War_Porn


.

savage and"War Porn is dire, ,
. .

g fever-dream
.

t slmmennbrillian , a

and trueI that's as pureof a nove

war as
.

'ItS vision of the longIn
d"anything I've rea .

-Ben Fountain, author of
H !ftime WalkBilly Lynn s Long a



US $26.00/CAN $32.00FICTION

"War porn," n. Videos, images, and narratives

featuring graphic violence, often brought back
from combat zones, viewed voyeuristically or for

emotional gratification. Such media are often

presented and circulated without context, though

they may be used as evidence of war crimes.

ar porn is also, in Roy Scranton's

searing debut novel, a metaphor for

the experience of war in the age of

the War on Terror, the fracturing and fragmentation
of perspective, time, and self that afflicts soldiers

and civilians alike, and the global networks and

face-to-face moments that suture our fragmented
lives together. In War Porn three lives fit inside

one another like nesting dolls: a restless young
woman at an end-of-summer barbecue in Utah; an

American soldier in occupied Baghdad; and Qasim

al-Zabadi, an Iraqi math professor who faces the

US invasion of his country with fear, denial, and

perseverance. As War Porn cuts from America to

Iraq and back again, as home and hell merge, we

come to see America through the eyes of the occu­

pied, even as we see Qasim become a prisoner of

the occupation. Through the looking glass of War

Porn, Scranton reveals the fragile humanity that

connects Americans and Iraqis, torturers and the

tortured, victors and their victims.



/

,



 



z
--
--Co
...



 



·o,n ot\) 0 )
J '1 (0 -

ROY SCRANION

p
� it:> \
.�'lL1�
W� 1

"O,�

Indiana University
South Bend

Schurz Library

s

ISOHOI



Copyright © 2016 by Roy Scranton

"Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction" from THE COLLECTED POEMS OF WALLACE

STEVENS by Wallace Stevens, copyright © 1954 by Wallace Stevens and copyright renewed
1982 by Holly Stevens. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf

Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.

"The Dragon" by Abd al-Wahhab al-Bayyati, translated by Farouk Abdel Wahab, Najar
Rahman, and Carolina Hotchandani, from IRAQI POETRY TODAY © 2003 by Modern

Poetry in Translation. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.

"Panegyric for Abu l-Fadl Muhammed Ibn al-Amid" and "Panegyric to Kafur on joining his
court" by Abu at-Tayyib Ahmad ibn al-Husayn al-Mutanabbi al-Kindi, translated by A.].
Arberry, from POEMS OF AL-MUTANABBI © 1967 by Cambridge University Press.

Reprinted with the permission of Cambridge University Press. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments,

organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used

ficticiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author's

imagination and are not to be construed as real.

Published by
Soho Press, Inc.

853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Scranton, Roy, 1976-
War porn / Roy Scranton.
ISBN 978-1-61695-715-5

eISBN 978-1-61695-716-2

1. Iraq War, 2003-20 II-Psychological aspects-Fiction.
2. Combat-Psychological aspects-Fiction. I. Title

PS3619.C743 W37 2016 813'.6-dc23 2016011288

Interior design by Janine Agro, Soho Press, Inc.

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2



Dedicated to the interpreters



 



Soldier, there is a war between the mind

And sky, between thought and day and night.
-WALLACE STEVENS



 



babylon



�ooa
aami�

Dom�

Draw

The 1
tanee

�lel
Even



torture TV rage the

rage forth, bold hero & man of war, you have no

flood documenting her lament, no legal recourse in re:
administrative decisions on the matter of

rockets red not singly but in global consensus: vanquished
by my spear, the highest levels of the Department
beginning a world with no tomorrow

such is the word of man. We lurch to a halt. "Humvees!"

Abu says-electroshocks about a half mile off, down the
end of a wide, empty

bombs bursting dawn country victorious unless

Draw your wound. Defend the gun.

The will to prevail. God's blessings upon you-the impor­
tance Arabs place on honor cherished and protected above
all else, sometimes circumventing even the need for survival.
Even the need. Even constructive criticism can threaten or



4 ROY SCRANTON

damage an Arab's honor; it will be taken as a personal insult.
The Arab must, above all, protect himself and his honor

from critical onslaught. Therefore, when an American is con­
fronted with criticism, you require a yes or no, such as

FIGHT EVIL
nave I

peace merciful, most compassionate, the government c��n

agreed: made of values to kill God in remote deserts
tru�ti

FULL STORY tho�e

Allah does not desire soldiers committed to patrol the day of oftnf
calling out, sniper police under no savior for you from Allah f�e1d
devised a way to get them masters in Washington for the least llr, d
of those who arrested them in the first place: suicide bomb- com�
ings killed hundreds, GWOT authors of the latest detainee tomo
to be released for fear that any and all the world sees America

themselves aoe�

the heart of the TV and When

sizable Kurdish, Assyrian, Palestine. The Kurds farm in the
north and these groups' inability to reconcile their differ­
ences prevent them from forming a unified front against
the Arab population forced

blood

yet he believes in the possibility of goodness
and the triumph of ideas, believes in the father of democ­
racy and the leader of nations, like he believes in the natural

pairing of compassion and discipline, love and



•' iji0' ofgooQn�1
, acher of demar·

�
. in �e natur�
d

WAR PORN ,

images become

electroshocks

which will, with the muj behind us and trigger happy

have come today therefore pointless to question the politi­
cal shrapnel not only nails and patients believing that

assailants, victims of lED attacks can exsanguinate not

trusting the next level could even
those

have therefore learned during the first few months
of the war, it took not knowing who or what is past in what
feels like her lament, no recourse, how things are done: luck­

ily, the Red Cross jumped right to some real-time global
consensus-"That was not the sound of a world with no

tomorrow."

does there not pass over man a space of time

when his life is a blank?



 



strange hells
(columbus day, 2004)



 



Lifting the flowers, letting them drop. Asters and chry­
santhemums, zinnias and goldenrod-extravagant for a
barbecue maybe, but fuck it. A little reckless beauty my
mark on rockface. Remember you're the one who got your
shit together and you're the one who changes tires. You're
the one who rode out here with him and now you're the one
who's waiting. I was all-state soccer once, MVP. I can read
stress lines in bones dug from mass graves. We know what
comes next: we fly home, I teach and go back to school, I
have his baby. That's the plan. But here I am killing time
and going a little crazy. Why are we still here?

Dahlia fussed with the flowers, their separate stems,

the whole bouquet. That friend Wendy was bringing­
Aaron-had just come back, she'd said. What would it feel

like, do something like that? Break a world in two and walk

away?
Would it change you?
Had it?

She looked at Matt out through the window, sitting there
in his lawn chair drinking beer, his face in the fading sun
so kind, his wounded eyes, his belly. He doesn't see her, lost
in thought like he is so often. And just who is this man of
mine? Who's this guy desiccating in the scrub grass, who



10 ROY SCRANTON

pI
let,
ask

brought me to the desert like a Mormon wife, who's come
this far for what, who's doing what, and what is he, this
man, what kind of man?

The questions a cool black stone. She washed her hands,
took the parsley from the colander to the counter and daubed
it dry, then picked up her Wiisthof santoku and cut. ortl

Kerosene's sweet tang, barbecue shimmering, watching
the sun sinking slow behind the edge of the redrock. Matt
checked his watch, wondering how long till he could jus­
tifiably open another beer, then heard the screen creak and
turned, watching her cross the yard: summer skirt brush­

ing her legs, the lean muscles in her arms tense with the
weight of the food, the firm curve of her breasts under
her blue tank top. Here was beauty-a form compact and
efficient, round at the edges yet taut, small and smooth
and sleek. Then he looked in her face, her pale lips frown­
ing slightly, the tiny wrinkling at the corners of her eyes,
her clenched jaw.

The scherzo came to an end. Toom, toom, the march

began and Dahlia squinted at the boombox: "What the
heck you listening to?"

"Chopin," Matt said.
"Oh Lord," she said, putting the tray of steaks, salmon,

and tofu on the picnic table, stepping to him and laying her
palm on his chest. "You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said. "Just thinking."
"Well, knock it off. We're supposed to be having a party."
He shambled up and jabbed at the machine, cutting the

DOll

lo�t

fron

Ilttl

ana

aon

ur
on

tne
Dot
oil
can

rd
lea



WAR PORN 11

piano into silence. "Here," he said, handing her the wal­
let, "pick something." As she flipped through the discs, he
asked: "Who called earlier?"

"Wendy," she said. "What about Jolie Holland?"
"What'd she want?"

"She wanted to know if she could bring a friend. Catalpa
or the new one?"

"We don't have enough steaks."
"He can have my steak. I'll have the salmon we just

bought."
Matt grunted. "So what is he, another one of Wendy's

lost boys?"
"A friend of hers from college. Aaron. He just got home

from Iraq."
"No way. Was he in the shit?"

She put in a new CD. "Don't be all ... She said he's a

little sensitive."

"Maybe he's got pictures," Matt said, snapping his fingers
and pointing them, thumbs up, across his hips.

'That's what I'm talking about. Seriously. And if you're
done moping, help me bring out food."

He swallowed the last of his beer and the music started

up with a jingle and Rachel yelled "Hey" from the gate all at
once, causing Dahlia to spin and wave and bang her ear on
the bottom of Matt's bottle with a plonk and "Yowch!" The
bottle whacked back into Matt's teeth, sending him stum­

bling and gripping his mouth. Dahlia turned as Rachel
came through crying "Oh" and a bright-eyed black Lab in a
red kerchief bounded into the yard, followed by Mel in her
leather jacket with Tupperware in both hands and Johnnie



1) ROY SCRANTON

Walker dangling from her fingers. "You kids okay?" she
asked, bumping the gate closed with her hip, taking in the
scene: Dahlia holding the side of her head, Matt covering
his mouth, Rachel sweeping toward them blinking, hair in
her eyes, with Xena cavorting along, whirling and barking,
thinking it's all some game.

Then Dahlia laughed and they all started talking at once,
Matt petting Xena, Mel cramming the whiskey in the ice
chest and pulling out two Fat Tires for her and Rache, who
was already complimenting them on their music, she just
loved this album, it had such a real sound, you know, like

her voice was just uncanny, wasn't it great and did they
know it was all just four-tracks?

Matt said, "Gotta check the grill," and Mel followed, tell­

ing him all about their fridge crapping out. She explained
to him the difference between the compressor, the com­

pressor relay, and the overload, and how she hoped it would

just turn out to be a bad circuit, but if they had an airflow

problem around the condenser it'd mean tearing the whole

goddamned thing apart and replacing it. Matt nodded and
rubbed his sore lip. Condenser? Compressor? He asked
about their plans for Halloween.

"We're gonna spend the weekend with some friends
down in Flag," Mel said, "one of them big pagan-hippie
things for Samhain. Like a naked dancing bonfire kind of
deal. Rache loves that shit."

"You sacrifice a goat?"
"Naw, man, vegetarian. Sacrifice a huge block of tofu."
"Gotcha. Seitan worship."
''Audible groan. You guys got plans?"

ou

II�e

fa

tu

em

�UID�

�I

nOI

JU�



� a�yr' she
ak\ft� 1ft the

. h.tt coverln�
i hlng, h�r 10

.

a and Darhln�

WAR PORN n

"You know, what if we just stayed home and handed
out candy this year? Somebody has to, right? I feel too
old to dress up, anyway. They say twenty-seven's the new

thirty-five.
"

"Don't stop believin', bro. I think you'd make a great
Bush. Hey Rache," Mel shouted over to the picnic table,
"wouldn't Matt make a great Bush?"

''A what?" Rachel peered back, confused.
"Bush. Wouldn't he make a great Bush?"

"You mean like a vagina?"
"No, like the president and shit."
"He's very photogenic."
Mel shot her a thumbs-up and turned back to Matt:

"S � Ph
. "

ee. otogemc.
"So Bush, huh? Not Kerry? You switch teams?"
''Aw, man, fuck that shit. Don't even get me started.

Fucking Democans and Republicrats. This is what democ­

racy looks like, huh? At least Kerry feels bad about his war
crimes. Me and Rache, we've been talking, man, and if
Bush wins again, we're moving to Canada. I don't want to
be hanging around when they start lining people up for the

camps."
"I'm already worried the school board wants to fire me,"

Rachel said, coming over to the grill as Dahlia went inside.
"What?" Matt asked.

"It's the fucking Mormons," Mel said. "Fucking
homophobic, misogynist bigots."

"There's concern about my lifestyle, but they can't fire me

just for that. So I have to be careful."
"I'm saying sue their Mormon asses for discrimination."



-

(llfe!

Dahlia switched on lights room to room, switched them t�hln
off as she left, checking to make sure everything was at least
superficially neat, no condoms in the bathroom wastebasket, ��G,
no dirty clothes on the floor. She stepped into the bedroom
and went to the dresser, opened the small cherrywood box on �aiGl

top, took the weed and pipe, slipped them into the pocket
of her skirt. She turned back and looked across the smooth

waves of the comforter over their bed, gray in the gray light, Gown
thinking ofwaking tangled with him this morning, or yester- met,
day morning, or any morning, the comfort of his body in the ae�r�
sun, his pleasant familiar funk, all the nights that had become �a�el
mornings, could she really let that go? 'T

Sure, he's good, and soft, and comfortable. We're all comfy
where things are, another summer gone, the wars drag on,
tomorrow Columbus Day and nothing changes. He still rroje
thinks that project's-what? The future? And so listless lately, liB
like he's thinking ... Wendy? Hardly. He could but he won't. lau�
Anyone could do anything, but he's too ... or ifhe did, she'd �tart
... Imagine: him reaching, drunk-he'd have to be drunk- M
her snide laugh, his wounded pride, and would I be hurt? By eaCh
him doing it? Or by her turning him down? etan

14 ROY SCRANTON

"I just have to be careful. I can't say or do anything in
class that could be construed as promoting, you know?
So I can't even really talk about Mel. There've been some
remarks and the administration's nervous."

''I'm telling you, man, fucking Canada," Mel said.
"Or at least somewheres away from all these goddamned
fundamentalists.

"



a' Met ���,
e goddarnn��

e war� ar� O�,
I

anUe5, He l�

o JiSde5�latel!i
v d but he WOOl.

, or J{he did, sne'J

I'e co be drunk­

uld I be hurt? Br

WAR PORN IS

You're terrible. Don't be terrible. He's a good guy. Not

strong, but a good guy. Except for the fact you're drifting in
a spin from today to tomorrow, and then what?

She'd have to turn the lights on soon. Something would
happen. They'd be here soon and it was important to have
a nice party. She put the flowers on a tray to take outside.

"I felt my ears burning," Dahlia said. "Y'all must've been

talking about me."
"Naw, shit. We're talking about moving to Canada," Mel

said.

"That's funny. We've been talking about moving too,"
said Dahlia.

"We've been thinking about it," Matt said.
'There's no real work for me here." Dahlia set the tray

down and arranged the flowers and tabbouleh on the pic­
nic table, then took the vegetables over to Matt.

"

Master's

degree in anthropology and I'm pouring coffee at Redrock

Bagels, sometimes a week running the river."
"I'll get you more days on the river, babe," Mel said.
"Thanks, sugar, but it's not that. I had plans."
"We talked about maybe moving when I finish my

. "

project.

"By then we'll be collecting social security," Dahlia said,
laughing. "Don't you think you should start grilling, Matt?
Start a little something, anyway."

Matt frowned, nodding, as the three women turned to
each other and he turned to the grill, focusing on the veg­
etables and blocks of tofu. Had it really been two years out



16 ROY SCRANTON

here? And four years them together? It was funny to think
of, when magical 2000 had loomed so large for so long.
And they didn't get any Jupiter space acid, no starbaby, but
HAL had grown so vast and powerful we thought a time­
stamp glitch could destroy civilization. He and Craig had
laid in stores of bottled water, cans of beans, stacks and rows

of toilet paper, then themed their New Year's bash Beyond
the Millennium! with decorations put together from visions
of futures past: fins, chrome, glass tubes, and colored plas­
tic. That night was the third time he and Dahlia had sex.
The end of the world came and went.

And what if every decision you made was a mistake?

What if computers had been a mistake and college had
been a mistake and cyclopiscope.com had been a mistake
and now Utah, too? The path had seemed so provisional,
yet at the same time somehow fixed-when his parents got
divorced and his mom got him a piano, his dad a Commo­
dore 64, what would you expect but that he'd sink into his

surrogate parental devices? He wasn't a recluse. You couldn't
say he was a recluse. He just spent a lot of time on his own,
developing an app whose main purpose was, jargon aside,
to predict the apocalypse. Yeah, totally fucking rational.

He lashed more marinade on the tofu. Had he started

another beer? Started and finished. The sun was down now

for real. The steaks, juicy red, sat waiting.
Somebody watching: a lean man at the gate with black

hair cut close, face taut and flat, lips compressed in a line
like a trick of the fading light. The man stared with eyes so
fierce, Matt's heart hung dry a beat and he stepped back,
fumbling his brush and dropping it. Say something.

T

�cann

�raD 1
mer
aU�K,
nottc,

ANT­

now
Ma

man,

with I

ru�,
�new



� a ffi��1

rovilion�i

are witn Dl�(�

� ed in alinl
wed with eyes!�

e stepped bacK)
eching.

WAR PORN 17

Then Xena barked and Mel shouted "Wendy!" Matt
scanned the ground, found his brush in the grass, bent to

grab it, and when he rose again Dahlia was moving across
the yard to the gate where Wendy stood with her man in the
dusk, now smiling, composed of wholly other stuff. Matt
noticed his black t-shirt printed in red-ENEMY COMBAT­
ANT-and the way he held himself apart, like he wasn't sure

how he'd be greeted.
Matt observed Dahlia smiling, skirt swinging, greeting the

man, Wendy turning back and forth between them, Wendy
with her dirty-blonde hair cut short in a feathery mop and

high, tanned cheeks and fine-boned wrists and shoulders.
She wore Matt's favorite dark green t-shirt that said:

CUBIC* cube

i think that square

is top of cool shape
in the world

Dahlia shook the man's hand and pointed over to Matt,
who grinned stupidly and waved his grass-covered brush,
remembering this must be Aaron, right, standing staring.
The one who just came home.

"How you two want your steaks?" he forced himself
to

shout.

"Medium rare," Wendy said.
"Still mooing," the man said. "Thanks."

"Coming right up!" Matt said, his voice going high
and brittle, hoping a fat smile would numb his unease.
He cracked another beer and drank deep. He pulled the



11 ROY SCRANTON

vegetables and tofu off the heat and wrapped them in foil,
then laid on the salmon and Wendy's steak.

The man walked up and offered Matt his hand. His grip
I b "H "h id "I' A

"

was gent e ut strong. ey, e sal. m aron.

"Matt. Nice shirt."
"Thanks. Wendy got it for me on the internet."
"She' d hirts."e s goo at t-s irts,

"Yeah. She thought it'd be funny. She said you work with
computers."

"Yeah, I code. I'm sort of . . . well, what I do now is

part-time tech support for the county, but really I'm work­
ing on a freelance project, data-processing. Sort of global
forecasting.

"

"Like stock markets and stuff?"
Matt chuckled, hating the self-deprecating note he struck.

"Well, sort of. What I'm trying to do is use turbulence in
complex systems to predict unforeseen events," he said,
waving the barbecue tongs. "The problem with 'unknown
unknowns' is that you don't know what you're looking for.
Take 9/11 for instance, or the fall of the Soviet Union. The

patterns were there but we weren't looking for them, and
there was no way to know in advance which data points
were the important ones. What we needed was a tool for
monitoring data systemically, for helping us watch events
not as points or lines but as flows and breaks. The program
I'm developing uses chaos theory to visualize predictive
data as a field. Then we can use those visualizations to shift
our frame of reference so that something that would have
been an outlier becomes something we're looking for: from
an unknown unknown into a known unknown. It's about

lerrin,
I�otc
ais st
tnem I

nere, �

"Go

oack il
Matt's

Rae

tea, 0

�lowe(
I

li�nt 0
"ru

��aQ I
Matt

��se
Gown
tnroal
�eck

Tney
er�ly,
tney 2
life
medi



,0, The pro�r�
'. ,�jze preQi�'!
�lutions to )ni�

chac would na�t

"I()king for: from
own. Its about

WAR PORN 19

letting chaos show its underlying order. I mean ... Whoa,
I gotta flip this shit." He turned over the salmon and Wen­

dy's steak, then reached for the last two steaks and threw
them on. "Hey D," he shouted. "Just a few more minutes
here. You wanna get the stuff?"

"Got it," she said, handing the weed to Rachel and going
back inside. Aaron nodded after her, his look lingering for
Matt's taste a second longer than was really necessary.

Rachel lit the pipe and passed it. They smoked. Chat­
ted. Dahlia came back out with a pitcher and glasses. Time
slowed.

When did the porch light come on? Who turned the

light on?
"Fuck," Matt said, turning back to the grill and sliding

the salmon on a plate, forking the steaks and serving them

up, while Dahlia portioned out tofu for Rachel and Mel
and divvied up veggies and spooned out the vegan potato
salad Mel had brought. Everyone moved to the picnic table.
Matt lit the tiki torches and citronella candles and Dahlia

passed the tabbouleh. They tore into their food, washing it
down with beer, ripping into animal and vegetable flesh,
throats bulging. Their steak knives flashed in the light,
flecked with fat and blood.

They discussed: the virtues of cats v. dogs, as pets and gen­
erally' how best to marinate tofu, the election, how sick

they all were of the election, the curious nature of modern
life where it feels like part of you is connected via mass

media to this hyperlife that doesn't objectively exist but



20 ROY SCRANTON

functions entirely as "news," but what's news if not events of p12
yet the news isn't the event and you don't really experience ri�lng
the event but only the "news" of it, "yeah like 9/11," and �Iick�
how sometimes it feels strange when there isn't some disaster

Dooalt

happening, like there's a gap in the matrix, and as Wendy leatner

parsed this phrase they talked about The Matrix and then a DonI
other films commenting on Contemporary Life Post-91 11 , Doom
and also music they'd been listening to like the new Wilco, "�o,
then Rachel told a story about one of her second-grade girls "Le!
who'd memorized all the lyrics to "Toxic" and had made up I�r
a dance to go along. weira,

They compared tattoos: Wendy had a jaguar on her Gran�
ankle-this was her Aztec horoscope, she said-and a fleur- w�on
de-lis on her lower back; Mel, a flaming skull with BORN rouh
TO LOSE on her left shoulder, a barbed tribal band around off·bl

each bicep, and a complex floral design going down from "!t'di
her hip into the joint between her thigh and pelvis that she aeeu,j
only showed the very top of, tugging at her jean shorts; and "Ni
Aaron a crude circled A on his right shoulder, which he ''Tn
laughed off as his first tatt from back in ye olde punk days,
an inverted cross on the inside of his left forearm, and then,

pulling up his ENEMY COMBATANT t-shirt, sweeping across crili a
his muscled back a pair of intricate spiked wings, crested in ne'!w!
Gothic script reading LONG IS THE WAY AND HARD. Neither tnin��
Matt nor Rachel had tattoos. Dahlia had a dahlia, on her wnere

hip, which she didn't show anyone. �rant
�unK­
il, ana

How it had gotten dark. How they made a circle with lawn W�re
chairs, smoked another bowl, and drank some whiskey out "Wi



ide with law�

me whiskey out

WAR PORN J1

of plastic cups, the coals dying behind them, the moon

rising into the stars. Their bodies hummed, satiated, lips
slick with grease. Dahlia got a little cold and went in for a

hoodie. Rachel got cold too, and Mel wrapped her in her
leather jacket. Aaron lit an American Spirit. Xena chewed
a bone. Balinese gamelan banged and gonged from the
boom box.

"So, I have a story," said Wendy.
"Let's hear it," said Mel.

''Alright. Aaron already heard this one, but it's really
weird, so I'll tell it again. Thursday night I was driving to
Grand Junction. I was going to a poetry reading there. It
was one of those days where nothing seems to quite catch,
you know, like Mercury's in retrograde, like the universe is
off-kilter." Wendy paused, casting her gaze into the distance.
"It's like I wrote once, 'The fissure between the thought and
deed, against the universal, the palsy in the hand of God.

'"

"Nice," said Matt.
"The reading was this guy David T. Greene, who won

the Yale Younger Poets prize last year with his book Embla­
zoned Arcadia. He's at once very classically concerned with
craft and meter, but also super experimental, right, and
he's working with hypertext and interactive poetics, doing
things with New Media artists, and has a blog. So that's
where I heard about the reading, the blog: he'd gotten a

grant to drive across the country and write a sort of cyber­
punk-Whitman long-poem meditation on America, blog
it, and along the way he organized a series of readings. So he
was reading at the Black Cat in Grand Junction, and ...

"

"Why didn't he read here?" Rachel asked.



ROY SCRANTON

"Well that's interesting. I asked him the same question
myself. I told him about Eklectika and Back of Beyond and
that there's actually quite a dynamic poetry scene here, but
he said he had to leave early to make it to Salt Lake City
in time for his reading there on Friday and then it was up
to Washington and yadda yadda yadda. He seemed really
edgy-his aura was totally broken up. He'd planned to have
the readings be auxiliary to the experience of writing the
trip, but instead he'd just been driving like crazy, barreling
through to get from one reading to the next, and he hadn't
even really had time to write the poem ... But first, before
all that, I was driving across the desert and do you remem­
ber the lightning storm Thursday?"

"Sure," Dahlia said.
"The sky was a 'charcoal smear livid with electric fire.' I

watched it as I drove ... I was halfway watching the storm
in the distance, the way the light changed against the mesas,
and halfway watching the road. You know how you do, espe­
cially when the highway's empty. I had an old mix tape
Aaron made me years ago-I found it the other day and
thought, wow, right before I get to see him in I don't
know how long, here's this mix tape. And it was playing
'Teclo,

,

right, the PJ Harvey song, and I was very much in
the moment, the speed and the storm and the rain flicking
on the windshield and PJ Harvey sort of moaning right, 'let
me ride on his grace,' and I flick on the wipers and then
there's a coyote in the road and bam!I feel the car hit him."

"Oh my God," Rachel said.
"I slam on the brakes. But it had just started raining,

right, and you know how all the oil on the road floats to

thesu
ana I I
thinki
ao tn�
hana� I

ana thi
In ilie I
thinhln

ju�t �at
wron�

wn�c�
ltd

ta�e,"
"Ye�

faain�
mink­

anal r

ana it)�

unle�n

tn�) an

notnini
meme
I thou�
!till no
other s

think) ,
unGer �
the ca�
w�kI
orsme



I j. was rI4��1
\

• re0'mU(�ID
I

e r�n fli(hl�1

oaning rignt, II�

\\1pers and ili��

1 " e car hit nim,'

'[dIced [ainin�
P road floats w

WAR PORN

the surface after a dry spell, and the car skids, slips sideways:
and I panic. My foot's jammed on the brake and all I can
think is 'They say steer into the skid but who are they? What
do they know?' My mind is just whirling, right, but my
hands do it, steering into the skid and I pump the brakes
and the car slows and I pull over and stop. I'm like, shaking.
In the rearview I'm so white I'm like dead and I remember

thinking maybe I am, and then I felt like throwing up but

just sat there, waiting, on the shoulder by the median-the

wrong shoulder, you know?-and this Captain Beefheart

song comes on ...
"

'''Clear Spot,
'"

Aaron said. "I put 'Clear Spot' on that
"

tape.
"Yeah. 'Clear Spot.' I was like, wow. And the squealing

fading in my ears and the shaking calming down and I
think-what about the coyote? So I get out and walk back
and I remember the sun going down, right, and the storm,
and it's sprinkling rain like any second now the sky's gonna
unleash the deluge and I walk back to where I started brak­

ing, and then I go back a little further and look and there's

nothing. No coyote, no blood, nothing, and I climb over
the median and check out the other side because you know,
I thought, maybe the force of the car threw him clear but
still nothing. So I run across the highway and check the
other shoulder and there's still nothing, so that's when I
think, oh my god: he's under the car. He must be jammed
under the frame somehow. Maybe still alive. So I go back to
the car, walking slow, trying to get hold of myself, and as I
walk I watch the car and the road, looking for signs, drops
or smears of blood, fur, anything. I get to the car and I so



ROY SCRANTON

mang}j
me, I'n

watcnin
neaali�'
warm
ne jmt,
ltart cry

in�1 �till
mink to
1 roll ao

itm��
tne nea

in tne

w�eur
in� out
ilieme

"You
"%

IITna!

mucn, iJ
Decau�e

li��mov
ner aelil
ni� �aze
nimfeel
Dantia (
Ima�inl'
Aaron's
�everal

inaicat:

much do not want to look underneath ... but I work up my

courage and squat by the tire, sort of so I can hide behind
it if he jumps out at me, and I look underneath and there's
nothing. I can't believe it. I cannot believe it. Fender, grill­
no sign at all I hit anything, no contact with anything, no
remnants of flesh or blood, only the idea."

She paused, sipped her beer.
"Wow," Matt said.
"So what happened to the coyote?" Rachel asked.
Wendy held her hands open, palms up.
"Then what?" asked Mel.
"I threw up and felt a little better, then I got back on

the road. I was a few minutes late to the reading, so I
sat in the back-I mean, there were only like five people
there-and it was a great reading but my mind was still
on the coyote, on the absence of the coyote, and afterward,
I went up to thank David and say hi, and we got to talking
and then, later that night, when I got home ...

"

"You're leaving out the middle part," Aaron said.
"Oh, we had a drink, you know, and talked-"
"Talked," Aaron said.

"Anyway," she continued, "the important part is when I
got home. It was a weird night, weird energy in the air, and
there's that witchy feeling you get sometimes, that feeling
like there's a door open somewhere, right, like 'fragrant por­
tals, dimly starred.' So I got home and drove up the lonely
road to the driveway and came to my trailer and when I
make the last turn, my headlights sweep across the mesa
and I stop-because standing right there in the middle of
my headlights, right in front of my trailer door, is a huge,



\ WorKUpmr
an hlUt behin�

�th 1t\U ther�\
i· . hnuer) �rlll..
�1 an�hinp�

WAR PORN

mangy coyote, his enormous yellow eyes staring right at
me. I'm so scared I almost pee myself, so I just sit there
watching him and he stands there watching me. I leave the
headlights on, because I'm not going to get out till he leaves
and I'm not going to turn the lights off so I can't see him, and
he just stands there, and then-and this almost made me
start crying-he sits back on his haunches and starts pant­
ing, still just staring. Finally I sort of come out of it and
think to honk the horn, but it does nothing. He ignores it.
I roll down the window and shout and honk but none of

it makes any difference, he just sits there, staring. I turn off
the headlights. In the dark I can still see him there. I crawl
in the backseat, check the locks, and go to sleep. When I
wake up, he's gone. No prints in the dirt-nothing. Noth­

ing but a faint smell, like an old dog, 'the scents of ghosts,
the memory oflithic days.'"

