Chapter 3: Knife to a Gun Fight

The second bedroom also served as my office of sorts. I put in a small desk for my old Acer desktop computer. I also had two large file cabinets to one side, filling in the corner. I took some initiative to buy a couple of sets of full-sized bedding and made up the spare bed just so that it didn’t look like an empty barracks. Of course, it was made to Corps specs (yes, I bounced a fucking quarter on it!). The closet was a project all in itself. There were half a dozen large moving boxes with Home Depot and Lowes logos on them. I couldn’t remember what the hell they contained but they were packed and heavy so I dragged them out and put them against the wall. The first one I opened contained stacks of award binders and dozens of decorative boxes that held the awards themselves.

I instinctively looked up at the file cabinets where the shadow box was set face down. It was a heavy bastard, made of some exotic African hardwood. It displayed row upon row of all my decorations, badges, and citations, along with a large brass plate engraved with a bunch of bullshit — and a tri-folded US Flag that flew over the Commandant’s Headquarters in Bagdad. I had another one somewhere that flew aboard the USS Belleau Wood, the day she was decommissioned and turned into razor blades over at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard (those of us who guarded the nukes over at Sub Base Bangor, WA liked to refer to PSNS as Penis Anus).

Why my shadow box wasn’t displayed proudly for all to see and ogle, wasn’t because I had just never gotten around to it. I simply didn’t want to have to look at it all the time. I knew every single feature that was on display behind the plexiglass case. I still remember every single award and citation I received. I also remember quite well how each of them was earned. Some I was proud of, others — not so much. One medal nobody ever wants to earn is a Purple Heart. It happens and I supposed it’s nice to be recognized for getting your ass shot, blown up, shredded, burned, or broken apart — and live to talk about it. I got a few of them (actually it’s just one medal with two gold stars for previous awards), and —as pretty as they are — a Purple Heart and $5 will get you a cup of coffee at Starbucks.

The one I hated was the ugly black ribbon with the red, white, and blue borders, just to the left of my Good Cookies (Good Conduct Medal--mine had 2 bronze stars, representing 12 years of good conduct out of 16 — yeah, I was a bad boy!) Ain’t nobody alive that ever wants to earn that fucker! Nor do they enjoy being reminded of it every time they see it.

It was a dead end. ‘Fuck! What a shitty-ass, dumb-fuck, newbie mistake.’ I seethed as I faced the rubble piled in the narrow alley between the burnt-out buildings — in the Khaki Jabbar district of Kabul. I turned back to my five-man (er ... person) squad and hand signaled them to beat feet back and get us the hell out of here. We spread out with Talbot on point, then Rake, Simmons, Arturo, Gomez, and myself watching our six. I swept my eyes up to the mangled rooftops, or what was left of them as I backed myself slowly from the rubble. This was bad! Really bad, and I knew we were fucked even before the grenades started falling around us. My only conscious action was to turn and jump on the nearest Marine to try and cover them with my body as the world around us disintegrated.

My eyes and lungs were burning and my ears were ringing distantly, as if my entire head was stuffed with burning wool. I had no clue who, what, why, or how the hell, I was suddenly so fucked up. My brain wouldn’t work and neither did my body. I gasped for breath raggedly and found the air to scream as the pain hit me. I couldn’t isolate what hurt the worst. My face was burnt and cut up and I couldn’t see shit. I thought I was lying on my left side and every breath I took sent searing waves of pain through my ribs and chest. Why couldn’t I move my arms? Dammit Marine do something!

A hard blow to my back took me by surprise and sent me toppling over, trying to catch my breath again. My arms were tied behind me and my feet were lashed together, but it still didn’t make any sense to me how I wound up like this. Voices were yelling over me in the harsh dialect of Pashtu. Fuck! Taliban! I groaned and received another kick for my troubles, right in the head. Good fucking night!

