The Human Body (11 page)

“You can talk to Captain Masiero about it. If you think you should.”

“No. You mustn't tell anyone, Doc.”

“All right.”

“Swear?”

“Sure, I swear.”

The silence lasts for three, maybe four minutes. An eternity in a situation like this, half asleep in a dark burrow.

“How old are you, Vincenzo?”

“Twenty-one, sir.”

“Isn't there someone you'd like to talk to? A girl maybe? It would make you feel better.”

“I don't have a girl.”

“Your mother, then.”

Mitrano clenches his fists. “Not now,” he says shortly. After a moment he adds: “I have a dog, you know, Doc?”

Egitto reacts with excessive enthusiasm: “Oh, yeah? What kind of dog?”

“A pinscher.”

“Are they the ones with the pug nose?”

“No, those are bulldogs. Pinschers have a long snout and pricked ears.”

The lieutenant would like to milk the subject to distract the soldier, but he doesn't know a thing about dogs. He vaguely recalls having wished for a puppy at one point in his life, or maybe not, maybe it was Marianna who wanted one and he wished it for her—in any case nothing ever came of it. Ernesto viewed animals kept in apartments as carriers of deadly germs, and for Nini another presence would have meant adding complexity to an already demanding network of domestic relations. Egitto wonders whether he was deprived of something. Even if it were so, that deprivation hasn't mattered to him for some time.

“Doc?”

“Yeah.”

“I'll come out of here. At some point I'll feel like leaving and I will.”

“Not now, though.”

“No, not now. If that's okay with you.”

“It's okay with me.”

“I'm sorry they made you come.”

“No problem. Don't worry about it.”

“I'm very sorry.”

Egitto gets up, using his arms. He brushes the dirt off his pants. He's done there. His head grazes the top of the bunker.

“Doc?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you stay here one more minute?”

“Sure.”

He sits back down, bumps the flashlight with his elbow. The beam of light ends up skimming the ground, revealing boot prints in the sand: each one partially erases the others, the fossil remains of a struggle. It's at that point that the soldier starts to cry, softly at first, then louder. “Fuck,” he says through clenched teeth. Then he repeats: “Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” as if the toxin he wants to release were lurking in that word.

Egitto doesn't try to stop him, but for some reason he chooses to turn his gaze to the chink of sky visible between the wall and the outer fortification—it's almost light. He listens to the boy's weeping; he breaks it down into its elements: the shuddering diaphragm, the nasal passages filling up with mucus, the breathing that accelerates to maximum intensity and then suddenly subsides. Mitrano is quiet again. Egitto hands him a tissue. “Feel better?”

“I think so.”

“We're not in any hurry, though.”

Actually, he's wiped out. He'd like to lie down on the ground right there and fall asleep. He closes his eyes for a moment, his head drops forward.

“Doc?”

A second is all it takes for him to find himself in a confused dream, in the middle of a firefight.

“Doc!”

“What is it?”

T
he sandstorm is over. The morning's clarity holds no trace of the confusion of the strike. The men are still shaken, however, exhausted and nervous as one by one they drift over to breakfast. Despite the general anxiety, activities take place as on any other day: at exactly eight o'clock trainers arrive at the garrison where the Afghan police forces are stationed and teach them how to search a van and rough up the suspects on board; a patrol ventures out to an unexplored settlement near Maydan Jabha; others engage in domestic chores that under different circumstances would be considered unmanly—doing the laundry, sweeping sand out of the tents, washing down the latrines with buckets of water.

But a new awareness makes them tremble imperceptibly. The veterans, who are familiar with the feeling from other missions, accept it phlegmatically and respond to the recruits seeking reassurance:
Where the hell did you think you were, at summer camp?
Yet for the first time they, too—tough, experienced soldiers though they are—see the impregnable fortification they erected for what it really is: a sandpit exposed to danger.

At eleven o'clock the Third Platoon assembles at the foot of the west tower for firing practice. The soldiers are waiting with their butts resting on the table where the gleaming artillery stands ready for use, or with their backs against the HESCO Bastion, in the shade. They're doing their best to look relaxed, even bored. In reality they're exhausted and a little depressed; no one has anything left to say, after they spent the rest of the night in the tent with the bare bulbs lit, some with their eyes closed trying to futilely catch a few hours' sleep, some commenting over and over again on the dynamics of the attack (which no one really understood)—all of them, however, with their ears pricked, on the alert for any new explosions. Marshal René had racked his brains to come up with an encouraging speech for his men, but the words wouldn't come to him and in the end all he said was, “We're at war, we knew it,” as if it had been their fault.

The rifle barrels glint in the sun and the two boxes of ammunition give more than one of the guys the urge to load his weapon, leave the base, and start shooting randomly at any Afghans who come within range. René knows that itch; he can feel it himself and it was predicted in the training courses (“a natural human reaction that must be kept under control”). Pecone somewhat awkwardly acts out how they all feel when he wields a rifle and points it toward the mountain and then at the sky, jerking around guardedly. “Come on out, you bastards! I'll pick you off one by one. Bam! Bam!”

