Abide with Me Paperback - 2013

Summary

Excerpt

ONE

July 10, 2009

After midnight, the kids in Hoosick Bridge and Williams-town were on their cell phones.

âÈêWere you there?âÈë

âÈêThat cemeteryâÈ'you know the old one down Route Seven at Indian Massacre Road? Off to the right? Anyway Maggie saw it. Her and Blake and Robbie and Annie B. and them were down there to go drinking and walked in and saw the body. Dumped on the grass in front of the headstones.âÈë

âÈêA soldier in his uniform. Annie screamed and ran out of there pretty fast.âÈë

âÈêA soldier? Who?âÈë

* * * *

The day began chilly and damp, and in the predawn blackness the fog massed like smoke against the windows at ToniâÈçs Lunch. A set of headlights poked feebly through, and the first of the pickup trucks came into the lot, its tires crunching over the gravel. Toni set MelâÈçs coffee on the counter and put the corn muffin on the grill. He came in and took his usual stool and sipped on the coffee awhile to wake up. She was in the kitchen getting things ready for the morning, clattering pans and spatulas and chatting with him through the cutout where she put the orders up.

âÈêThatâÈçs a helluva fog out there,âÈë Mel said. âÈêCouldnâÈçt see one side of Route Seven from the other. Cold, too.âÈë

âÈêAfter all the heat this summer, IâÈçll take it, Mel.âÈë

He took another sip. âÈêFunny business last night on the police monitor.âÈë

âÈêWhat?âÈë

âÈêAbout that body down in Lanesborough.âÈë

âÈêI didnâÈçt hear,âÈë said Toni, coming to the cutout.

* * * *

ToniâÈçs Lunch was a squat, flat-roofed brick building, the lower courses blackened with time. It stood near the tracks and the river, on the west side of Route 7. The name notwithstanding, Toni paid rent each month mainly by selling breakfasts.

The fog lightened to a dark wool as the regulars began to arrive, workmen, construction guys, contractors, retired men whoâÈçd reached the age where sleep after 5:00 a.m. was impossible. They climbed down from their trucks to take their usual counter or booth seats and have their usual eggs and sausages and home fries and coffee.

Toni was bringing breakfast to Pete Mallincrodt, telling him MelâÈçs news about the body down at the cemetery on the way to Lanesborough.

âÈêLots of bodies in the cemetery, Toni.âÈë

âÈêSmart guy,âÈë she scolded. âÈêA new body. A soldier dumped there.âÈë

âÈêI heard it, too,âÈë someone said. âÈêKids seen it, they were all talking about it last night.âÈë

Ernest Gillfoyle looked up from his breakfast. âÈêDead soldier? Down Lanesborough way?âÈë

âÈêThatâÈçs what Mel told me.âÈë

âÈêWell, the body come to life, then,âÈë he said.

The breakfast chatter fell quiet. âÈêBecause I seen him just ten minutes ago. Walking up Route Seven. Damn near killed him myself as I come along in all this fog.âÈë

* * * *

He liked to be walking before the sun was up. He liked to be seeing not seen, hearing not heardâÈ'and this meant being awake while others slept. Occasional headlights loomed suddenly in the early morning darkness, and he remembered obscure shapes outside the lineâÈ'green figures in the NVG, and the captain, catlike, slipping over a rock into the dark.

It was still chilly. Wan light penetrated the fog from the restaurant windows across the road. The old guys in baseball caps were sitting with their coffeeâÈ'they looked like ghosts through the mist. It seemed like nothing had changed in ToniâÈçs, nothing at all. The same guys who had been eating in there the morning he took the bus to Basic were still eating the same eggs off the same plates.

Coffee would have tasted good, but he didnâÈçt stop. His business wasnâÈçt with them.

* * * *

The morning warmed. Wisps of blue began to peek from the top of the sky, and in Hoosick Bridge the wool was whitening. The fog would lift. At about 8:30 Jane Herrick turned the aging Mercedes wagon off of North Hoosick Road into the post office lot. SheâÈçd come to collect any last RSVPs from the mailboxâÈ'she hadnâÈçt quite accustomed herself to the idea of responses on the Internet.

Lucy was in midconversation with Francine McGregor, the town clerk, as Jane walked in. âÈê . . . strangest thing as I was driving upâÈ'oh, hey, Jane,âÈë Lucy said, using the soft tone some of them had for her now. On her face was that sad, sorry look that now passed for friendshipâÈ'from the ones who still talked to her.

âÈêGood morning.âÈë Slim, erect Jane Herrick walked with a subtle lean now, favoring the hip bothered by arthritis, but unbowed nevertheless, her voice still just slightly too loudâÈ'not overpowering, but with that hint of command, despite all that had happened. Her hair had gone white during the winter of âÈç04âÈ'âÈç05, but she was still a handsome woman. She had never been arrogant, never condescending, but she had been a Morse and was a Herrick, and even now a patrician reserve was steadfast in her. For the most part she was alone at the Heights nowâÈ'the girls were rarely homeâÈ'but in that house, it had always been the women who were strongest.

âÈê . . . when I drove up this morning,âÈë Lucy continued, âÈêthere was this soldier . . . âÈë

âÈêYes?âÈë asked Francine.

âÈê . . . walking along Route Seven toward town.âÈë

âÈêWhere?âÈë

JaneâÈçs fingers had stopped working the mailbox key.

âÈêComing out of Williamstown.âÈë

âÈêJust one by himself?âÈë

âÈêIn his uniform, and with a big pack on his back, marching along the northbound lane, wearing that, you know, that what do they call that uniform?âÈë

âÈêCamouflage?âÈë

âÈêThat camouflage uniform like you see them in.âÈë

âÈêStrange to find just one soldier out by himself, walking,âÈë Francine said. âÈêYou see the Guard go by sometimes, a dozen of them in trucks.âÈë

The post office door opened, and quickly closed again.