"You think it was a ghost?" Rachel asked.
"Who knows?"

"That's really incredible," Matt said, wondering how
much, if any, of the story was true and not really caring,
because her telling had given him license to watch her
lips move gleaming in the torchlight, her eyelashes flutter,
her delicate fingers trace gestures in the air. Wandering
his gaze over the curves and hollows of her body made
him feel better about the energy he felt flowing between
Dahlia and Aaron that he kept telling himself he was just
imagining. People look at people, he thought, and that
Aaron's knee had been resting against Dahlia's for the last
several minutes was no sign of anything, no red flag, no
indication of anything other than his own weed-stoked



J6 ROY SCRANTON

paranoia. It's all in your head, he thought, then again: say
something.

Say what?

Dahlia felt him next to her, the pressure of his knee, the
coiled power his body held, like he was about to jump on
something. They're fucking, right? They had to be, Wendy
and her war hero. Didn't seem to matter much to Matt,
who looked at Wendy same as always: like he was gonna
throw up on her shoes.

"Shit, babe, that's a crazy story," Mel said. "But what
about this other wild animal you brought home? What's
with Mr. Fox here?" She pointed her beer at Aaron: "Tell
us something about yourself, Mr. Fox. What's your deal?"

His energy shifted, tensing. He smiled uneasily. "Not much
to tell. I'm from Arizona, grew up near Tucson. I met Wendy
in college. I'm just sort of traveling around right now."

"Vision quest?" Mel asked.
"Yeah, sure. Taking some time off. I was staying with

some friends in Arizona, now I'm visiting Wendy, then I'm
going to Colorado to stay with another friend, then maybe
Montana or Washington. I'll probably head back to Tucson
in December, get back in school."

"What do you study?" Rachel asked.
"I was doing history. Now maybe poli sci. Maybe some­

thing pre-law. Not really sure."
"Didn't you just get out of the Army?" Matt asked.
Aaron's smile hardened. "Still in, technically. But on my

ah"way out, ye .

"Wb

aon'tm
"You

arm,"M
now to t

"No r
Girl,"

"Awhl
"Nasq

r��ular A
"Oh,"
"Y�ah,
Mell�
Aaron

Mel �l
W� in '�

MiK�-�

"Thatl
!r�ci�cy
janow�hl
�)�th

Guara, �

One.Zerl
II�to1"
"Like
"Was
"Matt
"Yeah
"WO

thank y



WAR PORN J7

"What did you do there?" Matt asked. "I mean, if you
don't mind my asking."

"You don't have to ...
"

Dahlia said, touching Aaron's
arm. "Matt spends all his time on the computer and forgets
how to talk to people sometimes."

"No problem," Aaron said. "I'm what you call a Nasty
Girl."

"A what?"

"Nasty Girl. It's slang for National Guard. I wasn't in the
regular Army."

"Oh," Matt said. "Like the reserves?"

"Yeah, like that."
Mel leaned in. "So what was your MOS?"

Aaron sized her up. "Thirty-one Bravo. Yours?"
Mel shook her head. "No, man, I wasn't ... My dad

was in 'Nam, that's how I know MOS. He was a Fifteen
Mike-a Huey mechanic in the Screaming Eagles."

"That's cool," Aaron said. "My military occupational
specialty was Thirty-one Bravo. Corporal Aaron Sto­
janowski, 3rd Platoon, 858th Military Police Company,
850th Military Police Battalion, Arizona Army National
Guard. Military occupational specialty Thirty-one Bravo
One-Zero. They called me Sto."

"Sto?" Rachel asked.

"Like a nickname. Sto."

"Was that when you were in Iraq?" Matt asked.
"Matt," Dahlia said.
"Yeah," Aaron said.
"Wow," Matt said. "That must have been intense. Well,

thank you for your service."



JI ROY SCRANTON

"S
"

A id "N bl
"

ure, aron sal. 0 pro em.

"Was it dangerous?" Matt asked.
"Matt, please," said Dahlia.
"What? He doesn't have to answer."
Aaron lit a new cigarette from the butt of his old one.

"You mean besides people shooting at me and shit explod­
ing all the time?"

"I just, you know, I mean, all we know is what they show
us on Tv, right? I mean, we don't even know. I can't even
imagine. We're totally ignorant of this situation, and I'm
just wondering, is it really like how they say? Is it bad? Is it
getting worse? Is it getting better?"

"I don't know what to tell you, chief. It's bad enough."
"But they can vote, right? They have democracy. That's

better, isn't it?"
"Better than what?"

"I don't know. Better than Saddam? It just seems like
such a waste if nothing good comes out of it."

"I don't know, man," Aaron said. "I was just a dumb

grunt, you know. I don't know what to tell you."
"But, I mean, it's such a huge question now with the

election and America's role in the world post-9f11, and
we have this obligation, right, to try to make things bet­
ter, but maybe it's really all about oil and ... I mean, I
don't even know what to think. Should we stay? Should
we pull out? They say if we pull out, Iraq collapses into
civil war. But it seems like that's happening anyway.
What do we do?"

"Listen, uh, Matt? Matt, right? That's your name? Well,
Matt, it doesn't really fucking matter what we do."

"But

"Thir

lems in

narren,
matter, 1

"Thatl
"Exactly,
dean ur
wnat1 I rt

Dilili�

Dewna�
"LOOK,

reorle�
tnin�, tn�
�ecause �

aaisaster

aoesn'tm

�urswno
anametl
oraonati
�owwn

"Tnat'!
"Yeah,

it's liKe, I
"�ow

mattm1"

"Beca
"But
"Nat! I

"Oka]



I mf4�1:
,

t,1

re )[a)'! ���W�

q oJJap�e�
i�w

. ning an�l!,

WAR PORN J9

"But what about ...
"

"Things matter," Rachel said. "There are serious prob­
lems in the world, but people do things to make change
happen. We can hold governments accountable. Voices
matter. The election matters."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," Matt said.
"Exactly. Should we stay? Do we have a moral imperative to
clean up our mess, bring democracy to the Middle East, or
what? I mean, we can't just leave, can we?"

Dahlia looked at Matt, her lips compressed. How many
beers had he had?

"Look," Aaron said, "Matt, Rachel, you seem like nice

people and this is a great barbecue. I'm gonna say this one

thing, then ... Maybe let's talk about something else, okay?
Because Iraq's a fucking disaster. The whole thing. Staying's
a disaster. Leaving's a disaster. It's a fucking shithole. And it
doesn't matter what the fuck we think about it, because the

guys who run shit don't give a rat's ass what people like you
and me think. Or do. Or say. Unless we're blowing shit up
or donating money, they could give a flying fuck. So I don't
know what to tell you."

"That's a pretty negative world view," Rachel said.
"Yeah, well, I'm all traumatized and shit. You know what

it's like. You saw the movie."

"So why'd you go, then, man," Mel asked, "if none of it
matters?"

"Because they told me to."
"But why'd you join the Army?"
"National Guard. I was National Guard."

"Okay, man. Why'd you join the National Guard?"



so ROY SCRANTON

"Tbi:
"Mar

t�epar
reople­
ter, Like

fucked t\
"Mel,
"Yew,
"H

"

er,
Etem41SJ
ni�·name

ni�nt an
"rucK

r��, Do�
tnen rOU

ju!twron�
"Arero
lilt'! li�

ju!toeca
"MeI,
"No, r�

German
man �eo�
iliOU�ht i
fuc�n� j
obr, It's

"C�l
Matt

I

a little b'
Mels

"College money, patriotism. Service, challenge, honor.
Nine-eleven. Same things as anybody else."

"But now you think it's all bullshit," Mel said.
"I think we all gotta make hard choices," he said, "and

how you feel about shit doesn't really matter. You gotta do
what you gotta do."

"And all you had to do was kill people."
Aaron laughed. "What?"
Rachel put her hand on Mel's thigh and squeezed. Mel

brushed it off. "No, he made a choice. He wasn't drafted.
All he had to do was kill people."

"Yeah, sure," Aaron said. "Not a bad deal, either. Easier
than working for it."

"I just don't understand how you could do that, man."
"M I "R h I id "H

"

e , ac e sal. eYe
"You don't understand how I could do what?" Aaron

asked.
"How you could kill people for money."
"Okay, you got me. I joined the Army so I could fucking

kill people. Big secret: It's a blast."
"But doesn't it bother you at all?" Mel asked. "Aren't you

ashamed?"
"Ashamed of what?"

"I mean, you know the war's fucking bullshit, but you go
do it anyway. You know it's illegal, but you do it anyway.
People die and you don't even fucking care. You could've
not gone. You could've been a conscientious objector. You
could've gone to Canada."

"I signed a contract. We had a job to do."
"That's all you got? You had a contract? A job to do?"



WAR PORN

"This is real nice, Wendy," Aaron said. "I'm glad I came."
"Man," Mel said, "I just can't understand how you can

take part in an illegal war that kills thousands of innocent
people-for college money--and then act like it doesn't mat­
ter. Like you didn't choose. That's what seems completely
fucked to me."

"Mel, honey," Rachel said. "Lay of£"
"Yeah, Mel," said Dahlia, "let it go."
"Hey," Wendy shouted, "anyone else here see that movie

Eternal Sunshine ofthe Spotless Mind? With that actor, whats­
his-name, Ace Ventura? I watched it on DVD the other

night and it was so good."
"Fuck that," Mel said. "This shit's fucked up. This shit's

real. Don't you see that? Killing people for money? And
then you wear that fucking t-shirt like it's all a joke. That's
just wrong. I mean, if that's not evil, I don't what is."

"Are you fucking serious?"
"It's like the Nazis," Mel said. "Like some people do it

just because other people tell them to."
"Mel, that's not fair," said Dahlia.
"No, really, man," Mel said. "Think about it. Loads of

German soldiers were just doing their jobs. Loads of Ger­
man people were just doing what they were told. They all
thought it made sense, they all thought what they did was
fucking justified, but it wasn't. They don't get to say it's
okay. It's like that Eichmann book, man. Evil is evil."

"Call me a Nazi one more time," Aaron said.
Matt put his hands out: "Whoa, now-let's all chill out

a little bit."

Mel stared hard at Aaron: "Did you kill anybody?"



:u ROY SCRANTON

His eyes narrowed.
"Well did you?"
His eyes closed slow, then he smiled and opened them.

"No. I didn't. Not that it's any of your goddamn business,
but no, I didn't kill anybody. It wasn't my job."

"But it was someone's," Mel said.
"I just held the camera."
"Hey, y'all," Dahlia said, getting up, "how 'bout some

dessert? Mel, Rachel, you wanna help me with the pie?"
"Bullshit," Mel said. "I can't fucking believe I'm fuck­

ing sitting here with a fucking American Nazi I don't know
what, and everybody's like, 'Play nice, Mel. Layoff, Mel.'
Like it doesn't fucking matter. Fucking sheeple. This is why.
This is why."

Aaron stood up. ''I'm done here. Let's go, Wendy."
Mel stood to face him. "I know you. I know what you

are. I can see it."

Aaron's voice went cold. "What the fuck do you want

from me?"

"Admit what you did was evil."

"It's called reality. You need to grow the fuck up, bitch."
"Bitch? You fucking Nazi asshole!" she screamed, jabbing

her finger in his chest.
"Listen up," he shouted, grabbing her wrist, "this shit"­

then Xena-Mel yanking her hand away and whacking
Aaron's arm, Aaron shouting in Mel's face and Matt leaning
up going whoa and Xena-Xena barked, leaping snapping
at Aaron who turned smooth and kicked the dog hard in
the side, sending the animal rolling yelping and Mel surged,
hitting Aaron in the neck and he caught her forearms in his

fists and

Wendy,
off cold,

"Motn
Nazifud

"Watd

"&s)'l
'Tmga
"�ome

oacKana
Dililia

a DU�u n�
wnole tim

!tooa be

"Her,
Matt�Ke

"fucbn

r�areo, "p
"Mel, �l

(�air, "e I
"I tuink

Wenoy
!Or� aDo
outlaian

"Mel,p
"Get t
"E )lasy,
"Who
Rache



e2ping snarrll1
rh� dog barn i�

and Mel sur�e�1
� orearms in nil

WAR PORN n

fists and she kicked but then Dahlia was between them and

Wendy and Rachel too, pulling Mel back, Aaron walking
off cold, Mel held by Rachel, still raging, still flailing.

"Motherfucker!" she screamed. "Fucking motherfucker
Nazi fuck!"

"Watch yourself," Aaron hissed.
"Easy now," Rachel said. "Easy."
"I'm gonna fucking kill you, motherfucker!"
"Somebody shut that bitch up," Aaron said, stalking

back and forth along the fence line.
Dahlia went to Xena, the kicked dog hiding behind

a bush near the back door, keeping an eye on Aaron the
whole time. Rachel and Wendy whispered to Mel. Matt
stood between them, near the barbecue again, feeling con­
fused, until Wendy pointed at Aaron.

"Hey, uh, Aaron, you wanna go out front for a minute?"
Matt asked.

"Fucking asshole!" Mel shouted after them as they disap­
peared. "Fucking fascist puke!"

"Mel, sit down," Rachel said, gently pushing Mel into a
chair. "Calm down. We need to calm down."

"I think Xena's okay," said Dahlia.
Wendy took a step toward the gate, came back. "I'm so

sorry about that. I didn't know-he seemed a little tense

but I didn't know ... That was completely insane."
"Mel, please, you need to calm down."
"Get the fuck off me!" Mel shouted, swinging at Rachel.

"Easy," Rachel said, holding up her hands.
"Whose fucking side are you on?"
Rachel took Mel's chin in her hand and pulled her face



ROY SCRANTON

up: "Melanie. You will calm down right now. You need
to breathe. Breathe. You are not going to behave like this.
You're a grown woman. Now breathe."

Mel took a deep breath and let it out with a shudder.
Rachel knelt and held her. Wendy went over, then back to
Xena, then stood alone staring up into the night sky. After a
few minutes, Mel straightened up and wiped her bleary eyes.

''I'm alright," she said. ''I'm okay. I just ... I don't know
what the fuck happened. With all the whiskey, I guess, I
went a little sideways."

"You went, like, diagonal," Rachel said.
"That was crazy, Mel," said Dahlia. "You just called Wen­

dy's boyfriend a Nazi."
"He's not my boyfriend."
"Well, he's not a Nazi either," Dahlia said. "He's a soldier

who just got back from a war zone. He's a person."
"I kn I'

"

ow, man. m sorry.

"Honey, I love your political passion," said Rachel, "but
goodness gracious. You might as well have just called him
a baby killer. We don't do that anymore. You know how
messed up your dad is."

"I' kn I
. "

m ow . .. Just ...

Dahlia stood between the flickering tiki torches in the
dark, feeling the adrenaline course through her arms and
legs, thinking who decides things? Who makes choices?
You go do a thing, you commit to things, then some­
thing happens. Sometimes you just do things. Sometimes
things just happen. ''I'm going inside for a minute," she
said to no one in particular, then slid away into the house,
through the kitchen, down the hall and into the bathroom

where tt

blankets,
tne toilet
mirror, 51

nara, try!l
ni� �reen �
tnewar hi

!necamel
wo!noulo

Wbya �
m�in�,

Youna�
�ut not

nmtobe
bent. Pu�
wnatwo

Doe�M
lamhol
rull rot

to�etner,
JOU do, t



ines. Sometim�

or a �mjnute," !�[
�r infO the hou!(,

I

[he bathroom

WAR PORN

where the lightless gray and black wrapped around her like
blankets. She locked the door behind her, felt her way to

the toilet, and sat. She didn't want to see his eyes in the
mirror. She didn't want to feel him. She rubbed her arms

hard, trying to scour away the electricity, the gold flecks in
his green irises, the way he sat too close, his chipped incisor,
the way his knee bumped hers. His body pressing on her as
she came between him and Mel, his arms, his muscled chest

and shoulders. His smell that seemed to catch in her throat.

Why'd Wendy even bring him? Some jerk. He could do
anything.

You have to stop.
But not if it happens to someone else. Who says I always

have to be the same when I'm always different? Always dif­
ferent. Pullyourselftogether. Pull together what? Who? And
what would it feel like?

Does Matt know? Is he gonna take you home?

I am home. You gotta get out.

Pull yourself together. You're the one who got her shit

together. You make choices. You're the one who does what

you do, this life, right now. Ride it.

JS



 



babylon



omveenm

wntlnued I
u!�ofmesl
twoC�Hs
MER when

r�act Dr l�
amrln� t�
tne "res" J
m�an no,

In the Ami
tne very i�
incluae ��
of Goa, 0
(lose, Peo
we turn �

olue aeeo

the ea�e
this �oin
�i�ned .
art of an



between men and lions wolves and lambs

continued strong techniques, life's blood TV detainees
use of stress is essential

two CSHs with four sites out and OPERATION IRON HAM­

MER when these fail an Arab's honor can cause him to

react by interpreting the facts to suit himself or flatly
denying them. Therefore a Westerner should remember
the "yes" you hear does not always mean yes and might
mean no. That he answer "yes" whether it be true or not.
In the American world, a flat "no" signals you want to end
the very indirect approach toward corrective remarks and
include praise of any good points. Similar to this by grace
of God, our friend the Sheikh Talat, those rounds were

close. People demand we stay for lunch, continue past as
we turn along a street, pointless to question the political
blue decorating

the edge of Babylon
this point
aligned with the global lowest
art of an edge, heart of the city, the streets



40 ROY SCRANTON

blood TV politen
heart of the city ing" or

�so me

therefore about a minute use auditory stimuli hoods six ae�ing
operating tables, some between us till mild physical contact for an J
and mobile hospitals OPERATION PLANET X Department matter
of Defense by the grace of God global consensus my spear cessha,
Rumsfeld fully functional in 24 to 48 hours his story from When �
the bombs over OPERATION LONGSTREET and goes to work Ilvesin

for the US as a translator. As the insurgency mounts, he's neartof
threatened by OPERATION RIpPER SWEEP to give them accordlj
intel and/or quit the Americans. Even as revelations have
been made and behavior exposed, oil policy throughout all bowle(
running a mathematician who doesn't know where action KlngdoJ
might be warranted and

1 could
we see distinctions that f�1 Dad

are not distinctions:

tnefreq,
hides faith somewhere in Asia, perhaps Mghanistan, among naving
the symbols calling forth stages of military passage for ofinted
example opportunities lost indeed he's brought specifically leasned
"graduated levels" and it stands sheikh danger wmerej

"Humvees" �atlents
tnose t

will be his lie and if CIA case officers local Hard Site
initiation of the abuse once the importance of a method
used at GTMO you (with) surely Allah facilitates OPER­
ATION VIGILANT RESOLVE majority of Iraqis are delta until
the government regardless, for example, appearances and



Hard �ite

n -e of a meili�

a jfimes Oru:
J J.[e delta un�

ppearances
an�

WAR PORN 41

politeness automatically require an answer of "still check­

ing" or something similar means "no," an indirect response
also means "I am still your friend, I tried" therefore when

dealing with OPERATION BULLDOG MAMMOTH polite way
for an Arab to say no is to say ''I'll see what I can do" no

matter how impossible after the Arab concerning his suc­
cess have fled to Iran from Baghdad works as a journalist.
When the uprising begins in earnest OPERATION WARRIOR
lives in the flood plain
heart of the TV

according to Military Intelligence

knowledge or implicitly of what will be yours my spear the

Kingdom this day

I could hear the water I threw up
fall back on

the frequency of interrogations and the middleman's hands:

having failed punishment of Allah to come victorious out
of interlocking to circumvent public rage, buildings and the
leashed hotel, pyramids naked, naked blood, heading off
some report, the collective flattened and critically wounded

patients sealed off from the responsibility made to spare
those targets on the edge, the heart



(0



your leader will

control your fire
(operation iraqi freedom, 2003)



Tnemaj
followeJ
Defore I
concrete

BAGH

We�
wauna 1

�lt�, Bla

We�top
Derea a
rlfle� ai

Nor
Wes

us, Wa



i am prepared to give my life in their defense

i am an american, fighting in the forces which guard
my country and our way of life

The major in the lead truck took a wrong turn and we all
followed. We drove two miles down the wrong highway
before looping back to the intersection with the chipped
concrete barrier spray-painted MSR CLEVELAND TO
BAGHDAD.

We got lost again just the other side of the border and
wound up driving down a dirt road behind a line of tank

pits. Blackened hulks jutted up from the sand.
Later we saw our first Iraqis, a farm family thin as whip­

pets, standing outside their hut watching us go by.

We stopped and dismounted. All along the line, men clam­
bered down and stood or knelt on the road or shoulder,

rifles aimed at the empty desert.

No radio traffic.

We stood in the sun while the wind whipped sand at
us. Waves of silica slid and ebbed across the blacktop like



46 ROY SCRANTON

the ghosts of snakes. Engines hummed. We watched the Capta
horizon. nonk. AJ

The radio crackled and beeped twice. We looked to mean it.

the truck in front and to the one behind. I wiped dust off I imal
my glasses. I drank water, then dug for an MRE. Chicken numvee'l
Cavatelli. Beef Teriyaki. ��uirtin�

A few minutes later, the call came to roll out. "You �

Cap tal

��ecialisl
We crossed a bridge near a village, and on the far side, Iraqi "Rogel
kids ran at us waving knives. When

"Watch those kids, Wilson," Captain Yarrow said. �uicker,l
"Roger, sir," I said. on thUG
Sergeant Chandler in the back leveled his rifle out the from the

window. Ofco�

"You buy!" they yelled. "Ameriki! You buy! Baynet!" No, l'
"Stay back!" woulan't
Men rose up behind the kids, grinning under mustaches Of COl

and dragging coolers. "You buy, Ameriki," they sang out. tneDoay
"You buy Pipsi." They held up cans of red, white, and blue,
wet with condensation, dripping ice. I could taste the sand
in my throat.

The radio barked: "ALL ELEMENTS, DEEP STEEL THREE.

BE ADVISED OF UNKNOWN CONTACTS BOTH SIDES. Do NOT

STOP, DO NOT SAY AGAIN DO NOT BUY ANYTHING. SAY AGAIN,
"

DO NOT STOP.

"Can I shoot one, sir?" Sergeant Chandler asked.
"Balalalalalalala!" Lieutenant Krauss shouted. The kids

laughed and pointed. One of them jumped and danced, his
knife shining in the air.



WAR PORN 47

Captain Yarrow turned to me: "If they get in front of us,
honk. And if they don't get out of the way, run him over. I
mean it. Run him over."

I imagined the Iraqi boy's body dragged beneath the
humvee's tires, three tons of steel rolling over his chest,
squirting intestines onto the road.

"You buy! Ameriki! Baynet! Pipsi!"
Captain Yarrow double-checked his pistol. "Roger,

Specialist?"
"R

. "

oger, SIr.

When it happened, I thought, I'd speed up to make it

quicker. I wouldn't look in the rearview at the stain of blood
on the road. I'd keep my eyes straight ahead and not even
from the corner would I look at the boy I'd killed.

Of course I'd look.

No. I'd watch the taillights of the truck in front. I
wouldn't look.

Of course I'd look. I'd speed up-but would I even feel
the body under the humvee's tons?



nemmet

wldiers
until au

�ong av

ltorped,
face the target, place the weapon to your shoulder, Wordj

move the selector lever from SAFE to SEMI WedJ

After eat!

me line s

of�ys s
Night fell. Against the bruised and blackening sky, flames (nanging
shot up from distant towers. Armored ruins lined the road tneirfuel
in squads, charred corpses scattered in among the blasted Onegl
metal. A dead Iraqi grinned where fire had burned away we couk
his face, leaving yellowed teeth in a black ring, eye sockets a �oy, wi
smears of shadowed flesh. rock Th

The convoy slowed. anaorow
Coils of wire bloomed along the highway. roucaul,

!Weal·so,

"ruck
A sentry directed us in, her pale cheeks washed in humvee �heha
light and smudged with dirt and soot. Refinery fires shone �omeo
gold and red in her empty eyes. She swung her arm again in unhefil
front, again, directing traffic. They

To our left burned a great fire into which three joes Gown, ((�
shoveled trash. Beyond that some kind of rusting, lat- Read! I
ticed, industrial turret, erratically lit, rose in the dark. To tnerest,
our right loomed the shadows of the big green, lines of laguerre

/



'g green, line�
f

WAR PORN .9

hemmets and trucks, machines rumbling low. Guided by
soldiers with chemlights, red lines floating in the black
until our lights hit them and they flinched, we circled

along avenues of wire, down mazes of green steel. We

stopped.
Word passed: stand by.

Wtl�� We dumped our gear and dug out MREs.

After eating I slung my rifle, lit a smoke, and walked down
the line searching for someone to talk to. I found a bunch
of guys standing watching three National Guard females

changing their brown t-shirts. They'd climbed on top of
their fuel truck for privacy but still we could see.

One girl was black or Hispanic, so timid she sat and all
we could see was her forehead. Another was skinny like
a boy, with buzz-cut hair, no tits, and a face like cratered
rock. The third, she was our favorite. She had a nice face

and brown hair pulled back in a ponytail-even in DeUs

you could tell she was a woman. When she pulled off her
sweat-soaked brown t-shirt, we cheered.

"Fuck you assholes," she shouted.

She had a gut, love handles, big tits. We adored her.
Someone shouted "Hey take off your bra" and she gave

us the finger.
They pulled on their tops and the brown girl yelled

down, "Show's over, shitheads."

Reading took this as an invitation to go backstage, but
the rest of us scattered. We walked down the line, me, Vil­

laguerrero, Healds, and Bullwinkle.



so ROY SCRANTON

"I bend that white girl over the hood this humvee and

fucking bam, right in the fucking ass."
"I want the Chicana."

"She black."

"No she ain't. She a hundred percent Puerto Rican. I can

tell, I got spicvision."
"Wouldn't that be spicdar?"
"Beanervision,

"

"Beaners are from Mexico, motherfucker. I'm Puerto

Rican."
"Beandar."

"You don't eat beans in Puerto Rico?"

"They fucking eat bananas."
"An ld

'

h
"

yway you cou n t even see ere

"Bananas and mangoes and shit."

"I could see her face and that's all I need, cuz that's what's
I'm gonna have wrapped around my cock. Oh yeah, baby,
oh you like it? Fuckin' eat it, bitch."

"Shit, I'll take two and make a Nasty Girl sandwich.
Bread, bread, I'm the meat. Make my own mayonnaise."

"Fuck that. Tm gonna fuck the black girl. Y'all can fuck
the dog."

"She a fucking dyke."
"Fuck, man, this point I put a MRE box on her head and

call it even. I gives a fuck."
"Hooah."

I forced
to my �p

�reate�t
reflecto

ru�, �u�
ll�nt un

4�narp e
lcrackel

Tnell
We'ooe

We tur
Detwee
farm�,l



\S hunweeant

r 0 Rican,l�

do not let your imagination and fear run wild

I forced my eyes to the tires ahead, to the road, at the sky,
to my speedometer, changing focus every few seconds. The

greatest danger glowed in the yellow and red rear-bumper
reflectors of the leading truck-watching them wobble and

dip, sustaining their slow rhythms, blobs of dim, pulsing
light undulating in the dark-only a matter of time and

you wake up ditched, smashed, your humvee flipping, roll­

ing, whatever.
I bit my cheek. I bit my tongue. I jammed my knee into

a sharp edge of metal under the dash until my head cleared.
I cracked hot Mountain Dew and chugged.

The line wavered and swayed as drivers dozed and awoke.
We'd been driving for eighteen hours.

We turned off the highway down a dirt road running
between a ditch and a wall, passing tall grass, palms, and
farms. Things felt close.



SJ ROY SCRANTON

Lights swam as I fought to keep my eyes open. My neck We:
bent under the weight of its dumb head, like a cripple who Isl1l
can't hold his face up, like I needed a tube to talk with. We Ca�
followed the convoy past a checkpoint and turned to the "He
east fading ashen to white. In the distance, some kind of "\V1
tower stabbed into the lightening sky. We turned again. "D�

I saw great bands of painted Indians boil up out of the "Th
dark on steaming war ponies, ululating, attacking with "T�
tomahawks and Winchesters. I'd make my humvee jump tnelinl
like a frog: bounce over the burning wreck and over the
ditch by the road, bounce across low scrub to the savages
we'd land on and kill with a splat. Bounce, bounce, fuck.

"Wake up, Wilson."
The truck in front pulled off. I put us in gear. Too tired

to care whether I'd fucked up or what, so I'd fallen asleep, so
what. Fuck shit fuck whatever, cockfuck shitfucker asscunt.

"Where the fuck are we?"
I followed the five-ton onto an airfield. We stopped

between two Black Hawks.

"We must be close," I said.
"I think so," said Captain Yarrow.

I jerked awake, pulling my seven-hundred-pound head up
off the steering wheel. Captain Yarrow lay slumped against
his door, drooling on his armor. Sergeant Chandler snored
in back. The convoy was gone. The sky a cool and milky
white.



J d.pound ne��,
ay lumpeda�

!'fl[ Chandler sMlt
.

a cool and m�

WAR PORN n

We'd been left. Abandoned.

I slid into drive, honked the horn twice, then took off.

Captain Yarrow heaved forward. "What?"
"Hooah, sir."
"What? Where's the convoy?"
"Dunno, sir."
"Thev' h t"eyre w at.

"There." Intersection. In the distance, off to the right,
the line of red lights.



We stu

aamm

wedou
Loaded with gear, we shuffled onto the plane and rode east, wwai,
out ofthe sky, down the night. inlthr

Stewardesses brought our meal and choice of nonalcoholic tneaten
beverage. I watched White Oleander and slept through most !ork n
ofA Beautiful Mind. The screens all along the dim aislesflick- Tnenlered on the faces ofsleeping soldiers. oneac!

Dreaming valkyrie wings: we'd be FNGs at first but lick- 10imi
ety-split start wasting hooches andfragging LTs, di-di-mauing At(
back to the LZ, dropping bloopers into rice paddies, riding a� of
Hueys into the Shit, hog on our hip. wea have hearts and tnetra
minds sharpied on steelpot covers, tattoo our days down till ni�n 1
we're short, wear our shit allfucked up and say, "Fuck the regs,
man, this is Indian Country.

