Two middle aged Iraqi men stomped outside of the house, shouting obscenities at us as our EOD techs diffused the poorly constructed bomb. Avery stood with his rifle primed and ready, further infuriating the men who felt that they had done nothing wrong, but were being led by a couple of MPs in handcuffs. Scores of women filed out of the house, crying and hugging their children as the men were led away. They charged our position, prompting me to step up and intercept them before things went bad in a hurry.
“Qef!” I growled, holding up my hand. The women came to a dead stop, staring at me, but still yelling obscenities. “We just need to find out why that bomb was here.”
They continued to yell, grabbing their children and shooing them off in the direction of the house. They were told not to talk to us. A little boy turned around and stuck his tongue out at us, pissing off LCpl. White. He yelled at the child to get into the house, then turned and met the rest of us down by the street. When all the women and children were inside, we got back to our patrol, laughing about the little run in.
“How do you guys laugh about this, Sergeant?” Avery asked, wiping sweat from his face.
“Because if you don’t the constant fear will kill you before anything else.”
He didn’t respond, but continued on his way, nervous as fuck. If we could have alcohol in theater, I would get his ass plastered. He needed to relax, or we were all in for some shit when the time for him to combust finally came around.
The confrontation from earlier was an after-thought as we trudged along, heading back to base to complete our patrol shift. It wasn’t until we were about a block and a half away from base that we saw something puzzling. There were two little boys, probably no more than seven or eight in age, sitting on the rock, crying their eyes out. I motioned for Vega to head to the front with me, cautiously making our way over to where the boys sat. We had no idea what was wrong with them, but whatever it was, in a place like this, everyone was your friend and your enemy.
We approached with rifles in hand, down by our sides, but ready to pull the trigger if this were simply a diversion. It wasn’t beneath these fucking cowards out here to use kids to draw in American forces, then attack once the kids had successfully done their jobs.
White, Avery, and a couple of guys moving with us brought up the rear, covering our sides and asses in case we were being lured into an ambush. I could feel Avery’s heartbeat damn near banging its way out of his chest. His nerves were at an all-time high, sweat dripping from his face as his Kevlar vest heaved up and down, matching the erratic nature of his uncontrollable breathing. I motioned for him to get himself under control, which he acknowledged, but failed miserably at actually accomplishing.
The kids looked up and saw us, but turned their backs to us as we approached. We stopped with a good enough distance between us when I asked, “ma al-khatb?” What’s wrong, in Arabic. The boys turned to us but continued crying, one of them finally showing a bloody, broken arm. Petty Officer Christen, our Corpsman, approached us, eyeing the boy’s injury with deep concern mixed with worrisome caution.
“I need to go and take a look at it, Sergeant,” Christen said. I knew he was right, but I was still worried about what the boys were doing here, on a mildly busy street, just sitting and crying their eyes out.
“We’re right behind you,” I whispered as we treaded softly over to where the boys sat.
I couldn’t recall hearing a single thing, just floating in a sea of silence. My eyes were trained on the boys, young and vulnerable, but filled with suspicious motives. No one, not even the very young who are our most precious citizens in America, could be trusted. Sometimes they were in genuine need of help, other times, they were not, and these boys couldn’t be read one way or another. The fact that one of them had a legitimate injury helped to sell their cause, but I wasn’t letting my guard down, not here. That was when they struck. You had to keep focused on the fact that while they may be young, they are brainwashed and trained by killers who want nothing more than to see our demise. I knew better than most the deception these young faces held.
“Ma al-khatb?” Christen yelled, approaching the boys.
They continued crying, the injured boy holding out his broken arm. Vega and I moved behind Christen, with the rest of the guys trailing us. Christen finally made his way to the boys, taking the little one’s arm in his hand and examining it.
“I can splint this. That’s all,” Christen whispered back to us.
I nodded. I didn’t really care what he did. I just wanted him to do it and get it done quickly.
We stood on high alert, waiting for anything out of the ordinary to catch our eye. Christen was just finishing when I noticed an older boy, maybe about twelve years old, spot the crying boys and shake his head in disapproval. He began to yell at them in Arabic, causing the uninjured boy to yell back at him. I raised my gun, unsure of what was taking place between them, but aware that Christen was in their proximity.
Christen finished wrapping the young boy’s arm, then patted him on the head.
“Thank you, Mister,” the boy said, wrapping his good arm around Christen’s neck.
The older boy grew irritated with the show, and stormed over. He was angry and red-faced, spitting mad and yelling out his frustrations as he gruffly chided the other boys, inciting their tears once again. They shook their heads fervently, speaking quickly in what I assumed to be a pleading manner. Christen tried hard to diffuse the situation, but it only made the older boy angrier. He lost his fucking marbles when he grabbed Christen, prompting the other boys to flee.
With rifles raised, I ordered, “Let him go!”
“Drop guns, infidel!” the boy yelled back in plain English. He had his eyes trained on me, going toe to toe in a stare down, daring me to blink. In the next second, he raised his shirt, showing a suicide vest strapped to his chest.
My heart began to race, beating quickly and erratically as sweat filled my brow and my breathing labored. Had those kids set us up, or was this asshole acting out on his own accord? Either way, we were in a shit storm with no way of getting out.
“Let him go, and no one gets hurt. Do you understand?”
Silence filled the area as Vega crept closer to me. My hands filled with sweat, causing me to hold stronger to my rifle as this kid stood, pulling a small detonator out of his pocket. One false move by Christen and he was gone, but if we didn’t do something, this kid would make no qualms about blowing the both of them up.
Dust began to swirl as the warm Iraqi wind picked up. It penetrated my throat, making it hard to breathe as I took long and hard deep breaths. My eyes scanned the area, finding no traces of the crying boys who had been so appreciative only minutes before.
The boy gripped Christen tighter before yelling, “Allahu Akba!” and raising the tiny detonator.
I pulled the trigger of my weapon, sending a bullet flying and barreling into the forehead of the young boy. My breathing stalled. I heard the pop of the weapon going off, and a voice behind me yelling, “Noooooo….”
Christen stepped away as the boy fell to the ground, blood oozing out of two holes in his forehead. I looked to the left of me and found that Vega had fired his weapon as well. Christen dropped to the ground next to the boy, looking himself over before realizing that the both bullets had hit his would-be killer and not him.
“Get on the radio and call for help!” I yelled to White.
Avery stood behind me, eyes barren, looking like shock had taken hold of him. Tears fell as he stood there, never once looking any of us in the eye.