âÈêDid you recognize him?âÈë

âÈêHardly got a look. But heâÈçll get to town soon enoughâÈ'he was headed this way. Jane, you donâÈçt suppose . . . Jane?âÈë

But Jane Herrick didnâÈçt hear. She had already left the post office, and at that moment was sitting in the driverâÈçs seat of the Mercedes, her knuckles white against the steering wheel.

* * * *

Step, step, step. With a little water to stay hydrated, he could walk forever. The captain said only a selfish man, only a small man wouldnâÈçt hydrate. A man was at his peak only when hydrated, and if he wasnâÈçt at his peak, it would cost the squad.

Why had he left the bus at Pittsfield and begun walking again? YouâÈçd think heâÈçd walked enough for a lifetime. Maybe it was the watchfulness of the passengers across that narrow aisle, looking like they wanted to ask him things but were afraid to. Maybe it was the ones behind him. He liked people where he could see them. All those eyes close upon him brought him back to patrols down to the village in Komal, the way the Afghans would stare, and if you looked back and caught their eyes, they would smile in a false way. He remembered the village elder, Ramitullah, wearing the same smile the day he was in the headmanâÈçs house, where he and the captain argued over tea about snipers and wells, and all the while, as the mutarjim rendered the Pashto, the old Afghan wore that false smile.

Walking alone was better. The pack did not trouble him. He was used to monstrous packs weighted with weapons, ammunition, water, MREs, entrenching tools. He had humped an entire M240 up Sura Ghar. HeâÈçd carried packs up staggering goat trails in the stinging, airless cold that made a man suck for breath, packs so strapped with ammunition that if a guy stumbled and fell to his back he just lay like a bug with its legs whirling, lay there sucking on that nothingness, until someone pulled him to his feet again. HeâÈçd carried them up and down those mountains until his lungs expanded, or some other magical thing happenedâÈ'he was never sure what it was that changed after that first six monthsâÈ'that let him at last get air, and spring from stone to stone as light-footed as the enemy themselves.

He was all hard edges, all lean muscle and bone. His thighs were roped, his calves and arms corded, hardened, his elbows and cheekbones and knees sharp, his back a machine. He could carry a pack for eighteen hours a day, with just a catnap for an hour here or there, and even then be wakeful enough to reach for the knife at the sound of a car door. He walked with that inclined posture heâÈçd always had from the age of eight. It looked like he was in a hurry, leaning toward his destination.

Sergeant Brown said, âÈêMurphy, you walk like you trying to beat your own self there.âÈë

Pockets of thick cotton still blanketed the low places. On Route 7 there were more cars and trucks now. He didnâÈçt like sudden noises behind him, but these he recognized well enoughâÈ'just civilian vehicles on a road. There were no explosives weighing down the rear suspensions.

The green peaks of the Taconic Hills were jutting clear from their white skirts. Each landmark along the road, each shop, fence, house, each farmerâÈçs field presented itself for his inspection. He listened to the metronomic beat of his boots on sand and gravel, and remembered.

* * * *

Boots crunching on sand and gravel. Crunch, crunch, crunch, and turn. Crunch went the footsteps outside, punctuating shrieks of wind, keeping time to it. And inside Second SquadâÈçs sandbagged hooch at Firebase Montana, one of the guys was asking, âÈêThe fuckâÈçs he doing out there?âÈë

They lay on their plywood bunks calculating the minutes until their next watch, listening to the wind whip and moan and beg and scream and whisper and then fall silent, hearing in the brief lulls the captainâÈçs boots pacing the gravel, and now and again a snatch of his words over the wind.

âÈêYou know what he doin. Give a little education, in case Haji listening.âÈë

His first night up there. The small hooch was hammered together like a kidâÈçs fort from two-by-fours and plywood and buried, cave-like, in sandbags. It would be his home for twenty-one months. It was crammed with bunks, thick with the smell and sprawl of men, crowded with Kevlars and ammo belts and IBAs hanging from nails, and boots jammed between the bunks. And socksâÈ'everywhere socks hung from lines. A diesel heater warmed the little den, cooking the stink of sweat and bad feet and cigarette smoke, and now and then with the waft of MREs: of cold turkey Tetrazzini or Swiss steak. He lay on his stomach and listened.

Someone asked, âÈêWhat he readin tonight, Sarnt Brown?âÈë

The squad quieted down to hear it. And the disembodied voice came in and out, with the wind.

âÈê . . . this batterâÈçd Caravanserai

Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day . . . âÈë

A howl of wind cut it off, and someone said, âÈêHe doin Omar again.âÈë

âÈêBattered caravan be this hooch and no doubt.âÈë It was the big private stretched out in the upper bunk across from him. He was a kid from Mississippi, doughy and soft and large, with a grin that never left him, not when eating, complaining, shitting, under attack from Taliban RPGs, not ever. His name was Billy Hall Jr. Grinning Billy Hall Jr. was a stone killer with the .50 cal. He was stretched out on his back, his hands folded behind his head, staring at the rafter twelve inches above, grinning. âÈêThis here the number one poetry base in the US military. I Googled it and thereâÈçs an official top-secret report the Pentagon done at taxpayer expense. Northern liberals decided we gon rhyme the sonsabitches into surrender.âÈë

âÈêOmar KhayyÃñm, he call this one,âÈë Sarnt Brown was explaining. âÈêMontoyaâÈ'give me the glories of this world!âÈë

Montoya had an iPod with twenty thousand songs, and he could rap or sing the lyrics of all of them. Montoya was a walking library of lyrics. âÈêThey stick to my brain, like Velcro, you know?âÈë he once explained. He piped up from a bunk near the back:

âÈêSome for the Glories of This World; and some

Sigh for the ProphetâÈçs Paradise to come.âÈë

The hooch sang out in unison now, loudly enough for the captain to hear outside.

