name.
"mandia, get the fuck back to your vehicle!"
give her once last glance.
shock has set in. she is quiet. serene. morphine takes root.
wider - blackhawk thunders off
fade out.
maybe she died en route. i dont know. she lost alota blood. the deep rich arterial type.
and like the LCPL, i think of her sometimes.
at night.
or after school.
wish I had the footage.
maybe there was one of those superimposed headings at the end i missed.
like in “animal house.”
explaining what happened to her.
where is she now?
did her precious little daughter survive?
does she sit up at night too?
thinking of me?
or that overcast day in 2003?
a song plays.

The Sound Of Silence - Simon & Garfunkel

and an old Marine sits up in bed.
he lights a cigarette.
fade out.