Last One In by Nicholas Kulish

Author:Nicholas Kulish
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

CHAPTER 16

“CAN I GO?” JIMMY ASKED THE GUARD.

“Sir, we’re getting you squared away,” he answered.

“I’m with the Marines. Can’t I go back to my squad?”

“Sir, I’m just supposed to watch you while they get you squared away.”

Jimmy sat on the side of the road with four Iraqi men. They were thrift-store stylish in old blue jeans and shirts straight out of the 1980s. The one next to him wore a vest by Christian Dior that looked to Jimmy like it had been designed for a woman. Unlike Jimmy, who was allowed to watch as the Marines milled about, the other prisoners wore empty sandbags over their heads. Duct tape was wound around the middle, where their eyes must have been. The man in the vest was whispering in Arabic into the ear of his comrade, then turned and began whispering to Jimmy as well.

“I don’t understand,” Jimmy said. There was more unintelligible whispering from the man. “I really don’t understand,” Jimmy said much louder.

“English?” the man said.

“American.” The sandbag turned toward him, but he doubted the man could see out of it. “Reporter.”

He didn’t know the protocol for chatting with a hooded and bound member of a foreign army. There was no manual of manners that went from salad fork to surrendered foe. They all looked the worse for wear, dirty and tattered, skinny enough for the runway. Their pants were too short and the boniness of their ankles was frightening, making him glad they still had their shirts on.

“Army?” he asked.

“Journalist,” Jimmy answered. “Civilian.”

“Why is American prisoner?”

“I’m not a soldier. They don’t—they’re just confused probably.” He stopped. But the man wasn’t Jimmy’s enemy, exactly. Jimmy was a noncombatant. And it seemed rude not to talk to the person tied up next to you. Yet he was an Iraqi soldier.

“You are writing truth. That Iraqi people are attacked. So you are prisoner.”

“I think they’re just confused. I know I’m confused.” The man was silent. There were three other Iraqis in the row with him. The Marine lieutenant at the next vehicle seemed much more interested in the Iraqi prisoners than in Jimmy. He’d been pleasant enough about asking Jimmy to wait. More pleasant than the Marine who announced he’d almost shot him when he fell out of the truck.

“Americans attack Iraqi people. Unprovoked aggression. We will fight for our country.” It was like saying hello to the person next to you on an airplane, then realizing half an hour later that he was a straining dam of opinions, ready to crash over the first person who bumped him. “We will defend ourselves.”

“Well, you seem to be doing a fine job of that, or had been or…whatever,” Jimmy said politely. He regretted saying anything in the first place. His experience taught him that talking to some soldiers was often like listening to a skipping record. It was a brotherhood of boring conversation.

“We will fight,” the man repeated.

“Go ahead.” Jimmy stared down at the man’s handcuffs. “Don’t let me stop you.”

The POW turned his head, but all Jimmy saw was the blank gray of the bag and the silver duct tape.

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