“Put down the gun. Or you're more likely to knock off one of us,” René says. It's a joke, but no one laughs.

When Captain Masiero appears at the edge of the square, the soldiers get to their feet and stand up straight. The colonel has ordered that the captain be in charge of the firing ranges during the stay at the FOB, though generally each platoon manages the matter internally. Needless to say René is not at all happy with the change; he feels passed over. He has a congenital dislike for Masiero, whom he bluntly considers an asshole and an ass licker of the worst kind. As far as he can see, the feeling is mutual.

By the time the captain reaches the tower, the guys have formed a line. “Is the weapon in position?” Masiero asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we'll begin. Let's go.”

One at a time the soldiers clamber up the wooden ladder. René hands them a gold-plated ammo belt. Masiero stands behind each of them and repeats the same order in each one's ear: “You see the hill? There are three barrels. Aim at the red one in the center. Short bursts and push forward. The MG is a bitch who wants to turn cartwheels, remember that. You have to hold her down—got it? Down. Load up and fire when ready. Use the plugs, unless you want to burst your eardrums.”

René shoots first and is flawless. When hit, the barrel jumps and then falls back into place. The shots that miss kick up clouds of dust among the rocks and low scrub. Masiero, however, can't resist a jab: “Pretty good, Marshal. Try to relax when you shoot. You'll enjoy it more—you'll see.”

René imagines shoving his index and middle fingers up the man's nostrils and poking them out through his eyes.

He hates to admit it, but it's important to him that they look sharp in front of the captain. He hopes his men will make him look good, too.

It starts out promising. Most of the guys hit the target at least once. Camporesi, Biasco, Allais, and Rovere do extremely well; Cederna is complimented on the speed with which he loads and aims the weapon.

Corporal Ietri is the first to disappoint him a little. As usual, the ceiling of the watchtower is too low for him. He has to hunch over the machine gun. Maybe that's the reason—or maybe it's because the captain breathing down his neck makes him nervous—he holds the trigger down too long.

“Don't waste ammunition,” Masiero chides him.

When Ietri passes René, looking grim, the marshal pats him on the shoulder. Ietri is still young; he takes offense at everything.

Zampieri steps up last. René involuntarily looks at her breasts as she climbs the ladder, but has no explicit sexual thoughts toward her. He never has thought of her that way, maybe because she's sort of a friend or because he's seen her belch loudly after knocking back a can of beer, and certain things don't go with his idea of femininity. He treats her like all the others, like a guy. Zampieri is a good soldier, she drives the Lince with full control and requisite boldness, she's dogged and never backs away, even when Torsu puts porn movies on in the barracks. She stays and watches them, arms folded, until the end. From certain looks he's caught, René would bet she's had the hots for Cederna for a long while, though no one suspects it. They all think she's a lesbian.

Zampieri listens to the captain's instructions, nodding. She fits the plugs in her ears and stretches her neck. She fumbles with the cover of the feed assembly to insert the cartridges, but her hand can't quite reach it. Each time she tries to place the belt, the lid snaps back on her fingers. The gun stock slips out of the hollow of her shoulder. “I can't reach it,” she says, and tries again to no avail.

Masiero orders the men to bring a wooden footboard. Di Salvo finds one in the equipment shed and two of them hoist it up on the fortification. René arranges it on the platform and Zampieri climbs on it. “Better?” he asks warmly, to reassure her.

“Yeah.”

“It would be even better if you turned the cartridge belt right side up,” Masiero says sharply.

“Of course. Sorry, sir.”

Zampieri goes on fumbling with the lid, but the machine gun keeps slipping and pitching forward, a recalcitrant animal. René is impatient. From below, the guys are watching their platoon mate with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity and glancing at René, as if asking him to intervene. The captain, leaning his forearms on the windowsill of the tower, wears a sarcastic grin. Zampieri finally manages to hold the weapon with her elbow and close the feed assembly. “Done.”

“It's about time. Charge!”

The girl tries to pull the charger handle back, but it's too stiff. René himself felt a little resistance earlier. Now he's sure Zampieri won't make it. In fact, she tries again, but can't pull it all the way back.

“Maybe it's jammed,” she says softly.

Masiero elbows her aside. “It's not jammed, damn it! It's you who's inept!” He loads the weapon with a violent jerk. “Now fire!”

Zampieri isn't trembling, but her cheeks are redder than usual, her neck rigid. René, too, can feel the blood pulsing everywhere, in his ears, hands. Zampieri hastily takes aim, the MG recoils, and the round winds up about twenty yards above the barrel. The captain swears, then stands behind the girl and shoves her forward with his pelvis, toward the butt of the machine gun. If they weren't appalled, the guys would certainly venture a few salacious remarks.

“Fire, damn it!”

The rounds land even farther away from the target. Zampieri gives a little cry: her breast is painfully pressed between the weapon and Masiero's sternum. He yanks her around and starts shaking her. “And you're supposed to be a gunner? Huh? A gunner? We're in Gulistan, goddamn it! Here they'll slaughter us thanks to people like you!”