"

Weti prepared our whole lives for this. Bombed lit- Iieute
tle brown people, helicopters swooping low, the familiar Powerl
sight ofAmerican machinery carving death from a Third ?v[�
World wasteland. We expected nothing less than shell shock and
and trauma, we lusted for thousand-yard stares-lifelong itiJth
connoisseurs of hallucinatory violence, we already knew m�yo
everything, felt everything. We saw it through a blood-spat- II. J k
tered lens, handheld tracking shot pitting figure against Decaus
ground. We were the camera, we were the audience, we were tneA
the actors and film and screen: cowboys and killer angels, teants

tne 10.

Moody



Jl. Bomod �

: • Iou' tn( f�mil�
!, fh 10m a r!i�

�JS than snfll!!�:
rd stares-l��'
u't already k�(I

(JlIgn a b!ood,!!�:
fli1g figure again
dtldttnc� we W�

r1!1d tiller angt�

WAR PORN

the lost patrol, the cavalry charge, America's proud and
bloody soldier boys.

We stumbled blinking off the plane into the night's heat and
crammed onto buses that drove us to a tent in the sand, where

we downloaded bags into a box trailer. Shuffled to another tent
to wait. Mustered into another where we swiped IDs, shunt­
ing through the green machine's hive mind, finally officially in
theater. We got briefed on snakes and General Order One-no

pork, no porn, no booze-then sent back to the tent to sleep.
Then rousted again, onto buses driven by Arabs. We lumped in
on each other in our gear, bitchy in the crowded stink. The sun
rose over an empty desert.

At Camp Connecticut, a swath oftents pitched in the mid­
dle of nowhere like a mirage, we downloaded our bags from
the trailer. We slept in piles like dogs. Not enough water. The

high 114.

Lieutenant Colonel Braddock brought us to his tent for a
PowerPoint presentation and speech.

"Men,
"

he said, "tomorrow we embark on a most important
and dangerous mission. We have trained months for this, and
it is the epitome ofour job as soldiers. I am proud to be lead­

ing you into our unit's first combat mission since World "War
II I know you will acquit yourselves with honor and courage,
because I know your leaders and they are the best leaders in
the Army, and I know your sergeants and they are the best ser­

geants in the Army. Together we'll accomplish our mission and



" ROY SCRANTON

follow Up on our nation's great victory in Iraq with successful ofyour.
stability-and-support operations and a peaceful transition to Men,

W

democratic governance. lafi for
'1 know many ofyou are too young to remember World mtr tneocca,

IL but I think this is a good time to reflect on the tremen-
dous work we did stabilizing and securing Nazi Germany after
the war andforfifty years protecting itfrom the U7arsaw Pact
threat. This was no mean feat, and if it seems overshadowed
today by campaigns like D-Day and Anzio, then I will tellyou
this is a matter ofperspective. Because winning the peace can
be as hard, ifnot harder, than winning the war. � have our
work cut outfor us.

"In the coming weeks and months, we will be tested, chal­
lenged, and stressed, and there will come times when home
will seem very far away. But let me remind you that we are
Deep Steel, we are the tip of the spear, and home, men­
home is here, with your fellow soldiers. we are each other's
family. we're a band of brothers. Support each other, follow
your leaders, listen to your NCOs, and we will overcome, we
will rise up and grab that brass ring. we will succeed and we
will be victorious.

"� are soldiers, the fighting men who man the ramparts
protecting America from the insidious evils of terrorism and
Islamic fundamentalism that now threaten our way of life.
�'re here because Saddam Hussein was a threat to Amer­

ica, his nuclear weapons and biological programs poised to be
handed over to terrorists who hate us because ofour freedom,
who hate our way oflife, and who have no compunctions about
murdering your wives, mothers, sons, and daughters in cold
blood. Because ofthe great bravery andprofessional dedication



o man fn� r�mr
. (Vi i oftm�rnm'

n ollr waJ �fi
( r1 threat t� AI,

�grr1mJ pO/feb
• 11ft ofourftet&

I (0mpunctions a�i
d daughters in I�
�J1Ion/l1dedtcaw

WAR PORN

ofyour fellow soldiers, Saddam Hussein is no longer a threat.
Men, we're here to make America safe, and to make the world
safe for America. I have the utmost faith that you will rise to
the occasion and make me proud"



No mus

refS, no

an arab worldview is based upon six concepts: �rou�ht.
atomism, faith, wish versus reality, The a

justice and equality, paranoia, and the importance of family over self active in
attack,O
Watch f\
feaayeen
rickur, j
runatead

No running water. No electricity. No AC. No grass, no
carpet, no windows, no fans. Everyone in the world wears

camouflage-the others talk gobbledygook and stare. Giantca
No running water means no showers, no sinks. No hoses, �rown

no faucets, no drains. No cold water, no ice. No laundry, no Ones
bath, no toilet. !tomrea

tte air, �

ffi�nin�
We had a toilet. We had a plywood outhouse with three 1n au
stalls. You sit on a wood 0 and crap in a washtub. Every day recluses,
two soldiers pulled out the three tubs, poured in diesel and ants, an
gasoline, and lit the shit on fire. �a·liKe D

You stir the burning shit with a four-foot pole and drift �IQar i
around the smoke. You pour more diesel on the fire. You liKe�oin
stir the shit. You gag. You stir. You eyeball the grunts in Wilu
their hooch down the way, sleeping and playing cards, tiffiesa
and mutter to yourself. The wind shifts and you circle,
stir, pour.



WAR PORN 59

• •

No music, no Tv, no radio. No magazines, no newspa­
pers, no news. No internet. No books except the ones you

brought.
The only information came in daily briefs: Fedayeen

active in the area. Today two soldiers were killed in an RPG
attack. Coalition Forces are securing the city of Baghdad.
Watch for a white and orange compact sedan, suspected
Fedayeen vehicle. Be on the lookout for a blue or white

pickup. Saddam loyalists may be planning a series of coor­
dinated attacks.

Giant camel spiders roamed our camp, some bigger than a

grown man's palm.
One skittered across the sand at me on crazy legs and I

stomped it. The thing reared back, inch-long fangs sawing
the air, and lunged. I stomped it again, again and again,
mashing it to yellow meat.

In addition to the camel spiders, there were brown
recluses, black scorpions, mosquitoes, flies, fleas, biting
ants, and, we were told, the deadly asp. There were cica­
da-like bugs in the trees as well, which didn't bite but sang
all day in maddening skreeks. When they stopped, it was
like going deaf.

Wild dogs prowled the camp at night. The muezzin five
times a day.



reminder, you are a representative of the united states while in iraq

AMERICA
with lam

They�
in�thesa
al�trust a;

T�Kea w

�uaraing
tneir flatl
ola ainan
tne repsi�

it will be important to use good judgment, tact, and diplomacy
in any dealings you may have with the people

Mail came, packages and letters from home. I inked a chess- We captu
board onto the bottom of an upside-down apple crate and Krauss an
made pieces from scavenged Russian commo gear: the king awaterDl
and queen glass diodes, the rooks resistors, bishops capacitors. tne Dottl

We started catching camel spiders and scorpions instead over tne
of just killing them. Did they burn? Drown? Could you illeaarou

poison them with laundry soap? Healds used his snips to wnelspi
cut the legs off one, leaving it hobbling on six, then five, wtnesco
then three. Down to two, it fell over wriggling. We thought lang!
about letting it starve then decided to burn it. anasnou

Tne n!
!wrplon

Operation Iron Bullet got underway. National Guardsmen !nouts�o
and Iraqi workers came to load our bunkers' munitions Tne �
onto trucks for transport to AHA Taji. !lu��isno

We were issued Humanitarian Daily Rations to give the neaepre,
Iraqis. Wrapped in tough yellow plastic, they were labeled Hren�no
A FOOD GIFT FROM THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES OF meaic,n



Rations to �JV(

[hey were Jam.

NJTED STATEl

WAR PORN 61

AMERICA. The Iraqis brought their own lunches, flatbread
with lamb and vegetables, and took the HumRats home.

They were a raggedy bunch, mustached and bony, wear­

ing the same dirty clothes every day. We watched them with
distrust and curiosity. Sergeant Chandler was the exception.
Tasked with ferrying the work crews back and forth and
guarding them during their shift, he got friendly. He ate
their flatbread, gave them extra MREs, and bought their
old dinars and army badges. Soon we did too. We bought
the Pepsis they kept on ice in little coolers.

We captured a camel spider and a scorpion and Lieutenant
Krauss announced a match. We fought them that night in
a water bottle with the label peeled off We cut the top off
the bottle and cut another top off another bottle so it fit

over the first like a cap. Several joes came to watch, hud­
dled around us, and we dumped in one then the other. The
camel spider skittered down to one end. We tilted the bottle
so the scorpion fell on him.

Zang!went the black stinger. Zang!Zangzang!We cheered
and shouted as the spider curled in death.

The next day, we fought this scorpion against another

scorpion and he won again. The crowd multiplied and the
shouts got louder.

The following day, though, our champion seemed

sluggish. We were concerned. Did he need water? Was
he depressed? We fretted and urged him to keep up his

strength. We asked Healds but he snarled, "Damrnit, I'm a
medic, not an entomologist."



6J ROY SCRANTON

That night we fought our hero against another camel spi­
der, this time in a new arena. We took the apple crate I'd
made into a chessboard and turned it right side up, covering
it with a sheet of acetate. It was delicate work: one person
held the arena and another the acetate and a third the water

bottles caging our gladiators, then we dumped them in one
by one, sliding back the cover, shaking the warrior in, fixing
the acetate quick. The second fighter was always trickiest.

Our champ beat the new spider handily and in honor
of his string of victories we dubbed him Saddam. The next

day, however, his stupor worsened, even though we'd left
him the spider's carcass to eat. We had another fight that
night, between him and a new, very large camel spider, but
he was too sick or listless to attack, and since the camel

spider's jaws couldn't pierce his thick exoskeleton, the fight
was a draw. We doused both in gas and lit them up. The

scorpion burned slow, sadly inanimate, but our camel spi­
der ran, a skittering ball of fire, and crumpled outside the
hooch. We cheered.

We staged more matches, got good at it. The scorpions
were viciously territorial and fought both each other and
the camel spiders, but the spiders for all their fierce appear­
ance were comparatively irenic: they couldn't stand up to
those black stingers and wouldn't fight against each other,
no matter how much trash we talked. Scorpions were both
rarer and harder to catch, so after our first lucky string of
fights the battles grew infrequent. When we got a scorpion
we fought him against camel spider after camel spider until
he died in captivity or was killed by another scorpion. The
winner we named Saddam.

onaw�pe
fly�numv

) tnrew

(a�tain Y
(I�� rerry

") tnink

��t, uh,
II�ome �
Ilr�t t

roao over

Ilhthat
T ht� U )
IICanw
INoun
II) mea
Iyouc

iliatroute



, cher scorpion"

successful combat operations in urban areas

require skills that are unique to this type of fighting

The radio crackled: MPs requesting assistance, moving in
on a suspected cache, needed backup, wanted us, four or
five humvees ASAP. The assault in two-zero mikes.

I threw on my battle rattle and ran into the CP, where

Captain Yarrow, Lieutenant Krauss, and Sergeant First
Class Perry stood pondering the sat-map.

"I think you can go out Gate 1 and down this road here,

past, uh, what are those, houses?"
"Some kind of building."
"Past those houses, right, and you can turn down this

road over the canal."

"Is that a bridge?"
"It's uh, I can't tell."
"C d�"an we go aroun .

"Around the canal?"

"I mean, you know, a crossing."
"You can go through BIAP but we'd uh, we'd need to get

that route from somebody. I mean, we don't know. And it'd



��--------------�--.........�.•-.--

64 ROY SCRANTON

take forty-five minutes at least, just to get there, never mind
the site."

"So down these roads here?"

"One of them must have a bridge."
"Sir, we should roll," Sergeant First Class Perry said.
"Can we take the map with us?" Yarrow asked.

"It's mounted to the wood, sir," Lieutenant Krauss told
him. "And it's too big."

"Maybe we can fold it up."
"It's the only map we have, sir."
"Sir, we should go."
"Yeah, fine." He turned to me. "Wilson, you see this?"

He pointed at the map.
"R

. "

oger, SIr.

"That's where we're going. We go out Gate 1, we take the
second left, then the second left after that. That should take

us over the canal."

The smudge of tangled gray resembled a crushed spider.
"R

. "

oger, SIr.

We headed out, headlights blazing, five humvees fully
loaded. "Weapon status red," the BC called, chambering a
round in his nine mil and grinning. "Lock and load!" My
rifle's bolt slid forward with an exhilarating clack.

We rolled through the night past the first huts and trees
and took the second left onto a dirt road bordered with

thick vegetation. I strained to catch the twitch that would
warn us of imminent attack.

"Turn down here," the BC said.

"Thats
"Thew}
"Yousai(
"I what?'
"You saia
II Hold on

II Crusader
om turn or

!nould De, I

IICRU�AD

TODETERMI
II Crusade

Do I turn d

IIRoGE�

W�crept d
rOI� a stan,

tation and

mrroundin
narrowed,

I

!(ratcned a

IIKeep�
U� mea

�onKey tie
ri�nt a oril
aOOutten
K�r) tne ro

Tneool
"Can y(



e,nevermrr "That's the first one, sir."

"The what?"

"You said the second turn."

"I what?"

"You said the second turn."

"Hold on. Stop." He got on the radio. "Crusader Cp, this
is Crusader Six. Will you check the map here, we're at the

first turn on the road but I think it's where the second turn

should be. Can you verify?"
"CRUSADER SIX THIS IS CRUSADER CPo IT's, UH, DIFFICULT

WAR PORN

"

TO DETERMINE EXACTLY.

"Crusader Cp, this is Crusader Six, yes or no. Yes or no.

Do I turn down this road or not?"

"ROGER, CRUSADER SIX. Go FOR IT."

We crept down the alley. Out of the vegetation on the left
rose a stone wall eight feet high. On the right more vege­
tation and a drainage ditch and, further back, more walls,
surrounding houses with brightly lit windows. The road
narrowed. The wall closed in and on the right branches
scratched at the windshield.

"Keep going," said Captain Yarrow.
Up ahead a donkey cart stood against the wall with a

donkey tied to it. The road widened slightly, and on the

right a driveway ran over a culvert and back into the palms
about ten yards to a large, well-lit house. Just past the don­

key, the road swung left around an angle of wall.
The donkey brayed: ahhhhhweeyhornk-yhornk.
"Can you get by?"



66 ROY SCRANTON

ana started
way, which,

''Are we 0

"We're tu

"I can juS!
"You're til

OKay. I v
nana Si�nallltn� truck, a
@c�. The 0

!tam�in� fu
The Be s

rwtire start

wimout sma

!Iia� into tH

fdlther, the

iliou�htwe
afoot in fro
naa me sto
ili�aa until
�CDacked

��n, a�ain
more times,
aOnker Dra�
I��edfo

TheBe
�ack to ilie
�aussand I

"Roger, sir."
"Keep going."
I passed the cart, feeling the dirt at the edge of the ditch

crumble under the truck's wheels, and slid along slowly,
closer and closer to the donkey now backing against the
wall, panic flashing black in his eyes. The truck's front
bumper brushed his trembling flank.

Ahhweeyhornk!
"We got people! I mean contacts!" Sergeant Chandler

shouted.

I looked back at two Iraqis in robes standing in the drive­
way, smoking cigarettes and watching us. Sergeant Chandler
trained his rifle on them.

"Watch the men, Sergeant! Wilson, watch that donkey!"
Ahhweeeeyhornk-a-yhornk-a-yhornk!
I edged the truck forward, brushing against the don­

key's ribs. The truck behind followed close. I swung slowly
around the corner of the wall. The road ended in a ditch. I

stopped and looked at the humvee behind pressed against
the braying donkey.

Ahhweeeeeeeyhornk!
"Fuck!" Captain Yarrow shouted. He got on the radio:

"Crusader Attack elements, this is Crusader Six. Head back

up to the, uh, back to the last route change, over."
Captain Yarrow and Sergeant Chandler got out. Lieu­

tenant Juarez came up. The donkey kept braying and
Sergeant Chandler kept his rifle trained on the smoking
Iraqis. Yarrow and Juarez traded heated whispers while the
humvees behind us backed slowly down the road.

The BC slapped the rear of the truck to get my attention



ow,"
ler got out

l

..

pt bra�n�.
on the �m��

rhispers wn�(
I

e road,

WAR PORN 67

and started backing me toward the culvert and the drive­
way, which, it turned out, wasn't wide enough.

"Are we backing up?" I shouted.
""\VT'

•

d"we re turnmg aroun .

"I can just back up, sir."
"You're turning around, Wilson."

Okay. I watched the mirror, the back tires, the BC's
hand signals, the wall on my left, the front bumper of
the truck, and the increasingly freaked-out donkey all at
once. The beast hopped up and down, convulsing, hooves

stamping furiously. The bumper dragged against his rump.
The BC scowled and led me onto the driveway. The left

rear tire started sinking. I couldn't swing the truck any tighter
without smashing the donkey, and if I kept on like this I'd
slide into the ditch. The BC swung me back, though, and
farther, the left side sinking deeper and deeper. Just when I

thought we couldn't go back any farther, the donkey maybe
a foot in front, braying crazy-eyed in my headlights, the BC
had me stop and turn hard left and pull forward. I went
ahead until the brush guard rubbed the donkey's ribs. The
BC backed me up again, this time to the right, then forward

again, again left. Awheeeeeeyhornk-a-yhornk-yhornk! Four
more times, tight back and forth, the back end sinking, the

donkey braying, and at last we got the truck turned around.
I pulled forward, scraping the cart with a creak.

The BC and Sergeant Chandler mounted up, and we rolled
back to the rest of the convoy. Yarrow called up Lieutenant

Krauss and chewed him out for giving us bad directions.

•



68 ROY SCRANTON

We took the second left. The next road was wider and ended TAKE
A

in the overgrown courtyard of an abandoned building. We TER,AN

stopped and the BC called Lieutenant Krauss on the radio How
0

"�taVand yelled at him. /
h d "Ro("This is the second turn," Captain Yarrow saute .

"UH, ROGER, CRUSADER SIX. You CHECK BEHIND THE "Ndi
BUILDING?"

"Yes. This is it. It's fucking palm trees. Look at the map
again. Are you looking at the map?" Werll

"ROGER, SIR. THE MAP'S RIGHT HERE." n���,m
"So you're looking at the fucking map?" ilocnel
"ROGER, SIR." maLie

"Then you can see. It doesn't go anywhere. It just stops." m��lel
"ROGER, SIR." "Tne

"So why the fuck you send me down here if you can see ��tweel
it just stops? What the fuck, Lieutenant? Can't you read a "We

fucking map?" w�no
"ROGER, SIR." "Do

"Holy Christ. We're sitting out here like fucking ... sit- mao!"
ting ducks, and those MPs need us, they could be dying GrIn
right now, and you can't even read a fucking map!" !IUI

"SIR." ��mt
"What, Lieutenant?" r��e,u
"SIR, I THINK IF YOU GO BACK TO THE MAIN ROAD, TURN �arrow

LEFT AND STAY TO THE RIGHT, BREAK, JUST KEEP TO THE (Gulas
RIGHT AND YOU'LL COME TO SOME BUILDINGS, AND KEEP TO "Ke�
THE RIGHT OF THOSE, BREAK, THERE'S A ROAD THAT GOES le�
BETWEEN THE BUILDINGS AND, UH, BREAK, IT LOOKS LIKE A ri�nt!1
SMALL CANAL, BREAK. Now YOU STAY ON THAT ROAD UNTIL �eanr
YOU GET TO ANOTHER BUNCH OF BUILDINGS, BREAK, THEN "�lr.



\'G , BREAK,
TH�

WAR PORN 69

TAKE A LEFT AND FOLLOW THAT FOR, UH, BREAK, A KILOME­

TER, AND THERE SHOULD BE A BRIDGE OVER THE BIG CANAL.

How COPY, OVER?"

"Stay to the right, go left, go over the bridge."
"ROGER."

''Alright, Crusader CPo This better fucking work."

We passed more houses, lights burning bright in the dark­
ness, more men standing in courtyards staring. Children
watched from balconies. At the next turn, we went right
and Lieutenant Juarez's team went left and we rolled down
the alley to what looked like a cul-de-sac.

"There, there!" the BC shouted, pointing to a gap
between a house and a small canal. "That's the road."

"We can't get through there, sir," I told him. The path
was no bigger than a walkway.

"Don'tfuckingcontradict me, Specialist! Drive down that
road!"

Grinding teeth, I poked the truck into the alley. The right
side dipped precipitously down the canal's bank. Left tires

against the wall, my right tires churning mud at the water's

edge, undercarriage dragging, I inched forward as the path
narrowed and the slope steepened. I stopped the truck so I
could shift into low-drive.

"Keep going! What are you stopping for!"
I eased the truck forward. The path narrowed and the

right side sank deeper into ditch muck. Soon there wouldn't
be any path at all.

"Sir."



70 ROY SCRANTON

/' The.

route av,

offlnto 1

Lieute

Ilt� out

unaole t:in� now
�au�sw

Tne f(

W� orov

��(K to I
followea

"Fine, I see! Fine!"
I put the truck in reverse and backed out. Thankfully the

drivers behind us had waited, so it was a straight shot back
to the cul-de-sac. Mud flung up from the tires.

The BC called up Lieutenant Juarez. His team hit a dead
end, too. The BC radioed Lieutenant Krauss and told him
to ask the MPs for directions. We reformed the convoy and
returned to the CP.

Lieutenant Krauss radioed just as we were coming in Gate 1
and told us the MPs had started their assault, but they still
needed us. He told us they had a route that went around
BIAP. We were to go through Checkpoint 7 and take the
first right.

"Do you mean go in through Checkpoint 7 or out?" the
BC asked.

w�re�oll

tventl
�wnan

ur arou�

witncon

"UH, OUT."

"Alright, Let's roll."
We drove out Gate 2 and headed for Checkpoint 7. Just

before reaching the checkpoint the BC told me to turn off
the road. We drove between two closed-up vendors' shacks
into a rough field of hard furrows. The humvee bumped up
and down.

"I don't think this is a road, sir."

"Keep going, Wilson."
We came to a low berm separating the field from a

flooded pasture.
"Fuck," Captain Yarrow said. '�right, turn around."
We got back on the road and went through Checkpoint



, ��oint �,i·

o [he fiela from

, rum arouna."
ough Check�o'

WAR PORN 71

7. The BC had me hug the right side, searching for the
route over the canal. We eventually hit a dirt road that led
off into the dark. The BC told me take it.

.

Lieutenant Krauss radioed that the MPs had secured the

site but still needed help. They were undermanned and
unable to handle security, processing prisoners, and chas­

ing down fleeing targets all at once. Captain Yarrow told
Krauss we were on our way.

The road rose onto a wide berm running along a canal.
We drove down one side until it stopped, then doubled
back to a bridge we'd passed and crossed to the other. We
followed the berms, a maze in bas-relief, not sure where we

were going but definitely headed the right general direction.

Eventually we came to a dip where the road led off the
berm and through a depression. We followed it down then

up around a low hill onto another berm, lined on one side

with concertina wire, running northeast by southwest along
an even larger canal. This was the canal we had to cross.
There was no way across. We stopped.

'That's the house right there," the BC said, pointing out
a low, distant building surrounded by trucks. I looked with

my NVGs: Martians making the green scene, maybe six
hundred meters away.

We mounted up and drove until we came to a Bradley
parked across the berm. Beyond the Bradley rose a wire­

topped wall, BIAP's outer perimeter. Captain Yarrow
scowled. He got out to talk with the Bradley commander,
who didn't think there was any way across the canal from

this side.
"You've gotta go around north," he said, "through Gate 7."



Matrtx

�irk ff.
�nelwh
alwaYl ta

wPragu
/UrOlYOU
fran�fon

Prerecorded bugles pierced the dark. "Crusader Rock!" Mon- wnorenO!
days and Wednesdays out the kaserne gate, running up past ja!aneJe
the Edelsteinminen into the wooded hills or down through the wnole gi
cobbled streets of Idar-Oberstein. Muscle-failure Tuesdays, witnGra
push-ups, sit-ups. Thursdays training. Fridays the "fUn run," Rum�
the whole battery, straight down the hill to the Bahnhof then rnmJW
suffer back up. t�in�. Se

Mondays were Preventative Maintenance Checks and Ser- Brie�
vices, Tuesdays and Wednesdays Army business, Thursdays w�werel
Sergeants' Time Training, and Fridays motor-pool closeout. rrainin�
Clockwork. I�ltem�

tIT man

�arery ft
Omensforetold action, ifnot an invasion at least serious bomb- I�/Iner j
ing. Global drama, weapons inspections, secret reports. iIS�e�

Good. Yes. We don't want the smoking gun to be a mush- Wnat
room cloud. Fuc�

Meanwhile, we grunted through the week, waiting for �uryeal
Freitag, aching for pilsner. Wea' start a little on Wednesday �i�ner, I
night and sometimes Thursday too, and by the weekend hit fa wear
full swing: hefeweizen, frauleins, doner and schnitzel Jager wUierJ
and techno, hazy days, hazier nights. There was Cafe Carre We)re
down the hill our informal battalion pub, and there were The toing.l



r.r.:nluf/:
.4� tnr�t��

I
I. :'U� ruMi

, 'hior jMnm
. atnn�f�

f Ilk, wailintI
, , t 011 Wtdnd:

. the weehnJ
�

1d fchnitze� )i!1
rt {ll(/J Caft Cam
wdthere were r!!

WAR PORN

Matrix and the Q and a dozen others, and oh, the herman

girls. Ifyou got sick of the barracks sluts at The Matrix, the
ones who knew more guys in the unit than you did, you could

always take the train to Kiiln or Saarbrucken or a cheap flight
to Prague or Berlin. There was the Savoy, too, where for eighty
euros you could relieve your tensions with a Thai girl, and Rot

Frankfurt, only an hour away, a red-lit sex bazaar ofsix-story
whorehouses, titty bars, and erotik-shops, jam-packed with
Japanese businessmen. Or, like my roommate Villaguerrero,
whose girlfriend was back home in Queens, kill the weekend
with Grand Theft Auto.

Rumors said we're deploying, rumors said we're not. Ultima­
tums were issued. Bullwinkle said there's no fucking way we're
going. Sergeant First Class Perry shrugged.

Briefly, after settling into the routine but before we knew
we were going, I came back to myself After the shocks ofBasic

Training and moving overseas, months ofpure action, I began
to see myselfagain and wonder who was this strange and stron­

ger man in camouflage. The past clungfragile, like dying moss,
barelyfelt. I kept in touch with myoid ex-girlfriend but didn't
tell her about Julia and Sabine, didn't tell her much-what
was there to say?

What was I now, a soldier?

Fuck no. All a sham. I'd tricked them, and I'd ride these

four years till I got out and made a new plan. I'd drink the

pilsner, salute the butterbars, and hop to it, pretending I cared.
I'd wear the stars and stripes on my shoulder and intone the
soldier's creed. Too easy.

We're not going, Bullwinkle sneered. Of course we're not

going. That's fucking retarded.



76 ROY SCRANTON

• • •

The president made a speech. Captain Yarrow told us be ready.
That Friday we had battalion formation. The colonel said we'd
be in the second wave) relieving the units currently moving in)
either to finish the war or more likelyfor SASo. We had a ten­
tative ship date at the beginning ofMay. Things'd be hopping
and popping till then) but the colonel insisted we'd all get a
week's leave.

We spent that weekend drunk-calls home to tearful moth­
ers-tense discussions with wives and kids-and Monday
started the paperwork) packing) predeployment logistics clus-
terfuck. We got issued new gear. We got ceramic SAPIplatesfor IWoKetG
the vests, but only two sets per battery. There weren't enough iltweenl
desert boots. The DCUs were all the wrong sizes. ilittur�u

We watched the war on Tv. We tracked Fox News) Nasiriyah �lldln��
and Basra) the Old Breed, Rock ofthe Marne) the Screaming mHatro
Eagles. A few days later, we were told we'd have the next week I went
for block leave. I called my ex-girlfriend and asked her ifshe �vtrloohl
wanted to come to Paris. I said I'dpayfor everything. (��r�, a�

ll�t�ln�
�rl�nten

Tne G

ntl�nDo
rUKea il
mtre, To
marKet s
mtnt�,

��olatio
mt UN



squeezing the trigger releases the hammer,
which strikes the firing pin,

causing it to impact the primer

I woke to a dull sky, the air not yet warm. Early sun shot
between massive apartment blocks to the east, gleaming off
the turquoise dome beyond the north wall of Camp Lancer,

gilding palm leaves, turning the streets to light. I crammed

my patrol bag in my stuff sack and folded my cot.
I went out through the X-taped glass door to the balcony

overlooking the courtyard. At the near end were two plastic
chairs, and at the far end Captain Yarrow on his cot in a

sleeping mask. I sat down, lit a smoke, and watched the sky
brighten behind the mosque's minarets.

The city slept. To the north, an orderly middle-class

neighborhood, a grid of streets, houses and yards, cars

parked in driveways, shaded sidewalks. Kids played soccer
there. To the east and west, thoroughfares lined by shops,
market stalls, and cafes. Farther east stood high-rise apart­
ments, but to the west the neighborhood thinned to a
desolation of half-built homes and vacant lots bordering
the UN compound at the Canal Hotel. Beyond that lay



71 ROY SCRANTON

the borders of Sadr City, a warren of low wires and bristling He�ds,
'

aerials ruled by Ali Baba and Shi' a militias. To the south, ilirough I

beyond the defunct cigarette factory, the city stabbed up: ltoryrum
minarets and smokestacks, the Green Zone's palace spires, wllapsed
Ba' athist icons, cyclopean dream-sculpture. In the distance �I�ted in
a great blue egg hung against the sky like a fallen planet. full of sol

This was the only time all day the city breathed softly, littered WJ

evoking in the pale, slanting light imagination's Babylon, wiring uj
letting me feel for a moment like the poet I'd once been. �yanead,

Later the temperature would top 115. Later I'd chamber a mrough I
round and prepare to kill. Later the heat and stink of the day, flllle, �
the yelling faces, rancor, noise, and fury broiling and thrum- OOWfi rubl
ming in waves off the blacktop would make me both want ,noleiliil
and fear needing a reason to pull my trigger, to feel my grip We cam
buck in my hands, to tear jagged red holes in men's flesh. ili� DFA

But for a moment, I had white-gold serenity glazing w� cleare
still arcades. I prayed in the morning's ease for grace, that I macoffe
might find it somewhere out there over the wall and down rld3ticcn
shadowed alleys, under arabesques of purpled gold, beneath wiatscree
the hovering sun now glaring like a blooded eye. Glory,

fm� ana
�fn ilie .

