The Mean (Part 2) : by Stephen Richter

I looked back at corporal Fahrad. His eyes were wild, staring straight ahead.

Rounds impacted into a column of boxes. Wood splintered.

“Double-time, go!” I said. We passed through the gauntlet of the staging area then trotted to the safety of the sand bags. They surrounded three rows of tents on the beach. A guideon bearing a flag with the island of Okinawa, the Tori Gate, and the eagle globe and anchor, waved in the breeze.

“Japan,” said Fahrad. He placed his palms on his knees and breathed.

“Hei, so desu,” I said, “Okinawa kara kimashita.”

“You speak Japanese.”

“Yes,” I said.

I took Fahrad to meet the troops of 3rd Recon, or what was left of us. I passed on Gunny’s orders
then ran off to find Gunny myself. He wasn’t in the porta-johns. I knew that much. I jogged to a tent
with a red cross on its front then walked inside. Gunny turned around with a start.

“Fuck, Wagner,” said Gunny. He held a 12 ounce bottle of grape Robotussin in his hand. It
trembled. Corpsman Jackson stood behind Gunny. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Action Jackson,” I said.

“If you want action,” said the corpsman. “come see Jackson.”

“Ooh-rah,” said Gunny. He opened the bottle and drank its entire contents in three swallows. He
kissed Jackson on the forehead then threw the empty container in the trash.

“We have to go,” I said.

“Out-standing,” said Gunny. He inhaled through his nose and closed his eyes. He slapped himself across the face three times then rubbed his palms together. Gunny opened his eyes. He took a swing at me. I blocked the punch with my forearm. “Good shit, devil dog,” said Gunny, “Let’s do this.” He marched out of the tent. I followed him.

“Semper fly,” said Action Jackson.

“Good looking out, Jackson,” I said, over my shoulder.

“Always looking out,” said Action Jackson.

****

“You’re not going to believe this,” said lance corporal Bermúdez. Corporal Fahrad stared straight ahead. “I heard the brass talking behind the tent before the morning brief.” The troops sat with their backs against a wall made out of tractor tires. 7th Motor Transport had become the hottest spot on the depot. A city block of bullet-riddled buildings, with countless windows for snipers, loomed over the far corner of the fence-line. 7th Motor-T sat beneath the buildings on our side of the fence. Rounds impacted into the tires above our heads. Rounds impacted into the dirt beyond us. A round ricocheted off of a forklift loaded with relief supplies.

“How’s that for gratitude?” I said.

“That’s what I’m saying,” said Bermúdez. “A marine was sodomized last night.”

“That was just me,” I said, “when Gunny told me we were staying on as part of the security
liaison.”

“No,” said Bermúdez, “physically. Someone crept into corporal Richardson’s tent, knocked him out
with a rag full of ether, then ass-fucked him something awful.”

“Oh come on,” I said.

“For reals, sergeant,” said Bermúdez, “I even heard an officer laugh about the guy calling him the
Ether Bunny.”

“Shut your sucks!” said Gunny. He ran across the expanse of dirt between Motor-T and the tire
maze. Rounds peppered the earth behind him. He slid into our position with a cloud of dust. “You
want to give up your position?” said Gunny, crouching, “Do it when I’m not around. Okay, I’ve got
us a vehicle.”

“Vehicle?” I said.

“You heard me, Sergeant,” said Gunny. He reached into a duffle bag. “Here you go, Somalia. I
brought your weapon.” Gunny tossed corporal Fahrad a bullhorn.

****

“We come in peace. If you turn in your weapons we will give you food and medicine.”

The voice of Corporal Fahrad echoed down the street, speaking Somali. A lone Humvee cruised in front of the buildings, outside the fence-line. A woman Marine drove. Gunny and I peered over the rooftop of the third building, watching them, then pulled our heads back.  Bermúdez placed the bipod of his M-249 SAW on the brick ledge. PFC Thompson opened a second can of ammo, stretching the bandoleer of rounds within easy reach of their weapon.

