Kaboom by Matthew Gallagher

that I was going straight onto security, and then he told me, ‘Excuses are like assholes,’ and that a good soldier would bring a razor on his mission. What does that even mean?”
    â€œI think he meant, ‘Excuses are like assholes: Everyone has one,’” Specialist Flashback explained.
    â€œOh.” If possible, Private Romeo was even more irritated with the sergeant major’s comment now. “I guess that makes sense.”
    â€œThat’s the one good thing about night around here,” Specialist Flashback said. “At least it’s just us Bravo Troopers at night.” He turned to me and smiled. “Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”
    I bit my lip and smirked. It probably wasn’t too hard to discern how I felt about these matters, and with Specialist Flashback being my driver, thus privy to my more unplugged moments, he already knew the answer to his question. Now, though, I had a moment to collect my thoughts, and in the name of professionalism, I resisted the urge to be too honest with my guys. “I don’t know what you mean,” I eventually replied. “The best part about nighttime is talking to Staff Sergeant Bulldog when he’s trying to sleep.”
    A burst of automatic weapons fire rippled through the night in the distance, toward the northeast, somewhere in the Sunni sector. We all shifted instinctively toward that direction, waiting for a succeeding burst. None came. Private Van Wilder called across the update on the radio, boredom saturating every word of the report. This was Iraq. Gunfire happened at night. Gunfire happened every night.
    â€œAnd that,” I continued, “that’s the other best thing about nighttime.”
    Shortly thereafter, I ambled over to Sergeant Spade’s sergeant-of-the-guard position at the base of the entryway to the roof. Sergeant Spade demonstrated all the traits of a model scout—an aloof and serene temperament, a set of stabbing eyes, a casual naturalness with the rifle that hung at the low-ready like a third arm, and a big wad of dip tucked deeply into one of his cheek pouches.
    â€œYou in charge of this circus?” I asked, approaching the crouching shadow.
    â€œYou know it,” came the reply, slightly slurred, due to the dip. He spat into the darkness before continuing, nodding down at Saba al-Bor. “Nothing doing, tonight, except for that shit five minutes ago. Too cold.”
    â€œYeah, well, it’s too cold for me too, but somehow I’m still wandering around on a rooftop in Iraq in the middle of the night.”
    He nodded. “This place isn’t like it was the first time I was here,” he said matter-of-factly.
    â€œIs that a good thing or a bad thing?”
    â€œI’m not sure yet.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Ask me again in a few months.”
    â€œEverything good with the guys?” I asked. “I tried asking a couple of them, but all I got was the rehearsed ‘Yes, sir! Absolutely, sir!’ that you NCOs teach them to say to officers.”
    Sergeant Spade chuckled. “Yeah, LT, they’re good. There have been some squabbles and shit, but that’s normal.” His words proved prophetic. Over the course of fifteen months, there were some arguments and even a few fistfights within the platoon, but nothing too serious. Things like that were bound to happen with nineteen- and twenty-year-old kids cooped up together constantly, under the stresses of combat, for well over a year. It was usually kept in-house, with punishments doled out by NCOs who kept their understanding—and amusement—to themselves.
    After leaving my gunner at his post, I walked downstairs and back outside to the front gate, where Sergeant Axel, Specialist Big Ern, and Private Das Boot were manning the main entry control point (ECP). A maze of crisscrossing razor concertina wire led up to the gate, with imposing T-wall barriers stacked on both