The guys in the platoon have bowed their heads a little. René, on the contrary, is determined to stare the captain down till the end.

“What if you'd been on guard duty last night? You'd have gotten us all killed. This is a war and you don't know how to use a machine gun!”

Zampieri is rigid. She looks like she's surely going to break at any moment in Masiero's grip. The capillaries in her eyes have exploded into red.

“Captain,” René speaks up.

Masiero turns around, furious. “What?”

“Maybe you're being too intimidating.”

René remains at attention, expressionless, as Masiero slowly walks over to him, breathing through his mouth.

“I'm
intimidating
her?”

“The men have never used that weapon before today.”

“Oh, darn. I'm sorry about that. Maybe I should have given the young lady a water pistol. Has she fired that yet?”

René remains silent. His expression doesn't change at all, nor does that of his men, speechless at the foot of the tower. They've been trained to be strictly impassive, to keep their worst thoughts well hidden behind their eyes, and Masiero was one of their instructors. The captain moves even closer to René, stops a few inches from his face. He looks at the stripes pinned to his jacket, as if he weren't perfectly familiar with them. “Marshal, tell me. Have you ever been involved in a firefight? A real firefight, I mean.”

“No.”

“Answer the way you respond to a superior, Marshal.”

“No, sir.”

“I see. Too bad. Oh, but don't let it worry you. This mission you'll have your turn. And you know why? Because over here they shoot. Here they hate us and want to kill us all. Did you hear those dazzling fireworks last night? Well, be aware that it wasn't a party and that they won't stop until they've razed this base to the ground and wiped out all the infidel dogs like you and me. You know what the Taliban do to prisoners, Marshal?”

“No, sir.”

“They crucify them. Like Jesus Christ. Can you imagine a rusty nail planted in the nerves of your hand? You men down there, can you imagine that? Mademoiselle, can you imagine it? You starve to death, or bleed out. It can take up to three days. The fuckers moisten your lips to make you last longer. And you know what else they do, Marshal?”

“No.”

“No,
what
?”

“No, sir.”

“They bludgeon you with a club, for hours and hours, until you can no longer tell whether you still have clothes on. But they're careful not to kill you. Because afterward they lock you in a cell full of insects and let them finish the job. Or else . . . ask me, Or else what?, Marshal.”

“Or else what, sir?”

“Or else they hang you upside down until all the blood flows into your brain and it bursts.
Pow!
Now do you understand why it's useful to know how to load an MG?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And do you think the young lady with the blond curls back here has also understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because it would be a shame if those beautiful golden locks were to get smeared with blood, don't you think?”

“Yes, sir.”

Masiero pauses. The silence is so absolute that René can hear his own breathing. “Well, then,” the captain says finally, “we're done here.”

Masiero climbs down the ladder. The soldiers stand at attention as he parades by them, not deigning to look at them. Up on the fortification, René smiles at Zampieri as if to tell her not to take it so hard—nothing serious, really.

 • • • 

T
wilight is Lieutenant Egitto's favorite time of day. The air suddenly turns cooler, but it's not yet biting cold like at night. In the evening light, the FOB seems to shrink, and colors other than the usual ocher and green can finally be seen around the rock-strewn square as the soldiers go about in colorful robes and flip-flops. For a couple of hours, the mood is one of peaceful everyday life. Even the lieutenant's hardened apathy cracks and he experiences unexpected bursts of good humor.

Adjacent to the showers is a tent with a heater, used as a locker room, but Egitto doesn't like to undress in front of his colleagues—he'd rather do it inside the stall, even if the space is tight. He's perfected a way to take off his clothes and put them back on while balancing first on one leg and then the other, so that his feet don't make contact with the filthy floor without his flip-flops. Survival at the FOB requires skill in countless little things like that.

The water is lukewarm, not really hot, but after about ten seconds it feels pleasant enough. Someone left his body wash on the shelf. Egitto unscrews the cap and sniffs the contents: it has a strong aroma, pungent and inescapably male, the kind that often lingers in the locker rooms at the barracks. The guys like to swathe themselves in dense clouds of fragrance. They spray their chests, even their genitals, with powerful deodorants, which then stagnate in the muggy air—another difference between him and them: the lieutenant washes with alkaline soap from the dispensary.

He pours the liquid into his hand, rubs it onto his chest and shoulders. The scrubbing opens small, dark wounds at the spots that are in the worst shape, which then heal immediately. The lieutenant directs the stream of water to the shreds of dead skin scattered on the ground until they're sucked down the drain. Maybe the owner of the body wash is waiting outside the door. When Egitto passes him he'll recognize the scent of his shower gel and God only knows how he might react. The guys are unpredictable. In any case he'd be right: you don't steal a buddy's soap—it's one of those crimes that in an outpost in the middle of the desert takes on gigantic import. He pours out some more, spreads it over his groin and on his legs. Then he stands under the water with his eyes closed, until someone knocks on the door. He's used up his three minutes in the shower.