“Building two has hall exits and a fire escape down its port side,” whispered Gunny, “That is your
only responsibility, Bermúdez. Do not fuck it up. Kill anyone who crosses this sector of fire,
understand?”

Bermúdez nodded. Gunny winked at me. I tightened my harness.  Gunny counted with his fingers: 

Three...
Two...
One...

Gunny and I stepped onto the ledge that surrounded the roof of the building. We dove, headfirst.
Rope trailed out behind me. I kept my M-16 trained on the ground with my left hand. I brought my
right in to my chest to initiate friction. We ran down the wall of the building in an Auzzie rappel. I
hit the pavement and took cover behind a barrel of trash, in the alleyway between the two buildings.

Gunny smiled at me. I nodded.

We ran, without making a sound, from hard cover to soft cover, leapfrogging each other’s positions without need for words nor hand signals. From the dumpster - to an abandoned car - to a rock pile - through a broken first floor window - down a hall - into the stairwell - 2nd floor - 3rd floor - 5th floor - we stopped with our backs against each side of the 5th floor doorframe. I nodded. Gunny opened it. I walked into the hall with my M-16 at the ready.

The second fire team, led by Corporal Donovan, trained their rifles on my head and torso. They recognized me then elevated their muzzles. Gunny walked into the hall. He pointed to various doors. We each took a position in front of one. Gunny looked at his watch.

“We come in peace. If you turn in your weapons we will give you food and medicine.” 

The Humvee was right outside the building now. Gunny walked to the end of the hallway and put
on his earpiece.

“Do not move unless we hear gunfire,” said Gunny’s voice in my earpiece, “Lance Corporal
Hargett, tell Somolia to step out of the vehicle please.” Gunny took aim on the door in front of him.
We all did the same. 

“We come in peace-”

Shots fired.


We kicked in the doors. I shot a sniper in the back. An antique M-1 rifle dropped to the floor. He fell. I shot him again in the back of the head. Blood pooled around him.


I turned to leave. Gunny had been watching me. He walked over to the dead man and crouched down, looking him over. Gunny touched the blood on the floor with his fingertips. He stood.

“Blood make the grass grow,” Gunny said. He ran his finger over my nose and chin, leaving a stain.

“Kill, kill, kill,” I replied. Gunny turned and left. I stood there, trembling. 

****

The Mean (Part 3) : by Stephen Richter

“Bullshit, marine,” said the man from Naval Investigative Service, “You really expected us to believe that?”

“Sir, we heard shots,” I said, “Gunny instructed us to investigate then we did what we had to do.”

Everyone was sweating, each for his own reasons. N.I.S. had interviewed all the members of our
group except for Gunny, Corporal Fahrad and Lance Corporal Hargett - the driver. Now it was my
turn. It felt strange being back in the same tent we had started in that morning. The three N.I.S.
officers wore suits. They seemed disappointed that there weren’t any lights to shine on me. The
youngest one kept trying to open the tent flap wide enough to let the sunlight hit my face. The
senior officer made him stop. The third officer shook his head.

“Look, marine,” said the senior. He straddled a chair in front of me. “I could really give a shit what
happened out there. But this place is still swarming with the news media. That means if someone in
Washington has to stand in front the camera and explain anything, anything at all, then my director
will be grabbing his ankles in front of that very same someone. That means I’m grabbing my ankles
in front of the director and you, my friend, will be grabbing yours in front of me.”

“We want to talk to you about Gunnery Sergeant Higgle,” said the junior officer.

“I have nothing to say,” I said.

“Then why don’t we talk about Kinville, in Japan.” said the senior.

****

I walked out of the tent. It was nearly sunset. Gunny made eye contact with me from a bench. I
nodded. Gunny stood. The junior officer called Gunny’s name. He walked past me into the tent. I
sat down on the bench next to corporal Fahrad.

“Why don’t you grab some sleep for a couple minutes,” I said, “Believe it or not it’ll do you some
good. I can wake you when they call.”

“Two minutes,” said Fahrad. He looked like hell.