Downstairs I showered in a makeshift stall between two

ponchos. I put on the same sweat-stiff DCUs I'd worn
the day before. I checked my combat load, made sure I
had the Be's MP3 speakers. I did daily maintenance: oil,
coolant, transmission fluid, belts. Struts, CV joints, tires.
I checked the undercarriage for leaks.

• •

trm�cenae

ilio�ee�s
f�itenews
wnfre�eo
�ow Jone
ilie Do "x,
(Qm�l�n
tODlowm



WAR PORN 79

Healds, Porkchop, and I headed for breakfast, walking
through the shattered central hall of the bombed-out six­
story ruin that stood between us and the DFAC. Wires and

collapsed supports hung from the ceiling like vines. Holes
blasted in the floor dropped into stinking sub-basements
full of soda cans and rot, pits yawned in dusty corridors
littered with rock and paper, the scent of things long dead
wafting up from below. Stories of crushed stone loomed
overhead, gashed rebar jutting and bristling rust-red

through tunnels of light burrowing into the sky, broken
granite, twisted metal. Sometimes chips of stone clattered
down rubble-choked stairs and we'd flinch, imagining the
whole thing collapsing in on us.

We came through the shade into a flash of light outside
the DFAC where three sergeants lounged smoking cigars.
We cleared our rifles and went inside. We got our food

and coffee, slathered our plates with Texas Pete, then sat in

plastic chairs at plastic tables and watched Fox News on a
widescreen Tv.

Glory. The salt and pepper shakers, the napkins and plastic
forks and Styrofoam plates, the bad food, the worse coffee,
even the ketchup packets and juice boxes glowed sublime,
transcendent, essential. I cherished it. I needed it. I relished

those eggs and that coffee and the witless ballyhoo on the sat­
ellite news, dizzily feeling for a moment like a man in a world
where people had opinions about events, a world ofAPRs and
Dow Jones numbers and mortgages and "thinking outside
the box," a world where celebrities had breakdowns and we

complained about cell-phone service and no one was trying
to blow my fucking legs off.



10 ROY SCRANTON

A humvee burned, caught in the TV's frame like a votive.
Honorable Secretary Donald Rumsfeld came on and said
we'd reached a turning point. He was followed by a man
with mousse in his hair standing on the roof of the Palestine
Hotel, then a commercial for Viagra.

HeWJ1

�nouted,
I shrug

Dl�teafro

The Hagakure reads: "The way of the samurai is found in
death. When it comes to either/or, there is only the quick
choice of death. It is not particularly difficult. Be deter­
mined and advance ... If by setting one's heart right every
morning, one is able to live as though already dead, he gains
freedom in the way."

I checked my weapon, patted down my armor plates,
reminded myself that I was a soldier and this was my fuck­
ingjob and I would damn well try to die with a little dignity.

Beyond the gate, the roads were already thick with cars, the
skies hazy with smog. The chaos out there, the crazy Arabic
writing and abu-jabba jabber, the lawless traffic, the hidden
danger and buzz and stray bullets and death looming from
every overpass pressed down on my soul like a hot wind. On
the streets, eyes scanning trash for loose wires, I sank into the
standard daily manic paranoid torpor: trapped in a broiling
box with big targets on the sides, damned to drive the same
maze over and over till somebody killed me. We rolled down
Canal Road, our escorts weaving in and out of traffic, our
hemmets and Iraqi semis chugging behind.

"Whatcha wanna listen to?" Captain Yarrow yelled over
the engine.

"Whattaya got?" I shouted back.



in a �Wl

,
0 drivernl£

,
We rollooM

o (of Uaffi(l(

WAR PORN 81

He waved his MP3 player at me. ''All kinds of stuff," he
shouted.

I shrugged. He pushed a button. The Pet Shop Boys
blasted from the speakers, singing "West End Girls."



- ---

More s1

)lwa wo

"Cease f

arlvln�! K

whenever possible, you should avoid kill zones
such as streets, alleys, and parks Our wlndo

\IDOKe, pro
wa traffic,
WIDe up 0

a�aa �top, I

ln� fenders

Driving the edge of Sadr City through bumper-to-bumper American �
afternoon jam, I heard Lieutenant Krauss behind me yell, �ara�,w
""\VT h 1ft" II]EO),"weapon on tee .

"What, where?" the BC shouted. IIDldn't
"Pistol. Pistol left side. Blue shirt. Pistol left.

"

IIMaYDe
Captain Yarrow grabbed the hand mike and I looked left, IICould �

taking the scene in a glance. First it was a mass of bodies on II] think
a corner then I picked out two people arguing, a blue shirt, Ahead 01
a pistol. Captain Yarrow said something into the mike and r�1 where
Lieutenant Krauss shouted, "He's aiming! He's aiming!" mrwara,fj

Then two loud bangs behind my head. Brass dinged off lI]fitw�
my Kevlar and fell burning down the back of my shirt. An Iraqi

In my periphery, movement: Iraqis scattered and dove to �a�,andI
the ground. ofnl�wlnd

"There he goes!" shouted Krauss and fired two more rum off an
times. I scrunched my head into my shoulders like a turtle,

·

��wu� In
closing the gap between my helmet and armor. His empty IIGood i
shells plinked off me. Iyou wa



'. 'oj i �ill1(':
.'. � �t�, a�ij �i'

mor, His em�i

WAR PORN

More shooting, ours, into the crowd. Across the street I
saw a woman in black jerk up and swing to the ground.

"Cease fire, cease fire!" Captain Yarrow shouted. "Keep
driving! Keep driving!"

Our windows wide, we sucked down exhaust, refinery
smoke, propane, and the reek of sun-baked sewage. Crowds

and traffic, buildings looming, cars and stucco, and we
come up out of the mess onto the expressway, flow at a

dead stop. Honking cars clogged the lanes, bumpers scrap­
ing fenders, brown faces glaring. Up ahead we could see
American soldiers blocking the road, gun trucks and air

guards, some big Army goatfuck.
"lED?"

"Didn't hear anything."
"Maybe it hasn't gone of£"
"Could be a checkpoint."
"I think it's an lED."

Ahead on the left, Iraqis cut through a gap in the guard­
rail where a tank had rolled through. We moved slowly
forward, filling the space opened by the fleeing cars.

"If it was a checkpoint, we'd be moving."
An Iraqi car started backing toward us, angling for the

gap, and I laid on the horn. The driver stuck
his head out

of his window and pointed where he wanted to go. I flipped
him off and goosed forward, ramming his rear. His hands
flew up in anger.

"Good job, Wilson."
"You want me to go for that gap, sir?"



14 ROY SCRANTON

"No, we'll wait it out."

Twenty-five minutes later, broiling between the sun and
the engine, I asked him again about the gap and he said yes.
We edged over, nudging Iraqi cars out of the way with the
brush guard, then swung around and took off back the way
we came.

Captain Yarrow scanned the thick red and blue lines on
his street map of Baghdad. He gave me directions across
the 3ID bridge and into the Green Zone, but we got lost
and wound up driving down a quiet, tree-lined boulevard
along the Tigris. We passed a building spray-painted IRAQI
COMMUNIST WORKERS' PARTY and a looted bank. Iraqis
ambled along like it was Unter den Linden: couples holding
hands, businessmen talking, heads bowed like mendicants.
The smell of the trees cut the stink of exhaust, and in the

dappled shade, it seemed we'd fallen through a rabbit hole
into some alternate Baghdad, an oasis of brotherhood and
peace.

Then we came up on a bridge and into the burning sky.
Refinery fires licked the horizon.

A couple days later was the Fourth of July, and to celebrate
they had a barbecue at the DFAC, hamburgers and hot
dogs, and a Star wars marathon in the compound's decrepit
movie theater. After dinner, as the sun went down, Healds
and I and some other guys went up on the roof of our

building and smoked.
The upper six floors were off-limits because of snip­

ers. The first few times, we went cautiously, for souvenirs.

�omeone t

�endar an
��o found
��ten MRE�

Now we'

l��f interchd
million wu�
other, hurryjlto oleea, sp
��!kets ana

nin� Detwee
�ra!!, Up 0\
4llathe nig�
flDer-optic j
[�ll phones
�mt! uploa
r�lin� as °
Ina the '@

overneaa,

!nriebng u�
(neereo, Tr
neon,

"j can't �
�urnetts�

rO!ter fl
ni�nt1"

((Naw,"



n the sun�;
and he salQ)t

WAR PORN

Someone found a framed photo of Saddam. I got a hadji
calendar and a picture of some guy getting an award. We
also found what the Marines had left, a pile of shit, half­
eaten MREs, and graffiti, FUCK IRAQ! and FIRST TO FIGHT!

Now we went up to watch the city: Sweeping clover­
leaf interchanges, satellite dishes, pileups and traffic, six
million souls watching DVDs and blogging, texting each
other, hurrying through markets past sheep carcasses hung
to bleed, spice sellers, bags of black, dried limes and reed
baskets and old women haggling over okra, children run­

ning between stalls and down alleys, faces flickering in
brass. Up out of the ancient garden of Sinbad's Baghdad
and the nightmare of Saddam's Ba' athist dystopia grew the

fiber-optic slums of tomorrowland, where shepherds on
cell phones herded flocks down expressways and insur­

gents uploaded video beheadings, everything rising and

falling as one, Hammurabi's Code and Xboxes, the wheel
and the Web, Ur to Persepolis to Sykes-Picot to CNN,
a ruin outside of time, a twenty-first-century cyberpunk
war-machine interzone.

We watched cars zoom by below while Kiowas whickered
overhead. An RPG went off in the distance, yellow sparks
shrieking up at the helicopters ceaselessly circling, and we
cheered. Tracers rose and fell across the sky like burning
neon.

"I can't believe how much this place looks like L.A.,"
Burnett said.

Foster flicked a butt over the side. "You up here last

night?"
"Naw."



"Wicked firefight." mat's fuck!
The sun bled magenta across the horizon and the lights tOu're real0

of the shops and cafes carved tiny scallops in the purple "Negativ
night. Cars without headlights flew down the road, weav- l�it. Catch

ing crazily. No traffic lights, no cops, no streetlamps. We "TheBlal
waited for collisions, explosions, gunshots. "Hell ye,

"This stupid fucking place," Burnett said. "I don't know �f.lheard I

why we don't just nuke it." iliefuck'H�
"What, Burnett, you wanna miss this? This is your war, ru,led·up j

man." WffieDackl
"Yeah. I wanted to meet interesting and stimulating peo- Therewa

ple of an ancient culture and kill them." IIOhshit
"Shut your fucking face, Pyle, you sick piece of shit. You "Looked Ido not deserve to survive in my Corps." An Apac
"You ever notice Bullwinkle looks like Pyle?" me �ash h
"Better watch out. He might shoot you in your underwear." ��ntfaGed,
"He better fucking kill me if he thinks he can take my m��wasp,

underwear.
"

"C'mon Burnett. I know you're a secret hadji lover. You
blow your wad every night dreaming of some fat-assed hadji
bitch riding your cock all belelelelelelelelah."

"See that bitch today in the blue jeans? Shit hot. Just like
a fucking American girl."

''Ass cheeks like melons. Honeydew melons."
"That's what I'm talking about, some sweet hadji ass."
"Fuck that. Hadjis stink."
"Shit, they wash up like normal people. Besides, you

stink too."

"Yeah, but I ain't gonna fuck me."
"Unless you get some hadji twat, you're the only thing

I' ROY SCRANTON



I I. Be�ja�,!

'e we on1r �

WAR PORN 17

that's fucking you. Just let yourself go for a few weeks till
you're really filthy. Then you won't even notice."

"Negative. They're probably fucking diseased or some
shit. Catch some freaky Mohammed clap."

"The Black Syphilis."
"Hell yeah. They got diseases here you ain't even heard

of. I heard the PA say watch out for leeshamaneesis. What

the fuck's that? We shoulda just fucking nuked this fucking
fucked-up fuckhole from the fucking start. And then we
come back and take the oil whenever we want."

There was a flash in the distance.

"Oh shit you see that?"

"Looked like an lED."

An Apache swung low over the gray cloud rising where
the flash had gone off. We lit cigarettes as the last of the

light faded, watching the Apache dip and swing like a giant
angry wasp.



wa Staff �

�tooa smo1
Two old(

ili� village,
ili�m, rush!1

we are heroes in error; "I�nta," I
what was said before is not important Tneyjab!

IIU�kut,"
We aidn'

�ur naaji w
�im over an

�ftnQ the (

'&om.bl
�mQ�,

The two

The road bent away from the river and climbed a low

berm. Oil glimmered purple in the sun in puddles, leak­
ing through the berm's sandy skin. To our left stood hovels
wreathed in wires and clotheslines and a flock of raggedy
children, shoeless, hooting and pointing. Far to the west lay
the outskirts of Baghdad, smudged with haze. We turned
past a wrecked BMP slouched inert on the shoulder.

"It's right up here somewhere."
We passed some blown-out tanks half hidden in the

palms to our right, then hit a road leading around the vil­
lage toward the city. The Be pointed and I turned and we
drove by the husk of a building, just two ruined walls stand­
ing in the shimmer like sundial hands.

"It should be right here," the Be said.
I scanned the earth for telltale fins, black mounds, glints

of aluminum casing.
"Pull off over there."

The Be and Lieutenant Krauss got out. e27 pulled aside

��aQeQ an
iN� Dam os

"No, not
)10oam Do
w�'re here t

"Oh yes,
��rturned
f�ttn,

ilfno Do
ij�Domo, �

"Go oo�



· C2 pujjea�

WAR PORN .9

and Staff Sergeant Smith joined them. I dismounted and
stood smoking, watching the perimeter.

Two older hadjis in man-dresses walked toward us from
the village. The flock of children from before overtook
them, rushing at us.

"Ishta," I shouted at the kids.

They jabbered back. "Mista, Mista! MRE!"
"Uskut," I yelled. They laughed and capered.
We didn't have a proper translator, but the manager of

our hadji work team spoke a little English. The BC called
him over and tried to ask the two villagers if they could help
us find the ammo cache.

"Boom-boom," Captain Yarrow said, gesturing with his
hands.

The two villagers spoke. The team manager listened and
nodded and smiled. "Is bombs no here," he told Yarrow.

"No bombs. People good, Bush good. Saddam bad."
"No, not people's bombs," the BC said. "Old bombs.

Saddam bombs. We're here to clean them up. Tell them

we're here to take the old bombs away."
"Oh yes, yes. Okay good. No problem." The team man­

ager turned back to the two men and they chatted back and
forth.

"Misra!" one ofthe kids shouted at me. "You give me dollar!"
"Fuck off," I said. "Ishta."

They laughed and pushed each other toward me.
The team manager turned back to Captain Yarrow. "He

say no bomb. Bomb bad. No bomb. He say Saddam bad,
no bomb. He say al-Ameriki come, go bomb."

"Go bomb?"



90 ROY SCRANTON

"Go bomb, bomb." The team manager mimed hauling
something off.

"Take bomb?"

"Yes, take bomb! No problem!"
"What about the tanks? Is there anything over by the

tanks?"
"Tank?"

"The tanks." Captain Yarrow hunched his shoulders and
rocked his body back and forth. "Brrrrrrrrrum," he growled,
swinging his head side to side.

"Ah, tank, yes. No. Yes. No problem."
The kids edged forward and I waved my rifle at them.

They shrieked and scattered, then reformed in a mass. They
laughed and pointed.

"Mista, you give me."
"Misra, MRE."
"Ishta," I said.
"Ishta, ishta!" they shouted back.
"He say yes, bomb and tank, yes. There, there. No

problem."
"Great," said Captain Yarrow. 'Tell him thank you, and

to keep his people back while we're working. Tell him it's
d

"

very angerous.
We drove back up the road, where we found a small

cache of tank and mortar rounds in the palms, hidden
behind a berm. It took about two hours to clear every­

thing. The kids kept running over and we had to keep
chasing them off.

Driving de

lnaKing oW

maio squav
lfRO·THREE

II�TATUS G

Ca�tain �
111 the convl

II�ir1"
Ilrull the �
leasea ofl

,t,AKs,�
"fIRE RIGE

He�ds's rl

III can't see

IIKee� �Ol
I JWUn� D

�,Tnesh
L��t�n y

f�eryone res]
mtoilienan
rem·two, wh

Noanswe
(brernow,

IICrusaae
'%at'syou

Mr armo
�eeaeQ a cig
IAnYCru

�ar have e)
"CRUSAn}• • •



"Pull the fuck over, Wilson!"

I eased off the gas and slid to the shoulder. Shots to the

right, AKs, close.
m, "FIRE RIGHT SIDE! RIGHT SIDE!"

Healds's rifle went off pop-pop-pop.
"I can't see," Lieutenant Krauss shouted.

"Keep going, keep going!" the BC yelled.
I swung back onto the road and took the convoy up to

fifty. The shooting kept on, mostly us, then petered out.
Captain Yarrow got on the radio and called for a status report.

Everyone responded except Two-zero-two. Yarrow screamed
into the hand mike: "Crusader Two-zero-two, Crusader Two­

zero-two, what's your status, over? Respond! Respond!"
No answer. I exhaled, staring at the road. The world was

clearer now, numinous, drenched in light.
"Crusader Two-zero-two!" Captain Yarrow shouted.

"What's your status, over? Respond!"
My armor plate lay on my chest like a lover's head. I

needed a cigarette.
"Any Crusader element, this is Crusader Six, does some­

body have eyes on Two-zero-two?"
"CRUSADER SIX, THIS IS CRUSADER TWO-ZERO-FIVE

WAR PORN 91

Driving down the road something exploded behind us,
shaking our truck, then something else exploded and the
radio squawked: "GRENADE GRENADE CRUSADER Two­
ZERO-THREE WHAT'S YOUR STATUS?"

"STATUS GREEN OVER."

Captain Yarrow stuck his head out the window, trying to
see the convoy behind us. He told me pull over.

"Sir?"



9J ROY SCRANTON

NOVEMBER. WE HAVE EYES ON TWO-ZERO-TWO, STATUS

GREEN, BREAK. THEY DON'T HAVE A RADIO. OVER."

"Well make sure they get a goddamned radio," Cap­
tain Yarrow shouted into his mike. "Somebody give me a
sitrep."

"SIX, THIS IS ONE-SIX NOVEMBER. Two GRENADES FROM
THE OVERPASS, BREAK. ONE FELL WIDE AND THE OTHER

BOUNCED OFF THE BACK OF TWO-ZERO-THREE."

"All Crusader elements, this is Crusader Six. Keep a tight
eye on your twelve. Watch those overpasses and don't take

any chances. Let's get this load of ammo to Wardog."
"You see who was shooting at us, Healds?" Lieutenant

Krauss asked.

"Uh honestlv. si t". .. onest y, SIr.

"Yes."

"N all"ot re y.
At the next overpass I saw two hadjis crossing above so I

swung wide right to keep the convoy from passing beneath
them. As we drove into the shadows under the arch, I heard
the trucks behind open fire.

�r�eant Cha
llrtain Yarro
Iltli�tening tfj
m�tne letter

SIlnlnaler flip
lieutenant

w�tnat1"

�er�eant C
Ine LT w

ater ann wen
meifl wantel

[rean the:
(aJllefrom,
ur a �en an
��mD, wasn
m�ine�.



"_. --.........-
�

La-l'-�--.......I-"

desiring democracy and modernization immediately
is a good example of what

a westerner might view as an arab's "wish vs. reality"

Sergeant Chandler read Maxim. Lieutenant Krauss and

Captain Yarrow watched Braveheart in the captain's room. I
sat listening to this mix CD a girl had made me and reread­
ing the letter she'd sent. Rifle fire popped off close. Sergeant

mp�\'i Chandler flipped a page of his magazine.
Lieutenant Krauss stomped in, weapon in hand. "What

was that?"

Sergeant Chandler shrugged.
The LT went downstairs, then returned a few minutes

later and went back to Braveheart. Healds came in and asked

me if I wanted to smoke and I told him I'd just had one.
I read the girl's letter again, amazed at how far away it

came from, how ignorant she was of my world. I picked
up a pen and paper to reply but found myself struck
dumb, washed in a frustration humming like great
engmes.

• • •



94 ROY SCRANTON

The next day we got a late start and by the time we hit the
streets, the shooting was heavy. A shot every few seconds,
every minute or so a long clatter of fire. Some close, some
farther away. Sometimes we'd hear the ping of nearby rico­
chet, though it didn't seem like we were being targeted.

We pulled off onto a frontage road, searching for the first
cache. Captain Yarrow peered at the map, at his GPS, then
back at the map, sometimes giving directions. For myself,
I watched the tree line, the buildings in the distance, the
earth and sky, eyes wide for the spray of impact or a muz­
zle flash. I felt preternaturally alert and also numb. Shots
cracked out all around us.

Captain Yarrow directed us into a wide, vacant lot, about
a block off Canal Road.

"Fuck this," Healds hissed.
"You guys nervous?" Lieutenant Krauss asked.

Loud zing of ricochet.
"Fuck no, sir. This is bread and butter. I love it when

the world goes batshit and everybody's shooting all over the
goddamned place."

"You worry too much," the LT said.
There was an overpass to the west and a cluster of

half-built three-story homes to the north. Beyond that,
northwest, lay Sadr City.

"Stop here," Captain Yarrow said. He and Krauss got out
and Healds and I stayed in the truck.

"You see anything?" Yarrow yelled as he and the LT
stomped around searching for shells.

"No, sir."
"Follow me," he said. We circled the field, shots popping

ill afOur

�otner
Carta

Go/,As
I�uaer u

ma ric�
�ce,I
I�iela or

Tne d
�I�c� J
�riyin�
�er�n
manaJ
waterli,

t�rea, ol

1�rlo�io
�4Q me
�ilim �
m�tal,



orne clO��, !�:
i � of nearDr�[

fl'
n� tar��t�,
In�forilid:

a hI) Gr�,�

WAR PORN 9S

all around us, then the two officers got back in the truck.

Another zing, another ricochet.
Captain Yarrow had me drive northwest toward Sadr

City. As we neared the ghetto, the shooting got louder and
louder until we swam in the noise of it. Shots and echoes

and ricochets wrapped us in a cacophony like industrial
dance. I waited for the first rounds to puncture the wind­

shield or the canvas roof

The next site was a larger lot, five blocks long and two
blocks wide, full of stagnant pools and blackened muck.
Driving in circles through the filth we eventually found
several hundred mortar and light artillery rounds scattered
in and around a stinking puddle. Fins stuck out of the oily
water like dead metal sharks. Most of the rounds were scat­

tered, black, and misshapen, the obvious remains of an

explosion. Captain Yarrow marked the site on his map and
had me drive the corners. The shooting let up for about
half an hour then redoubled, manic, the sky raucous with
metal.

The BC had us drive to the UN compound at the Canal
Hotel. We parked our trucks around back and went in
for lunch. Weapons and armor were prohibited, so we left

everything with Foster, who volunteered to stand guard if
we brought him a plate. On the way in, we passed fleets of
bright blue, brand-new SUVs marked in day-glo orange:
UNHIOC, UNHCR, UN, UNESCO. We'd seen them

driving the streets, clean and shining, stunning colors blaz­
ing against the city skelter.



96 ROY SCRANTON

"Remember," Captain Yarrow said, "we're representatives
of the United States of America. Be on your best behavior."

The doors opened to beatitude: clean and quiet, chilled,
orderly, bureaucratic assurance washed in light and AC
hum. A woman wafted by in a skirt, trailing eddies of
designer scent, and our heads turned together following her
gold earrings, her swinging curves and lean calves, her high
heels clipping along the stone. A man in a jacket and tie
passed the other way, carrying thick files in soft pink hands.

Captain Yarrow led us to the cafeteria, where again we
stood dazed, this time by the heaps of food on the serv­
ing line, the gleaming elegance of the white tablecloths and
smiling servers. They had roast chicken and fresh salad,
rice and hummus, bread and fruit and sauces, all on porce­
lain plates with metal servingware, drinks in glass tumblers
and-impossibly-ice cream.

We piled our plates high and feasted like jackals.
I wondered as I ate: maybe when I got out I could do

this, be one of these people, get the thrill of war without all
the Army bullshit. I could be a war correspondent or maybe
some kind of humanitarian. It'd be perfect: I'd get the
adventure but I'd get to bathe, eat well, and drink cognac
with beautiful, intelligent women. I'd have the internet,
cynical-wise conversation, and the warm fulfillment of

knowing I was doing something good. For the world.
My mouth full of chicken, I flushed with obscure yearn­

ing, loneliness, and the sudden desire for these people to see
me as one of their own, to see how enlightened I really was
beneath my salt-stiff DCUs, how different from the thugs
I'd come in with. I wanted to talk with these business-casual



representatil;
best benayi�:
dqulet,cMt

i \i�ht anoll
�\in� eaill�,

I

er fo�owi���
alveI, n�[�

.

a jacK�t 4n�:
.

)Qn�inKnl[

.j� ODlcurer�

�ese peo�lew!
rened I re�r�

nr from the w�
I e busjness·(4l�

WAR PORN 97

cosmopolitans about human rights and cultural program­
ming, Michel Foucault and Zadie Smith. I wanted to
corner the woman in the skirt, take her hands in mine, and
convince her: I used to read Whitman. I used to read Joyce.

After finishing our ice cream, a few of us wandered down
the hall to the cafe to smoke. There were more men and

women there, more UN types drinking tea and coffee. A
talking head on the TV said that Uday and Qusay had been
killed .



ilirou�h
utlfacts
roller eel

the primer ignites the propellant in the round Wllower
Wllat thl

gas from the burni ng propellant �wo�, tn

pushes the projectile along the weapon l�noyee
��W'

lOla �
Ger�o

rourtyall

m�rara
Captain Yarrow watched Black Hawk Down. I stood in the �(a�em
doorway behind him, eyeing the jumpcuts flashing Holly- ��ffie'
wood prettyboys acting tough. w�� aro

"You don't get enough war during the day, sir?" !�out�a
"What's that, Wilson?" �orm,�
"I said you don't get enough war during the day, sir?" �illI1yee,
"I'm watching for pointers. This is tactical review." lmaa
"Sir?" ttttn, W
"Yeah. Good lessons learned. Like, bring water. See, if ma unr�

they'd done that, they would've been in much better shape. Uhi
Their NCOs needed to be doing better precombat checks (lo��Q
and inspections. You can learn a lot from this, Wilson.
You'll be an NCO yourself someday."

"R
. "

oger, SIr.

"Pull up a chair."

"No thanks, sir."
I went back to the common room. I looked around at the

same tired, dirty faces I saw every day, then sat and flipped



\�� �m�!I!�'
� �I��� l�� WM;:

•

I Iltooam[
•. alnin� ��:

, uwam,&11'
e

�. Demr!���
e omDat��

om rhi�, W,.

cd arauna at�
sat and flir�

WAR PORN 99

through the letters I'd saved up from girls back home­
artifacts from hyperspace. Who were these women doing
roller derby in Wisconsin, meditating, hiking mountains?
Who were they to say they missed me and hoped I was safe?
What the fuck did they know about it? Where were their
hands, their smells, their voices? What would they think if
I shoved my rifle in their faces and screamed at them, "Kif

Ogufl"
I did fifty push-ups then went downstairs to smoke.
Geraldo had lit a plastics fire in a trash barrel, filling the

courtyard with toxic fumes. I walked past him, out through
the yard toward the wall, thinking I could go right over­

escape into the night and find some nice Kurdish family to
take me in who wouldn't cut my throat in my sleep. I could
walk around in regular clothes, sit in a cafe and bullshit
about politics. I could even turn hadji, learn to read the
Koran, grow a mustache, wear a man-dress, glare at Ameriki
humvee. I could learn to breathe again.

I made my way back toward the barracks. I brushed my

teeth, went upstairs, took my cot out onto the balcony,
and unrolled my patrol bag. Shots rang out. I listened to
The White Album for a while, then took off my glasses and
closed my eyes.



Used to date a beauty queen, olee-olee-annah. Now 1 date
my M-l6, olee-olee-ann-ah. Oh-lee-ohhhh, olee-olee-annah,
oh-lee-ohhhh, olee-olee-annah. Used to drive a Cadillac,
olee-olee-annah. Now 1 hump it on my back, olee-olee­
ann-ah.

r�ree guy:

i�ttne res,
Tnen t)

��,ryef dl

I�nte at UJ

wetnry;'�moki
lnfide �

Iwatcn t�

lie) lcreal
!tilm a
�ifflr, il��UJUft�
i�fhand

We tumble offthe bus in the night, screamed at by a redheaded
specialist who briefi us on what we'reforbidden andgives us two
minutes each in curtained stalls to dump out all our chewing
gum, candy, novels, magazines, CD players, nonprescription
medication, booze, cigarettes, drugs, video games, and what­
ever else we thought we could sneak past the drill sergeants.
We're warned this is our last chance. We're told someone will

think they're the exception. They're wrong, the specialist says.
They will be the example.

On Monday morning, just like in a movie, our first round
brown breaks the dark shouting and banging a can. We mus­
ter, go to chow, and it starts: forms, shots, ID cards, briefings,
initial uniform issue. Somebody tells the drill sergeant there's
no hot water in the showers and he puts on a concerned face
and says he'll check on it. Thursday we take our initial PT test:
thirteen push-ups, seventeen sit-ups, run a mile in eight thirty.

��r �ear
�, Tnry
�Iarran

)�U nave
fnvate(

)�utninR
�t�a/lin�

�'re�
roth

fnvateyo
�in� thi
�vePril

nry
Ilwnru,

Wirythin
�wnan



, It) our[lnl r�\
nu a can, Wtm.

V (a,�) onp�;
'/I sergeanll!r

� a (oncern�J�,
tfI,initiam�
,k In eignt tni�

WAR PORN 101

Three guysfail out and get recycled to Fat Boy. The next morn­
ing the rest ofus post with our bags in the yard.

Then the real drill sergeants arrive. Heads shaved to bul­

lets, eyes dooming searchlights, boots gleaming liquidpain, they
lunge at us in their Smokey Bears lucid, swift, and terrible. At
once they're on the attack, herding us into cattle cars, and we
stumble in on each other, dazed and sweating.

