The Humvee rattles intermittently somewhere behind me, like the squeaking shelf in my fathers old Peugeot. Fourteen hour drives with that shrill noise gradually penetrating the permanence of my mind over a 12-hour period. Winding night roads as we drove and drove and drove down winding motorways. Germany, Czechoslovakia, Kyrgyzstan. The overhead street lights strobe oblique angles of yellow light through the windows, pollution of my sleep.
But this is the Humvee and I am sat up front, this is the desert and this is now. Although everywhere is the desert in this country I envisage the desert as a desolate place but we have been passing basic corrugated iron dwellings in various densities of grouping for hours now, I have been staring out of the passenger side window as our PMC escort drives. I could not drive this vehicle under these conditions.
The Humvee is our sanctuary, our enclave. I cannot be outside the Humvee because that would puncture the membrane of detachment that I have from this situation.
Reed is lying on the backseat moaning softly, as I glance over my shoulder I realize that his position has changed and he is doubled over clutching his stomach.
‘F*****g karahi’ he whispers occasionally between the breathy moans. Sometimes I think he never excretes.
The PMC escort is named Channing and he grimaces at the road with an intensity that suggests he is barely aware of Reed’s existence, and mine despite his employment being dependent on our continued existence. At least for the duration of this particular segment of the canon, since leaving London I have been unable to grasp the events occurring in any other way than a hallucinatory interlude in a Hollywood buddy comedy during which the protagonists ingest a hash cake and have their button down square identities exploded over a white canvas of culture clash.
I am indifferent, I am detached, I am in the Humvee.
Channing glances downwards and right but not at me as we hit an enormous pot hole in the road. The axle of the vehicle creaks as if mildly perturbed by what would have probably been a fatal accident in any other kind of car. But I suppose it isn’t a car. Reed groans theatrically and hoarsely shouts: ‘Watch the f*****g road!’
“Apologies Sir’ Channing replies immediately in a clipped southern sounding accent.
‘You been out here long?’ I shout across the roar of the engine.
‘Excuse me sir?’ He shouts back.
‘Out here… long?’ I say not able to take my eyes off the road.
‘Eighteen Months Sir’ He replies.
‘How delightful for you, perhaps you can recommend some better lunch venues.’ Reed chimes in and then to me ‘Don’t talk to him.’
He’s already told me not to talk to the escort but I’m nervous and realistically what can he do about it splayed out in the back with his guts churning.
‘You like it?’ I say as Reed rolls over groaning again.
‘Sir?’
‘You like it here?’
‘I’m here to serve my country sir.’
‘Well today you’re technically serving our…’
‘Shut the f**k up Hugh!’ Reed screeches from the back seat.
The road is being swallowed up as the Humvee lurches along the potholed highway at an alarming speed. The huge tires swallow up the indentations in the tarmac as if they were a figment, a correctable reality, negated by the technology of the victor.
‘Has this area been swept for IED’s?’ I try and mutter to Channing but he has taken his cues from Reed and studiously ignores me. I wonder if he would even care if I could get him to understand what we were doing here. Not that I can profess to be an expert in that particular regard. We flew in commercial as the department is not permitted on military aircraft due to a long and complicated budgetary arrangement that requires the completion of a spreadsheet that neither I nor Reed fully understand. Flying Turkish airlines into Iraq, with a plethora of empty seats and concerned looking flight attendants, Reed asked for a gin and tonic and the guy just snorted and walked away. I just ordered some peanuts and slid into a seat across the aisle from Reed. Although was later moved back because I was not permitted to sit in a seat that I was not in fact booked in for. I tried to reason with the guy but I feared that Reed’s gin faux pas had confined us to the category of customer that is not granted the freedom to experiment with the flexibility of the regulations.
‘Do you ever experiment with the flexibility of the regulations Private?’ I shout over the roar of the road to Channing.
‘All the goddamn time Sir.’ He replies.
Maybe he wouldn’t struggle so much with the intentions of our visit here after all.
