Free The Watch by Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya

the car conversation.
    I clear my throat, already feeling didactic even before I’ve spoken.
    Well, I remark, the black turban means the man is a Sayyid, a descendant of the Prophet Muhammad.
    Schott seems unimpressed: I thought the black turban meant he was Taliban.
    Not all black turbans are the same. The Taliban loop theirs differently.
    So …?
    Grohl says: So is he a mullah, or what?
    Alizadeh interjects with a crooked grin. My granpa used to say the only good mullah is a dead one. He fuckin’ hated them.
    He looks at me sideways. You bin takin’ Taliban Turban 101, Doc?
    He laughs, delighted with himself, and Jackson laughs with him. Soon they’re all roaring with laughter, and Alizadeh laughs the loudest, his nativist credentials safely reestablished.
    Schott continues to eye me, genuinely puzzled: I still don’t get it, Doc. What’s the big deal with this guy? He’s Taliban, ain’t he?
    I give up. It doesn’t matter, I say wearily. Just zip him up and carry him to my tent. I’ll take it from there.
    I watch as Jackson and Grohl pick up one of the charred corpses. The dead man’s head is attached to his neck by a mere sliver of cartilage. Grohl directs a stream of tobacco spittle at the ground as he eyes his load with disgust. Stinkin’ meat jerky, man, he says disdainfully.
    One day we’ll all end up like that, I tell him. Skin’s just another costume.
    He looks at me, surprised, but doesn’t say anything.
    I run my hand through my hair and realize how tired I am. After the craziness of the battle, I’ve been attending to injuries nonstop, in addition to helping Connolly and the remaining officers restore some semblance of order to the base. With the departure of Frobenius, FirstPlatoon’s senior Staff Sergeant, Jim Tanner, has taken charge until the lieutenant’s replacement arrives. The other platoon’s led by Second Lieutenant Tom Ellison and Sergeant First Class Adam Bradford, but both are newbies to the company who took over less than a month ago when Lieutenant Dave Hendricks and Sergeant Brian Castro were killed in an ambush in the mountains. More critically, both platoons are now understaffed, and there’s no certainty that we’ve seen the last of the Taliban.
    The stars vanish one by one in the dawn light.
    The men finish carrying the last dead Taliban out to the field, where they’ve been laid out in a straight line. Schott studies the slopes at the other end of the field and announces: Back.
    He raises the collar of his jacket and begins walking back toward the base. The men follow him with their heads down. Jackson and Grohl come last, walking backward with their M-4s aimed at the field. Everyone looks done in, their faces grimy and sweaty, their eyes glazed.
    They pass me in silence, the mist winding in and out of their ranks. The sky turns scarlet. Drops of dew appear on the ground. The first rays of the sun skirt the mountains and light up the brass shells littering the field so that it seems speckled with gold and blood. The slopes disappear in the mist. Although I have my fleece jacket on, I can’t repress a shiver. Already great flocks of crows are flying out of the mountains.
    Spcs. Garcia and Lee show up to collect the insurgent leader in his body bag, and I accompany them to the medic’s tent. We pass the smoldering ruins of the guard tower.
    It ain’t fair, Doc, Garcia says suddenly. It just ain’t fair. Folsom just got married. Terry’s wife’s expecting their first child.
    No, I say, it isn’t fair.
    What’s today? he asks. Tuesday?
    Yes, I reply.
    He was going to call his wife today.
    Who was?
    Terry.
    It coulda been me, Doc, Lee says. It shoulda been me. I’m single, I got no dependents.
    Garcia says: Fuckin’ luck of the draw, man. Fuckin’ luck of the draw.
    They fall silent. We reach the medical tent. Just as we’re about to enter, across the southern horizon a sudden explosion of color spools into the sky. It mushrooms into a giant ball. It turns orange,