“I need to talk to you,” said lance corporal Billy Joe Hargett. She sat down on the bench beside me.
She wore a t-shirt and cammies. Her hair was shaved tight.

“Why the hell were you driving today?” I whispered.

“Gunny said he wanted to keep an eye on me,” said Billy Joe. She looked me in the eye. Hers were
green. She looked to the porta-johns then back at me. I nodded. She stood then walked to them. I
waited until she went inside one, then stood and walked over myself.

****

“This is horrific, Gene,” said Billy Joe. Billy Joe is from Georgia.

“Considering they only installed these yesterday,” I said. I looked down the hole. Billy Joe slapped
me across the face.

“Wake up, Gene!” said Billy Joe, “Don’t you see what’s going on? That’s why we’re in this mess in
the first place. I need you serious for a second here.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m just tired. What happened?”

“I need to get my life back,” said Billy Joe, “that’s what happened. I want to get back to my
husband in Japan, Gene, you understand me?!” She grabbed my shirtfront.

“What the hell’s going on here!” said Gunny Higgle. The door to the porta-john flew open. Billy
Joe and I blinked. Corporal Fahrad stood at parade rest behind Gunny, smiling. The three N.I.S.
agents stood beside him. The junior one looked at his clipboard.

“Lance Corporal Hargett?” he said.

“Right here, sir,” said Billy Joe. She walked to the agents and followed them to the tent. Gunny’s
eyes burned into mine.

“Meet me at bivouac,” said Gunny. He turned and walked away. I stepped down from the porta-
john. Corporal Fahrad was laughing now.

“Well, you sure seem to be in better spirits there, hard-charger,” I said.

“You only get two minutes, marine,” said Fahrad, “Next time make it count.”

“I’ll do that,” I said.

I turned to follow Gunny. Shots rang out in the distance, small arms, rifles, then automatic weapons.
An alert siren went off. We all ran for the gate, weapons at the ready. There was a roar, like the
crowd in a soccer stadium. The convoy appeared up the road in the distance. A multitude of starving
people, thugs and militants ran alongside them, throwing rocks and bottles. There was a single shot.
The convoy stopped. There were screams then automatic weapons fire erupted from lead vehicle in
the convoy. The crowd scattered. The convoy peeled out, racing towards us. We cleared the center
and held the gates open for the vehicles to enter the compound. Marines were wounded. Action
Jackson preformed CPR. People screamed. Cameras flashed. The boys from N.I.S. ran towards me.
I turned around, towards the setting sun, and held my breath. They ran past me, into the fray.

I walked away.

For most of these marines, it was their last day in country. I figured I’d leave them to settle their
affairs. I had bigger fish to fry and a problem to deal with. If I didn’t do something about it I’d be
screwed. If I did anything though, I’d be screwed. What should one do when they’re about to be
screwed? I just wished there was something in between the two extremes. I worked my way through
the pallets of the staging area, back to the sandbags on the beach. I looked at our flag, on the
guideon, stabbed into the sand at my feet.

“Okinawa,” I said.

The last rays of sunlight vanished behind the city and Africa grew dark again. Bats flew. I stared at
the largest tent at the end of the first row for almost a minute. My heart pounded in my chest. I
tucked my 9mm. into the front of my trousers and covered it with my t-shirt. I reached into my
cargo pocket. It was there, a full bottle of grape Robotussin. Not the Chinese shit either, the German
shit. Gunny would be pleased. I swallowed hard then walked towards the tent.

“Bring your ass in here, Wagner,” said Gunny.

“Holy shit I think it’s Robo-Gunny...” I said. I poked my head through the opening of the tent.
Gunny’s expression brightened.

“And his sidekick, Sergeant Fury!” said Gunny, “bring that ass, devil dog.” He threw his arms
around me locking me into a bear-hug.

“Alright, devil dog that’s enough,” I said. I could barely breathe. Gunny squeezed harder. He leaned
back, lifting me off the ground.

“Robo and Fury!” said Gunny, “back in the saddle!”

“Gunny!” I said.

He released me. I handed him the bottle of Robotussin. “Nice work out there, killer,” I said, regaining my breath.

