Free War Porn by Roy Scranton Page A

blown-out tanks half hidden in the palms to our right, then hit a road leading around the village toward the city. The BC pointed and I turned and we drove by the husk of a building, just two ruined walls standing in the shimmer like sundial hands.
    â€œIt should be right here,” the BC said.
    I scanned the earth for telltale fins, black mounds, glints of aluminum casing.
    â€œPull off over there.”
    The BC and Lieutenant Krauss got out. C27 pulled aside and Staff Sergeant Smith joined them. I dismounted and stood smoking, watching the perimeter.
    Two older hadjis in man-dresses walked toward us from the village. The flock of children from before overtook them, rushing at us.
    â€œIshta,” I shouted at the kids.
    They jabbered back. “Mista, Mista! MRE!”
    â€œUskut,” I yelled. They laughed and capered.
    We didn’t have a proper translator, but the manager of our hadji work team spoke a little English. The BC called him over and tried to ask the two villagers if they could help us find the ammo cache.
    â€œBoom-boom,” Captain Yarrow said, gesturing with his hands.
    The two villagers spoke. The team manager listened and nodded and smiled. “Is bombs no here,” he told Yarrow. “No bombs. People good, Bush good. Saddam bad.”
    â€œNo, not people’s bombs,” the BC said. “Old bombs. Saddam bombs. We’re here to clean them up. Tell them we’re here to take the old bombs away.”
    â€œOh yes, yes. Okay good. No problem.” The team manager turned back to the two men and they chatted back and forth.
    â€œMista!” one of the kids shouted at me. “You give me dollar!”
    â€œFuck off,” I said. “Ishta.”
    They laughed and pushed each other toward me.
    The team manager turned back to Captain Yarrow. “He say no bomb. Bomb bad. No bomb. He say Saddam bad, no bomb. He say al-Ameriki come, go bomb.”
    â€œGo bomb?”
    â€œGo bomb, bomb.” The team manager mimed hauling something off.
    â€œTake bomb?”
    â€œYes, take bomb! No problem!”
    â€œWhat about the tanks? Is there anything over by the tanks?”
    â€œTank?”
    â€œThe tanks.” Captain Yarrow hunched his shoulders and rocked his body back and forth. “Brrrrrrrrrum,” he growled, swinging his head side to side.
    â€œAh, tank, yes. No. Yes. No problem.”
    The kids edged forward and I waved my rifle at them. They shrieked and scattered, then reformed in a mass. They laughed and pointed.
    â€œMista, you give me.”
    â€œMista, MRE.”
    â€œIshta,” I said.
    â€œIshta, ishta!” they shouted back.
    â€œHe say yes, bomb and tank, yes. There, there. No problem.”
    â€œGreat,” said Captain Yarrow. “Tell him thank you, and to keep his people back while we’re working. Tell him it’s very dangerous.”
    We drove back up the road, where we found a small cache of tank and mortar rounds in the palms, hidden behind a berm. It took about two hours to clear everything. The kids kept running over and we had to keep chasing them off.
    â€¢â€¢â€¢
    Driving down the road something exploded behind us, shaking our truck, then something else exploded and the radio squawked: “ Grenade Grenade Crusader Two- zero-three what’s your status ?”
    â€œ Status green over .”
    Captain Yarrow stuck his head out the window, trying to see the convoy behind us. He told me pull over.
    â€œSir?”
    â€œPull the fuck over, Wilson!”
    I eased off the gas and slid to the shoulder. Shots to the right, AKs, close.
    â€œ Fire right side! Right side ! ”
    Healds’s rifle went off pop-pop-pop.
    â€œI can’t see,” Lieutenant Krauss shouted.
    â€œKeep going, keep going!” the BC yelled.
    I swung back onto the road and took the convoy up to fifty. The shooting kept on, mostly us, then petered out.
    Captain Yarrow got on the radio and called