âÈêAh, take the Cash, and let the Credit go

Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!âÈë

âÈêWelcome to our world, cherry,âÈë said Billy Hall Jr., rolling to his side and grinning at him. âÈêOn a side of a fucking Afghan cliff, with mortars raining down your ass from all over this valley, the Army put a poetry school. You get your poetry school in Basic?âÈë

He answered: âÈêMechanic school.âÈë

âÈêWell, we could give you a truck to work on, except youâÈçd have to carry it up here.âÈë

âÈêNothing here but wind and Haji ghosts,âÈë someone added.

Billy Hall Jr. rolled back onto his back, grinning that big, sly grin from his biscuit-from-the-oven face, with a cigarette hanging out of one corner. âÈêAnd a fifty cal.âÈë

âÈêJamming when you most need itâÈ'maybe he can fix that,âÈë someone said.

âÈêAnd fucking goats.âÈë

Someone asked, âÈêGet your goat school, dude?âÈë And then they were laughing, and the talk fell to which one of them would first have carnal knowledge of a goat, or of his sister, or of a goatâÈçs sister.

* * * *

Later that night, someone was asking, âÈêProphetâÈçs ParadiseâÈ'whatsat mean anyway, Sarnt? Is that, like, Bagram? Or this shithole?âÈë

âÈêFirebase Burnshitter!âÈë someone said.

âÈêYâÈçall crackers go to school instead of poppin your sisters with Billy Hall up in them barefoot counties, you might read better,âÈë said Master Sergeant Theodore Brown. âÈêYou might know what it mean.âÈë

âÈêShit, Sarnt, your sister busy most nights . . . âÈë said Billy Hall Jr.

Laughter.

âÈêSarnt a eddikated man,âÈë Billy Hall Jr. went on, âÈêso eddikated he ended up here!âÈë

âÈêIt mean, enjoy what you can, when you can,âÈë Brown said. âÈêIt mean, take the cash. Spend the cash. The future all bullshit.âÈë

Montoya sang out: âÈêTake me away from the hood, like a state penitentiary / Take me away from the hood in the casket or a Bentley . . . âÈë

âÈêShut the fuck up, Montoya!âÈë

âÈêFuck alla yâÈçall inbreeds,âÈë Brown said. âÈêI like old Omar.âÈë

Listening to this, stirring it now and again from his upper bunk with a crack about this oneâÈçs sister or that oneâÈçs stink, grinning Billy Hall Jr. was regarding the cherry, whose face had betrayed him.

âÈê âÈçSmatter?âÈë

Roy Murphy shook his head.

âÈêAinâÈçt no secrets in Firebase Montana. Up here, you jack, three other guys get off.âÈë

And so carefully, quietly, Roy Murphy asked whether the CO of a US Army Airborne unit in the dead center of Taliban country, as a standard kind of thing, liked to wander around in the dark with a headlamp, reading poetry.

âÈêTo be fair, you ainâÈçt exactly got a poetry reader for a CO,âÈë said Billy Hall Jr. âÈêYou got a poet.âÈë

Montoya said, âÈêPoet of death, dawg. Poet of life and death.âÈë

Sizzlecrack! The knees like EmmaâÈçs marionette. Report! All fall down.

He stopped on the roadside, shivered by the memory. And then a sun shaft popped through the fog and reminded him that when you hear it, youâÈçre alive, and he started again. Crunch, crunch, along the highway. When those memories got hold of him, he might walk straight out on the pavement and into the grille of an eighteen-wheeler and see nothing but Billy Hall Jr.âÈçs sunburned face, grinning the way to his seventy virgins.

* * * *

She knew. She knew it was him. She parked in the drive and hurried up the porch steps, because she knew. She tried to calm herself with false hopes. Maybe itâÈçs not him, it could be anyone in a uniform. But in the pit of her stomach she knew who it must be and where he must be heading. She paced to the kitchen and then back to the parlor and she steadied her shaking hand against the mantel over the fireplace. He was coming here. On this of all days! To ruin everything, after these years! In how longâÈ'two hours? Three? Dear God. And then, later today they would all be arrivingâÈ'all be here at the Heights!

It had taken all Jane HerrickâÈçs strength to endure the looks she received in town. Some were expressions of solace, but others were the lowered eyes of resentment. Sometimes she could almost feel them judging her. Only the Heights had kept her in Hoosick Bridge at all, and the irrational idea that she, as the last of the Morses, was its steward, that she must somehow rescue the house from the shame into which it had fallen. She could still dream that one of the girls would settle here, restore family to the Heights, bring it back to what it had been. Thoughts like these roused her from bed each morning. The bad time was in the past now, for she had come to life again with the prospect of a celebration, the first in years, the next in a line that stretched back through generations. The proper place for this celebration was the Heights. It had seen a dozen milestones like this.

Emma had asked, âÈêMom, are you sure?âÈë and Jane had answered, âÈêWe need to get back on the horseâÈëâÈ'Jane, whoâÈçd never ridden a horse in her life.

And now he was coming straight up Route 7. She felt the same tremor sheâÈçd known so many years ago, when Emma ran with the boy during the summer before the eighth grade.

Jane returned to the kitchen and tried to sit at the table but could not be still. Rising, she went to the leaded-glass windows by the front doors and looked down Washington Street. Outside it was a quiet summer morning. The street was empty, save for the TillysâÈç car driving slowly down the hill. She returned to the kitchen, grabbed her coat, and went back outside to the car, for she simply couldnâÈçt be home alone when he came. She had to go somewhere where she could calm herself and think. As she stood by the Mercedes in the morning sun, she thought, Why am I wearing my coat? ItâÈçs warm today. She took the coat off, opened the door, and tossed the coat in the backseat, then drove off, thinking, Why must everything be so confused?

But about the one central thing she was not confused. He was coming. SheâÈçd always known that he would come back for Emma.