“A lovely work it was, devil dog,” said Gunny. He examined the label on the bottle. He smiled then
punched me in the arm.  “Big spender. I should’ve wore my fuck-me pumps. He roared with
laughter then stopped. “So what did you tell them?”

“Nothing, Gunny,” I said.

“Then that’s the longest forty-five minutes of nothing I never heard of,” said Gunny. He winked at
me, giggling. He got that way sometimes, Gunny Giggles, Robo-Gunny, those are some of the
names he’s been called over the years that I’d served with him. Gunny peeled the plastic from the
top of the bottle. They just never understood Gunny, that’s all. Gunny’s log book was open on top of
an ammo box. A black and white photograph of Gunny at Khe Sanh was taped to the inside cover.

“They asked me about Kinville,” I said.

Gunny’s expression darkened. His neck muscles flexed with anticipation. I should’ve caught that
but I didn’t. Gunny pinned me against the wall with a knife to my throat. It cut me. My hand went
to my trousers.

“Excuse me,” said Corporal Fahrad. He stepped into the tent. “Oh my, I’m sorry,” said Fahrad.
Gunny and I stepped away from each other. I walked to the exit.

“Hey!” said Gunny. I looked back. He pointed to his eyeballs then pointed at me. “What the hell do
you want now, Somalia, a foot massage?” I walked away. “Apparently you’ve forgotten some of
your basic Marine Corps practical knowledge haven’t you, son?”

I had to find Billy Joe.

I crossed the compound with caution. There was still plenty of activity around the convoy. I touched
my neck then looked at my fingertips. It wasn’t bad. I crept through Supply Company, past the
armory, behind headquarters, towards the main tent of the chow hall.

A shadowed figure slipped out of the tent then entered the maze of cargo boxes stacked behind it.
I stopped.

“What the hell?” I said. I walked back and peered into the tent. Moonlight cast my shadow onto the
floor boards. Lying on the floor, was an unconscious Marine. His trousers were around his knees.
“filthy Ether Bunny,” I said.

I looked at the marine. I looked around the tent then off in the direction the shadowed figure had
fled. I looked at my watch.

“Sorry, devil dog,” I said.

****

The Mean (Part 4) : by Stephen Richter

Motor-T was quiet. I low-crawled up to a bullet-riddled porta-john. Gravel crunched beneath my
chest. Firelight emanated from the maze of tractor tires. I looked up at the apartment buildings.

Nothing.

I crept to the entrance of the maze then walked inside. Someone was playing Billy Holiday. I heard
laughter. I walked faster. I smiled. Where was it coming from?

The maze opened up to a center courtyard. Marines sat on pallets of food. They ate Twinkies,
caviar, olives stuffed with various things, SPAM, smoked oysters and corned beef hash. Someone
passed a bottle of Jack Daniels around. Some marines had beers. A small campfire burned in the
middle of the secret campsite and marines were actually making smores. The radio played, just loud
enough to be heard but not enough to get busted. Rome was burning and the boys were going home.
Billy Joe sat on a pallet of Tapatillo Hot Sauce. She took a sip from a bottle of Crown Royal
whiskey. She drew her knees to her chest and stared into the fire.

“Komban wa?,” I said, bowing.

“Nothing has been good about this evening, Gene,” Said Billy Joe. I climbed up next to her, on top
of all that hot sauce.

“I need to talk to you,” I said, “but I’m so tired I can’t even remember what it was anymore.” I took
a sip of her Crown Royal then closed my eyes.

“Why don’t you sleep for a couple of minutes,” said Billy Joe.

“Why don’t you sleep for a couple of minutes,” I said.

“I should,” said Billy Joe. She laid her head on my shoulder and closed her eyes.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “we’ll figure it all out.” I blinked, trying to stay awake.

“Gene?” said Billy Joe.

“nan’ desu ka?”

“Do you think we’re being punished?”

“For what we did or what we didn’t do?” I said.

Billy Joe sat up. She looked into my eyes. “Both,” she said.