Gunner and Libby alerted me to the arrival of a new visitor. I went over to the front door and looked out the small window to see a car that I did not recognize, pull into my drive. A second later Lupi climbed out of the passenger door, wearing cut-offs, another threadbare, revealing t-shirt, and flip-flops. Her eyes were covered by huge framed sunglasses. She went to the back door to let out one of the girls. The driver opened his door and stepped out. He was a young white man with the most glaring red afro imaginable. He could have been Bob Ross’s fucking grandkid! He stepped back and helped unload the other twin as well as the car seats, before opening the trunk to let her collect her bucket of cleaning supplies. I opened the door to let the beasts rush out and bark excitedly at the new arrivals. There wasn’t a trace of menace in either of them, yet Bobby Ross Jr. yelped and jumped back when they leaped up and leaned over the chain link fence, wagging their tails excitedly as Didi and Lulu ran over to greet them.

The driver and Lupi exchanged ‘thank you’s’ and ‘your welcome’s’ and she handed him a wad of cash before he climbed back into the car and left. I stepped down from the porch and walked over to hold the gate open for them to come in. The dogs knew better than to crowd them as they entered the front yard, but once their favorite human tots were clear, they both lost it and began running their stupid zoomies, occasionally stopping to roll around in the grass. I shook my head helplessly at their behavior and grabbed the two car seats, before following Lupi and the girls back into the house.

“Who was the new driver?” I asked innocently as I set the car seats by the door.

She shrugged with her back to me as she removed her flip-flops and supervised the twins removing theirs. “He is an Uber driver,” she replied, “I didn’t catch his name.” She was still wearing the tinted frames when she turned back and I could feel her tension like the blast wave from a mortar. I discreetly turned and greeted the girls, giving her the moment, she needed.

“Hi girls,” I said excitedly, “did you bring bathing suits today?”

“Yes!” they both said together, “Swimming! Swimming! Swimming!” they continued chanting as they jumped up and down excitedly.

I held up my hand to quell the energy a bit. “Soon,” I said, “but first I need you two to help me with a very important job.” They looked at me with eager expressions. “We need to give those two bozos,” I pointed at Gunner and Libby who were perched attentively on their haunches, panting, “Baths!” Clearly, that was the most excellent plan of the day because they screeched excitedly and twirled around me. “Go get your suits on,” I ordered and they disappeared into the bathroom with their bags.

When the door closed, I slowly straightened and turned to face their mother again. She still wore the sunglasses so I reached forward and gently removed them. My expression must have betrayed the rage that ignited deep in my gut. Her beautiful face was marred by a dark discolored bruise that covered her left eye and cheek. She started to turn away but I caught her gently in my hands stopping her.

“Dante?” It was only one word and simple to pronounce, but I must’ve sounded like I was tasting poison when I growled it. I startled her with my emotions and she shivered. I let go of her arms but kept my hands gently against them. Eventually, she looked up at me and nodded with intense shame in her eyes.

“He ... he told me that I cannot work for you anymore,” she nearly sobbed, “I refused him and he got very angry with me.” She swallowed as she looked down at the floor. “He is just so jealous and protective of me...”

I shook my head and placed a finger under her chin, lifting her face until she met my eyes again. “This is not protection,” I said harshly, “this is abuse. And it stops right now!” I ended with a growl that probably frightened her, but at that moment Didi and Lulu came bouncing out of the bathroom in their matching one-piece swimsuits, ready to do battle with the dirty canines. I took a deep breath and buried my anger as they each latched onto one of my hands. I smiled and winked at Lupi, causing her to smile brightly back at me. “We will talk in a bit,” I said softly.

Washing two rowdy Rottweilers is tantamount to herding and baptizing cats. To the twins, it was a grand adventure. To Gunner and Libby, it was just one really fun game. I let the four of them have at it with the garden hose sprayer and the 6-foot kiddy pool that I already had filled up. They splashed, squealed, laughed, and barked madly at each other as they ran around the side yard. Over my time in the Corps, I developed this subconscious habit of taking notes and jotting them down in my mental ‘notebook’. It is a habit that I still have today and I found myself ‘jotting’ down — ‘Bubbles’ as I oversaw the chaos and mayhem. After 15 minutes of riotous shenanigans, I whistled sharply and redirected both dogs into the pool, making them sit.