* * * *

The two-lane highway looked much the same as it had that summer heâÈçd left. TheyâÈçd put a wind turbine up on the ridgeâÈ'that was newâÈ'and the Mexican restaurant outside of Williamstown had a new name, but the antiques store, the golf course, the cornfields, the Store at Five Corners, none of them had changed. It was not far now. He was just a town away, just over the state line from where he had left her five years before.

He wore his shades now against the glare of the July morning, but he liked the feel of the heat on his shoulders. Here JulyâÈçs warmth was pleasantâÈ'nothing like the killing, searing heat of the Afghan summer. He was remembering Billy Hall Jr., who liked to make presentations. âÈêYo, Murphy, in consequence whereof you being at the single most ridiculous installation on the entire face of the planet Earth, a grateful nation is proud to honor you with the Medal of Stupidity.âÈë Hall was always issuing decrees from the Pentagon or the White House, sprinkling them liberally with wherefores and thereofs. His lips tried to form the words the way Billy Hall Jr. used to do, up at Firebase Burnshitter. He was humming, âÈêdiddydum, diddydum.âÈë He was remembering anapaests, and poetry school as winter came on in the Korengal.

* * * *

It was freezing at night and wisps of snow hung in the air. The snowcaps on the surrounding White Mountains grew larger, creeping down the mountain by night, every morning occupying more territory.

The men had gathered in the ammo brick-and-mortar, and the captain was saying, âÈêFour men on this op. WeâÈçre going tonight, and weâÈçre going light. The enemyâÈçs been getting a little cocky in his approaches. Intel says he wants to give us one last send-off before bugging out to Pakistan for winter, and will be back Tuesday. This particular op might get a little interesting, so itâÈçs volunteers only.âÈë

The men laughed. They knew what that meant.

âÈêMy volunteers are Brown, MontoyaâÈëâÈ'he looked upâÈ'âÈêMurphy.âÈë

âÈêWho the fourth, sir?âÈë

âÈêDickinson,âÈë said the captain.

âÈêSounds exhilaratin, sir,âÈë said Montoya, and the men laughed again.

Later that day Roy Murphy was alone in the dark of Second SquadâÈçs hooch, swearing to himself, pulling his gear together, ramming it violently into the pack. The door opened and Billy Hall Jr. came in.

âÈê âÈçSmatter, man?âÈë

âÈêNothin.âÈë

They were alone in the hooch. Hall asked, âÈêThen why you packin that thing like you want to hurt it?âÈë

âÈêItâÈçs nothing.âÈë Roy Murphy whirled on him, and through clenched teeth he said, âÈêHall, IâÈçm not scared of any mission, you understand?âÈë

âÈêWhoa, dawg!âÈë

âÈêBut IâÈçm not stupid, neither.âÈë

âÈêWell, thatâÈçs debatable,âÈë said Hall, âÈêbut IâÈçll go with you on it. WhatâÈçs not being stupid got to do with your attitude, man?âÈë

âÈêIâÈçm supposed to go out there with fucking Shakespeare?âÈë

Billy Hall Jr. nodded then, getting it at last. But strangely, the grin seemed to grow and grow on his face, like he was savoring the best joke heâÈçd heard in months. His jaw worked as though chewing cud, and he grinned away, until at last, Murphy demanded, âÈêThe fuckâÈçs your problem, Hall?âÈë

He was grinning ear to ear by that time. âÈêCherry!âÈë

âÈêWhat?âÈë

âÈêCapâÈçn ainâÈçt sane, thatâÈçs sure enough, but he got it.âÈë

âÈêHe got what?âÈë

âÈêThe mojo. IâÈçll tell you something. If that motherfucker out there with you, then the odds are better that weâÈçll buy it back here. ThatâÈçs a fact. CapâÈçn got the mojo.âÈë He winked at him, and shambled out of the hooch with âÈêBelieve IâÈçll go on outside now, and take the air, leave you to abuse government property on your own.âÈë

To the men in Army Airborne, light was a euphemism. Each man on the op carried more than one hundred pounds of ammunition, water, weapons, entrenching tools, and MREs. Captain Dickinson was no different. Four kilometers down the mountainside they found the two positions he wanted. By dawn theyâÈçd scratched two fighting holes in the rock and moved enough stones to lie behind, with the captain and Murphy in one, and Brown and Montoya in the second, a hundred meters farther downslope and to the east.

âÈêCapâÈçn, why we setting up down the hill? We get âÈçem before they come up?âÈë

âÈêNo,âÈë said the captain. âÈêNot before.âÈë

âÈêI donâÈçt understand.âÈë

âÈêThe enemy gets excited. He shoots off all his firecrackers, and then gets sloppy leaving the parade. So weâÈçll lie quiet as he goes up toward Firebase Montana, and visit with him after the parade, on the way down.âÈë

Brown smiled. âÈêYou gon read him a poem, sir?âÈë

âÈêWeâÈçll give him a few anapaests.âÈë

âÈêAnawhat, sir?âÈë

âÈêAnapaests. Just like it sounds, Sergeant. DiddydumâÈ'anapaest. Tomorrow youâÈçre the poet. You give him some diddydum.âÈë

âÈêRoger that, sir.âÈë

Dawn was coming up in the east, over Pakistan. Captain Dickinson said, âÈêHit your MREs, and then get some rack. WeâÈçll do four-hour watches. Murphy, youâÈçre first watch on this post.âÈë And then the captain was out, sleeping soundly on that cold Afghan slate as though it were a king bed in a four-star hotel, and he a mogul whoâÈçd just signed a deal.

All day they lay in position, as the stones warmed in the sun; and then all night, as they cooled to freezing. They belly-crawled away to shit or piss, scraping a place in the rocky ground. The enemy didnâÈçt come. All day the next day they repeated this. And into the night. Still he didnâÈçt come, and they ran out of MREs and water.

In their separate cutout, Montoya and Brown were grumbling about the intel that had sent them there. âÈêWe been bullshat again,âÈë Brown whispered.

âÈêTill dawn,âÈë said the captain. âÈêIf he stays away another night, weâÈçll head back.âÈë

But the enemy did not stay away another night.