“It’s normal to have regrets,” I said, “but I don’t feel responsible, not for everything. We just need
to get out of here.”

“When, Gene?”

“I’m working on it. You know how delicate it is.”

“Promise me,” said Billy Joe, “I’m serious, I can’t take much more of this. Promise me we’ll make
it back to Japan. I have to believe it again, cause’ if I don’t...”

I looked up at the apartment buildings. I looked at my fellow marines, the faces around the
campfire.

“Gene?”

“I promise,” I said.

Billy Joe rested her head on my shoulder again. My eyes kept closing. My head kept nodding. Billy Holiday kept singing.

“Sergeant, Wagner!”

I opened my eyes.

“Sargent, Wagner, get him!” said corporal Fahrad.

Gunny hurdled the campfire. He danced, shirtless in dog-tags, skivvies and boots. Corporal
Donovan grabbed ahold of gunny’s wrist.

“Come on now, Gunny,” he said. Gunny reversed the hold and twisted corporal Donovan’s wrist over, flipping him onto the ground.

“No no no, papasan, I don’t think so,” said Gunny. He stepped away, giggling. He continued to
dance. Someone turned off the radio. Gunny’s eyes locked on the marine who had done it.
“Radio!” said Gunny. “Turn on the fucking radio, marine!!!”

A round impacted near the fire. We all looked back up at the apartment buildings.

“Cocksucker,” said Gunny, “would you look at that?” He turned around and scrutinized us. He
smiled. “Verry well,” he said. Gunny sprinted towards the fence-line.

“Wait” I said. I ran after him.

“Gunny!”

He was fast, almost three times my senior. Maybe the weight of my clothing prevented me from
catching him. Maybe I was afraid to catch him. Gunny rolled into a trench, slipped under the fence
then vanished into the darkness between buildings.

“Oh no,” whispered corporal Fahrad. Billy Joe ran up behind him.

“Oh, this is just stupid,” whispered Billy Joe, “If he wants to get killed we should let him then.”

“He’s a marine,” whispered Fahrad, “That part I still remember.”

“You know nothing,” I said. I peered into the darkness where Gunny had vanished. I pulled the
9mm from the front of my trousers and tucked it into the small of my back.

“Gene, don’t,” said Billy Joe, “Fahrad, where are you going with that bullhorn?”

“Gunny told me to guard it with both my shriveled balls.”

“Gene!”

I low-crawled on my stomach, slipped under the fence, then headed after Gunny. My heart pounded
in my ears. I approached the dumpster I had taken cover behind earlier. I crouched down with my
back to the wall and breathed. I closed my shooting eye to develop some quick and dirty night
vision. I counted to ten.

I retraced our steps - from the dumpster - to the abandoned car - to a rock pile - through a broken
first floor window- down a hall - into the stairwell - 2nd floor - 3rd floor - 5th floor - I stopped with
my back against the side of the 5th floor doorframe.

I entered the hallway.

The doors were still kicked open. I don’t know why I expected them to be otherwise. A giggling
sound emanated from a room at the end of the hall. I cross-stepped towards the room, pistol at the
ready. Inside, Gunny knelt on the floor cradling a young man’s head in his lap. It rested against Gunny’s
forearm, in a headlock. A mardouf of *khat and a rifle lay beside the young man’s arm on the floor.
Gunny rocked him back and forth. (*The leaves of an Arabian shrub, which are chewed (or drunk as an infusion) as a stimulant.)

“Had to be a cocksucker,” said Gunny. He was sobbing, “Had to make me kill him, Gene, had to
fuck it all up. Couldn’t just let us have a couple of minutes to relax, fucking people, man.” He
punched the deceased Somali in the face.

“Easy, hard-charger,” I whispered. I placed my hand on Gunny’s shoulder, “easy.”
“Gunny?” said corporal Fahrad. Gunny looked at Fahrad’s bullhorn then smiled. Gunny’s face
hardened. He snatched the pistol from my hand then pointed it at Fahrad.

He fired.

A man with a rifle fell backwards in the hall behind Fahrad. Gunny had saved his life.

