Free Escape from Baghdad! by Saad Hossain

refilling his perspective six months ago.”
    â€œHis perspective is empty, you say? Sounds serious.”
    â€œRight, his perspective is finished, that’s what I said, Hoff.”
    â€œYou mean prescription, Tommy.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œI think,” Hoffman said, “you had better call Ancelloti over.”
    Private Ancelloti was a jittery, wheezing mess, a tall, olive-skinned man who had once been handsome. He had tomato soup all over his shirt and a bullet in his pocket.
    â€œAncelloti, what is the problem here?”
    â€œNothing, Hoff,” Ancelloti mumbled. “Can’t sleep too good.”
    â€œTrouble with your meds?” Hoffman asked.
    â€œRan out,” Ancelloti grinned, revealing bloodstained teeth, where he had ground down his gums. “Two, three months ago.”
    â€œSit down, son,” Hoffman sparked a joint and handed it over. “What the hell you on so many meds for anyway?”
    â€œI was gunner on a street patrol in Basra. We didn’t have that mine resistant armored crap the reporters ride. Just the normal shit,” Ancelloti said. “Got hit by IED. Knocked us flat on our ass. I got thrown clear. Then the bastards came and threw grenades at us. Little kids with guns, coming at us outta windows. Shooting at us, throwingshit at us. Like a goddamn party for the whole neighborhood…it was raining legs, Hoff. Captain’s boot hit me in the face, knocked me out for a few seconds. They put two bullets in me and fucked off.”
    â€œHow many you lose?” Hoffman asked.
    â€œThe whole damn squad,” Ancelloti said. “Whole damn squad. I was wearing half of them.”
    â€œBad luck.”
    â€œCan’t sleep at night anymore,” Ancelloti said. “Can’t shut my eyes—swear, Hoff. My hands shake when I get up on that turret. Takes me half an hour to feed the damn bullets into the machine. I lost half my peripheral vision. Can’t see more than 45 degrees either side.”
    â€œWhat the hell did they send you back here for?” Hoffman asked.
    â€œHospital discharged me,” Ancelloti shrugged. “I told them about the shaking and the vision problem. They said it was psychological. Spent one hour with a grief counselor. He sent me to the psych ward. Thought I was faking it. Psych gave me Klonopin and buncha other stuff. Worked for a while. Knocked me out every night.”
    â€œBut now you’re out of Klonopin,” Hoffman said. “Why the hell didn’t you get refills?”
    â€œI tried, Hoff,” Ancelloti said. “Pharmacy told me the army stopped issuing Klonopin months ago. Drug companies changed. They got a new supplier, new drug. Something called Icopin. Took Icopin for a week. It just made me puke and pass out. Couldn’t even get outta bed. New psych gave me Zoloft and Ambien to counter the Icopin. I took all of ‘em. Now they’re saying I’m a god damn drug addict.”
    â€œWell, you are.”
    â€œYeah, but,” Ancelloti said, “what the hell, Hoff, they made me take this shit in the first place. They shoulda sent me home.”
    â€œGot any family at home?”
    â€œGot a two-year-old daughter. Beautiful,” Ancelloti said. “And my wife. They go to church every Sunday, pray for me, take a picture outside. I get a picture every Sunday. That’s why I ain’t blown up yet.”
    â€œLucky,” Hoffman smiled. “Nice.”
    â€œYeah,” Ancelloti looked miserable. “Except now I’m stumbling around at night chewing on Tommy’s leg. What if I go home and start making bullet soup in the middle of the night, Hoff? Scare the shit outta that little girl? What if they see me acting weird and leave me? Send me to some psych ward or something?”
    â€œHmm,” Hoffman said. “We need a gunner. Can’t run a patrol without a gunner. Top secret mission. Can’t send you home. You know