Just after 0300 Brown caught movement in the NVG clipped on his Kevlar, 200 meters downhill and to the south, rising to come abreast of his position at about 150 meters.

âÈêSarnt,âÈë the captain was whispering in his headpiece. HeâÈçd caught it, too.

âÈêGot eyes on âÈçem,âÈë Brown whispered back. Now all of the op team were awake, watching. One, two, six men moved slowly up the mountainside. Six became ten. Strapped from their shoulders were AKs and RPGs, and two labored in the rear, one with a large tube, the other with an object they couldnâÈçt make out.

MurphyâÈçs pulse was jumping, his skin prickly. HeâÈçd been in firefights, heâÈçd responded to IEDs. But heâÈçd never lay in wait for a full-on ambush.

A whisper from the captainâÈ'âÈêThat look like an RPG launcher to you, Murphy?âÈë

âÈêToo big, sir.âÈë

âÈêThatâÈçs what IâÈçm thinking. IâÈçll be goddamned.âÈë

âÈêWhat, sir?âÈë

Staring over the rock, he whispered âÈêDamn!âÈë in a kind of admiration.

âÈêSir?âÈë

âÈêItâÈçs a mortarâÈ'and itâÈçs ours. Haji got his hands on one of our two fifty-twos. That first one has the launcher, the other one the baseplate. Where in the Christ . . . ?âÈë

They watched them come slowly up the spur.

âÈêTheyâÈçre humping our mortar up to shell Montana. ThatâÈçs just . . . âÈë

âÈêSir?âÈë

âÈêThatâÈçs disrespectful,âÈë the captain said.

The captain watched for a minute longer, until theyâÈçd slipped out of view up the hillside. The mortar bearers had lagged a bit off the pace. He rolled to his back and drew the knife from its leg sheath.

Roy Murphy was watching, wondering what that was for. âÈêSir?âÈë

âÈêIf we fire, theyâÈçll fall back, probably with the mortar.âÈë He glanced up again. Collapsing the stock, he clipped the M4 to his vest. âÈêAnd I want my mortar back.âÈë Then the captain slipped over the rock and was gone.

Jesus Christ! WhereâÈçd he gone? What the hell was he going to do? Roy Murphy waited five minutes. Waited another forever until it was eight minutes. Ten. He scoured the mountainside with the NVG. Do IâÈ'follow him? Call Sarnt Brown? Just lie here? The NVG brought everything up greenish and spooky. He heard nothing.

He decided to call. âÈêSarnt Brown, CaptainâÈçs gone after âÈçem.âÈë

âÈêHeâÈçs what?âÈë

Fourteen minutes. Fifteen.

In the eighteenth minute the shape reappeared. Murphy picked him up again in the NVG, moving swiftly over the rugged mountainside with a tube on his shoulder like a length of pipe.

He collapsed in the cutout. The M252 tube lay next to Roy Murphy. âÈêHad to leave the baseplate,âÈë he said. âÈêHeavy bastard.âÈë A moment later the captain was whispering on the radio. âÈêHeâÈçs on the east ridge, about a click from your line. In thirty seconds heâÈçll miss his mortar launcher. So IâÈçve revised the plan. At oh four-thirty commence shelling.âÈë He read out a map coordinate. âÈêDo not overshoot, gentlemen.âÈë

âÈêHeâÈçll miss his mortar, sir?âÈë The question crackled back in the headsets.

âÈêBrief you later. Commence at oh four-thirty. Out.âÈë

In that darkness, the captainâÈçs face seemed to give off its own light.

âÈêLook aliveâÈ'theyâÈçll come right back to us,âÈë he said, like he could barely wait. Like it would be a party and they would all get to hide behind the couches and yell, âÈêSurprise!âÈë

Oh, he was alive then. Never more alive than that dark morning. The way it came on with noise and rush, the captainâÈçs choreography at the center of the explosions, the bursts, the fire. The adrenaline rocket that sweet ambush sent through every vein. They did come back, they came back pell-mell down the slope; lit up by shelling from above, they swarmed to the trap and were ambushed from below. The enemy never came close enough to get off a clean shot at anything. Eight fell in the first wave. It was a hell of dark and noise and fire burst, but the hell was somehow contained. It took forever; it was over in seconds, and as dawn came up, the enemy was hiding behind a rock outcrop at two hundred meters, only a few of them left, their way down the mountain blocked by Brown and MontoyaâÈçs position.

âÈêWhat have you got, what have you got?âÈë demanded the captain.

âÈêJust them behind those yellow rocks, at eleven oâÈçclock.âÈë

âÈêHow many?âÈë

âÈêFour, I think, sir. Maybe three.âÈë

As the sun rose, it became a stalemate. All through the morning they were exchanging fire, with Dickinson and Murphy on the flank, and Brown below, until the sun was high.

âÈêAny way to get a position to the north, get a shot on them?âÈë

The headset crackled. âÈêNegative, sir, weâÈçre both pinnedâÈ'no way to move.âÈë

âÈêRoger, hold your position,âÈë the captain said. âÈêTime to finish this.âÈë Then to Murphy: âÈêPrivate, keep them engaged. Get a burst off every twenty seconds or so. Start with a few bursts now.âÈë

He sighted through the scope and let off a burst, and then another. Diddydum.

The answering fusillade sent stone chips flying. When he turned back to where the captain had been lying, heâÈçd gone again.

AgainâÈ'crazy! Hall was rightâÈ'he was crazy. An hour passed. But Roy Murphy had a job now, and he focused on that, keeping up the bursts. Focus, squeeze, wait. Lie back. Turn, focus, squeeze, wait. He thought maybe he got one of them, or his weapon anyway, the way the AK flew back. He was on the headset:

âÈêSarnt BrownâÈ'I get one? Can you see?âÈë

âÈêCanâÈçt tell, Murphy.âÈë

He kept up the bursts. And then he and Brown received a short message from the captain. âÈêEngage in constant fire, sixty seconds from mark. Keep your fire down the mountain, please.âÈë A pause, and then, âÈêMark.âÈë

In the ensuing melee they did not hear the captainâÈçs short bursts, which came from uphill and to the rear. Neither did the four Afghans.