“Let’s get out of here, devil dogs,” said Gunny. He sniffled, “shirt, please.” He looked to Fahrad.

“Aye, Gunny,” said Fahrad. He removed his t-shirt and threw it to Gunny. Gunny smiled. Fahrad
looked down at the dead men. His expression faded. He looked back at Gunny.

“Let’s go,” I said. We crept down the hall, pistol, rifles, and bullhorn at the ready.

****

The Mean (Part 5) : by Stephen Richter

“Wagner?”

I opened my eyes.

“Hey, Action Jackson,” I said, “What are you doing here?”

“Wagner, reveille reveille let’s go,” said Gunny. Jackson vanished. Gunny peeked his head into my
tent. “Eight minutes there, sleeping beauty. That’s more than generous. I need you now, devil dog,
move!”

I followed him. The sky turned shades of purple.

A row of Humvees with roof-mounted 50 caliber machine guns idled in front of the command post.
Billy Joe stood beside one of them at parade rest. My stomach sank. She was standing at parade rest
beside the taxicab in Kinville that night. It was monsoon season.

“Wagner!” said Gunny, “Get to your vehicle, sergeant. Let’s go!” He climbed into the passenger’s
seat of Billy Joe’s Humvee. I walked over to mine. Corporal Fahrad was driving. He had a properly
fitting helmet, sunglasses and a shotgun beside him.

“Where’d you get all that?” I said.

“Gunny gave it to me,” said corporal Fahrad.

“Move out!” said Gunny. Vehicles roared to life. We sped through the gates and into the streets of
Mogadishu. I put my earpiece on.

Gunny led us down side streets and alleyways, keeping to the outskirts of the city. The dirt roads
kept us away from the danger of the Bermuda Triangle and the warring clans. We traveled off-road
most of the way to the airport. I looked at the city through our dust trail. The sun rose. Two C-130
aircraft banked over the Indian Ocean. A helicopter prepared to land up ahead. A group UN
peacekeepers opened the gates.

****

“Gene, what did you tell N.I.S.?” said Gunny.

We walked along a column of Trucks and Humvees idling on the flight deck of the Mogadishu
airport. The islamic call to prayer echoed over the city.

“Gunny, I would never betray you,” I said, “You know that.”

“That’s not an answer, devil dog,” said Gunny.

“I told them I had nothing to say.”

“Gene, do not fuck with me!” said Gunny in a whisper, “You know the truth, damnit. I swear I will
kill every last one of-”

“Aten-tion,” I said. Gunny and I stopped. We saluted Colonel Reap.

“Freddy, walk with me for a moment,” said the colonel. He led Gunny away by the shoulder. The
helocopter idled on the tarmak behind them. Billy Joe and Fahrad walked towards me.

“What’s going on?” said Fahrad.

“It doesn’t concern us,” I said. I looked into Billy Joe’s eyes. They questioned me. “We better just
focus on making it back to the compound, devil dogs.”

“Gene,” said Billy Joe, “he’s acting strange.”

“Just focus,” I said, “we’ve gotta keep-”

“I can’t.”

“You’re gonna have to,” I said.

“I can’t do this anymore!” said Billy Joe. I looked towards Gunny and the colonel.

“I’ll ride with you,” said Fahrad, “It’ll be better if Gunny has a translator in the vehicle anyway,”

“Thank you, Fahrad” I said.

“Mohammed,” said corporal Fahrad. Billy Joe and I looked at him.

“Thank you, Mohammed,” I said.

“Alright, ladies, let’s do this!” said Gunny. The colonel’s helocopter took off. “All bullshit aside,
hard-chargers, we now have only one mission in this life - to get everyone safely back to the depot.”

“Ooh-rah,” said Billy Joe.

“Let’s move out,” said Gunny.

Gunny marched to Billy Joe’s Vehicle then climbed into the passenger’s seat. I adjusted my goggles. Fahrad checked the safetey on his weapon. I patted him on the helmet. We walked towards the convoy.

“Be careful,” I said near Billy Joe’s ear.