Inside the cattle car hot and close with the stench offear,
I watch the fort roll by through a tiny window. We stop and
they scream and we fall out and form up. There are legions
of them and all they do is yell. You flinch, move, wobble,
mutter, blink-Wham-there's a fucker on your eyeball like

you just raped his mom. We line up and get helmets and ruck-
sacks and laundry bagsfull ofequipment. As we waddle with
our gear into lines in the sun, the drill sergeants lash into

us. They form us back up and issue precise instructions for
the arrangement ofour equipment, this goes here, that there,
you have thirty seconds and what the fuck are you thinking,
Private? You have completely jacked your entire day and do

you think ... Are you eyeballing me, Private? Are youfucking
eyeballing me?

�'re loaded back on the cattle cars panting. The trucks cross
to the training side. We stop and they're on us again, faster
Private you wanna die, you gonna die you move that slow, you
think this is summer camp, you think Tm here to-you best

move Private-Are you eyeballing me?
They start simple: stack things this way, you have thirty

seconds. You fail, get down and push. Move over here, stack

everything that way, you have thirty seconds. You fail. Get
down andpush. We get some kind ofspeech. Get everything up



10) ROY SCRANTON

to the barracks, pick a bunk and stow your gear and return to
the drillpad You have two minutes.

You fail Get down and push. You have to learn the value
of time, Private, you must learn the value of time. A lot can
happen in two minutes.

�i�M ofth
�Irealized
�Iner than

i�Ur!e yout
Jrn�offinsl
�(rytning,
:W�l
A orick-

!I�nt! Irn .
�rmJ to shl
��eant!"

rnerewi
"We'llsei
'�i,"n

I�IJ foce a
�1�raJ�a,
�� Ijoin�
Iw�a te

1!I�ne na

�Iemoer
®in�anyJ
mJome

"�nut

Ir�F!Jor?"
"Well,
�lrign
!norto
"YoU oe
rnorto!

�n,

The lunaticfascistfuck in thefunny hat who made us call him
Drill Sergeant gathered us around him in a small circle, forty
stinking boys, and had us one by one say our names, where
we'refrom, and why wejoined the army.

His name was Drill Sergeant Krugman. He was our supreme
fistfuck, a light infantry sniper, and I still think back fondly
to our first day there, his big black boots shining in my face
as he walked up and down the line, the pain in my arms and
chest and hips, the puddle ofsweat on thefloor under my chin.
Down, he said, and we lowered ourselves to the level of his
rippled boot soles. Up, he said, and we pushed past the toe
gleaming like a vulcan mirror, past the ankle where the boot
narrowed, up the leather along the leg where it widened, the
laces taut and strong, hide smooth, to the very top, where snugly
bloused trousers slid into the leather like a hand into a glove.

Three-five, Drill Sergeant, we gasped, weak and broken. we
did not deserve his love. Down, he said And we went down.

Now his eyes scanned the circle ofshaved skulls.
"How about you, pinhead? Why'd you decide to pollute my

?"
army.

The googly-eyed private looked up. "Uh, my name's Jimmy
Wuckertt, Drill Sarnt, and Tm from Bahstan. L uh, joined
ah, you know, ah, nine-eleven. Drill Sarnt.

"

The truth: a long



r and return:

karn tne �I
time, AWla

madeuHa�'
S1M� arc�, J:

n In mJarrm�

rundermJii
o ne �e/�f'

. fa ;aJll�1
I u!nml�I','
t i, wiJenI�:

"ry namef}im!
m, l un, j�ir�
The trUtka�

WAR PORN 10J

night ofthe soul, in jailfor possession with intent to sell, when
he realized that ifhe kept dealing and smoking, it was sooner
rather than later he'd be doing way more than ninety days. Of
course you're not supposed to be able to get in the army with
drug offenses like that on your record, but there's a waiver for
everything.

"Andyou, Carruthers, you fatfuck?"
A brick-headed troglodyte: 'Jason Carruthers, Drill Ser­

geant! Tm from Indianapolis, Indiana, hooah. I joined the
Army to shoot stuff! Jump out ofplanes and kill people! Drill
Sergeant!"

There were a couple hooahs.
"We'll see. And what about you, Thorton?"

"Hi." Thorton waved at us. He was a big guy with an

ape's face and monstrous ears. 'I'm Albert Thorton. I'm from
Nebraska, but I was actually living in Illinois. Uh, well, actu­

ally Ijoined the army for a couple of reasons, Drill Sergeant.
I was a teaching assistant, working on my PhD in history, on
the one hand going further into debt and on the other, after
September 11, it sort ofseemed ... I mean, itfelt like I wasn't

doing anything with my life. I wanted to do something import­
ant. Something meaningful. So, Ifelt like I should. . .

"

"Shut your cakehole, Thorton. You're a fucking college
professor?

"

"Well, I was teaching but. . .
"

':Alright, Professor, shut your goddamned mouth andpush.
"

Thorton was confused.
"You better dad-gummed start pushing right now, Private.

"

Thorton dropped to his hands and pushed himself up and
down.



104 ROY SCRANTON

"You.
"

Drill Sergeant Krugman turned, pinning me with
his cold blue eyes.

I saw myself as he saw me, skinny-necked, bird-beaked,
blinking anemically from behind clunky-framed Army-issue
Basic Combat Glasses, and wanted nothing more than to erase
myselffrom his vision, erase my poems, my hippie past, erase
everything but the camouflage BDUs I wore and my determi­
nation to make it through.

"Nine-eleven,
"

I shouted, "Drill Sergeant!"

I�tlnone

fim Clas�

(��m�,
r�tmrized

(n(Ker, an
(��m�we
mtMREn
I fit me Da�
�rerinm
�(K, li�te

��i(e�, tal
Iw�nted
��i(n i�
�[� it w
�m�cb,



most iraqis see themselves as a persecuted people
and hold the coalition forces, as the occupying power,

responsible for resolving all personal and national problems

I sat in one of the ratty chairs scrounged to furnish Sergeant
First Class Perry's "reading room" and opened my MRE:
Charms, Cappuccino packet, Country Captain Chicken,
Pasteurized Jalapeno Cheese Food Spread, Wheat Snack
Cracker, and Noodles with Butter Sauce. The Noodles and

Charms went in the trash. The entree I deboxed and slid in

the MRE heater bag, into which I poured some water. Then
I fit the bag and entree back into the box and placed it all,
as per instructions, "against a rock or something." I leaned

back, listening to the heater's chemical hiss, my transistor
radio's crackle, and the BBC announcer's accent, so civi­

lized, doing cricket scores.
A boom sounded somewhere in the city and I jerked.

Voices, talking, nothing-I wanted to be on mission or
I wanted quiet. Sergeant First Class Perry was the same,
which is why he'd commandeered this room, closed
off as it was from the gymnasium that housed our new

barracks.



106 ROY SCRANTON

The gym was a vast bedlam, divided into rough thirds
by battery, about two hundred joes all told. The main areas
were subdivided into loose platoon AOs, squads, and indi­
vidual cubicles carved out with plywood and poncho liners.

A guy in Bravo Battery named Pizza had started walking
around naked. When he got up one afternoon and pissed
allover the floor, he was put on suicide watch. He screamed
in the night, eerie piercing howls of terror. Villaguerrero
punched some dude from Alpha, got his rank taken away,
and was tasked to DIVARTY. Bullwinkle crashed a hemmet

into the compound's main gate, tearing open a fuel tank
and spilling gas everywhere. Lieutenant Krauss had started
talking to himself.

The Iraqi Governing Council was appointed. General
Abizaid said our enemy was waging "a classical guerril­
la-type campaign." Rumsfeld said we'd turned a corner. The
Jordanian embassy got hit by a suicide bomber-foreign
insurgents, they said, probably al-Qaeda.

We were told to be on the lookout for an orange and

white sedan.
I took out the entree bag and cut it lengthwise. The

smell of cheap curry and preservatives made me gag. I set
the entree aside to cool and squeezed Pasteurized Jalapeno
Cheese Food Spread on a Wheat Snack Cracker.

Anxious music cut the cricket scores: "Breaking news
at the BBC. Just minutes ago the UN headquarters in
Baghdad came under attack. We go now live to Baghdad
... Adrianna?"

"Hello, David. We're live from Baghdad. US forces have
sealed off a sizable area around the UN headquarters here

i� r��pons
l!Ulcide c
woraretoJ

ITneboJ
w�ltna� be

\ltlom rej
:ly�wfar
�f�u�tie
lio/I iliou��
�naare�

xrofAmej"Have a
,\fulanna?"
"No,Da

�ltonwni
matum

.1� rf3�on,

�r me att

'imul�n e
l((�� roao

I mou�
:·1�t.1 ate

Aarian
"Well, �

:mwnav
]��roaQ�
ma iliere'�
i�mnere
iMirelr,M
!I
),1 for �u



to rou�nili in response to what initial reports seem to be saying was
,Them�nt: a suicide car bomb attack just moments ago. There's no
quaru)an�[ word yet on any casualties sustained inside the compound.
d �oncnol� "The bomb was heard throughout the city, yet another in

what has become a typical series of daily explosions. United
Nations representatives and American military personnel
have so far refused to confirm speculation as to the number
of casualties or how the attack may have penetrated secu­

rity, though it is worth mentioning that in recent days the
UN had reduced its security profile and decreased the num­
ber of American soldiers stationed there."

"Have any groups claimed responsibility for the attack,
Adrianna?"

"No, David. Representatives have so far refused to specu­
late on which group if any might have carried out the attack,
and there have not as yet been any statements made claim­

ing responsibility. I can tell you that unidentified sources

say the attack was committed with a truck bomb
loaded

with high explosives, and that the driver used an unguarded
access road to enter the compound."

I thought of the woman in heels trailing her complex
scent. I ate my Wheat Snack Cracker.

"Adrianna, can you describe the situation there?"

"Well, David, it's difficult to get close to the scene. US

forces have sealed off the compound and are blocking the
main roads with battle tanks. Soldiers are patrolling the area
and there's clearly an emergency plan in operation. It seems
from here as if one corner of the UN building has collapsed
entirely. Military personnel are currently searching the rub­
ble for survivors."

WAR PORN 107



101 ROY SCRANION

Sergeant First Class Perry came in the door and glanced
at the radio. "What's up, Wilson?"

"UN got bombed, Sergeant."
"That so?"

"Suicide truck bomb."

He grunted and sat on his cot. I ate my Country Captain
Chicken.

�Iaay! I
urivta, �

ilin� tne
!�ula cliE

mrou�n H
J�utao
,��m� �



aline the front and rear sight with the target
and squeeze the trigger

Our days at CAHA Wardog began when the hadji semis
arrived. We worked them in pairs. One soldier would

sling the other's rifle and guard the driver. The other
would climb into the cab and tear covers off seats, sweep

through knickknacks on the dash, pull up floor mats,
shout down, "What's this, huh? What's this for? What's

in here? You fucking hiding shit, huh? You think you'll
get over, do ya? Hey, look at this guy. He thinks he's a

fucking exception."
After the cab, we'd search the truck's exterior, checking

the wiring, the engine, and the underside of the trailer bed.
We'd check their fuel tanks. Finally we'd search the driver
himself, patting him down along his man-dress, turning
him around, making him take off his kaffiyeh.

"Do a complete search," shouted Staff Sergeant Smith.
"Check their junk. They could be fucking hiding bombs in
their taint."

The hadjis stank of old sweat. We made fun of them,



110 ROY SCRANTON

scowling, shouting, laughing. We pointed at a fat one,
mimed his belly, and asked, "Baby? You have baby?" His
friends laughed and he blushed, frowning.

Jl(K. The

[�U�e nlm

"�!t tne j

"Deep �I

IIRo�er I

"He�ay j

�t�e,"
"fuchln�

iNoN!1
"�hut yo

"Ro�er �I�He �ay
"�ull�h!1
"NoN!
"�ou fu�

;�mfuchl

"Ro�er
IIRo�er
1", Ro�,
"NoN!
"rnl� l�

�Qamne
�nt ha

�(�ta hll

J�·ltrlrre
��la!la, �
l�rfuc

At the end of the day, we searched the hadji workers as they
left. "What the fuck is this, you little fuckwad?"

I looked over. Burnett, towering over one of the had­

jis, held an MRE bag in his fist, shaking it. He shoved the
hadji, who stumbled back and put his hands up. "No Mista,
no," he bleated.

"This fucker's got nine-mil rounds in his MRE bag. Try-
ing to fucking steal from us."

"Lock' em down," shouted Staff Sergeant Smith.
I threw my helmet on and grabbed my rifle.
"Mista," one of them said. He put his hands out in

supplication.
"Shut the fuck up, bitch! Uskut your ass!"

"Misra, Mista," he said.
"Uskut, bitch!" I shouted, sticking my rifle in his face.
To my left, one of the hadjis got up and Burnett forced

him back. There was a clack on my right as Stoat cham­
bered a round, then a series of clacks as we all followed suit.
The hadjis got panicky.

"No, Misra," one said, climbing to his knees.
"Sit the fuck down, bitch!" I shouted, bringing my rifle

to the ready. He sat back down.
One of the hadjis on my right whispered something to

another and Stoat jumped at him: "No talking!"
Lieutenant Krauss called higher, waited for higher to call



WAR PORN 111

at a fat �r
ve ba�rtf.

worKer!d
a&n

back. The shift foreman spoke some English, so they tried
to use him to talk to the hadjis. We waited.

"Sit the fuck down!"

"Deep Steel Three November, this is CAHA Wardog."
"Roger Deep Steel, CAHA Wardog standing by."
"He say no Ali Baba," the foreman said. "He say mistake,

mistake."

"Fucking mistake is right. Biggest mistake he ever made."
"No Ali Baba, Mister."
"Shut your fucking dirty mouth."
"Roger Deep Steel, CAHA Wardog standing by."
"He say for to melt. To make for, eh, car?"
"Bullshit,

"

"No Ali Baba, Mister."
"You fucking Ali Baba if I say you Ali Baba. Now shut

your fucking face."
"Roger Deep Steel, CAHA Wardog still standing by

... Roger Deep Steel, this is CAHA Wardog. We've got
a ... Roger ... Roger. Roger. Roger. Standing by."

"No Ali Baba, Mister."
"This is the last fucking time I'm telling you to shut your

goddamned mouth."
One hadji jumped up and ran for it. Duernbacher

tackled him. They twisted his arms behind his back and

zip-stripped his thumbs together and left him face down in
the sand. Duernbacher slapped him in the back of the head.

"Silly fucking hadji. Trix are for kids."
Eventually Battalion sent instructions, and we picked

five hadjis to take with us back to BIAP: the one who'd
tried to steal the rounds; his brother, slightly younger; the

rea som�thl�f
I.: I"
lUng,
for higher w;



11) ROY SCRANTON

guy who'd made a run for it, a badass in a Def Leppard
t-shirt; another, in a man-dress, who seemed to be trying to
ignore us; and lastly the crew foreman. We lined them up,
except the one we'd already tied, twisted their arms behind
their backs, and zip-tied their thumbs together as tightly as
possible. We blindfolded them with abdominal bandages
and tape. We loaded the thief and his brother in the back of

a humvee and the other three in the bed of a hemmet. We

sent the other hadjis home and told them not to be late to
work tomorrow.

l� I cracl
��woull
I�OOKni�

I to��e

iijmr�d �

W�illlal��trlr �
Liwt�1

�r·tied a
m1ffito

Ilr3aid
"Wen

tmantKn

"lnat

�11a rar

"Ohr,
,�1rafe

"Nri�n
��n� tne

"�orry,
"�utw
"Noe
"Wdl,
"rlar

�w(��in�
�wn tfie

"Wew�
liKe

���·y�u
"�ut t

At Battalion we stood in the parking lot half-watching the
hadjis, joking and fucking around while they were taken
in one by one to be interrogated by S-2. We untied their
blindfolds and cut their zip-ties. There were dark circles
around their thumbs and blood where the plastic had cut
into their skin. Burnett and Stoat took an order for Burger
King and got us all dinner. I sat on a Jersey barrier with

my gun in my lap, chowing on my Whopper, watching the
hadjis in our humvee.

The light faded and the sky darkened to purple. The
temperature dropped and BIAP's streetlights buzzed on.

"Misra," one of the hadjis said, "Misra." He made a ges­
ture like he had to pee. I waved him out, he climbed down,

and I walked him to the porta-john.
"You try anything, I'll shoot you in your face," I said.
He went in and came out a few minutes later. I walked

him back to the truck.

It was dark now and hard to see in the back of the humvee,



a Defk��
dtoDet�
e linea ili�ml.

( "] �I
'our race,

),

ures larer.] W�

Jack ofthe D@

WAR PORN In

so I cracked a chemlight and tried to hand it to the hadji.
He wouldn't take it. I shoved it at him. "Take it," I said. He
shook his head and waved his hands.

I tossed the chemlight in his lap and he shouted and
jumped back, brushing it away with the back of his hand.
We all laughed. He crouched back and brought his palms
gingerly up to the chemlight, as if it gave off heat.

Lieutenant Krauss came out later. We blindfolded and

zip-tied all the hadjis again and took off We tried to take
them to Camp Cropper, BIAP's prison complex, but the
MP said we didn't have authorization.

"We have authorization from the mayor's cell," said Lieu­
tenant Krauss.

"That doesn't matter, sir," the MP at the gate told him. "I

need paperwork from Division."
"Okay, stand by." Krauss got on the radio to Battalion.

After a few minutes he came back to the MP.

''Alright, I talked to our S-2 and he said we're supposed to
bring these prisoners here to Camp Cropper."

"Sorry, sir. I need authorization from Division."
"But we're supposed to bring them here."
"No can do, sir. I need paperwork."
"Well, what are we supposed to do with them?"
"Play duck-duck-goose for all I care, sir. There's a POW

processing station down the road. Why don't you take' em
down there."

"We were told to bring them here."
"Like I said, sir, I need authorization from Division.

High-value prisoners only."
"But these aren't POWs."



114 ROY SCRANTON

"POWs, enemy combatants, civilians, doesn't matter.

Just take' em down the road to the MP station and they'll
help you out."

"Where's this station?"

"It's just down the road on the right. Before the airfield."
We drove down the road and went past the airfield, then

turned around came back the other way took the first left

and wound up driving down this alley though a cluster of
deserted buildings. Then we came back out to the main
road and turned right and drove past the airfield and down
the road until we came to 123rd MSB, which was the first

right after the airfield but clearly not where we were going,
so we turned around again and this time took the next left
after the left we'd taken before, which led to a guarded com­
pound with a locked gate which the guard wouldn't even
tell us what it was much less let us in, but he did give us
directions to the MP station, so we drove back down the
road and found the right turn and pulled into a brightly
lit compound, the largest section of which was surrounded
by nested chain-link fences topped with triple-strand razor
wire. Hadjis in orange jumpsuits and ankle cuffs shuffled
chained in trios through the yard inside the fence.

We parked and downloaded the prisoners and took off
their blindfolds. Lieutenant Krauss went in to talk to the

Sergeant of the Guard. Our hadjis shivered in the chill.
"Probably fucking insurgents and shit."
"Even if they sold the rounds, they'd get used on us

anyway."
"Fucking hadjis."
Burnett spit on the ground in front of the one in the



get u�ea
��,

the one int

WAR PORN 1U

DefLeppard t-shirt. The hadji glared up at him. "You want
some?" Burnett barked. "Eyes on the ground!" Burnett

pointed. "Put your eyes on the ground!"
The hadji glared up.
"Get your eyes down, shithead." Burnett grabbed the

man by the back of the neck and pushed his head toward
the ground. "Watch the dirt."

Lieutenant Krauss came out and asked Staff Sergeant
Gooley and me to follow him inside to help with the paper­
work. He had a list of the hadjis' names along with the info
that came up in interrogation, and we filled out two dou­
ble-sided forms for each one, going over address ofsuspect and

identifYing marks/tattoos. Mostly we filled in unk and n/a.
Eventually we finished and handed the forms to the SOG,

who stacked them in the corner with a pile of other forms
then turned to a lanky, dark-haired corporal. "Hey, Sto,

go grab some guys and process these EPWs, would you?"
We stood outside watching the first two get processed­
screamed at, kicked, manhandled, handcuffed, then led

away to get their very own orange jumpsuits. Burnett and
some of the others clapped.

"I wonder what's gonna happen to those guys," I said.

"They'll be processed. There'll be an investigation," Lieu­
tenant Krauss said.

"What the fuck do you care?" Burnett glared at me.
He was right. What the fuck did I care?



W1took (
'xwone

mrurniti
ma�arDal
!��yel� an

wars are not won by machines and weapons Mal
but by the soldiers who use them ill�eyef}1

j\1m:"W
�it ler no

�(KI rraJ
"Mmll-

As the fall wore on, the weather got colder. Gray clouds swept
in, obscuring the sun. Porkchop regaled us with tales of going
home on leave, how much he drank, how hard he fucked his
wife. Most of all, he talked about his 'Vette and its mods. He

got nitro, new tires, fat rims. He got a new tattoo, too, on his

calf, an eagle wrapped in the stars and stripes, clutching bloody
rags in its talons. A single tear fell from the eagle's eye; behind
the bird rose the smoking silhouettes of the Twin Towers.

"You like that, huh?"
"Nice," I told him. "Real classy."
"The rags are like ragheads."
"Yeah, I get that. Very multicultural."
Porkchop squinted at me and tucked his trouser leg back

in his boot. "Why you such a faggot, Wilson?"
'''Cuz I hate freedom, Porkchop."
He told me to go fuck myself.

• •



: i �� d�� �!1;
. �, I�r� W�� �I!r

I ')(fouwl�:,
lison?"

WAR PORN 117

We took our work team to the stables. CAHA Wardog had
been one of Saddam's equestrian clubs before he'd decided
to turn it into an ammo dump. There was hay and horseshit
and garbage everywhere, which we had hadjis clean up with
shovels and brooms.

The hadjis worked slow, taking long breaks and half-ass­

ing everything, so I'd go through the stables and shout at
them: "Work harder! Get back to work! Shovel that shit!

Git 'er done!" They glared at me and my rifle and I glared
back, praying for an excuse. "Fucking get to work!"

"Man"- Sergeant Chandler shook his head-"you gotta
relax."

"Sornebody's gotta make sure they keep working," I said.
"You're gonna give yourself a heart attack."
"Yeah," Porkchop said. "Why you such a slave driver?"
"I told you, Porkchop, I hate freedom."
"F k

"

uc you.

"No, fuck you, Porkchop. Really. Anytime."
I headed back through the stables. I found a hadji squat­

ting in one of the side rooms, resting against a wall. I
shouted at him to get the fuck back to work and he glared
at me like he'd cut my throat if he could. I shouted again
and stared him down till he picked up his shovel and got
back to the horseshit.

"You give me cigarette," one said to Bullwinkle one day
while we stood around watching them work.

"You give me blowjob?" Bullwinkle said back.
The hadji smiled.
"Blowjob?" Bullwinkle said, making an 0 with this mouth

and jerking his head back and forth over his rifle barrel.



118 ROY SCRANTON

The hadji kept smiling. "No, Mista. No mota. You give
me cigarette?"

"You ficky-ficky?" Porkchop asked him.
"No ficky-ficky," the hadji said, still smiling.
"Fuck off," I shouted, waving the hadji away. "Get back

to work."

"No ficky, Mista," he said, ducking and grinning.
"You ficky good, huh?" Porkchop asked him.
"Get the fuck back to work."

The hadji glared at me and slunk off.
I knew better.

This wasn't who I was, who I was meant to be. I was

sensitive. I'd been a poet. The solution seemed obvious:

if I just shot a hadji, it'd all be okay. If I just killed one
hadji, anyone, someone, then all the black bile, hatred,
and fear would flow out of me like blood and water

pouring from the wounds of Christ. I'd be transformed,
transfigured. Please Jesus, I prayed, let me fucking kill
somebody.

We came back each night and spent a couple hours relax­
ing, drinking vodka and Gatorade and watching Sex and the
City. Samantha fucked a fireman, Charlotte got married,
Carrie dumped Mr. Big and went out with Aidan, then got
back with Mr. Big.

We downloaded crates of water and crates of MREs.

We swept the barracks, swept the compound. We watched
hadji bootlegs of The Matrix Revolutions and the new Texas
Chainsaw Massacre. Some guys redeployed back, some other



WAR PORN 119

mota, YOij� new guys showed up. Staff Sergeant Reynolds, Cheese, and
Reading played Halo. Cheese begged us to quit calling him
Cheese, and Burnett said he'd punch him in his fucking
face if he didn't shut his goddamn cockholster.

I was driving and Staff Sergeant Gooley was saying to me
how all of us who'd been out last night clearing the CAHA
shouldn't have to be going out there again today because
none of us had gotten enough sleep, then there was some

shooting close behind the convoy, and the truck radio
crackled: "FIRE FIRE. SHOOTERS ON THE BUILDINGS."

"Stop!" Staff Sergeant Gooley shouted. We heard
M16s and SAWs answering AK fire, then the low thump
of our .50s.

"CRUSADER THREE-SEVEN, WE'RE TAKING FIRE."

"Turn the truck around!"

I started to pull a three-point turn and as we swung the
other way the trucks behind us started turning too, so we
had to wait. There was more shooting from the highway.
All the trucks turning around at once in the alley made a
slow chaos of bumps and shouts. One of the trucks tried
to drive out in reverse, its driver screaming, "Just back up!
Back up!"

Staff Sergeant Gooley grabbed the hand mike. "This is
Crusader Three-seven, gimme a sitrep!"

"ALL CRUSADER ELEMENTS CONVERGE ON THE NORTH­

EAST BUILDING," Staff Sergeant Smith barked.
"This is Crusader Three-seven, somebody tell me what's

going on, over," Staff Sergeant Gooley shouted into the radio.



no ROY SCRANTON

"ALL CRUSADER ELEMENTS RETURN FIRE ON YOUR

TARGETS."

More shooting, the tock-tock of our .50s. As we rolled
slowly behind the other trucks back to the highway, we
could see the rest of the convoy scattered between the alley's
mouth and the nearest overpass. Crusader 5 sped down the
highway on the other side, through a gap in the guardrail
onto the shoulder toward a three-story building, Staff Ser­
geant Smith leaning out his window shooting wild with his
MI6. Figures ducked behind the wall up on the roof of
the building and others ran along the overpass. One .50
traced a slow arc along the road, lobbing fat gobs of metal
through the air, knocking chunks out of concrete. Pork­
chop rode the second .50, firing at the top of the building,
his body shaking at one with the gun: "Yeah, get some! Get
some! Fuck yeah! How you like it? Get some!"

"Over there," Gooley pointed, and I drove to the cluster
of trucks by the building where Staff Sergeant Smith stood
shouting.

"You three secure the rear of the structure, everyone else

come with me." Staff Sergeant Smith rammed his shoul­
der through the front door. Men followed. Staff Sergeant
Gooley told me to stay with the radio, then ran in after.

More shots came from the overpass and I swung open my
door and slid sideways in my seat, pulling up my rifle and
taking aim at the shadows ducking between the concrete sup­
ports. I hissed, exhaling, squeezing my trigger. I was surprised
by the ease of it: just pull. My hadji ducked behind a support
then dashed for the next, making his way toward the trees at
the edge of the overpass. I fired again, aiming higher this time,

n1tor of

�tmi�in
«CRU�A

))

!lrREP.

Mr rifl

l1li, It:
�iJwar, �

rurJ'rw
i�m rill�
�[ilidar

ili�ni�J
laff �I

p��a tI
��1r Tnre

"(RU�



WAR PORN 1.21

the top of my iron sight to his right, above his head, leading
but missing again and gritting my teeth and firing. Breathing.

"CRUSADER THREE-SIX, THIS IS CRUSADER SIX. I NEED As As \YO:
the hl�nW�)1
etween tn��:

•

sreaamlt
lntne�t

llilln���)
m�wllamrn
r on ili� too:

"

SITREP.

My rifle bucked into my shoulder. The .50s punked
away. It was like a carnival, a shoot-ern-up stand on the
midway, but as I fired again I felt light-headed and distant,
third-person somehow. The figures on the overpass ducked
from pillar to pillar, dodging fire, and finally disappeared
off the far side. Porkchop shifted fire to the trees at the edge
of the highway, dumping rounds into foliage.

Staff Sergeant Gooley ran out of the building and
grabbed the hand mike. "Cease fire, cease fire, this is Cru­
sader Three-seven say again cease fire."

"CRUSADER THREE-SEVEN, THIS IS CRUSADER SIX. I NEED

en ran lnilitl

I��o��:
� r fir

��!

me con(re(��

er, lw�I�:

� behina � lij�1
rowara ili�u�

19hi�er��

"

A SITREP.

"CRUSADER SIX, THIS IS CRUSADER THREE-SIX." Lieu­

tenant Krauss broke through. "WE'RE, UH, TAKING FIRE BUT,
UH, IT'S UNDER CONTROL NOW. STANDBY FOR SITREP. BREAK.

ALL CRUSADER ELEMENTS, THIS IS CRUSADER THREE-SIX,
RETURN TO THE HIGHWAY AND GIVE ME A PERIMETER."

'Three-six, this is Three-seven, we need to clear these

buildings," Staff Sergeant Gooley said into the radio.
"THREE-SEVEN, THIS IS THREE-SIX, GIVE ME A PERIMETER,

NOW. OUT."

So we drove back down the highway and set up a perim­
eter, blocking traffic both ways.

Staff Sergeant Smith walked up to Lieutenant Krauss.
"We gotta clear all them buildings, sir. They're out there."

"Sergeant, we're not prepared to cordon off a whole. · ."



1)) ROY SCRANTON

"Sir, we need to clear them fucking buildings," Staff Ser­
geant Smith shouted up at him.

Krauss backed down. "Alright, Sergeant. Take some men
and clear the buildings."

We spent the next two hours waiting while the clearing
teams went through the cluster of buildings along the high­
way, kicking in doors and screaming at hadjis. They didn't
find any weapons. After a while, Lieutenant Krauss called
off the search, and we reformed the convoy, drove to CAHA

Wardog, and ate lunch.
That night and the next day it was all anybody talked

about, who shot what who where. I didn't feel any better
and my soul didn't bleed like the wounds of Christ. What rf�ot a
happened was the days got colder. I drew new rounds to i�tjoD
replace the ones I'd fired. We ran patrols. We set up TCPs.
We watched more Sex and the City, cleaning our rifles and
arguing about who'd give better head, Charlotte or Carrie,
and who we'd like to fuck up the butt.



ueiliecl�
�on� ili��I
jl�,neyrut
t Krallil�:

drove to OJ,

remember, you are not alone

an�OQr�
feelanrk

of Cnrl!tWl We got a speech from Captain Yarrow telling us what a
new rounru great job we'd done. He told us we were transitioning to

patrols now, covering neighborhoods southwest of BIAp,
and training in Close Quarters Combat.