* * * *

In Second SquadâÈçs hooch, he would tell the story, and tell it again the next night, and the next. The story of Diddydum.

âÈêCaptain took their mortar from âÈçem? Just took it?âÈë is how the questioning began.

âÈêHe left,âÈë said Roy Murphy. âÈêIt was quiet. Then he come back with it.âÈë

âÈêHe come back with it!âÈë men repeated.

âÈêWhen he went for the mortar team, you didnâÈçt hear his M-Four or nothing?âÈë

âÈêHe took a Ka-Bar.âÈë

âÈêThe fuckers have a mortar, and he took a knife! Murphy, you the grunt, dude. You lettin a officer do that shit on his own?âÈë

âÈêHad to clean my weapon, you know.âÈë

Appreciative laughter, then. The cherry got off a good one. The captain was a stickler for clean weapons.

It went on, the curiosity of those warriors. âÈêMusta done one of them with the pistol,âÈë Montoya said.

But there had been no sound.

Someone said, âÈêThat wasnâÈçt enough, he had to go and take out four Hajis in that uphill nest later in the dayâÈ'alone?âÈë

âÈêWell, we distracted âÈçem some.âÈë

The laughter again. We distracted âÈçem!

Billy Hall Jr. was loving the new material. He issued a new order. âÈêAttention, yâÈçall. Pentagon regrets to inform you of some bad news. The Taliban gone and been disrespectful.âÈë

Laughter.

âÈêThe aforesaid Taliban been extremely disrespectful, so we gon have to go and visit with them.âÈë

Howls. Hoots. Cries of âÈêDisrespectful!âÈë

âÈêSo this here the mission. Sarnt Brown, go on out there and fetch me back a mortar. Pursuant to which CENTCOM has issued you the manners manual, case HajiâÈçs impolite. Specialist Montoya, you go get Osama bin LadenâÈ'bring his ass back, too, and if he donâÈçt say please and thank you, you gon give him a severe reprimand!âÈë

Riotous laughter then, which cascaded into a maul, as men rolled from the bunks and headlocked each other, crashing into the hoochâÈçs walls. They pounded each otherâÈçs heads, laughing so hard there were tears in their eyes. It was a Firebase Montana party; mauling and laughter, and bourbon smuggled up from the forward operating base at Bagram, and then there were insults fired at each other, and at the pussies in the FOBs who would never know a moment like that, at the respective pussies in the Navy, the Marine Corps, and the Air Force, and then at the pussies who played for various football teams, and then the usual broadside at sisters and mothers. There had never been an operation so flawless. Not a man injured. Not a man even footsore. The enemy that had so often wrung harm from them humiliated. The riot spilled out to the captainâÈçs quarters, and they begged him to come among them.

âÈêCapâÈçn, read us one. Go on, sir, read us one!âÈë

âÈêRespect! Show respect to the captain, or he gon take your weapon!âÈë

More laughter. âÈêRead us some anapaests!âÈë

They were like children to him, in a way. The captain was smiling when he came into the hooch, but his eyes still blazed with that wild light that Roy Murphy had seen, and that Brown, the longest-serving of them, feared. His eyes burned with it that night. The younger men loved it, but it made Brown and the lieutenant nervousâÈ'it was just this side of insane.

âÈêGentlemen, congratulations! A successful op! We inflicted heavy casualties and took none.âÈë

A whoop from the men.

âÈêWe gave the enemy something to think about, and tonight we are feeling good!âÈë

âÈêHe gonna have to mind his manners!âÈë someone said.

Still with that light in his eyes, the captain now fell to speaking softly, so that the men in the back of the hooch strained to hear. âÈêWhen youâÈçre feeling good is a dangerous time in Afghanistan. YouâÈ'Murphy!âÈë

âÈêSir.âÈë

âÈêYou study history in school?âÈë

âÈêNot too much, sir.âÈë

âÈêAnd why was that?âÈë

âÈêBusy making bail for his momma, sir,âÈë said Billy Hall Jr., and the hooch exploded in mirth again. But they calmed down quickly, seeing the way the captain had Murphy fixed in those crazy eyes.

âÈêWhy was that, Murphy?âÈë he repeated.

Reddening a little, Roy Murphy shrugged. âÈêTeacher didnâÈçt think too much of me.âÈë

âÈêYou need his permission to read history?âÈë

âÈêNo, sir. Guess I didnâÈçt see the point, sir.âÈë

âÈêThe point, Murphy, is not to be condemned to repeat it!âÈë Now the wild eye passed over the whole hooch, and they were all avoiding it. âÈêHow many of you know what happened twenty clicks from this firebase in January 1842?âÈë

Silence.

âÈêAw, thatâÈçs history. We donâÈçt see the point of knowing any history!âÈë

No one spoke.

âÈêThe British had come four years before. And they were feeling very good when they marched out of Peshawar to the Khyber in 1838. Singing bar songs as they came through the pass. They were feeling even better when Kabul fell a few months later. An easy victory, and life was good! And then, not so good. In 1841, up in Kabul, British HQ was torched. Incendiaries. Improvised devices. Sound familiar?âÈë

No one answered. On he went. âÈêNovember. What was going on in November 1841? Anyone?âÈë

Silence.

âÈêWhat might have been going on for a month or so that fall?âÈë

One of the men ventured, âÈêRamadan?âÈë

âÈêRight, Nadal. Ramadan. Same as it ever was in Afghanistan. RamadanâÈ'when a Muslim gets in touch with God. When he gets inspired to cast out the infidel. But we donâÈçt need to study history after all, cause weâÈçd rather relive it, am I right, Private Murphy?âÈë

Roy Murphy stood silently near his bunk, taking it, and the other men were wondering, Did that really happen, like he said, with the British, all that time ago? It must be true if the captain said it. History.

