Mercutio


“This is she! This is she!”
“Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace! Thou talk'st of nothing.”



Part II

† Mercutio †


     “What’s the matter with you, Marine?!” said the man from Naval Investigative Service. Dust blew all around us. He snatched the goggles from my face. My left side went numb. I opened my mouth to speak but no sound came out. There was only a sucking noise.
 

I fell to the street, just 500 meters from the gate of our compound at the edge of Mogadishu city. I watched the sky roll by while men carried me. I heard the rotors of a CH-53 Sea Stallion. Someone placed an oxygen mask over my face. Gunny had finally done it, he’d killed me.

****

     “Wake up Wagner!”


     I opened my eyes. Gunnery sergeant Higgle thrust his head through the side window of the Humvee. Corporal Fahrad stood behind him at parade rest.


     “And just like that you’re a dead man,” said Gunny Higgle. He opened my door. “Come on, sergeant. Lock it on a bit for the corporal here. Don’t teach him how to get killed on his first day in this god-forsaken place.”


     “He’s from here,” I said. I climbed from the vehicle then elevated the muzzle of my M-16.

     

     “Well twist my balls in a bow,” Gunny said, “Ain’t that kind of a conflict of interest there, corporal?”


     “I don’t understand,” said Corporal Fahrad.


     “He’s the interpreter,” I said.


     “Fair enough,” said Gunny, “Not trying to offend, just situation awareness, devil dogs. Gotta keep her tight before the money-shot. Follow me, marines, you’re late.”


     We followed Gunny Higgle. It was 05:40, March 28th, 1994. We entered a tent full of officers and enlisted men. Thousands of Marines from the 15th MEU (Part of the Marine Air Ground Task Force) had hit the beaches back in December. Gunny and I’d been here since August. We’d lost 18 men and two Blackhawk helicopters in October. A thirty thousand-man media circus called Operation Restore Hope didn’t do much to help matters either. President Clinton ordered all U.S. Forces to withdraw from Somalia by the 31st of the month. Everyone was going home. Everyone except for us.

     “Alright, listen up!” said a Major in desert cammies. “Eyeballs!” The tent fell silent. “Let’s talk security for a moment,” said the major, “Since General Aidiz continues to defy the United Nations, even though we are pulling out, we will still utilize all necessary means-”


     “Ooh-rah!” said a sergeant in sunglasses.


     “Easy, hard-charger,” said the major, “all necessary means to ensure the protection of the relief efforts. That includes this compound.” His eyes searched the faces of the men standing in the tent. “Gunnery sergeant Higgle?”


     “Sir,” said Gunny.


     “I want security det. to commence building to building sweeps and disarm the local population around the perimeter of the-”


     “Country club?” someone said in the crowd.


     “Supply Det,” the major said. “And do not take this lightly, devil dogs. Just because you’re short and ready to go home does not necessarily mean you will make it back. Plenty of marines in this room have seen what kind of price there is to pay for those who fuck around. We have snipers in the buildings behind 7th motor’s fence-line again. I want that shit suppressed before the final convoys arrive.”


     “Aye sir,” said Gunny.


     We all looked to one another.


     “That’s right, gentlemen,” said the major, “We’re meeting our final relief flights at the airport for one last tango in Paris. We’ll run six 5-ton trucks loaded with supplies then a Humvee with a 50cal. on the roof in escort. Another six trucks then a Hummer, and so on. The convoy will move past the Bermuda Triangle and down the green line. That means crossing the territories of two warlords, four militant sub-factions, and the generally pissed-off local population. The route ends right here at Supply depot."


     “Rules of engagement sir?” said a captain in the front.


     “We come in peace, if you fuck us we will kill you,” said the major, “That’s pretty much the policy for the moment. But remember, gentlemen, you will still be under the all seeing eye of the Associated press, CNN, the BBC, and fucking Telemundo. The media is everywhere, Marines. Do not make me have to grab my ankles in front of the old man because you did something stupid on TV. Cause if I’m grabbing mine then you’re definitely grabbing yours, you understand me?”

     “Yes sir!” we all said.


     “Situation awareness, gentlemen,” said the major, “This general Aidiz is a real piece of shit.”


Corporal Fahrad swallowed.