We passed behind her Humvee. I grabbed her hand. She looked back. Her hand slipped through my fingertips. Billy Joe climbed into the driver’s seat of the
Hummer. I slapped the body of her vehicle twice then walked over to mine. Lcpl. Bermúdez sat
behind the wheel. Pfc. Thompson stood in the Gun turret.

“Stay on Gunny,” I said.

The column of trucks pulled out of the airport, heading into the city. It was nearly noon. Groups of
people gathered in front ruined buildings, chewing khat. Khat contains an alkaloid called cathinone,
an amphetamine-like stimulant that causes excitement, loss of appetite and euphoria - the perfect
high for a starving nation.

“We’re gonna have a whole city-full of gunnies on our hands,” said Lcpl. Bermúdez.

We rounded a corner. People’s cheeks bulged, exaggerated by the wads of khat leaves. Almost
everyone on the street had glazed over eyes. Bermúdez stepped on the gas.

“I doubt anyone sleeps in this country anymore,” I said. I watched the zombies blur by
outside,“Who would want to anyway?”

“I do,” said Bermúdez.

We passed a Roman Triumphal Arch with latin engravings. It must have been such a beautiful city
once. The road narrowed, funneling into a smaller street. Buildings walled each side of the convoy.

“Why are people so self-destructive?” I said.

“Human nature, Baby,” said Bermúdez.

We slowed. A crowd formed, growing all around us. A brick hit the body of our vehicle.

“Son of a bitch!” said Thompson. Urine dripped from his helmet and cammies. It poured into the
vehicle. “They’re dumping piss on us from the roof of the buildings!”

“We’re getting out of here!” said Gunny’s voice in my earpiece, “Make a hole!”

“Shit, follow them!” I said. Gunny’s vehicle lurched forward. They hit a woman then drove up onto
the sidewalk. The crowd roared. The Humvee ploughed its way to the intersection then peeled-out
up the next street. We followed.

We hit a pedestrian at the corner then fishtailed. Bermúdez corrected. We turned onto the same road
as Gunny. We raced up an adjacent street two blocks over, pushing to get in front of the convoy.
Glimpses of the trucks flashed between the intersections. The crowd on the street had doubled in
size around them. Shots rang out.

“Gunny!” I said. There was a bright light.

****

The Mean (Part 6) : by Stephen Richter

“Do not move,”

I opened my eyes.

My whole body hurt.

Billy Joe’s hand was clapped over my mouth. It was night. A fire burned somewhere. I smelled
smoke. We were in the city still. Billy Joe laid on top of me beneath a pile of trash. A spotlight
moved over our position. The wheels of an armoured vehicle passed by. The plastic trash bags that
were covering our heads blew off. Billy Joe’s heart pounded against my chest. Over her shoulder, I
saw a group of armed men cross the trash pile, right next to us. They followed the armoured vehicle
down the street. I exhaled.

“What happened?” I whispered. My vision blurred.

“Thompson’s dead,” whispered Billy Joe, “Bermúdez, lost some fingers. You were only scratched-
up and unconscious. You may have a concussion.”

“Where’s Gunny?” I said.

“Come on,” said Billy Joe. She slid off of my chest then low-crawled over the trash and rubble. I bit
down on my molars and followed her to the corner of a bullet-riddled building. Moonlight cast
shadows against the wall. Billy Joe low-crawled to the skeleton of a Fiat automobile. She returned

with an Alice pack, an M-16 A2, a radio, and a 9mm. pistol. I took the 9mm, put on an earpiece, then followed her into the bushes - over a ruined brick wall - along a fence - to a hillside with a view of a wrecking yard below. At the base of the hill sat a building with no roof. Moonlight shone
directly into the building’s interior.

The armored vehicle drove into the yard, followed by the same men who had just walked past Billy
Joe and I a few moments ago. Jeeps, Humvees, and civilian vehicles formed a semicircle. Their
headlights illuminated the building below us. Men with rifles took cover behind the vehicles.

Muzzle flashes erupted from the building.

I saw the people clearly now, crouching inside.