Over the next half hour, we diligently scrubbed each of them down with pet-friendly suds and brushes. I had to run inside in a panic trying to find my phone at one point. Lupi asked what was wrong as she helped me look. We found it stuffed in the cushion of my easy chair. I grinned and waved her to follow me as I dashed back outside. The twins had ingeniously decided to give each of my mutts a makeover. Gunner now sported a towering mohawk of bubbles while Libby looked like Thelma Harper as ‘Mama’. I was crying with laughter as I snapped pic after pic, encouraging her twins to pose with mine.

“Okay,” I called finally, “time to rinse them off.” I returned to the porch with Lupi and let the girls spray down the two obediently poised dogs for a minute. Then I puckered my lips and released them with another short shrill whistle, and all hell broke loose! Gunner and Libby bolted to their feet and shook themselves to about an 8.5 on the Richter scale. The entire yard exploded in a huge shower and the twins were caught in the deluge screaming and running about. Lupi’s laughter was the most beautiful sound as it rang out from beside me. I chuckled with her and went to remove the top from the hot tub. Soon the girls came over shivering and chattering and climbed into the steaming tub happily. Lupi turned to go back inside.

“You are welcome to bring a suit and join them you know,” I called after her. She paused and looked wistfully at her two babies as they splashed and played.

“That sounds wonderful,” she replied before returning to her tasks. I felt more than a little excited at the thought of seeing their mother in a bathing suit.

“American pig!” a heavily accented voice spat in my face with broken English. A hood protected me from all but his vile breath. I was hanging by my hands which were bound to a beam or something above me. My bare toes just touched the ground beneath me. I had been completely stripped of clothing and hung there like a fucking piece of meat, waiting to be butchered. That just pissed me off.

“Your breath puts a pig to shame,” I retorted earning a kidney punch that set me swinging and gasping for breath. “At least I don’t have to see your ugly fucking face,” I groaned. I heard the woosh of air just before my back exploded with agony from a hard blow. They must’ve used a piece of pipe or a staff. Another woosh and another blow, lower down against my thighs. I bellowed out in pain and rage as the blows continued to land all over my body. I was too out of it to realize when the beating had stopped. All I could do was groan and try to take in ragged painful breaths.

A conversation took place nearby in Pashtu, which I could not understand two words of. There was laughter and the sound of boots walking away. My arms ached horribly from the weight of my body trying to pull them out of their sockets. I tentatively swept my feet out to try and see if anything was around me. Nothing. I tried to listen past the ringing in my ears but could only make out far-off sounds that made no sense to me. No dripping water, humming of electrical appliances, grumbling or rumbling of traffic. No sounds of fighting or anything. It was too damn quiet. Where the fuck was I? Where was my squad ... oh fuck! Gomez! I felt fear for the first time in a very long time at the thought of her being killed or captured. I had to get out of here. I jerked my arms painfully testing the strength of my bindings. No way I was getting down on my own.

Hours passed; I think. It was hard to tell any sense of time when you are trying to block out the pain and agony from a dozen different hurts. I heard a familiar sound. It was a warbird screaming overhead, somewhere far above. I had some difficulty breathing so I tried to slow my respirations like Doc had taught me once.

I remembered his idiotic cherub face, masked with fear as he patched me up. I had gotten shot in the meaty part of my right trapezius. I was fucking gushing blood and he was trying hard to keep me calm as he squirted that new superglue shit into it while holding pressure.

“Goddamn Doc! Why don’t you just cut my fucking head off while you’re at it?” I screamed at him in pain.

“Oh, relax Gunny! Breathe,” he stuttered, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s just a flesh wound, you’re gonna be fine!”

“I’m bleeding like a mother fucker Doc!”

“Don’t worry Gunny,” he grinned, “all bleeding stops eventually.”

Fucking corpsmen! But he got what he wanted and I began laughing my ass off at his stupid morbid, sense of humor. Morphine is great shit!