     “Anticipate and stay focused on the task at hand. If you get killed on my watch, marines, you will be in a world of shit.” The major stood at attention.


     “Atten-tion!” Said a first sergeant. We all complied. He saluted the Major.


     “Carry out the plan of the day,” said the major. He saluted and left. We filed out of the tent behind him, putting our helmets back on.


     “You need a weapon,” I told corporal Fahrad.


     “Slow down, devil dog,” said Gunny. “He doesn’t need anything yet. Get the troops behind the C.P. I’m gonna take a dump in the new porta-johns then meet you in five.” He walked off.


     “Is he always like that?” said corporal Fahrad.


     “You’re the only marine in the entire corps who speaks Somali?”


     “Yes, It’s just... I’m, only a reservist.”


     “and?”


     “I do this stuff on the weekends, man.” Fahrad’s chest heaved. He looked around our perimeter. “I was in my engineering class and two marines showed up and told me to follow them. No one told me I was going to be...” Fahrad’s eyes glistened.


     “Pull it together, devil dog,” I said, “Gunny coming.”


     Maybe I should have stayed in school after all, I thought to myself. I envied corporal Fahrad for a moment, then I didn’t envy him at all. “Could be worse,” I said. I chambered a round and engaged the safety on my M-16 with my thumb.


     “Okay, I’ve got us a driver,” said Gunny.


     “Driver?”


     “Got a problem with that, Sergeant Wagner? I want you with me.” 

     “Aye, Gunny.”


     Gunny reached into a duffle bag. “Here you go, Somalia. I brought you a weapon.” He 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, beyond 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 down. 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 of the building. I let body fall forward, committing to the drop, headfirst. Rope trailed out behind me. I kept my M-16 trained on the ground with my left hand. I brought my right to my chest to initiate friction. We ran down the wall in an Austrailian rappel. I hit the pavement and took cover behind a barrel of trash, in the alleyway between the two buildings.


     Gunny 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 a 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 Somalia to step out of the vehicle please.” Gunny took aim at the door in front of him. We all did the same.

     “We come in peace-”

 

     Shots fired.


     We kicked in the doors. I shot the 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. 


     He knew.


     I hadn’t told N.I.S. anything about Okinawa, but Gunny must have known they’d questioned me. That’s why Billy Joe was driving today. That’s why he was keeping me so close. And that’s when I knew none of us would make it back to Japan.

Tacos (a memoir)

It was a beautiful morning. The haze hadn’t risen to the northernmost part of Mexico City yet plus everything was wet, like sand before the corridas. The grounds of Reclusorio Norte had been hosed down before dawn then scrubbed with brooms and Fabuloso. You could smell it in the morning air, even from the second floor tier of dormitorio cuatro. They called it the United Nations building.

I stood in my bathrobe, in the passageway outside the open door of my celda. I suppose one could call it a cell. It had bars and a door that locked. But the bars had been long since covered with sheet rock. Carpenters had framed in a kitchen counter, cabinets, and a private baño. There was a refrigerator, a large screen TV, a DVD player, and two bunks made of concrete with Sealy posturepedic mattresses.

Columbus, the Nigerian, and the new french guy from the Ivory Coast were already playing tennis on the courts downstairs. I looked over at the the gates to see who was in the caseta (guardshack). It was Telles. He’s the custodio responsible for keeping out the riffraff. The U.N. building housed very important criminals, like the heads of the Mexican narco cartels, as well as those who had the money and inclination to pay for that type of lifestyle.

The rent on my cell was 10,000 pesos a month (about a thousand U.S.) paid out nightly to the custodios. Not an easy feat to make that kind of rent while you’re in prison. But they gave me ten years, so I had to think a little more long term. My lawyer was having dinner with an important judge though. They all tell you that. So let’s just say I wasn’t holding my breath anymore. I was trying to survive and to create a somewhat safe space to write, and most importantly, a space to lay low.

That was the problem.

Since I moved my fellow marine, Eddie, into my cell and brought him to the U.N., the entire balance of power in the prison had shifted in the most dangerous ways. Don Servando was the head of the Familia Michoacana cartel. He was one of my benefactors and my neighbor three doors down. When I was in a pinch, he helped me open a restaurant, instead of letting me get deeper into trouble just so I could cover the high rent at the U.N.