I was scheduled for environmental leave toward the end

of December and started counting days till I left.
We practiced kicking in doors. We learned to follow

each other through a house, checking in closets and behind
furniture, leading with our guns, shouting "Clear," "Door
Left," and "Stairs." We learned to cover each other across

open spaces, take out suicide bombers, turn and shoot

without aiming.

On Thanksgiving President Bush came. We were out on
a patrol that night, driving village streets in the rain and

planning on MREs for dinner.
We watched Top Gun, Pumping Iron, and The Shawshank



114 ROY SCRANTON

Redemption. We wrestled, played pool and ping-pong,
played touch football in the parking lot, argued and
laughed and got in fights. Reading kept playing "Gimme
the Light" and that "Birthday" song.

One day I walked up to the CP and First Sergeant Bea­
man came out grinning. "They captured Saddam," he said.
"Caught like a rat in a trap."

"G "I'd ",\VT h
.

h t"reat, sal. we can go orne now, ng t.

"It'll be a real turning point," he said.
I nodded. "Now all we gotta do is find those WMDs."

"Hey, Wilson," he said. "Get down and push."
"Hooah, First Sarnt." I dropped and pushed until he told

me to stop.
I decided to quit smoking. Attack Battery got hit with an

RPG out on patrol, mostly minor injuries but one of the
guys had to be evacked to Germany. Somebody in another
unit was run over by a tank. I cleaned my rifle and waited
for Christmas.

,roll at

j�to tn

:��tomJ
'h�rtla

:ianve

�momJ
!�k�arop
"Mwn, W

mvnnee

ir\ali

r�intr �
:ll·Ek�



nd pln�.��:
t) ar�ue� t

layin� I(Gi�

st �er�eantt,
aQQam)nn1� 4 to 71 at 122nd 9:59. Take the 10 to the 15, change down­

town to the 77 and get offat 21st. 10: 12.

I talk to my ex-girlfriend and we decide to try again. The trou-
ilio�e WM

'

ble starts almost immediately, with my car's clutch grinding out
rusfi." as I drive in over the coast range from Newport. I make it to

, nea untilnn my mom's in Corvallis, but going to Portland the next day the
clutch drops with a thunk, and I have to get the car towed back

��othit�[ to town, where it sits in my mom's driveway growing a skin of
es out one�f: brown needles.

eooarin��t It's a sign, ofcourse-the sky full ofsigns thatfall.
\'rifleanaw�: Things don't improve in Portland. I take the bus across town

to a 7-Eleven, fill out an application, take the bus back across
town to a nursing home, fill out another application. Rain

falls, and I go to the library to search the internetfor jobs and
wind up shuffling the stacks, reading The Coming Anarchy
and The Clash of Civilizations.

4 to the 72 at 82nd 11:37. 12:19.

We go to a dinner party with some friends of hers. We eat

tempeh stir-fry and drink IPA and talk about jobs, the local
theater scene, and good, cheap places to eat. After dinner we



1J6 ROY SCRANTON

pass a joint and the conversation gets grim, somebody says they
can't stop thinking about on TV those bodies foIling. Did we
think everything had changed? Would they attack the Mall of
America? UIe talk about blowback and globalization and how,
yeah, on the one hand it seemed maybe we'd sort of caused it.
Maybe we wanted it to happen. UIe talk about troop move­
ments in the Hindu Kush.

3:58. 14 to 9 to 60th. 4:09. 5:23. Home.

I make pasta. UIe drink wine. The money dribbles away. I

apply at Goodwill Burgerville, Powell's, Denny's.
Thanksgiving comes and goes and Christmas too. Against

the rain and winter skies, the garish decorations and relentless
commerce bring not cheer but constant reminder ofmy down­
ward spiral. No joy, no carols, not even Santa can save me.

One day, after spending two hours filling out a personality
test at Walmart, Igo down the strip mall to an Army recruiting
office. The recruiter starts my packet. He asks me about drug
use and criminal record He tells me about bonuses and college
money. He asks me what I want to do and where I want to go.



out troo� ��,

babylon

too, A��"
m anJrl��

ofmJMI

out a fm��
nAnnJrI(r�:
�s me ap�ullr,

.. J/'
onuses ana(��

'here I wa�I�!



 



wounds to the stomach, prosecuted-many have moved to
the cities, particularly Mosul, Kirkuk, and Sulaymaniyah
OPERATION RESOLUTE SWORD divided into the Shi'a major­
ity in the south and the Sunni who live mostly in the central

part of the country around Baghdad have not been assimi­
lated into the population are "Marsh Arabs" who inhabited
the lower Tigris and Euphrates urban centers with Baghdad
being Iraq my spear

population of two
already pleaded to be those targets on the edge of the gall­
bladder and transverse colon; only those acts which can be
said to be half measures, the national Kalashnikovs

with a gunshot wound through the rectum; and two with

possible war seen war that will be fourteen more casual­
ties arrived OPERATION SIDEWINDER CIA secret prisons
at the military's Iraqi Advanced Trauma Life Support
protocols for the administration of Bush's decision was
over the last six

sometimes they arrested all adult males present the
US citizen



no ROY SCRANTON

military must adhere wholly by the low-value treatment �Ii���t:
often including pushing Saddam

;�[fr ar

punching and kicking and striking with rifles heart of the cover :wr1on
of darkness OPERATION IRON SABER after 2130, the White J�ili�r
House by remote control, we've ravaged disarmament in the
early morning hours Thursday they're apparently exploiting
the Arab fear of dogs and you, the city and two key avenues,
DETAINEE-14 and a totally widowed mother-he, Astya-
nax, which meant the questions of the local Coalition less
than a meter across and devoid of any more but the dainti-

est and choicest of morsels

surgical
burned down tired and went to sleep, he would lie
knowing neither want nor care, whereas the version here is
not simply the General might salvage judged (myself) and
I do not make

filled with water, linking unstable
My spear! Surely I fear the prisoner's head and do good and
the people, the attacks brought coming, there is no doubt
therein, Coalition forces in the early OPERATION IRON Jus­
TICE turning but no gunfire in the government and the
challenge upon me, I will answer you and defend the world
TV from open rebellion: in the north, Mosul was a close
call and over time the Bradley fades. The US-trained Iraqi
police enter hell abased. Allah is striking selected targets
of wounded and many dead. He urges them to surrender
OPERATION IVY NEEDLE the west seems nervous, boys,
most surely the opening stages



WAR PORN HI

police stations other small attacks intense heat

heanofili��
21J�) ili�'

center and the Pentagon, he and his team Allah, your Lord,
Babylon where the rebellion is OPERATION RED DAWN
another road

)�
woulali�
ilievmionk

�ea (ffir!��t

e

ana 00 �OOO[
. there il no ��.

ERATION IRO�f
vernment w�:

oefena ilitW�
I

Mo�ul W�d�:
e U�·tr�ndrn
nc selectea t�fb
wem to lUm�:

tJ15 nervoU!)
�



 



the fall
(baghdad, 2003)



 



Saddam smiled, white teeth shining. A common picture
in a common frame, by law others like it hung all over.

Thought or feeling made no change-hating the picture
was like hating the sun. Even here, Qasim thought, in our

musty office: Saddam Saddam Saddam. This one's old,
brown and fading, creased along one edge, the frame's glass
cracked at the corner. Surely we should have it replaced.
The picture, the desks, the floors, the walls.

The office was windowless, unventilated, stale. Three

desks crammed against each other left a narrow perimeter
for chairs. Qasim sat alone, leaning, pencil in his mouth,
staring at Saddam, the Americans' deadline barely a week

away.
Home? Or stay? For the forty-ninth time, Qasim heard

Professor Hureshi tell him, "Go if you must, but I can't

promise you anything. You know I have done everything
I can to keep you on, but if you leave before defending, I
would be very hard-pressed to justify holding your teaching
position when there are others whose service recommends
them. Who have advocates. You have been given every
opportunity, Qasim-"

"But Professor, my wife ...
"

"You have been protected like a son."



.,6 ROY SCRANTON

"Let me . . . let me talk to my uncle. Please, Professor.

Just a few more days."
And your wheedling worked, again, and Hureshi gave

you till Wednesday, the last day of classes before the
deadline. And now? Give up everything after working so
hard or stay here, cut off from Lateefah and mother,
while .

Qasim twisted the end of his mustache, replaying the
hours of teaching uninterested students, the longer hours
grading, the years of study, tutoring, working odd jobs,
doing accounting for his uncle, all the effort he'd put into the
dissertation. And now when he phoned Lateefah, drained
to the point of hopelessness, she only made it worse. Pun­
ishing him with her silence. Blaming him.

Maybe going back would give us another chance. You
don't have to be a mathematician. Take some job in the
Ministry of Water, teach high school geometry. It won't
make up for ... but maybe Lateefah-maybe she and I ...

The door swung open and Adham flew in, throwing
down a pile of manila folders, slumping into his chair:
"What, my cousin, can you tell me, is so bloody hard about
turning in your homework?" Adham raised one hand to
heaven and covered his heart with the other. "I understand

yes, the end is coming. I understand, yes, the Zionist cru­
saders are going to bomb us to rubble. I understand-am I
not understanding?-that there is a better than fair chance
almighty God in his infinite compassion has willed that our
beloved university will be destroyed, our city wiped from
the face of the earth, our friends and relatives charred to ash
so that even the vultures and rats will be left starving in a



nd Hure!�ir:
\as�e� oefort t
after wor���

efah ana m��

he, re�la�nr
, the lon�er �I.
vorbn� oaa ji.
n he'a �utint�:
L1teefili,IDl

ade it worle.�:

other chancr,t

'e �ome jo� m:
eometry.!\w:
aybe �he anal
flew in, mrmi:

ing into hi! (�i

bloodrh�a�
r��ed one n�(

mer, "I unae�[

es, me Zioni!tr

understana...�
rer man f�r (�r

has willen mItt

ur ci� wi�ea�(
trives charreaw,t
)C left starvin��

WAR PORN 157

waste so total it will make the Mongols' sack of the libraries
seem like Eid al-Fitr, but my cousin, my brother, my friend,
as a fellow mathematician and as a fellow teacher, let me

ask you: is that any reason to not turn in your homework?"

"Well ...
"

"Do you know how many of my students turned in their

work this week? Two! Barely half the class even bothered
to show up! And Mundhir Hashir, the deputy minister of
education's miserable bastard, you know what he says to

me? Professor, please, can I get an extension till next week?
Next week! Because he has drill with the Hizbis. Oh sure,

Mundhir. Whatever you like. Just the way I passed you on
the midterm. Whatever you want, just don't sic your daddy

"

on me.

''Adham ...
"

Qasim twisted his mustache and squinted
meaningfully at the third desk, where their colleague Sal­
man worked and-if department rumors were true-kept
files on nearly everyone.

"Pfah! Have you even seen the birdwatcher today?"
"No. No, not yet. Cousin, I know what you mean. Every

class gets smaller and the ones that show up barely pay
attention. But there is a war coming."

''And those who cannot dance complain the floor is
crooked. They're students. They should attend class and
turn in their homework. It's very simple. Determination is
the key to everything."

"I can understand their trouble. I haven't touched my
dissertation in weeks."

Adham jabbed a bony finger at Qasim. "Then the car-
penter's door is loose."



In ROY SCRANTON

"But the Americans ...
"

"But! But! There is always something! Nowhere in the
Qur'an does it say life will be easy!"

"Well maybe the Qur'an can help me decide whether or
not I should return to Baqubah."

'''Righteousness does not consist in whether you face east
or west. The righteous man is he who believes in God and
the Last Day, in the angels and the Book and the prophets.'"

"So?"

"So listen for the voice of God and the prophets."
"Right. Of course. And you? What have God and the

prophets told you?"
"Oh, I'm going home. My father insists on it. He says

things will be much safer in Fallujah."
"B h·"ut your teac mg ...

"I talked with Hureshi, and he told me to take all the
time I need."

Qasim blinked slowly and gritted his teeth, think­
ing, goatfucker! You backward, camel-riding bumpkin
with your book and your kaffiyeh! You who maybe, yes,
you're in the party, but you don't even believe in a sec­
ular state! You?

"Your wife is in Baqubah, isn't she?"
Qasim exhaled through his nose. "Yes. My Lateefah. And

the rest of my family."
"Who's taking care of them?"
"My uncle Jibril, my cousin Faruq, who lives in town,

my little brother-I don't know. There are too many of us."
Adham spread his palms. "Cousin, it's simple: Go. In

times like this, you must lead your family. 'Consider those

'n

],

"

.([



who fled their homes in their thousands for fear of death.

owhere i�: God said to them, You shallperish.'"
"B ·f1

"

ut 1 go ...

ecidewne��1 "Yes?"
"Nothing. Just . . . My sister-in-law will be there too.

ilierrouf4(�� With their children."
leveslnG��t "Not your brother?"

dthe�ro��r. "He's in the army. He drives a tank."
"God grant him victory."
"God!" Qasim barked. "The same God that put him

there on the front lines? The same God that brings the
Americans?"

"Don't be blasphemous, cousin."
"No, Adham, please. Tell me what we've done to deserve

this."
Adham leaned forward, crossing the desk so his gleam­

ing face hung before Qasim's, his words harsh whispers.
"Let me tell you, cousin, about what I believe. The fate

God weaves is a song of many voices, and things that seem
to be disasters today may be openings through which
God's hand will pass tomorrow. There are many of us who

wait for the day when we will lead our people back to the
virtues of our fathers, back to the Book and the Caliph­
ate, to the days before petrodollars and satellite dishes and
nationalism. Sometimes, cousin, a storm scatters our tents

because it's time for us to move on. When the wind blows,

me to t�e�:

hi� twn, tk

I·riain� Dum,'1
wno ffi4fOt,i
oelieve i�H

, Mr Lateef�,,:

vho liY� i� (�

re toO manr
�fi

ir's simple: ��,

!y. 'ConsiOfll

WAR PORN 1S9

you ride it."

"Well, I think we're done for."
"Fine. That is what you think." Adham turned to his stu­

dents' papers. "Your pessimism is a tool of the deceiver."



140 ROY SCRANTON

Qasim snorted and stood, grabbing his satchel. Tool of
the deceiver! I cannot believe the things that come out of
his mouth. I need to get out of here. I should see when

Luqman is leaving-God willing, soon, so I can call mother
and make arrangements for going to Baqubah.

Is that what you're doing now, Qasim, going home?
Yes. No. Yes.

Maybe.

;11 IT

The blind man stood in the courtyard feeling the sun on
his face. He was very old and very frail, and where his eyes
should have been were two pale and clotted scars. Hair like
white wire sprouted from his brows, from within his ears
and nose, from his cheeks and lips and chin, thickening
over his neck in a tangled wave. In one hand he held his
stick and in the other, his book and pen. From his bony
shoulders hung a threadbare dishdasha.

"Ali-ham," he croaked to himself and nodded, shuffling
toward his bench along the wall. Soon, yes, he could feel
it, coming from the sky. His little birds knew. Didn't they
always?

"Ah-ham," he croaked, reminding them.
Near his feet, the one-legged half-wit echoed back

"Aham!"

Jffi

The blind man smiled and nodded. When a wound is

tired of crying, it will begin to sing, he thought, sitting
on his bench and listening to the life of the yard around ',�ll
him: the three men arguing, the others slapping down
dominos, the idiots and cripples and crooks. He could ��



Satchel, ��I

lin� tn� !Mi
d wh�rtni!�
d �cm, Hw�

wiiliin n��

chin, thi(�(�L
hand he n(I�:

, From nil�:

added, ln��

res, he coill�::
ew, DianJt�

�en a wo���

thou�ntJ lie
th e rara ar��

� slarrin� M
rooks, He (�.

WAR PORN 141

just make out the voices in the women's yard beyond
the wall, and the sound of lunch being prepared in the
prison kitchen.

The old man laid his stick across his thighs and then his
book atop it. It was a large book and its leather was worn by
years of handling. He'd written through it many times, each
cycle over the one before, until the pages held all he'd ever
known or thought or felt-or nearly all. The end was com­
ing, but it wasn't there yet. There was another sura to write.

He felt for the ribbon between the pages and opened
to where he'd left off, his fingers skimming the lines, trac­
ing the scant indentations of yesterday's pen. In a day it'd
be flat like the others and return to blankness, but for the

moment it held the impression. He read yesterday's verses
and then again, remembering, reciting, then took the cap
from his pen and began on the left his verse for today. He
wrote slowly and with great care words he would never see
and only briefly know, the same words or different, the one

song III many verses.

Sometimes he'd pause and stick his pen in his mouth.

He'd jab at the pen with the jerking stub that was all that
remained of his tongue, remembering how many years ago,
in a dark and stinking hole he could only barely now envi­
sion, a cold blade had been forced between his teeth and his

mouth had filled with blood.

Qasim took the phone up onto his uncle Mohammed's
roof, where he sat in a plastic chair and turned east to face
the prayer call from the loudspeakers of Urn AI-Tobool.



142 ROY SCRANTON

The sun sank behind him, a red burn against darkening
violet, the last light flaming on the mosque's dual mina­
rets, their paired domes, the delicate twinned crescents.

What would come of it all?

God's will, as the call closed with the Fatiha: "Guide us
in the straight path, the path of those whom Thou hast
blessed, not of those who have incurred Thy wrath, nor of
those who have gone astray."

Silence opened across the city. A dog barked below.
Qasim dialed his uncle Jibril. His cousin Bahira answered,
and Qasim asked to speak with his mother.

"n.. ;>"
'-.{_aSlm.

"Peace be upon you, Mother."

"Upon you be peace, little fox."
"H ;>"aware you.
"Allah carries us in his palms. The children are putting tape

on the windows. Izdihar is such a precious lamb, she drags a
chair in from the kitchen to stand on. She can't reach all the

way up, so she puts little designs in the corner. She wrote
her name on the one in my room. Little Izdihar. Written in

tape. Did I tell you Afifah and the children are coming? Your
brother Darud, his division is near Basra, they say. Jibril says
we will crush the Americans even more quickly than we did
last time, God willing. Are you praying, little fox?"

"Yes, Mother."
"Are you coming home for Ashura? Jibril has put his foot

down like every year, but Rahimah and I are going to cele­
brate and it's for the children, anyway. It's important. You
always tell the story of Ali Husayn so well, little fox. Won't
you be coming home for Ashura?"



ainst dar���t
lie's du� ffi[
ned cresc�m!

atilia: "Gui�t
hom Tnou�
hywratn,nm

� DarKen �11(i
Bahiraanrwtll

narerurun![
laffiD, sneill�
cantrea(n�t

corner. �ne \�

zdinar, Wri�1[

ril nas rutnil�
are �oin� (0[(

)� imrort�d
�) little fOX,\11

WAR PORN 141

"I don't know, Mother."
"You'll be home before the infidel comes, I'm sure."

"Mother, I need to talk to you about that."
"What do you need to talk about? Your father, God pre­

serve his soul, would want you home. If not for me, for
Lateefah."

"How is she?"

"Her heart is like fire on you. What do you expect?
What's she supposed to do while you waste your days in
Baghdad? She can't make a child. She can't make a home."

"Did she quit her job at the school?"
"No, not yet. But it blackens her face to work like a girl

with no husband."

"Mother, you know I'm working."
"You left a fine job your father would have been proud of

to live like a beggar."
"Father would want me to finish my degree."
"Your father knew what needed to be done and did it. He

would not have run away from his family. He would never
have left me alone as you have done with Lateefah."

Father would have found a way.

Long ago, Faruq had planned that after Qasim completed
his bachelor of science at Baghdad University, he'd be sent
abroad for a doctorate. Money was put aside, crucial favors
were done for certain well-placed officials. Then came the
war with Kuwait. Faruq got Qasim a draft deferment and

Qasim finished near the top of his class; few of his peers
were so lucky. The peace, though, turned out to be almost as
bad as the war: continued bombing and crippling sanctions
ruined the already weak economy. Business stopped, trade



U4 ROY SCRANTON

stopped, the dinar plummeted against the dollar, inflation
surged-it was as if Faruq's savings were being eaten by rats. ::!
At the worst of it, they spent their cash in stacks and wads;
a month's salary might buy a chicken or a few dozen eggs.
Then, in the purges and paranoia following the Shi' a upris-
ing, Faruq's delicately nurtured connections died on the vine.
Those few friends still hanging on to power wouldn't stick
their necks out. Nevertheless Faruq found a way, somehow,
scraping together enough hard cash and finessing enough
shady deals to send Qasim to Heriot-Watt University in
Edinburgh. With some help from the school, there was just
enough money to get him started; Faruq impressed upon his
son the necessity of finding funding.

Qasim had been north only a few gloomy months­
cold, humiliating months full of unnerving lessons in the
limits of his talent; dismal months of constipation, head­
aches, and a constantly running nose; lonesome months
where the English he so struggled to master always seemed
to bend back on his tongue into gibberish; nightmare
months where he wandered the streets in a muddle, baffled
and awed by the strange stone city around him and the
cruel, doughy faces of the Scots who lived there; despair­
ing months where each night, curled under his duvet with
the door shut against his roommates, he struggled desper­
ately to keep from weeping, to keep them from hearing him
weep, despondent for home and exhausted from working so
hard and falling behind and the unending gray skies pissing
rain-when at last the phone rang and his mother told him
in a stern, quiet voice that his father was ill and the doctors
did not expect him to survive the winter.



do�ar, ln�1�
ng eaten �ri(
stacb ana�t
few aOlen�
the �nl' 1 ��:.

diea on ili�1i
er wo�ant�
a way, �omt .'

fine��ln� tn�
att Unlytr�i�.
01, iliertw�;.

pr�eau���

oomy ffion�

ing l�wmlH
mtipation,��
one�Offie ffiijt:

rer �wayl ���
eri�n; nl��m,i

a muaillt,��.
und nim 4fl�;

'ed tnere; a5�
der ni� auv�t(

stru�leaa��
fromnearin!l

d &omworb�i
grar �hl�rl�

$moilierwIJ�
ill and thea�:

WAR PORN us

Qasim flew back to Baqubah, elated to be home until
he saw his mother's haggard face, his father's withered
body. Over the next year, Faruq slowly shrank, crum­

pling and shriveling in the grip of the cancer. There
was no going back to Edinburgh, even if Qasim had
wanted to, there was no money left for anything, yet on
his deathbed Faruq demanded his son's promise: finish

your schooling. The machines beeped and hissed. Faruq's
dry, fleshless fingers burned in Qasim's palm. I promise,
Father. I promise.

"Do you hear me, Qasim?" his mother shouted. ''Are you
even listening? Qasim, you must come home!"

"Mother, I'm staying in Baghdad."
"What? Qasim, you can't. You must come home."
"If! want to keep my place here teaching, I have to stay."
His mother snorted. "Ridiculous boy who thinks he

can tell his mother about his great responsibilities. Little
boy who can't even take care of his wife, who isn't even a
father, who leaves his family to be murdered by the infidel."

"Mother ...
"

"A fine man, a fine hero, devout, brave ...
"

"M hi"ot er, pease.
"A real Saladin."
''I'm not coming back to Baqubah. That's my decision.

That's the end of it."
"Fine. Then I live with the shame of having given birth

to a coward."
"Mother!"
"At least your brothers are men."

"Put Lateefah on the phone!"



146 ROY SCRANTON

"Remember, Qasim, that a man who cannot tend his
wheat will eat his barley."

"Mother, put Lateefah on!"
He heard the phone hit the table and his mother curse

him as she walked away. A moment later, Lateefah's voice:

"Q. t"asirn:
His knees went weak. His voice went weak. "Lateefah."

"You're not coming," she said.
"Lateefah ...

"

She said nothing. He listened to her breath and thought
he might die from it. Breath after breath. Sometime later­
Qasim couldn't say how long-he heard her set the phone
down. His uncle Jibril picked up.

"Your mother says you're staying."
Qasim exhaled. "That's right, Uncle."
"Well, listen, Nephew, women don't always understand

the choices we have to make. If it were up to them, we'd
never leave home. I'm sure you have your reasons, and

becoming a professor is a great service ... How is your dis­
sertation coming along, anyway?"

"I'm working through some difficult spots right now. It's
a bit of a maze, you know, but ... I'll find my way."

"Good. Maintain discipline. That's a great source of
h"strengt .

"Have you heard from Darud?"
"He's near Basra, that's all I know. They can't say any

more. He'll be one of the first to repel the invaders."
"M b h' b

"

y rot er s very rave.

"Not all of us are warriors, Nephew. The nation needs
scholars, as well."

],



WAR PORN 147

not t���: ''And accountants."
"And engineers, like your father."
"He fought. So did you."
"And so did Aban and so did Bishr. Don't forget about

them, and don't forget that heaven isn't so pretty for a man's
widow and his fatherless children. God grant your sister-in­

law doesn't have to learn that lesson."

"I pray for my brother's victory."
"Listen, Qasim. I want you to know your mother and

wife are safe here, and they will be as long as I can lift a
rifle. Ifyou have to stay in Baghdad, I trust your reasons. But
if there was any way you could come to Baqubah, I know

your wife and mother would be relieved. They worry about

you." He paused. ''I'm sure you have your reasons. Your
family is my family. They are safe in my home, always."

"Thank you, Uncle."

"Your father would be proud of you, Qasim. God your
pardon and protection."

The sun had set and lights had flickered on across the

city. The weekend had begun. Qasim heard a grunt behind
him and turned to see Mohammed coming onto the roof
with something in his hands.

''Are you off the phone?" Mohammed asked.
"Yes, Uncle."
"Good. Mother will have dinner ready soon. Here.

She finished mending your trousers." He handed Qasim
a folded pair of slacks. "She says you should take a dance
class."

Qasim smiled. "She's very patient with me."
"Yes, she is. And what about you? Have you decided?"

is moili�ir;
Lateefilil!I�::

ometlmdlW,
er set ili1 �I.:'

ways Un�1n[

r to tfl1ffi1i,
ur red$oml[

Howisroml

ots ri�nt n�w,�
"

my war,

�reat soura'

er cant lIlt
invaaers,"

rhe nation ��



148 ROY SCRANTON

"I told Mother I'm staying here."
Mohammed looked out over the city. "It's a beautiful

night," he said. "This is my favorite time of year. We leave
the rains behind, but it's not hot yet. It's a pleasant time to
be in Baghdad."

"It is," Qasim said.
"You know our family has always shown determination

in the face of trouble."

"I do."
"I would hate to think that anyone could say our family

couldn't take care of itself ... That anyone in our family
would turn away from his obligations."

Qasim felt heat rising in his cheeks. Mohammed scuffed
his sandal on the roof.

"It's difficult," Mohammed said after much thought, "as
a young man, to know how to balance your responsibilities.
Your wife, your family, your tradition ... the nation, Islam,
your work ... A man must see what follows from the rec­
itation of his soul." Mohammed shook out a cigarette and
lit it. "It's not always easy, especially in at time like this. A
man must act with strength, but humbly. God does not love
the proud."

"Yes, Uncle."
Mohammed turned toward Qasim, his gaze full and

measuring. "Go thank your auntie for sewing your trousers.
Tell her I'll be down soon. After dinner, I need you to come
with me to the office to go over some accounts."

Qasim stood and nodded, watching his reflection-a
tiny speck in the dark of his uncle's eye-dwindle and fade
into nothing.



It)s a D���tr,
year, W�I� "Thank you all for coming. I know things are difficult now,

leasantuffi1: and that time spent here is time away from your family
during these crucial last days." Qasim considered his class,
barely half full. With the deadline only two days away,

Qetermlnl� many classes had already been "temporarily" suspended,
and all across town offices and stores were closing up, send-
ing everyone home except the last few needed to board up

sarourfr windows and lock doors. He had almost canceled class him­
self, but it was his favorite, and he wanted to see them all

one last time.

"I don't know when we'll reconvene, or even if we'll be

able to finish this semester's work. The uh ... Well, I hope
al-Sahhaf is right, and we destroy the Americans quickly."
He paused for a moment, thinking how best to phrase this,
knowing at least one student in his class was a Ba' athist.

"Professor al-Zabadi."

en tnou��tl'l
re��oml�llit:
e natlonlll[

� from t�1�

t a cl�artttt�
timellK�mi
00 aoe�n�tr

'� �aze ��

n�rouru�Q�
eea rouw�

))

unt�,

i� refle(tl��'
owinaleanJ�

WAR PORN 149

• • •

"Yes, Amr."
"Professor Ifwe don't ... I mean ifwe can't ... make it

back to class I'm from an-Nasiriyah, and I'm going back
home ... If we can't come back to university this semester,
will we be able to withdraw without a failing grade?"

"Yes. If we're not able to reconvene this class, I'm going
to recommend everyone be given the grade you've earned to
this point, for an hour and a half of credit. But, no, Amr, I'm
not going to fail anyone because-" He stopped, watch­
ing Amr's face twitch, his shoulders shudder, and his chest

explode, spewing bits of bone and gore allover his class­
mates. What? I'm not going to fail anyone because they're



ISO ROY SCRANTON

crippled? Because they're dead? He remembered the last
war, the trucks and tanks full of smoking corpses. ''I'm not
going to fail anyone because they can't make it back to class.
The worst that will happen, the absolute worst case, is that
you'll take a withdrawal." Pray God, the absolute worst.
"But what I plan ...

"

There was a knock at the door. Professor Hureshi poked
his head in.

"Professor al-Zabadi, a word."
"Class, you'll excuse me." Qasim smoothed his mus­

tache and followed Professor Hureshi out, closing the door
behind him.

"I wanted to catch you before you left this afternoon.

Have you reached your decision, Qasim?"
"Professor Hureshi ...

"

"Qasim, I need to know on whom I may depend. We
must assume, God willing, that things-"

"I'm staying," Qasim said. "I'm staying. I'll be at my
uncle Mohammed's."

Hureshi blinked and flashed his teeth. "I am pleased to
hear it."

Qasim thought of Lateefah-alone in the hole he'd dug
her. The pain he caused. His mother's shame. And when the
war came? Could he stand it?

He hugged Hureshi and kissed his cheek.
"I'm glad to serve," he said.

Salman sat smoking. He'd taught his elementary statistics
class that morning and was now going through his students'



ffioerea ilid
orps�, ITm:
e it oaCktij(�
orst cas�1 i�t
aosolut� W��

ootnea ti� m.

closin�tnd:

may ae��nr

�, rll D�lti

I "Iam�l�
the hole nll��,

�e,AnawMi
k.

