An excerpt from Soldier Boy, The Adventures of Bryce Tyconnel: January 2002 What struck Bryce most emphatically driving through Basra to his new assignment at Camp Bravo, beyond the dust and filth and poverty, beyond the women wrapped in garments from head to foot, was the cheapness of life. He stared out the passenger window of a Humvee at the carcasses of broken cars, at mangy dogs fighting over scraps in stinking piles of refuse, and in one case at a pack of skin-and-bone dogs ripping another weaker dog apart and eating it. One grim tableau succeeded the next. As his Humvee bounced along the uneven surface a grotesque mound of flesh came into view on the roadside, partially submerged in a puddle. Bryce couldn’t tell exactly what the partially clothed creature was at first. And then he discerned legs protruding from the water, one of which possessed a foot, a human foot. Because the body wore the tattered remnants of local civilian garb, Bryce guessed it must be an Iraqi. A ghastly realization came upon him as they drew abreast the scene. Lying atop the remains was a woman in a tattered Burqa. She was embracing it. He wasn’t sure if they were both dead until he saw her chest rise. She was sobbing convulsively. Who that man must have been to her... The Humvee was in a line of vehicles snaking along the uneven macadam and Bryce could practically touch them. He felt like he should do something and the driver, who noticed him reaching reflexively for the door handle said, “Don’t get out! It’s not safe.” “There’s a body…” “It isn’t the first and it won’t be the last dead Iraqi you’ll see half buried in a bomb crater.” “We should help them.” “How?” It wasn’t a harshly worded question, more matter-of-fact. Bryce thought of what he might do under similar circumstances if this were stateside. A crowd of first responders—good guy civilians—would call 911, offer support to the woman, direct traffic, stand by until emergency services arrived. The driver said, “You’ll get used to that. Life isn’t worth squat in Iraq.” “I sure hope not,” Bryce said. He would have to, though. He was a member of an elite army outfit now, a sniper, a killer, sent here to kill Iraqis- the bad ones. The driver smiled and said, “So what is your assignment, Mr. I hope not?” “My name is Bryce, and I’m assigned to 3rd Brigade at Camp Bravo. What’s your name?” “Mark. You’re not wearing Ranger insignia. How’d you swing that cushy assignment? Know somebody?” “Hardly. Seems I have an aptitude for killing people, at least according the ASVAB. And I’m a crack shot, hence the special ops assignment.” “Now that’s a contradiction; a killer who can’t stomach the sight of death.” “I have no problem providing an end-of-life experience to evil scum.” “And who judges which is which?” “While I’m in uniform, my superior officer calls the shots, literally.” “Isn’t that what the Nazi’s said when questioned about Auschwitz? If life were only so simple...” “If they order me to shoot Penelope Cruz, don’t worry, I’ll just wing her. You I would shoot.” The driver testing him with provocative questions and edgy comments flustered Bryce not at all. He could give as good right back. Mark got the point. He laughed and said, “You play racquetball, Bryce?” “I’ve played a few times in the gym at boot camp.” “When you get settled in, look me up, Bryce. I could use a good racquetball partner.”
Posted on: Tue, 09 Jul 2013 17:08:45 +0000
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