“Everyone has to eat,” he’d told me.

I watched Carlitos give Telles twenty pesos at the gate. He entered the courtyard unmolested. Carlos was twenty-three. He’d been in the reclusorio since he was sixteen. He used to have a place in the U.N. until some cop who killed a journalist paid to have Carlos moved to another building, to a 15 men per room kind of building. That sort of thing happens everyday. Carlos owned half of our restaurant “Hungry Jose’s.” Today we were closed. He was coming over early so we could watch the world cup at my place on the big screen. I’d stepped outside to meet him because Eddie and six or seven of Don Servando’s henchmen were still passed out all over the floor from the party last night.

Don Serbando forbids his men to use dope. But since Eddie showed up and started throwing so much money around, all of Serbando’s main soldiers had lost all their discipline. Most of them were former cops and hitmen. Now they were becoming fat, lazy, crackheads. And Don Servando blamed me for their corruption, since I was the one who had brought Eddie to the U.N. What’s worse, they lied to him and said they weren’t partying with Eddie. He knew they were all crashed out on my floor. He’d already peeked in on them before the sun came up. The suspense was nauseating. It was really effecting my writing.

“Don Servando, buenos dias!” I said, trying to at least make everyone aware that he was approaching.

He gave me a hard glance in passing. He was pissed. He was getting his own coffee this morning. Plus I’d closed Hungry Jose’s for the game so he’d have to venture even further. As soon as he passed, I woke everybody up. They vanished before he returned. I was so stressed out I forgot to tell Charlie about the tacos when he met me at the top of the stairs. Some kid had stopped by the gate in a panic last night and asked me to tell Charlie to give him his tacos. Whatever that meant.

A half hour later all was forgotten and Charlie and I were watching the world cup.

The kid from last night walked through my front door. He had a busted lip and two black eyes. All of his hair and eyebrows had been crudely shaved off. He marched over to corner of the room, picked up a pair of soccer cleats and split Charlie’s head open with them.  They went at it, rolling all over the floor. I tried to break them apart. We all kind of fell out of the cell into the hallway. A crowd gathered. I pulled the guy off Charlie. Running and bleeding, Charlie escaped down the stairs. The kid was, after all, affiliated with the cartel. Then everyone looked at me. I let the kid go and walked back to my cell.

The crowd shouted all kinds of threats. The gathering of vigilantes grew in number outside my door. No one entered the room though. They knew about the marine thing. They’d seen Eddie and I in action before. No one wanted to charge in first.

“Lynch him!”
“Kill that son-of-his-whore mother!”
“Show him what happens to those who pass the dick in México!”

They pumped each other up outside my door, gathering their resolve to cross that point of no return.  I sat on the edge of my bunk. People died everyday in the reclusorios of México, yet to kill a gavacho… or was I a Mexican? It seemed like no one in the corridor desired to be the first to attack.

Máguila grinned with a mouthful of metal and missing teeth. He stood in the doorway and drew Excalibur from his pantsʼ leg. It was a makeshift sword he always carried. He used to brag about he killed people with just one good stab. Last new year’s eve we talked about Musashi and bushido. I’d thought we’d become at least a little closer than this bullshit. He swung the crude blade above the heads of the vigilantes. Bloodstains peppered the duct-tape wrapped around its handle. The lynch-mob cheered.

“Thatʼs the way, Máguila, show him!”

“Who has more dick than that, boys?!”

I rose from the edge of my bunk. I tried to maintain control over my heart rate and breathing. I held a steak knife in one hand a pencil in the other. I crouched into a fighting stance.

“Weʼre going to kill you, cabrón!” said someone in the crowd.

“I know,” I said, “I also know that I’ll kill the first two or three of you who attack me,
before I’m dead. I swear to you.”

Eyes in the crowd searched for reassurance. No one stepped inside the cell. I remembered then that tacos can also mean soccer cleats. Tacos - a small word with more than one meaning. Charlie had borrowed them from the kid, the kid had borrowed them from someone else, and now I was about to die for them. It’s always the smallest things that end up killing you in this world. I didn’t want to die over tacos but I had no choice now.

“Who wants to die with me today?”

Máguila smiled.

“Who’s ready to come with me?”

Máguila stepped into the room.