:mentary!t!�
'ough his!ru�c

WAR PORN 151

tests, but his mind kept wandering back over what he'd just
seen. On the way down from Hureshi's office, he'd noticed
that weed al-Zabadi in the hall talking quietly-even inti­
mately-with AnoufHamadaya. Perhaps the way they were
standing so close and whispering so ardently meant noth­
ing. Perhaps it was merely class-related. She was one of his
students, after all. But Salman had learned over the years to

trust his suspicions: even if they weren't always right, they
almost always suggested opportunities.

Salman kept an eye open for opportunities. Unlike
Adham, who came from a wealthy family in Fallujah, and
Qasim, whose middle-class family stood solidly on their
construction business and their date farms in Baqubah, Sal­
man came from people little better than peasants. What
was left of them, anyway, after the 1991 Shi' a uprising. Sal­
man's father, his two brothers, three of his uncles, and most
of the rest of the men in his extended family had either died
in the fighting or been butchered after Karbala fell. Salman
himself, sixteen at the time, only barely escaped with his
life. For nearly a week, while Republican Guard soldiers
roamed the streets dragging men off to be executed and
dumped in open graves, Salman lay hidden in a shattered
groundwater pipe, drinking fetid water, dizzy with hunger,
his heart thundering every time a jeep or tank rolled over
the road above. When at last he crawled out, nearly dead
from dehydration, he was the last living man in his imme­
diate family.

He hated the men who'd murdered his brothers and

uncles and father, it was true, but it was an abstract hatred

locked so deep within himself that it was no more than a



15) ROY SCRANTON

cold violet idea, having little to do with his day-to-day life.
He'd recognized early that the strong and forceful climb to
the top, and since he was neither, his only hope lay in cun­
ning. Justice was for the mighty; Salman vowed to survive.
So when his draft notice came up, he dutifully went away
and served in the infantry, and when Lieutenant Azimaya
approached him about serving the greater glory of Iraq, the
only question in his mind was how far it would take him.

It got him all the way to Saddam University, and after he
finished his BSc with a dual major in business and maths,
it got him into the Economics Department at Al-Mus­
tansiriya University to work on a master's. While taking
economics classes he worked as a TA in the maths depart­
ment, but even what he got for teaching, added to what he
got paid for informing, didn't quite make ends meet. Not
only was he supporting his mother and sisters back home,
but he was trying to save up for a wife, so he drove a taxi
three, sometimes four nights a week, and could be found
for certain odd jobs if the price was right. He'd hoped when
he finished his MA to get a cushy government position­
maybe join the Party-then find himself a bride.

The upcoming invasion made a mockery of all that. He
knew he'd survive, no matter what, maybe even thrive in
the chaos, but nobody wants war except soldiers and fools,
and Salman was neither. Salman was shrewd. Salman was

observant.

Anouf, for example, he'd been watching for a long time,
and not just because she had a face like an Egyptian movie
star and a figure to match. The other students gossiped about
her because of her modern clothes and her blue jeans, but



s dayotoo041:
forcefulclim!
ho�e lar;n�,
owed to!ij�

ifullywent11
utenant AWi

�lory oflrd�!:
ouldt�d[

[sicy, anOiliti
siness anOrnlt
ment at N�:
['5, wnile�

the matn!�o/
added tOW�1:'

e ends meet)

isters Da(U�:

w nedrovej[

d could �e f�[

He'd nOre�i�
nment �o!i��:
a oride,

ery of �l t�jt:

oe even iliriw

soldiers an�foc

rewa, ��m�!

g for a lon��
E�tian�

ntS gossi�e��
er olue jeanl,:

WAR PORN us

also because of the men who picked her up from school, whis­
pering that she supported herself as a prostitute for high-placed
government officials and was an informer for the Mukhabarat

besides. Salman had wondered himself, at first, but the truth,
which he'd uncovered in time, was that her brother was of one

of Baghdad's biggest embargo cats-the loose gang of black
marketeers and smugglers who made their money supplying
people with everything prohibited by the UN and Saddam.
The thuggish men who picked Anouf up from campus every
day were her brother's runners.

Salman doubted Qasim's interest in Anouf had anything
to do with her brother. Frankly, it was a miracle Qasim
managed to get out of bed every morning without cracking
his head open. He certainly wasn't tough enough to hang
with the likes of Hamadaya. Perhaps he needed something,
though, some paperwork, a visa, or maybe with the war

coming ... what? Maybe it went the other way: he worked
as an accountant for his uncle, so maybe Anouf's brother
was having trouble with his books? Most likely, it was just
school drama. Qasim had a crush on Anouf or vice versa.
Al-Zabadi wasn't handsome, manly, or distinguished, he
wore glasses, he had a crooked nose and a ratty mustache,
he was unkempt and awkward, but for some baffling rea­
son, his female students were always having crushes on him.

Pity, Salman suspected-the same gush of emotion they'd
feel for a sick cat.

So maybe they're flirting. Maybe Anouf has a crush.
Maybe Qasim has finally grown tired of living apart from
his wife. Maybe he's more of a man than he seems. What­
ever it is, we'll see. We'll see what it's good for.



1S4 ROY SCRANTON

• •

Qasim barely caught Luqman as the rotund physics pro­
fessor blew out the door for home. His wife had called,
said the Hizbis were digging a trench right next to their
house, and demanded he do something. She said they'd
even threatened to lock her up. Lock her up! Luqrnan
didn't know what he could possibly say, but he hoped
when he got home, somebody would listen to reason. It
was too bad the Hizbis had picked his house to set up
next to, but what could he do? They had guns! They were
Hizbis!

"I will be glad, nephew, when the Americans have freed
us from this plague." Luqman turned down the radio,
which was playing a patriotic song from the war with Iran.

"You really think it'll work?" Qasim asked, staring out
the window at the city streaming by in a blurred mosaic of
brown and gray.

"Nephew! Look at MTv. Look at CNN. We'll vote, we'll
have a constitution, we'll elect our president. Think ofit! No
more Hizbis! No more secret police! No more Abu Ghraib!
It'll be like it was in the seventies, before the Mother of All
Morons attacked Iran. I'm telling you, everybody had a new
car and nice clothes. Not this shit I wear now, but good
stuff from Egypt."

"You don't think they just want our oil?"
"Ofcourse they want our oil! But they don't want to steal

it, they want us to sell it to them, just like the Saudis. They
just want to make sure we're loyal. Okay, then. We'll be
loyal. We'll be good, loyal friends, and with the US behind



und �nr!IQ:
wife naQ�!:

�ht next W ��
, �he !alQ t�r
her u�! lu��
y, but n� ��i:
sten to r����,

hou�e to �11\

�um!Tntp:

ericam navt�\

down m� tli

thewarwiililfi

asked, �tarln! i
blurredffio�i

,We'llyot11�
nt.Thinkofit
moreADll�ffi�
the Mom�r�:

eryoodr naa!�
ear now, �llt �

W"
don'twantW�

ke we �allai�.r:
kay, then,

Wi�

�oith we U� ��

WAR PORN 1SS

us, we can stand up to the Zionists, we can stand up to

the Persians, we can stand up to those pricks in Kuwait.
And we'll all have satellite TV. Freedom, Qasim. Free­
dom! And satellite TV! We won't have to hide anymore!"

Qasim loved how Luqman was, outside of work, willing
to say anything. One day he cursed Humam Abd al-Khaliq
Abd al-Ghafur, the minister of education-or, as Luqman
called him, "the rancid curd of a faggot sheep's syphi­
litic foreskin"-for twenty minutes nonstop. Yet despite
Luqman's hopeful levity, Qasim's mind kept returning to
the coming bombs, his problems with Lateefah, and his
strange conversation with Salman. Why had Salman asked
him about Anouf? And could it be true what he'd said, that
her brother was a gangster?

He'd noticed her the first day of class. As beautiful as
she was, there was no way he couldn't have. He was shy,
though, and considered himself a professional, so he tried
to put her out of his mind. When she started making cow
eyes at him and laughing at all his dumb jokes, he thought
it was just because he was her teacher. He remained stony,
unresponsive-for the first few assignments, at least, until
she proved she could do the maths and wasn't baiting him
for a grade. After that ... well ... She must know Tm mar­
ried, he thought, so he never told her. He assumed she was
single and available, so he never inquired.

Anouf would wait after class, hovering at his desk to ask
him about some knotty algebraic conundrum, her skin rich
and luminous, her eyes quick like oil in the sun, her face
delicate and open. One time their hands had brushed, and
a terrific shock lit through Qasim's belly. It took everything



1S6 ROY SCRANTON

he had to keep from grabbing her wrists and pulling her
across his desk.

Yet he restrained himself. He had as yet dishonored nei­

ther himself nor Miss Hamadaya and had no intention of
so doing. With the war coming, though, sometimes things
just happened. Maybe he and Anouf would be caught in
a bombing raid. She'd come to him for help . . . rescue
. . . trapped in a dark basement, alone, while bombs fell
above, her hands sliding down his shirt to his belt, her heav­
ing bosom crushed against his chest, her breath slow and
warm on his neck-

But Salman said she was leaving. Why, then, did she
say that she's staying? And why would she tell me to call
her and let her know I was safe? Why would she smile
so happily when I told her I was staying, too? Was it all
some trick? Or was Salman lying? One of them was, that's
for sure. And what was that about Munir Muhanned, the

gangster Salman said her brother worked for? Cheating
on your wife, that's one thing; besmirching a gang­
ster's sister was something else entirely. Salman must be
lying-but why?

Qasim interrupted Luqman's monologue. "You ever
heard of Munir Muhanned?"

"The gangster?"
Qasim's heart sank. "Yeah."
"Oh, some. You know. They say he's like Abu Alich from

Wolves ofthe Night. I heard one story about him, about some
cop who wouldn't take his payoff and started locking up
his men, putting the squeeze on him, so Munir Muhanned
paid off the cop's boss, then just killed him."



i�nonorffit(
no inttnti��
ffietiffi�tru;
Q De (all��t,
el� 0 00 r',

'nue DOffi�I::
'�Delt, n�tk

reatn �l�w[

, tnen, ai�[
e tell m1t��

'oula �n� !�.

, to01W�il.

tnernw��J
MUn�nn1�,[
d for1 Cn1l�

rcnin� d !�:
alrnan mm!:

AbuMi(ni�
him,aD�ut�
artd lo(��!'
�unir M��

II

no

WAR PORN 1S7

"The boss?"

"N h
"

0, t e cop.
"And they didn't do anything?"
"There was a stink, but Muhanned greased all the right

palms and they left him alone. The best part is, they took the
cop out into the desert and buried him up to his neck. Left

him for three days. When they came back, he was still alive.
He'd almost dug himself out. So they tied him to the bumper
of their truck and drove home to Baghdad. By the time they
hit Firdos Square, all that was left was the rope."

In Qasim's mind, he became the cop and Anouf's brother
was Munir Muhanned-Qasim pictured a cross between
Saddam and AI Pacino. "I ain't gonna kill you," he said,
slapping a wrench in his open palm, "because that wouldn't
hurt enough. But you're gonna pay for what you did to my

. "

sister.

"I didn't do anything!" Qasim hissed.
"What?"

"Nothing."
"I'm gonna drop you here because I gotta run," Luqman

said, pulling off across from the Yarmouk gas station. Traffic
was sparse: the Ba' athists had set up checkpoints allover,
discouraging people from going out. "The wife is having
fits about these Hizbis. God keep you safe, Nephew."

Qasim watched Luqman pull away into the dusk and
turned heavily toward home. He walked slowly across Jor­
dan Street, dodging a truck full of sheep, two taxis, and a

passenger bus with no lights on, then went around the far
side of the gas station to avoid the long line of cars wait­
ing to fill up. Aside from the gas station, the neighborhood



151 ROY SCRANTON

was quiet. Lights were coming on in the upper stories of
J�

the houses, glowing warmly through latticework window
'wto

screens and ugly taped Xs, but nobody was out, nothing
�rul

seemed to be happening. It felt as if the city had curled in i:�(

on itself, waiting, afraid. It wasn't far to his uncle's, only a
Th(

few short blocks along some old railroad tracks and through �
a vacant lot, but it seemed that night as if he were crossing ;100
a vast cavity, an eternallostness. ]1

What would happen to his city, his country? Every fare- Th

well stuck in his throat, each goodbye seeming, in some 11
way, the last, because in a week nothing would ever be the
same again, even if, God willing, Luqman and Anouf and
Lateefah and his uncle Mohammed and everybody import­
ant to him survived. It was as if the calendar went up to the

deadline and stopped: everything after, blank.
Except it won't be blank. It'll be terror and death and fire

from the sky. It'll be like before, with power outages and
burst water mains and no food and police crackdowns. The
UN will come in with their humiliating aid and we'll stand
and beg for a bag of rice.

Something snarled, so close he seemed to feel it more
than hear it, and he spun hard, his pulse banging in his
temples. Maybe six meters away-two dogs fighting over
a pile of trash. One was much smaller than the other, and
sicklier too, but appeared that much more vicious.

Qasim watched as they growled, circling, then the little
one pounced. The big one went low and came up under
the other, tearing at its chest with his teeth. The little one
bit at the bigger one's ear, his shoulder, then leapt back
bloodied. The big one stepped forward and the little one



WAR PORN 1S9

��er !t���
WorK �it

outl n��
nad (Utl�

uncl�I!, ��\
banumw,

erout�r
aCkaOWm,:
anMii

ducked right and went for the neck. The big one met him
jaw to jaw and the two merged in a tumble of fur and teeth,
standing on their hind legs, snarling furiously and pawing
like boxers. Qasim's heart pounded in his hands.

The dogs came apart again, the little one jumping back
limping. Both were bleeding, but the little one was clearly
getting the worst of it. Their tongues lolled between their
shiny white teeth, their eyes flashing like stainless steel.

The big one leapt, going for the kill. The little one dodged
left, but the big one was faster, clamping down on his neck
and shaking him by the throat. Qasim picked up a rock and
threw it, hitting the big dog on the flank.

"Hey," he yelled.
He picked up another rock and threw, this time nailing

the big dog in the head. The dog's jaw opened and his vic­
tim fell free.

"H 'p. ill"eYe ISS 0 •
He let fly another rock, which the big dog ducked, then

another and another. The dog turned and loped a few meters
away, then stopped and growled at Qasim, who threw again,
hitting the dog square in the side and sending him fleeing.

The little one lay in the garbage, panting heavily, bleed­
ing from its side, throat, and muzzle, one eye slashed and

oozing, paw twitching. Qasim crept up, rock in hand,
closer and closer to the wounded dog. It seemed oblivi­
ous, its good eye unfocused. Qasim thought it must be
dying.

He crouched above the tiny beast, his nostrils full of
blood and trash and dog scent. The dog's body heaved with
breath, moist and red, its fur darkly matted. Qasim reached

e were (Wit

ry� tV1��
mm�lnt
uldmf�:
ana An�lli[

�DOar�:
wenturwi
k

aueatnwl:

to feel itf

Dan�n�m:
� fl�nti�!�
meotn1f,t

iciou�,
I'tnenrn1[.

,

cameuriju:
[Thelinll
then k�rt�
ld tneliw1:



160 ROY SCRANTON

out his left hand toward the gaping wound on the dog's
neck, toward its head.

The dog jerked up and snapped down. Qasim flinched
and screamed. The dog bit harder, and Qasim stumbled
back, lifting the bloody dog in the air. He shrieked and ,�
shook his arm, but the dog hung on, legs wriggling. Then
Qasim swung and smashed the dog to the earth, knocking it
loose. It pushed unsteadily to its feet, snarling and wheezing
at him. Qasim stumbled back and kicked. The dog limped
out of the way. Holding his bleeding hand, backing up star-
ing at the dog, Qasim cursed wildly. The dog growled and
barked. Qasim watched it as he backed away, both of them
now silent, and when he was far enough, turned and walked
off, checking twice over his shoulder, down the street and
around the corner to his uncle's.

He pushed open the gate with his shoulder, holding his
bloody hand to his chest, dizzy with the waves of pain now
shuddering up his arm. As he went in through the front
door, he heard gunfire and an explosion and thought for a
split second it's started, before he realized it was the TV in
the living room and Arnold Schwarzenegger saying "Now
daht's a vake-up kahll!"

His aunt Thurayya called from the kitchen: "Is that you,
Father?"

"N A
."

Q' id "I'
"

0, untie, asirn sal. t s me.

He stumbled through the parlor into the back room
where his cousins were watching Tv, then into the bath­
room. He put his hand in the sink and turned on the water.
His dizziness swept in waves, now pain, now cold. His aun­
tie came up behind him.



WAR PORN 161

donili1�, ''Are you alright, Nephew? You sound upset."
"I hurt myself," he said, turning away.
"Let me see." She grabbed at him.
"It's fine," he said, wrapping his hand in a towel. "I just

need a bandage."
Aunt Thurayya was quick for a middle-aged woman, and

tenacious, but Qasim was tall enough and the bathroom
cramped enough he could keep her out.

"L N h
"

et me see, ep ev«

"It's fine. I just caught it on some metal."
"You need the tetanus."

"I had the tetanus."

"It's not a vaccine! You need it each time."

"It's fine."

"You'll do it wrong. Let me see if you need the tetanus."

"I don't need the tetanus!"cler, nolill�1:
yes ofr��[
rou�n m1�G
cl iliou��tfr
tw�ilitn
er �a�n� �\

"You need the tetanus!"

Qasim swung on her and shouted, "Leave me alone, old
woman!"

Thurayya backed up a step and stretched to her full height.
"You will not speak to your uncle's wife in such a tone."

"Enough meddling! Go!"
"Mind your tongue, boy!"
"Woman, leave me be!"

Thurayya glared at him, then turned and swept into the
living room, storming in front of the television and yelling at
Maha, Nazahah, and Siraj. She shut off the movie and made
them go do chores. Qasim was shaking again and could

barely hold himself up. He went to the kitchen and found
a bandage.

the �a(� �

into m1k

led on mt�';

wcolO.�B(.



16) ROY SCRANTON

The bite was deep, jagged, inflamed. He couldn't find
any antibiotic cream, so he just put some cotton pads in the
wound and wrapped it up. It was unwieldy work, but he
managed to cover the gashes. Thurayya stood in the living
room glowering. His cousins sulked at their chores, well
aware who'd caused their misfortune.

"I won't be having dinner," Qasim said, taking a piece of
flatbread in his good hand. "I need to work."

Upstairs, he sat at his desk and looked out the window. His
mind had gone remarkably clear, and though his hand ached
wretchedly, he felt crisp, even refreshed. He munched his flat­
bread, for a few minutes blessedly free of thought, enjoying
the brilliant coruscations of the streetlights through the palms.

When he'd finished eating, he put on his headphones and
pulled out his dissertation. Against a background of chirps
and beeps, riding a delicate synthesized wave, David Bowie
moaned out, "Nothing remains ...

"

Qasim let the music
ease him into the pure spaces, the gently shimmering uni­
verse of thought called mathematics. He flipped through
his notes with his good hand, recovering lines and curves,
weaving arcane connections, coming back after an exile too
long to his comfort, his true home, his love.

Salman drove up over the Al-Jumariyah Bridge, catching the
outdoor fires from the masgouf restaurants along Abu Nuwas
Park flickering orange in the black waters of the Dijlah, and
descended into the subdued hustle ofYafa Street, passing the
Parliament building and the Assassins' Gate. Aziz liked Sal­
man to meet him in a particular shisha cafe in Mansour, to



memn��\I,:
M�m�(

unC�OOM�

which he was now driving in an unusual mood, enjoying the
easy feel of nighttime Baghdad yet planning, calmly and just
below conscious thought, his tactics for dealing with Aziz.
He was almost certain he was going to have do something
unsavory and probably dangerous, but he just hoped it didn't
involve his notional status as a reservist.

Salman couldn't remember the last time he went to drill,
but even he knew the situation was bleak. Maintenance

didn't happen, training was a joke, and morale wretched.
The Sunni officers despised the almost wholly Shi' a ranks,
and vice versa, and everything was infiltrated by the
Mukhabarat. No camaraderie, no sense of unity: each man

looking out for himself, which means you're always looking
over your own shoulder. Not that it would have mattered

much even if they did all work together. The armored corps
were still devastated from the last war, the air force nonexis­

tent, the artillery bombed to pieces-even after Iran, things
had been better. The troops were digging in as they'd been
told, but no one had any illusions about what would hap­
pen when the shooting started.

As he turned along Zawra Park and passed the Baghdad
Zoo, noting soldiers setting up antiaircraft guns under the

lights of the Dream Park's Ferris wheel, Salman realized he
couldn't care less who won. Someone would always be on

top, and the guy on top has to step on everyone else
in

order to stay there, so what's the point in getting worked

up over who it is? There has to be a sheikh. Sheikh Hussein

or Sheikh Bush, it didn't matter. Power flowed the same no

matter who wielded it. And if you weren't on the side of

power, you got out of the way.

WAR PORN 16J

e coulQ�lt:
tton �4Q!�:
r WOf�l�ij:
ou In ili��1
elf c��r�li

nlffiffi�ri�!l
fllWQ��·
lines d1l�0J[\

afterd1l�'

a�e,cat(�r
on�MijK

fmeDijlw,;
ueet, r��mr

teo Aza l���

fe in M�I��



164 ROY SCRANTON

He parked around the corner from the cafe and walked
up. Rubbing misbaha beads between his fingers, he wished
he'd changed from shirt and slacks to a dishdasha. The robe
would have been so much more comfortable. Most import­
ant, he had to keep from being put in a fight Iraq was
bound to lose. Salman definitely didn't want to ride around
Baghdad in the back of a Toyota pointing a machine gun
at curfew breakers. Maybe if he told Aziz he was investi­
gating somebody-something vague and hard to check up
on. He could say he needed to collect evidence, do some
surveillance.

The cafe had a grand entrance that always pleased Sal­
man's eye: high and wide, dark wood hung with scimitars,
shelves and tables busy with archaic-seeming bronze lamps
and ornate, multicolored shishas. Peer too hard and you'd
see how chintzy it all was, but in the dim light and thick,
fruit-scented smoke you could pretend, imagining yourself
in some Abbasid harem-sticky dates and slippery olives,
the lingering odor of spiced tobacco, veils and low-lit lamps
half-concealing firm and youthful flesh. Salman found Aziz
sitting alone in a corner in the back, drinking chai and smok­
ing-not a shisha, but a Marlboro. The red and white pack
lay ostentatiously on the table. The two men exchanged
greetings, shaking hands softly and touching their hearts, and
when the server came, Salman ordered chai.

"Still they haven't voted on the resolution," said Aziz,
flicking ash. Salman noticed, as he always did, that the two
smallest fingers on Aziz's left hand were missing. They'd
been lost to shrapnel in the Iran War, but even crippled,
the man's hands were powerful, brutal hands that knew a

mm

�ol
��

lioni�



eandw� lot about killing, and Salman watched them to keep from
er�,ne\Vilt getting caught in the operator's deep, hooded eyes. "There's
asna,Tn11�' talk of a veto, Russia, China, France. The world may yet
,Mo�tim��· stand with us against the Zionist aggression."
fi�nt lra�� "The Americans won't be happy until they've got all
toride��� Islam under the lash. It's always been that way, they're just

amacnin1[ using their own guns now. We'll have to fight them
sooner

new�illr�' or later."
d tocnC(�1 "We've struggled a long time against the Zionists."

"God willing, we'll destroy their armies on the field of
battle."

"Insha'Allah," Aziz said flatly. "How is your mother,
Salman?"

"She's preparing to celebrate Ashura. Privately, of course."
''Ashura.'' Aziz took a drag from his Marlboro. ''I'm

wondering, Salman, if you've thought much about what

happens after the war."
Aziz was a hard man, a shadowed man, and although Sal­

man didn't know exactly where he stood in the Mukhabarat

hierarchy or what he did, he suspected Aziz would have no

compunctions at all about cutting Salman's balls off with

a dull knife and stuffing them down his throat. He might
even enjoy it, if the man ever felt joy. Either way,

Salman

was confident that in the clandestine webs sure to be spun

in the postwar chaos, Aziz would remain one of
the nastier

and more important spiders.
"I am your servant," he said. ''And a

soldier of the

Revolution.
"

"We expect the war to be a long one. We expect
the

Zionists to make great gains, initially. But there are plans

a�lnlfl�r�lli\

�Ii��ery �[It
nalow·litl�;

men ex(n�1;
meirneartl,[

, "1;aMon, �i1l

ia, thatilic�
jssjn�, n�',
even crirri1;

8s that �fW

WAR PORN 1"



166 ROY SCRANTON

for what comes after. Salman, you have always served us
very well."

"I'm honored to do so."
"But not everyone is so loyal. We expect many Shi'a to

collude with the Zionists."
His father gunned down by helicopter, his brothers

dragged off to be shot like dogs, the mass graves and burn­
ing bodies, his tunnel that was almost a tomb-Salman
imagined a boot stamping the images out. "You will need
information," he said.

"Yes. The Saddam Fedayeen and Mukhabarat are pre­
pared, in the event of the Zionists' temporary success, to fade
into the desert and carry on the fight. We are Arabs, after
all. We shall scatter like the Bedu and strike at the Zionists
from the dunes, as we once fought the Turk and the British.
We'll raise a jihad against the Americans and bleed them the
way the Afghans did the Russians. We'll cut them four thou­
sand times for every time they cut us. It may take years, of
course, but patience makes all things possible."

Salman saw where this was going. "The Americans will
need collaborators. Translators."

"Your English is good, no?"
"Fair. Mostly economics terms. But it's passable."
"Work on it. Here," Aziz said, putting a satellite phone

on the table. "This is how you maintain contact. The

phone has two preprogrammed numbers. The first is to
call me. I mayor may not answer, and if I do, I may not
have time to speak. Use it only when it's most urgent for
you to pass on information. The second is strictly for emer­
gencies. Strictly. But if you need it, don't hesitate. You will



f, ni� �W[:
ave� an� �t
omD-��
'You w��:

:�UC�,W�
are Ara�)JI�

eat me lim:

ana me ��[

oleeaili1ffi:

Ameriranl'

as�aole,"
a �atelliterk
n contact. I:

,me umi!:

I do, I mara

mo�t ur�enl;
tricUyfore�
esitate, Yo�l�

WAR PORN

be all but on your own. We will call when we need you.

Keep the phone close by. You understand?"
That all sounded fine, so far as it went. A bit like plan­

ning your own funeral. "Yes."
"Good. Now we must come to a more urgent topic."
Salman raised his eyebrows. Here it is, he thought, and

struck first: "If! may, sir, I have something to tell you." Aziz

showed no response. Salman went on. "I've heard
Munir

Muhanned may be selling information to the Americans,
via an agent in Kuwait."

"You have evidence?"

"Not yet. But ... I have a line. I
think one of my col­

leagues is working with Muhanned's men to
encode the

"

messages.
"What's his name?"

"His name?"

"Yes."

"His name."

"Yes, Salman."
"Of course. Qasim al-Zabadi."
"I see. Well, we'll take care of it. For now, I need you to

deliver a package." He slid a folded piece of paper across
the

table. "Go here and ask for Naguib. He'll have instructions
f: "
ror you.

Salman palmed the paper. "Is that all, sir?"

"Yes, for now. You have university work, don't you, that

exempts you from emergency
mobilization?"

"Of course."

"Good. You'll be well placed, if you manage to make it

through the next few weeks. Don't do anything stupid."

167



161 ROY SCRANTON

"Yes, sir," Salman said, and left as calmly as he could, elated :m(fO
to have been exempted from reserve service. He'd needlessly ,�l,
used up his "suspicions" about that weed al-Zabadi, but WllO
that was fine. There would always be another Qasim. ;�(Olo

;�wm

::�m�
Ashura had come and gone, unobserved, the Lament of �r[�r
Husayn forbidden on state radio. Qasim got up early all ��ri(�
the same and prayed, irritated and guilty, thinking of his l!O�a
mother and Lateefah. Of more interest to the rest of the ':lli�(�

family-mostly Sunni-was the impending UN vote and �in�n
the threat of veto, the worldwide protests, and the upcom- �����
ing deadline. Indeed, the house buzzed like a newsroom. ':ijnt
All day long, Al Jazeera and BBC ran on the TV in the
living room and Iraqi radio played in the kitchen, while the
family talked constantly. The chatter eased and obscured ���ml
the fear behind their preparations. jln�

The generator had benzine and the lines were hooked r���l
up. Extra propane tanks had been bought for the kitchen ,)it��t
gas, since no one knew when the filling stations would jnm
reopen. The windows were taped. Mohammed had drilled '�1llG
a well, but the foot valve was leaking, so Mohammed's son- IG�Q
in-law Ratib was out in the front garden trying to fix it. �1�W�
Ratib's eldest, Siraj, worked in the garden with him, digging 'I�ffi(
a hole for the benzine cans and propane tanks, and little 'MQ
Abdul-Majid, barely out of diapers, pretended to help, pok- iW�I�
ing at the dirt with a stick till Siraj sent him running with a 'Thatl,
smack. The little one ran in the house wailing, snot-faced, I'�Q�
crying for his mother, Warda, who was rifling through the 'Inatl
living-room closet collecting candles-citronella candles, l1�ur



eco�al1lt
elQ n�����

�·Za�aruI.
rQ�im,

me LaJmm.
�ot urwl)1
minbn��f:

he r�t�fl

earonelM!
runnin��i[

in�mot-f!(i:
.

ng throu�� c
onelJa can�1

WAR PORN 169

scented candles, beeswax candles, all jumbled together in

a box.

Warda knelt and wiped Abdul-Majid's face while he cried

and told on his brother Siraj. She kissed his head and gave
him some candles to carry, picked up her box, and led him

into the kitchen, where Thurayya's widowed sister, Khalida,

was preparing the midday meal: chicken with red rice, salad

and pickles, shineena, with golden vermicelli for dessert.
It had been a year since Khalida had come to stay

with

her sister. She'd once been an editor at a respected pub­

lishing house specializing in trade books, and her
husband

had been a policy coordinator for the National Progressive
Front. About four years ago, he'd disappeared, but she kept
working, living alone, waiting for him to come home, until

one day her spirit just gave out. By the time Thurayya and
Mohammed took her in, she was a scarecrow: withered to a

stick, hair unbrushed, nails chewed to ragged nubs, darting

eyes flashing out at a world full of hidden enemies. She
was

a bit better now, but the run-up to the war was wearing on

her nerves.

"Hello, Auntie," Warda said.

"God bless," said Khalida, wiping her hands on a towel.

"And what have you got there, little man?"