“Gunny,” I said. I held down my transmitter. Billy Joe flipped the rear sight over on her M-16 and
took aim.

“Glad you could make it, devil dog,” Gunny’s voice crackled in my earpiece, “We’re out of rounds
down here!”

“We could leave him, Gene,” said Billy Joe. She aimed at the vehicles then at the men taking cover
in the background. The side hatch of the armored vehicle opened. A man in uniform stepped out in
front of the headlights. He lifted a bullhorn to his lips.

“Wait,” I said.

The officer spoke into the bullhorn in Somali. Muhammed answered back in Somali. His bullhorn
squealed with feedback. The officer laughed.

“This I have to see with my own eyes,” said the officer in english.

He marched to the entrance of the building. His men followed him. Faces glowed with sweat
beneath the moon and headlights.

“I’m on the hill behind you,” I said. Gunny didn’t answer me. He left  his transmitter on.

“I guess you really are a marine then,” said the officer. His men filled the room, surrounding Gunny,
Bermúdez, and Mohammed.

“Prepare to shoot the officer,” I whispered. Billy Joe sat back onto the heel of her boot and exhaled.
Her muzzle moved in tiny figure eights.

“Watch out,” said Bermúdez, “careful with my hand, man, my fingers are missing!”

“Why do you have the face of my enemy, marine?” said the officer. He shined a flashlight on
Muhammed’s face, “just a younger face...” He stepped closer.

One of his men placed the muzzle of his rifle to the side of Bermúdez’s head. He pulled the trigger.
Bermúdez’s body fell to the floor.

Gunny drew his K-bar. He stepped to the assailant and sliced his stomach open. Entrails spilled.
“Cut, cut, stab!!!” said Gunny. He slit the Somali’s throat twice, then buried the knife under the
man’s chin, nailing him to the floor. He stood. Everyone was silent. They all took aim at Gunny
then started yelling.

“Wait!” said the officer, “Everyone stop. Take it easy.” He laughed and patted Gunny on the
shoulders, “You crazy Rambo-man!” He kept laughing and patting Gunny on the back.

“What?!” said Gunny. Muhammed looked away. “You want to kill me?!”

“Come,” said the officer, “this way.”

They marched Gunny and Muhammed out of the building at gunpoint.

“I have a shot,” said Billy Joe.

“Wait,” I said. I turned up the volume on my radio.

The officer barked orders to his men behind the vehicles. They opened the rear hatch of the armored
troop transport. They dragged a group of eight or ten prisoners out in front of the headlights. They
were all blindfolded. Gunny and Muhammed stood beside the officer.

“Rambo-man,” said the officer, “Show me how you did that with the knife. I want you to show me
again, on this man right here.” He pointed to the first blindfolded prisoner.

Gunny said nothing.

“Just this one man here,” said the officer, “Then I’ll try on that man.”

“It’s not happening,” said Gunny.

“Come, please,” said the officer, “show me. If you show, then I’ll let the rest of them go free.
Good?”

“No,” said Gunny.

“Gene...” said Billy Joe.

“Wait,” I said. I dug through the Alice pack and removed three M-1 fragmentation grenades. I
pulled  one of the pins.

“I’ll let you go,” said the officer, “Here, show me. I let your friend go too, Rambo-man. Yes! Just
show me.” He handed Gunny his knife back. Gunny looked at the officer. The officer nodded and
smiled.

Sweat stung my eyes.

“You don’t show me, I’ll kill them all, Rambo-man,” said the officer, “I was going to kill these men
tonight anyway. What is two more lives compared to the eight? Plus I’ll let you and your friend
leave this place alive.” Gunny and Muhammed looked at each other. “So what do you say, Rambo-
man?”

Gunny looked down at the K-bar in his hand.

“Ready...” I said.

Gunny looked back at the officer.

“I have the shot,” said Billy Joe.

“Kill him!!! Kill,” said some of the prisoners, “Let us live!”

I let the spoon of the grenade fall to the earth. I prepared to throw.

Gunny smiled. He giggled.

“No,” said Gunny.