I heard another roar of a warbird as it screamed overhead. I could feel the rumble in my bonds as it passed. There was an explosion some distance away. Then I heard a second bird scream by and another blast, closer this time. We were still in Kabul. Usually, the warbirds signaled the beginning of a new offensive. I listened closely and heard more explosions as artillery commenced. Occasionally there would be a ground shaking boom. Those would be cruise missiles targeting special assets like power stations, suspected headquarters, ammunition depots, missile defense systems, etc. It sounded like we were gearing up to kick some serious ass. Coalition forces had been fighting like hell to take the city from the Al Qaeda-backed Taliban, for nearly two months. It was only a matter of time before we drove them out but they weren’t making it easy. Another couple passes by the warbirds and this time the explosions were damned close!

Then the explosions lessened which usually meant the ground forces were engaged in close-quarter combat. I tried to listen for more clues to what was going on but I couldn’t discern anything. Then I heard a scream from nearby. It was filled with pain and anger, and it was female. Gomez! I felt intense pressure in my head and my eyes saw red inside the hood. I screamed in rage, promising every one of those filthy fucking, rag-head, animals a slow and certain death if they so much as touched her. They heard me because they came back and began beating me again. That was fine with me, so long as it kept them away from her.

Next thing I remember I was being dragged by my arms, my bare feet scraping painfully across the littered ground as they pulled me between them. My arms were no longer bound but the agony and pain in my shoulders was such that they might as well have been. I groaned miserably as we went along. Eventually, I began to perceive illumination through my hood as I was brought into a well-lit area. I was flipped roughly around and dropped onto a chair or bench. It was almost sublime being able to sit without having my arms ripped out of their sockets. Then the hood was ripped off my head and my swollen eyes clenched shut to protect me from the blinding brightness of the room.

“So, you don’t like us fucking your friend?” a cruelly accented voice said next to me, “Come American pig, open your eyes and watch us fuck her like the whore she is!” I felt his spit against my face and I strained to open my eyes, turning away from the brightest areas. “What’s the matter? Can’t bear to see the sight of your little bitch as she pleases us?”

I heard the sounds of grunting nearby and another heart-wrenching sound as CPL Gomez screamed through clenched teeth. I jerked upright and tried surging to my feet. The blow that sat me back down clouded what little vision I had with bright flaring stars. I shook my head trying to put my marbles back in place. Gradually I could make out some details of the square cell we occupied. It was about 20 by 20 feet and lit up by two strings of NATO halogens across the ceiling. On the wall across from me was the all too familiar Black Banner of the World Islamic Front. A tall turbaned dude stood before the banner in a ritual warrior’s robe, holding a giant curved Talwar with its point in the floor.

CPL Gomez was tied spread eagle on a framed cot in the corner to my left. She was completely nude and a ragged-looking bearded man stood over her as he pulled up his trousers and tied them in place. Tears stained her dirty face as she looked away from her captors. Her body was badly bruised and red lines marked the various lashes she had to endure as they beat and tortured her. Her large breasts were hideously disfigured by multiple bite marks around her bleeding nipples. A small patch of black pubic hair centered over her swollen and bleeding vagina. Her inner thighs were blackened with bruises. The last man to rape her bent over the cot and spat contemptuously in her face before nodding toward me with a grin and leaving the room via a doorway behind my left shoulder.

“They tell me she has a very tight little pussy,” the fucker beside me sneered. “Have you fucked her, American pig?” he asked venomously.

“Fuck you! You slimy piece of shit!” I roared hatefully at his face. I was still blinking back tears from the blinding lights.

“Staff Sergeant?” Gomez cried out tearfully, “Oh God Bishop!”

“Semper Fi Corporal!” I called back.

“Ah, so you do know one another,” the man gloated. He moved forward and squatted before me with a leering evil smirk on his ugly bearded face. “This is like a family get together don’t you say?” He ducked aside when I spit at him. He lashed his fist out and struck me hard across the face, knocking me off the chair. “You filthy stupid Americans and your enslaved coalition forces!” he spat, “you are a bunch of pig fuckers all of you!” he screamed angrily as I was picked back up and plopped back in the chair. “You may win this city for now,” he growled, “but as history has shown time and again, we will take it back. And you will go back to your hedonist ways, turning a blind eye once again to your so-called allies.”