âÈêBack to our friends the Brits, who had their HQ torched by the Afghans and all of a sudden werenâÈçt feeling so swell during Ramadan 1841. They felt even worse in January 1842, when their Afghan allies bugged out on them. GentlemenâÈ'is the ANA any different today? The British were chased out of town and into this country where you are right nowâÈ'two valleys over, where the great-great-grandfathers of these same Pashtuns came down from the hills and cut them to pieces. All but one of sixteen thousand troops that set out four years before. All but one gone. One! A slaughter at Jagdalak Pass, and only one guy made it out to tell the story.âÈë

The hooch was silent now.

âÈêSo never feel too good when youâÈçre in Afghanistan. When youâÈçre feeling good the Afghan will greet you, and smile at you, and welcome you to his home, but he will never forget that you are the invader. HeâÈçs seen you before. Nothing much has changed here except the flags on the shoulder patches.âÈë

Silence, for another moment, until someone said, âÈêPoem, sir!âÈë

âÈêYou want a poem?âÈë

A whoop. Cries of âÈêYes, sir!âÈë

âÈêWilfred Owen, then.âÈë

No book for this one: the captain knew it by heart. As Roy Murphy would in years to come, from studying the volume that one day would ride in his pack. It ends this way:

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est

Pro patria mori.

âÈêGood night, gentlemen. Get some sleep. Murphy, you did pretty well today. But read some history, son. It wouldnâÈçt kill you.âÈë

* * * *

Oh, he remembered all of it as though the images were tattooed on him, as though the earbuds were in his ears and it was playing on an iPod. He could hear the words, he could feel that diddydum coursing through him like white light bursting every vein. Only once was he ever as alive as in the Korengal, only once, and just the memory of that quickened the pace a little. Step, step, step.

And thenâÈ'there it was in view. Standing just where he remembered. He squinted to see the bullet holes he and Emerson put in it, but they were goneâÈ'somebody must have replaced the sign. His mindâÈçs eye conjured up Billy Hall Jr.âÈçs flabby silhouette, backlit by the rays of sun coming over the eastern mountains. He could picture him standing to the sandbagged .50 cal, with a cigarette dangling, could hear his twang: âÈêMurphy, I bâÈçlieve weâÈçs about to en-gage.âÈë

âÈêWelcome to Vermont, the Green Mountain State,âÈë the sign said.

* * * *

The Howell Professor of History emeritus came last to breakfast that morning.

White-haired, blue-eyed Professor Roger Emmanuel, lately retired from the college down in Williamstown, was a figure often seen and heard in town. He sang in the choir at St. JohnâÈçs Episcopal Church and always got the comic lead in the annual G & S production. An audible sigh, and a bit of laughter, too, would greet the arrival of the Byronesque figure to the microphone at town meeting, for they knew that he would say something funny, and something else they didnâÈçt understand, and that he would go on. At the college heâÈçd been one of those lightning rod figures. Deans resented Professor Emmanuel as a showboat, the faculty groused (âÈêWhat has he published in the last fifteen years?âÈë), while those shallow hedonists who crave nothing but entertainmentâÈ'undergraduatesâÈ'swarmed his lectures.

In the best academic tradition, the professor was also a gossip. For years the college supplied him with a rich lode of trivial intrigues, but after his retirement he mined Hoosick Bridge for new ore. He was always stirring gossip along, on street corners and in ToniâÈçs Lunch. He cataloged the events of the week over coffee cups, and then offered the line from GibbonâÈçs Decline and Fall that made sense of them.

The professor was often seen in the summer on his bicycle, and frequently, too, in the winter on his brisk walks, striding out for an hour or more from the little house on Woodford Road, four blocks from the center of town, where he lived alone. Dale the carpenter built a small library as an addition to accommodate his booksâÈ'a job, he said, that took twice as long as it should have done, because the professor was always interrupting him to talk. âÈêTo be honest with you,âÈë Dale said, âÈêI never knew what all he was talking about.âÈë

Everywhere he toted his manuscript, in a brown cardboard box carried in a green canvas sack. It was said by some to be a biography of Ethan Allen, by others a broader history of the Green Mountain Boys. HeâÈçd been working on it since he retired. Toni got a peek now and again, as he would scribble away on the pages over late breakfast at the lunch counter.

âÈêI donâÈçt know what it is,âÈë she once told Francine, âÈêexcept itâÈçs thick, and has a million footnotes.âÈë

The professor took a stool at the counter, set down the battered KinkoâÈçs box, ordered coffee and an English muffin, and asked, âÈêToni, my dear girl, is it me, or does the town feel oddly electric this morning?âÈë

* * * *

âÈêHe stopped in StewartâÈçsâÈ'the soldier. I was down there to get gas. He come in, picks up a roast beef sandwich and a water from the fridge.âÈë

âÈêWhatâÈçd he say?âÈë

âÈêNothing, really.âÈë

âÈêWell, whatâÈçd you say?âÈë

âÈêNothing. That was the thing of itâÈ'nobody said nothing! He drops his pack outside, he come in, six, eight of us all just standing there in StewartâÈçs paying for our gas or coffee or whatnot, you know? Staring. Monica, behind the counter staring. He goes and gets his sandwich and gets a water, brings it up to her.âÈë

âÈêThatâÈçs it?âÈë

âÈêNo. She rings him up, and he pulls this envelope from his pocket. Near enough a white brick, the thing. Opens it up and pulls out of there a hundred-dollar bill.âÈë

âÈêReally?âÈë

âÈêSeen it myself. Fat envelope full of hundreds. He pulled one out and give it to her and put the envelope back. He took off his sunglasses. He had a look in his eyes that . . . âÈë

âÈêWhat?âÈë

âÈêYou didnâÈçt want to interrupt himâÈ'you know? Like if you said something, youâÈçd be interrupting him. He had somewheres he was going and you didnâÈçt want to be in the way. You looked at him and you knew, heâÈçs been over there. In all that mess, heâÈçs been there. You could just tell.

