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or maybe it was the euphrates.
high on the banks, above the flood zone.
with reeds and brown dirty water floating past.
few jarheads peeing.
taking a piss in the tigris so as to create fond memories, i suppose.
and up on the banks, this house, these little old ladies, and a small contingent of Marines were taking cover as artillery impacted all around.
it's an old story.
told many times before -- even in this blog, i believe -- years ago.
nevertheless, despite the little old ladies crying and sitting and looking up with their jack-o-latern smiles, i forgot an essential detail.
frogs.
frogs and dogs.
this house -- more like a compound, had a large pond that flowed down to the river.
down, down into the murky brown.
everyone knew their part.
Marines clearing the house.
little old ladies crying.
artillery whirring above.
i took a moment.
minute or two.
to bend down, look, and see these weird looking frogs.
big flat heads and grayish-green.
kinda like kermit.
a war-torn kermit, with black pin-head eyes and --
BAM!
a shot rang out.
and this dog -- your prototypical Iraq mutt, went skidding across a walkway -- wounded.
wounded and yelping like dogs so often do.
hauled ass across the grove, never to be seen again.
nobody cared.
me neither -- last of my worries in the march of 2003.
but later that week, or day, or month -- i dunno, things seemed to have blurred in these seven years -- but later, another shot rang out.
BAM!
i didn't see it. just barely heard it.
but another mutt got shot.
hell if i remember who the shooter was -- for some reason i keep thinking it was a zero.
some squid getting his licks in.
my master gunnery sgt. -- a damn good man -- told me a dog got it.
a dirty dead dog.
i was pissed.
but then again, i was always pissed.
anyways, we stopped on the outskirts of Baghdad, near a nice little house -- a Christian house, with crucifixes and Michael Jackson posters -- this kid; this Marine; this peasant with an M-16; heaved his boot into a pup's gut.
i mean -- didn't this guy read books or watch movies?
who the fuck kicks a pup during a war?
the bad guys...
weird.
seen alota dead people thus far.
dead and blown to shit.
hair and teeth and ears where they ain't supposed to be.
i checked this kid; this Marine; this peasant with a M-16; against our Hummer.
his face was gonna meet my fist.
but our Lt. -- one of the good guys -- interceded.
fist did not meet face.
i had forgot.
forgot about that entire incident -- until today.
a random conversation with Annika -- and i remembered.
a memory trigger, i guess.
and i wonder.
i wonder if i survive to be old n' gray.
wrinkled.
with my sword cane and comfortable shoes.
an old lady by my side.
and Sgt. Mandia -- just a few faded photos hidden away between the pages of Walden.
talking viagra and adult diapers.
i wonder...
will it happen again?