âÈêWhile heâÈçs at the counter, MonicaâÈ'her hands start shaking, sheâÈçs trying to make the change and shaking. NobodyâÈçs talking at all. Monica hands him the change, and he puts the bills in that envelope, puts his sunglasses back on, and off he goes. Just like that, bang, the door shuts behind him. Nobody said nothing except Burt Fredoni was in there, he calls out, âÈæWelcome home, son,âÈç as he was leaving, but the soldier, he never said nothing, I donâÈçt know if he heard him at all.âÈë

âÈêIâÈçll be damned.âÈë

âÈêI seen him when I drove out a few minutes later, walking up toward town, the sandwich in one hand, the water in the other.âÈë

âÈêWellâÈ'who was he then?âÈë

âÈêThatâÈçs the god-damnedest thing. ThatâÈçs what we all in StewartâÈçs were asking each other soon as he left. Who? He was familiar to me. Skin all leathery and dark, black hair, what he had of it. Medium height, not tall, but a strong look about him. His eyes set close. Big hands on him, too. He was familiar. IâÈçm sure I recognize himâÈ'everybody was saying that! Except, nobody could say who he was.âÈë

* * * *

All those people in StewartâÈçs stared at him like a freak had turned up in Hoosick Bridge, like he had two heads. Same thing as on the bus. Did any of them even know thereâÈçs a war on? He felt his skin prickle under those looks. He just wanted to get out of there.

By the register there was a display rack of candy, bags of Swedish Fish and Dots and chocolates and such. On top was a placard with Bugs Bunny on it. As he left and quick-stepped north along Route 7, that picture of Bugs reminded him of Elmer Fudd, and he remembered the evening they all went to the movies, and the Warthogs lit Elmer up.

* * * *

âÈêHe ainâÈçt never hit no one yet,âÈë Montoya was explaining to him up at Firebase Montana. âÈêElmer a nervous motherfucker. He know he got to shoot and move quick, before we find him. He shoot so quick he never hits nothing. We get him one a these days, for sure.âÈë

Not long after that, one evening after chow, another sniper shot cracked off the mountainside below the firebase, and Billy Hall Jr. raked the opposite ridgeline with the .50 cal. The captain had had it with ElmerâÈçs random shots. He called for a strike, and on this night they were in luck, because the Warthogs happened to be in range, and so his call was granted by the command. Instant excitement gripped the firebase, for this was a 3-D movieâÈ'you waited a whole month at Montana for this kind of show. This was like going to the stadium-seating theater at the AMC, only better. A minute later, Nadal said, âÈêI got âÈçem!âÈë A whoop went up as the men spotted the two dots in the sky, and then they crowded the sandbags to watch the dots take shape as A-10s and dive toward the ridge.

The hogs shattered it with an astonishing hell of fire and explosion, and the men shouted and whistled, but the whooping soon died down and the men were quiet. âÈêJesus,âÈë somebody said.

âÈêThey musta done Elmer with all that,âÈë said Sarnt Brown, softly.

He never hit nothing, but he was a pain in the ass, and so maybe this was his day. Nobody would survive that, the squad was thinking, as the A-10s pulled out in formation and climbed toward the setting sun.

Some of them were feeling a little weird about Elmer. TheyâÈçd gotten to know him in a strange kind of way. TheyâÈçd been living with Elmer for so long that each man in the squad had hung a face and a personality on him. The faces were more hapless and bungling than dangerous. And to be just crushed like that. Burned to ashes.

âÈêI wonder what old Elmer look like,âÈë someone asked, as though he were still alive.

âÈêLike a lump of fuckin coal, dawg.âÈë

âÈêI wonder if I ever seen him down the village. If heâÈçs a old dude or a kid. Yo, Nadal, you think heâÈçs a kid?âÈë

âÈêIf he is, heâÈçs a dead kid.âÈë

âÈêI think heâÈçs a old sumbitch, one a them pencil-leg mother-fuckers watch us when we come on patrol, smile at us in town, then scamper up the hill on his little pencils, with his AK flapping, and he canâÈçt shoot it straight. CanâÈçt hardly see, probably.âÈë

âÈêBet he was a kid,âÈë one of them said. âÈêFourteen years old, and ever time he fired his carbine it kicked him into a hole.âÈë

Someone added, âÈêDonâÈçt matter now.âÈë

The Warthogs were dots in a distant sky. It was eerily quiet, like when people walk away from a church after a funeral. Roy Murphy had watched this with them, his hand straying involuntarily to finger an object he wore around his neck and beneath his T-shirt. He said nothing.

Billy Hall Jr. stood up behind the sandbags and broke the silence by yelling across the valley, âÈêYo Elmer! Dude! You still there?âÈë

His voice echoed faintly off the mountains. Then silence.

âÈêUse your sight, you heathen asshole! This here Billy Hall Jr. H-A-L-L, and he want to lay some virgins right now!âÈë

But the men didnâÈçt laugh at this. They laughed at death a lot, but not at this. Sergeant Brown snapped, âÈêHall, zip that shit!âÈë

You could joke about death, laugh about it, but you didnâÈçt tempt it. Even wearing your IBA. Even with your Kevlar on, standing to the .50. Even from fucking Elmer, who had been crushed to coal dust and was dead as hell. You didnâÈçt tempt it.

âÈêThe Afghan theater is in the round,âÈë the captain always said.

Media reviews

Citations

• Booklist, 12/01/2012, Page 20
• Kirkus Reviews, 01/01/2013, Page 0
• Library Journal, 10/15/2012, Page 73
• People, 04/01/2013, Page 54
• Romantic Times, 03/01/2013, Page 40