"Some candles," Abdul-Majid said, sniffling.
"And what are you going to do with them?"
"We'll light them with matches."
"That's right," Khalida said. "We'll light them with matches."

"And they'll make light," he said.
"That's right! They'll make light! So that your auntie

can

see your beautiful face!"



170 ROY SCRANTON

Thurayya turned from her shopping list, warmed by the
joy in her sister's shy voice. She smiled at Khalida, Warda,
and Abdul-Majid, her daughter Nazahah sitting next to her
slicing cabbage, her precious family, her beautiful home­
then scowled as she remembered the snake upstairs.

"Nazahah," she said, "pay attention to what you're doing."
She still couldn't believe Mohammed had refused to

turn his back to the ingrate, brother's son or no. After all
his shiftlessness, all his laziness, and finally this, this disre­
spect-Thurayya had given up on him. She never thought
her sister-in-law Nashwa had been hard enough on the boy
anyway, especially after Faruq's death, and now ... stay­
ing in Baghdad, leaving his wife in Baqubah, during a war
... unimaginable. Then, to talk to her as if she was a child!
What did you expect from such a one? Those who haven't
learned from their parents will learn their lessons from the
days and nights. And for her own husband to nurse this
viper ... Mohammed left her no choice but to snub him
at every turn, to cast a pall of tension over the house so
thick, they'd suffocate till she got her way.

Yet what good was hardening your heart when they'd
soon be huddled together praying for mercy? What did you
gain by adding trouble to trouble? It was almost enough
to make her want to forgive him-but the thought of his
smug smile enraged her allover again, and she reminded
herself that to show weakness with men was to submit to
endless trampling.

"What are you doing?" she yelled at Nazahah. "Cut thin,
thin! Shred the cabbage, don't chop it!"

"Yes, mother," Nazahah said. She knew Mother wasn't

:it��

mto



, warm�Q�
Kh�ln�, t
ittin� n��tt�
eauti� ��r:

e U��t�r!,
nat rOu'rf��:

nan r�&�:

nenmrmij,
nou�n O�Wt·
a now",[

�ili,auri�F
if�ne\v�H:
no�e wnoh"

rlmofi!fm�'

ana to flilllC

�ur to !fl��;

over tnf n��i

WAR PORN 171

really mad, not at her, anyway. Thurayya doted on her

daughters, and her corrections usually took the form of

good-humored exasperation or gentle scolding. Only in
the most extreme circumstances did she lose her temper,

and when that happened there was no mistaking. Mother
would volcano, throwing plates, screaming, turning the
house topsy-turvy until the violator collapsed in a shamble

of tears. The last time that happened was when Maha got
caught with a French magazine-Heaven knows where she

got it-full of shirtless male
models. "That was so worth

it," Maha said after, her face still puffy and red. They had,
Nazahah couldn't deny, been exceptionally beautiful men.

Nazahah often enough found herself a target for her
mother's irritation, but never her rage. She did what she

was told, said please and thank you, and hardly argued
with anyone. Her eldest sister, Warda, was well behaved,

too, though stubborn as a mule, very much in her mother's
mold. It was poor Maha who was doomed to be

the sower

of strife: daring, cruel, walking through life with a feather
on her head, always fighting the flies in front of her face.
She terrorized Nazahah, who cowered before her older sister

like a beat dog.
Nazahah's comforts lay elsewhere. On turning thirteen,

she'd fallen in love with God, and since then she'd floated

through her days awestruck, contemplative, the world
around her a tremulous vision. Every thing, every moment

quivered with weight and substance, perfection, symmetry,
and beauty, since all was the will of God, the one and only:
every thrush, every wren, every cloud, every fear, every

slice

of cabbage, every word her mother shouted, every shifting



17) ROY SCRANTON

emotion vibrating though the house, even the coming war.
All. Her only problem was reconciling Michael Jackson,
whom she understood to be somehow vaguely yet irrevo-
cably not halal, possibly even haram. She would not let "�
him go, however, and solved her conundrum by ignoring
it. Michael and Fatimah sat side by side on her tiny shrine, :�
holding the Prophet between them in harmony. �i

"Wake up," her mother snapped, slapping the table. �r
"You'll cut your fingers off" :ru

Nazahah smiled at her mother. �rl
"When you finish the salad, go see if your brother-in- u�

law needs anything out front," Thurayya said. "I'm going �I,
upstairs to check on your sister." ]t.

Maha was Thurayya's lamentation. She was too pretty by �d
half, for starters, and she knew it. Then her temper! And ���
the airs she put on! Thurayya's plan was to get her married �)�'
as quick as possible. They needed someone from the right Jt
kind of family, though, someone attractive, with good pros- J�
pects ... and young. Maha was picky-haughty-frankly,
impossible. There was no shortage of available men, but m�w
the problem was that they needed a real Prince Charming, M�
someone handsome and brave, sweet enough to treat her i(�1"
well but strong enough to control her. God willing! 'l�

Thurayya went up to the girls' room, where Maha lay .�lnJ
on her bed listening to a bootleg CD of Brandy's Never Say
Never and flipping through an Egyptian movie magazine. She
watched her daughter daydream, wondering where she got
her pride and her insolence, but loving her for it too. Maha
would be a queen someday, when she found her prince. Thu­
rayya smiled, then said, "Daughter."



ilie corni�11
IcnaeiM
elr r�t m:

rffionJ,

a��in� ili� [

J'our DW�t:,
a ��a, "rm�,

Wa.ltoo�rtul
her tem�d!,
o �et n�r mw

ne frommti;

t\\lm�oOOf
au�no/-�lli

\'�laDle mt�,:

Prina C�rutlL

ou�n to tr�l:
00 willin�!

wnereM�,
Branor)) Nm,

, ;
oriemafIDt"

ing wnere )�t!
r for it toO,�t

8herprin(e,r;

WAR PORN 17J

Maha flipped the pages of her magazine.
"Maha! Go downstairs and help your auntie with lunch."
"But Mom ...

"

"No buts! Downstairs!"

Thurayya watched Maha stomp down the stairs, then cir­

cled back to her bedroom, where Mohammed was showing
Qasim how to work his AK-47. Qasim held the weapon's
barrel awkwardly in his crudely bandaged left hand and

struggled to pull back the charging handle. The weapon
kept slipping from his grip.

"Here," Mohammed said, "put the barrel on your foot
and let the weapon pull down-not on the ground! On your
foot. If you get dirt in the barrel, it'll blow up in your

face."

Qasim tugged on the charging handle, and this time it
slid back and clacked home. Mohammed found himself

wishing, again, as he often did, that the boy had served his
time in the military instead of getting the deferment Faruq
had wrangled for him.

''Are you staying for lunch, my dearest husband, great
and wise lord of the home?" Thurayya asked.

Mohammed frowned. "No. Is Ratib still working on the

well?"

"I don't know anything about wells, my noble sheikh of
infinite courage. I'm just a silly woman who isn't even given
due respect in her own house."

Qasim turned in time to catch Thurayya's cold glare as
she left.

"We need to talk," Mohammed said to Qasim. "But

first we have to finish cleaning out the office. Go start up
the van."



114 ROY SCRANTON

Qasim rode the bolt forward on the Kalashnikov and rJc
handed the rifle to his uncle, then headed downstairs. So �1ill
he'd snapped at her-so what? Was he supposed to feel bad :1f
now, or pretend women got to boss him around? What 1�
could she do about his stupid hand? It was fine. Okay, it :�I
was oozing pus, developing a yellow crust around the hot, !i�
raw wound, and it hurt more every day. It might even be
infected, but he was sure it would heal soon. A little bite, Jey
nothing he couldn't handle. He certainly didn't need a gag- �
gle of women honking over him. �

He started the van and slid his bandaged hand over the
wheel, letting himself slide into the pain aching up his arm. m!
He would master the pain. That would be manly.

Mohammed got in the passenger side. �'ey
"You can drive with your hand like that?" he asked.
"Yes, Uncle. It's nothing. The bandage is just to keep it

clean."
"Let's go, then. First stop is Zubair's, then we'll go get

Othman."

Qasim honked the horn and Siraj ran over and opened J1��
the gate, then stood aside while the van backed into the :�r
street. As they drove off, Mohammed noticed a black Mer- lill
cedes pull out and follow them. ,/!�

]In

Q
Mohammed had two offices, one in the Karrada, where
he met with clients and handled paperwork, and one in
a warehouse out in Baghdad Al-Jidida, where he kept the
trucks and machinery. Earlier that week, they'd gone out
to the warehouse and secured the outer wall with barbed



Kalasnnihf,
ed down!t�f!
pposedtoh
1m arouna�i
was hn�, �tr

me Karraa�, i

[work ana ��

where n�K11t:
" mey'a �O�(:
w�l witn �J.

WAR PORN 17'

wire and spikes, bricked up the windows, and locked up the

equipment. Mohammed's chief foreman, Yaqub, lived near

there; he promised Mohammed he'd keep an eye on things.
The Karrada office, on the other hand, Mohammed had

decided to empty. He, Othman, Qasim, and two employees
with a pickup spent the afternoon hauling out all Moham­
med's files and personal effects and as much furniture as

they could manage, then securing the building.
Qasim laid mortar, bricking a window, while Moham­

med sat at his desk going over outstanding contracts.
Othman double-checked the file cabinets to make sure they
were empty.

"I think," Othman said, "it's a great opportunity. I think

they really mean democracy."
"Nonsense," said Mohammed, not taking his attention

from his papers.
"It'll be like Russia, I think."

"Russia, huh?"

"Iraq's a great nation, my friend, but we sow and weep
under the lash of a tyrant. Our wheat is salted with tears

of

oppression. After the war, we'll be free to farm how we
like.

Our fields will sprout with joy." Othman's fine, soft hands

spread to mimic tears falling on the wheat, then sprang up
to show the new harvest.

Qasim thought the poet a silly old man, but Othman had
been Mohammed's best friend since they were boys. The

two men were oil and water, Harun al-Rashid and Jafar,
Don Panza and Sancho Quixote. Whereas Mohammed

was an engineer, a pragmatist, and a nationalist,
Oth­

man was a poet, romantic and cosmopolitan. Whereas



176 ROY SCRANTON

Mohammed had never left Iraq, Othman had traveled ,;111
to Cairo, Paris, and Moscow, and had spent two years :!�i
in exile in Beirut. Mohammed built houses and offices;
Othman wrote poetry and had translated Hart Crane's :�
The Bridge and Lautrearnont's Les Chants de Maldoror. :I�
Mohammed was broad-shouldered, with a square, hand- lID
some face that in a good light looked like Omar Sharif's; :tl�
Othman was dumpy and pear-shaped, with a long, slop-
ing nose-he looked more like Nour EI-Sherif. He wore '�t
thick glasses, through which he peeped out at the world
with eyes that always seemed to be laughing.

"You're a poetizing fool," Mohammed said, slamming
down his pen and sitting up. "Iraq is a great nation because
we have a strong leader. You'd rather have madness, revolu- .�
tion after revolution, like the sixties? You'd rather a plague
of crusaders? Because that's what they'll be, Othman, these ;:1·
Americans, just like the British. A plague. They're going to :)�
come in like pharaoh and put their foot on the neck of Iraq." :)!1

'They'll take Saddam's foot offthe neck of Iraq, is what 1�
they'll do," Othman said, "and you'd see that if you weren't 3m
so old and set in your ways." ill

"Set in my ways? Listen, brother, I know you're an igno­
rant old skirt chaser who doesn't know from a handful
of lentils, but you must have been taught a little of your
nation's history."

"I know 'His watchdogs have corrupted the land,'''­
Othman recited, quoting his teacher al-Bayati-'''stolen the
people's food, raped the Muses, raped the widows of the men
who died under torture, raped the daughters and widows of
his soldiers who lost the war, from which, like rabbits in



�ow )'ou'r� mi�
.ow from � �W(

got � lirU� �rr

prea me lmf
BayaD-'''ltol��:

e \�1aOWS of ili��

rers ana wiQ��

ich, like raD�i�

WAR PORN 177

clover fields, they had run away, leaving behind corpses of
k d

'"

wor ers an peasants . . .

"Then you know we're a nation of peasants," Moham­

med interrupted, setting his contracts to one side. ''A nation

of ignorant hill people in the north, dull-minded farmers

in the south, and superstitious tribesmen in the west. We

are, like most Arab nations, a backward and troubled peo­

ple. And yet we've modernized more than any other.
We

beat the Iranians, we beat back the Americans, we've kept
our nation together and hauled our peasants screaming and

wailing into the twentieth century. And how, my brother,
did this happen?"

"The curse of oil?"

"No. By having a strong leader. A strong leader who
believes in unity, who believes in a powerful, secular

state-a nation-that can stand up to the Zionists and lead

the Arabs into the future. We're an Islamic civilization, not

merely a people or a religion, and it takes a strong leader to

keep us moving together. Without Saddam, Iraq will
shat­

ter into a thousand pieces."
"I read Aflaq too, my educated friend." Othman perched

his wide rump on the edge of Mohammed's desk, offered
Mohammed a cigarette from his pack of Miamis, then lit

one himself. "Of course we must put sectarian squabbling
behind us. On that, I walk with you today and tomorrow

and the day after. But for our Father Leader and Daring
and

Aggressive Knight, the Hero of National Liberation, unity
was always only a word. Four thousand times, he played
the Kurds against the Sunnis and the Fivers against

the

Twelvers. He doesn't heal the rifts between Muslims-he



manipulates them. Whereas in a democratic Iraq, an Iraq
where every voice can be heard, with the Americans here to
help ...

"

"To take our oil, you mean. What does your Al-Bayati
write? The hourglass restarts, counting the breaths of the
new dictator ... '"

"They want us to modernize. You see how they are with
the Persians. With the Wahhabiyya."

"Speaking evil from the left side of their mouth while
flattering out of the right. Denouncing the mujahedeen
with one hand and shoveling cash at them with the other.
Yes, I see. The Zionists and the Persians have always con­
spired together."

"You're too cynical. You always have been. You've always
been too willing to accommodate yourself to power."

"You didn't seem to mind much when I used my 'accom­
modation' to get you out of jail."

"For which I am forever grateful, my friend," said Oth­
man. "You saved me."

"And I would do it a thousand times. But to save you, I
had to have power. Brother Othman, listen: power must be
held. It must be used. Listen: this has nothing to do with
democracy. We're under attack from the Zionist crusad­
ers because we stood up against them-because bin Laden
stood up against them. It's the same as it was with Kuwait.
Someone dares to stand up to America, and they're going
to punish whoever they can put their hands on. Listen:
Saddam is the only thing that has kept our nation together
for the last thirty years. When the Kurds took up arms
against us, who stood against them? When the ayatollahs

�I

171 ROY SCRANTON

�,]

I

�ffi



started rioting and rebelling even here in Baghdad, who

stood against them? When the Persians bombed our cities

and cut us off from the Shatt aI-Arab, who stood against
them? And when the Kuwaitis started murdering innocent

Iraqis and then that snake George Bush, who I spit on,
invaded our lands and butchered our brothers, when the

entire world lined up to see us broken-who stood against
them?"

"'Carpenters and ironsmiths, hungry and burned under

the autumn sky, all forcibly led to slaughter, killed by invad­

ers, alien and homegrown ...
'

My friend, the same man

who runs Abu Ghraib, who gassed the Kurds, who disap­

peared your own brother-in-law. How can you stand by
n, fO�\(I: this dictator as if he stood by you? He cares only about

al-Tikriti. He cares only about Hussein. For all his strength,
he has no more honor than a dog. And his sons! Think of
them. You know the stories."

"Rumors. Your tribe sit around the Writers Union like

Scheherazade, making up gruesome fables to shock each

cratk Ira�J �
eAmerlcan!�t

does rour N�
me Dr�4�1

our nation wf

urds tOOK �� r
I

i'hen tbe araW�

WAR PORN 179

other."

"Not fables. You see the disco boats. You know what

happens to the women-the daughters they take.
Schehe­

razade's not far off."

"Listen, Othman, sometimes the powerful must be cruel.

Ifwe have to torture people to save lives, so be it. If we have

to spy on people, so be it. If my grandsons are to
know

a peaceful and democratic Iraq, unified not by force but

by law and honor, it will only be because we built strong
foundations to secure that future. Is Hussein perfect? No. Is

the party perfect? No. There are excesses. There are lies
and



180 ROY SCRANTON

evils. But the choice, Othman, is not between perfection
and imperfection. We must choose, as always, between the
lesser of two evils: a powerful leader or anarchy. And if you
choose the Americans, you choose anarchy."

"Maybe Bush will be strong," Qasim said from his
bricked-up window.

"What?" Mohammed turned, incredulous.
"Maybe Bush will be a strong leader. Maybe he will keep

I "raq strong.
Othman chuckled. "Your nephew sees things differently,

brother."
Mohammed stood up, spitting and stomping his foot.

"Fuck Bush," he said.
"But if Bush can beat Saddam, doesn't that mean he is

stronger? And maybe he'll make Iraq strong again. Then we
can build our democracy."

"You see, Mohammed," Othman said. "The young have
hope. They're not frightened of the future like you are."

"Bush-strong! You heard about the protests. Against
Bush. In his own country. He can't even unify his own
nation, and they have it easy. They're rich. Fat. Decadent.
Not only that, their women ... You see how it was with this
Hillary Clinton and now that Condoleezza Rice ... Their
women practically run the country."

"Mohammed, surely you wouldn't oppose a woman's rule
...

"

Othman said with a grin.
"At home. At home. There is a very strict line."
"I see. So because Thurayya hasn't yet made an assault on

your office, you consider it well defended," Othman said.
"True enough," Mohammed said, wiping his hands and

: I�i

Jt



etween �tntt.
ways, Dttw11�
narcny,AnU
ny,"

rJ1at m��

o �,n,Ik

(rier jine,"
J

I.

maueanalJaW,

d,"Oiliman�:
ing his nanilli

WAR PORN

holding up his palms. "And she won't ever try, God willing.
Now, if you two are done vexing me with your daydreams,
let's finish up and get out of here."

Qasim wiped his trowel on a brick and dropped it in his

tool bucket. Mohammed tied up the last pile of contracts
and set them on a corner of the desk. Othman closed up

the last empty cabinets. Mohammed sent
Othman to check

on the other workers, then turned to Qasim. "Nephew, a

word."

Qasim faced Mohammed. His bad hand ached, and he

felt feverish and dizzy. "Uncle, I know I was short with

Aunt Thurayya."
"Yes."

"It's just that ... It's not just her. I can't take all this
fem­

inine meddling. My mother, Lateefah, Aunt Thurayya ... I

have to make important decisions, and all their fussing is

... they don't understand. They have no right to question
me. They're just women."

Mohammed rubbed his mustache. "It's true, nephew,
that women are women. And it's true that you must be firm

with them. You can't let them treat you like a boy. But a

man's wife ... Well, things aren't always so simple."
"My wife is my Fatimah, Uncle. She's my servant."

"No, Nephew, you are hers. Lateefah is the one who
will

bear your children. She's the one who
carries your family in

her hands. In her belly. You must protect and cherish her.

You must stand by her."
Qasim winced. "Now you are meddling!" he shouted.

Mohammed stepped across the room and slapped Qasim
hard, knocking him back against the bricks, sending

his

181



1IJ ROY SCRANTON

glasses clattering to the floor. Qasim cried out, tears leaping I�
to his eyes. \1

Mohammed exhaled through his nose with a snort. �l
"I've nearly had my patience with you, boy," he said.
"Indeed, were it not for my obligation to your father,
I'd have sent you from my house a long time ago. You :t�
blacken your father's face. If you want to stay, if you want :a
to curl your tail and hide in my home, then I will suffer !�'
it because your father was my brother. But don't think
you get to call yourself a man in my home. I know what
you are, and I know a man who abandons his wife out of
fear and pride is nothing but a dog. When we get back :!�
home, you'll beg your aunt's forgiveness, or you'll leave. ��
Now clean yourself up and meet me outside."

Some hours later, Qasim sat at his desk fuming, trying to l\�
puzzle out a particularly knotty equation, unable to focus.
He'd called Baqubah earlier to talk to Lateefah and it had
gone disastrously. His mother wouldn't speak to him, and
when his wife picked up the phone, she wouldn't answer.
Qasim was solicitous at first, gently asking questions, but
each time Lateefah refused, his anger redoubled. When he
finally asked, "What's wrong with you? Why are you silent?"
she said, ''I'm grieving because my husband has abandoned
me." Qasim exploded, screaming into the phone, berating
her faithlessness, and calling her names until she finally �ij!
hung up on him.

Qasim told himself he'd called to entreat her, to com-
fort her, to promise her he'd send for her, and that it �l



d OUt, tean I�

O�e WIth 41'
·ou, �or,

�

�1 \
Ion to rour f��
Illn� tlffif 4��,'

o �tar, If ro�'
.e, tnen I WI��:
" �ut aon't[

WAR PORN 1IJ

was her unrelenting selfishness that had provoked him.

Sitting in his room, going through the same handful of
variables over and over, his mind raced along the well­
worn track of his indignation, chronicling the story of
how put-upon he was, how beleaguered by fate, how

neglected and how beaten down. His pained hand, his
headache, and the fever in his ears made it all that much

worse. From the Gulf War to his exile in Edinburgh to

his father's death, from his meddling aunt to his bully­
ing uncle to his thankless wife, his life appeared to

him

as a succession of struggles against a despotic fate that
had unfairly singled him out among all the others, he,

Qasim, son of Faruq, for tribulation.
There was a knock at the door.

"I'm working," Qasim shouted.
The door opened and Qasim turned to glare at Nazahah,

who meekly watched at the floor.
"Cousin ...

"

"What? What do you want?"

"There are men here to see you, Cousin."

"What men?"

"They say they're from the university."
"From the university?"
"Yes, Cousin."

Qasim stood. 'TIl come down."

"They said they'd see you here. They'd like to speak
to

you privately."
"Well, alright. Send them up."
Nazahah bowed and left, closing the door behind her.

Qasim faced his chair into the center of the room.
Two?



184 ROY SCRANTON

He supposed both could sit on the bed, or one at the desk. He
smoothed his blanket and arranged his papers and pencils.

There was a new knock at the door and as he turned,
it opened. One man scanned the room and sat easily on
the bed, the other closed the door behind him and stood
in the corner. Qasim knew at once they weren't from the
university.

"I . . ." Qasim began, but was interrupted by the sit­
ting man, who waved his hand and clicked his tongue. He
looked around the room again, taking in Qasim's modest
furnishings, his many books on his few shelves, his bureau,
the picture of Lateefah he kept near his bed, his handful of
shirts and trousers hanging in the open closet. Eventually
the man turned and looked at Qasim like he was measur­
ing the size of the hole he'd need to bury him in. Qasirn
realized he was trembling, his skin turning clammy, his
mouth going dry.

The man looked away, past Qasim, through the window
to the darkened city outside, the distant lights of the Urn
AI-Tobool Mosque. "Nice view," he said. Qasim jerked
back over his shoulder, looking in surprise at the same view
he looked at every day, then turned again to face the man.

"You ... " :�tl
The man waved, clicking his tongue. He turned to i�

Qasim's nightstand and picked up the photo of Lateefah. :m
"That's ... "

"Shut up," said the man by the door.
"Professor al-Zabadi," the sitting man said, still holding

the photo of Lateefah.
"Speak when you're spoken to," said the other. ,m'



oneatili�a�l
pa�er� ana �11i:

ana as n� �
ana �at e�m

ina him ana I;�

er U�tea Drw1,
eo ni)ton�t:

I.
i Qa)iffi'!m�

'j dYe)) ni!�lli:
i ea,ni)nm&;
, IOW,tY1�tl

s�Q) �till n�l&

(he other,

WAR PORN 18'

"Uh
. "

... yes, SIr.

"Professor Qasim al-Zabadi."

"Yes, sir." Qasim thought he might throw up.
"Please sit down," the man said, turning to Qasim, who

sat, looking from one man to the other. "This is your wife
Lateefah?"

"Yes, sir."
"She's not here?"

"No, sir."
"She's in Baqubah?"
"Yes, sir."
"You know, Professor al-Zabadi, we're not from the

. ."

unrversity.
"Yes, sir."
"Do you know where we're from?"

"I think so, sir."

"What do you think?"

"I think you're from the police."
"Why is that?"
"B

C I
"

ecause you seem rear ess.

"Is that it? Or is it because of what you know?"

Qasim's ears began to ring. The air seemed to be leaking
out of the room. "What I ... I don't know what I know."

"Professor," the man said, "you have not joined the Party,
is that correct?"

"I N
. "

... no. ot yet, SIr.

"Why is that?"
"I wanted ... I needed to finish my dissertation. I'm not

... I'm not one for politics, for all those political ... things.
I'm just ... a mathematician. Just maths. So, I thought,



116 ROY SCRANTON

what do politics and rnaths have to do with each other? I'll
join later, of course, but I didn't."

"J h
"

ust mat s.

"Yes, sir."
"I see. And who do you do maths for?"
"I don't understand."
"Who do you do maths for?"
Was this about his uncle? Was this about the accounts­

the bribery, black-market deals, shady negotiations with
officials? It was all run-of-the-mill stuff, the only way to get
things done. He couldn't believe they'd be here about that.
Had his uncle made enemies? Was he going to have to ... ?
Qasim blinked. The room dimmed and blurred.

"Just ... just my uncle Mohammed ... he's down
... stairs ...

"

"We spoke with him. He's a very honorable man. But
there are so many questions."

Qasim choked back a belch of vomit. He sweated cold
sweat, his good hand clenched in a fist and his bad hand
throbbing. The man stared, watching and measuring.
Qasim said nothing. With a great internal wrenching, he
decided to answer only direct questions and speak as little
as possible. He couldn't lie, that was beyond his strength,
but he could keep himself from giving away anything more
than what they forced from him.

"Your uncle is very honorable," the man said. "He takes
care of his family. He takes care of you."

Qasim coughed.
"It would be a pity if something happened to him."
Qasim looked from the one man to the other.



� ne�otiationn
II, meonlrwarl�:

. �nereaDomt
;O!n�tonayew,

olurrea,
j eo, JeH�

penea to nim,'
we other,

WAR PORN 117

"Do you understand what I'm saying?" the one asked.
"I ... think so."

"What I'm saying is that we're interested in certain kinds

of information. But we're very busy men, you know. We have

only so much time. So if we're looking over here, maybe we
don't have time to look over there. Or vice versa. You see?"

Qasim looked at the man, confused.
The man sighed and stood up. He stepped over to the

desk, leaned over Qasim, and flipped through his papers.
Qasim felt him at his shoulder, a menacing blur in his

peripheral vision.
"What is this?"

"My dissertation, sir."
"What's it about?"

"Harmonic analysis. It ... it has to do with permutations
of Fourier series. Fourier transforms."

"Transforms?"

"It's ...
"

Qasim gritted his teeth. "It's very abstract. It has
to do with series of numbers, with periodic functions. You
would need several years of higher mathematics in order for

my explanation to make any sense."

"Why don't you try?"
"It has to do with-simply put, what I'm trying to do is

develop a harmonic analysis of certain non-abelian groups
to explore whether or not we can analyze them topolog­
ically. I think I've been able to establish these groups as

locally compact in certain cases, but I'm still working on

applications of the Peter-Weyl theorem. The problem is,

they're not always locally compact-which means ... well.
It's ... it's a bit ambitious."



111 ROY SCRANTON

"I see. And these equations, they're good for making
codes?"

"What?"

"Somebody gives you a message and you turn it into a
non-abelian theorem ... "

"Oh, no. No. Not at all. That's a totally different branch
of mathematics. No. Cryptography, cryptanalysis, that's
totally different. You might talk to Professor Farani, she's
very good with that sort of thing. Not really my field."

"No?" The man smirked.
"Oh no. Like I said, I'm working on harmonic analysis.

I'd like, once I finish the dissertation, to see if I could push
it further, topologically, you know, but that's a completely
different ... that's ... wait." Qasim's realization shot fear
through his belly: "You think I write codes."

The small man slapped Qasim with the back of his hand.
"Don't pretend we're stupid, Professor."

Qasim held his head in his hands. His temples ached and
rang.

"How about we just take this, all these non-abelian codes,
and have somebody crack them?"

"Wh ;> N I N I' "at. 0, pease. o. t s not ...
"No?"

�I,

:W

"Th' Th' k"at s . . . at s my wor .

"Why don't you tell us what we want to know? Or maybe
you'd like to tell us in Abu Ghraib?"

"I I"... my unc e ...
"Yes?"
"I do accounting for my uncle. I'll tell you who he bribes,

how much, I can tell you the black market ...
"



The man's eyes narrowed. "We're not here to talk about

your uncle, shit-dribble. Who else do you do accounting
for?"

"I don't ... I don't know what you mean."

The man slapped him again. Then again. Then he picked
Qasim's glasses up off the floor and handed them back to
him. He went to the door and spoke briefly with the other

man, who came over to Qasim. He reached out and took

Qasim's good hand and pressed it flat on the desk. He held
down Qasim's wrist and pulled a claw hammer from under
his jacket.

"We don't want you, shit-dribble," the one man said. "We

want the men you work for."

"I don't know what you mean," Qasim said, his voice

breaking. "I really don't." His mind scrambled for some­

thing, anything he could tell them.
"Last chance, shit-dribble."

I lJ "M I
"

[em�mm11: y
unc e ...

The one man waved his hand in exasperation. The other

�on.aDflim(u. lifted the hammer.

you turn it�

�'Oiffmntk
. �tan�J)i), �
e��or far�,t
�}'mrft1W

�o\V!Orrri

r.··

WAR PORN 189

"Wait!"

"Yes?"

"M I
"

y unc e ...

The one shook his head and the other swung the hammer

down on Qasim's little finger, smashing the first knuckle
with a bloody crunch. Qasim blacked out. He came to a
few moments later, dizzy and tingling, sweat pouring from
his forehead.

"Let me help you remember," the one said. "We'd like
information on the codes you write for Munir Muhanned."



190 ROY SCRANTON

"Munir ...
"

"Oh. Now you remember."
"I don't ...

"

''Again.''
"No wait! Wait! I'll tell you!"
"Yes?"

"Hamadaya," Qasim said. The man looked at him quiz­
zically. Qasim went on: ''Anouf Hamadaya, one of the
students in my class. She asked me if I would write codes
for her brother."

''And?''
"I didn't. I'm not I wouldn't ever get involved with

guys like that. I'm I'm a coward ... you see ... her
brother, Anouf's brother, they say he works for Munir
Muhanned. That's who the codes were for. But I was too
scared to do it. That's all. That's all."

The man went around the desk and picked up Qasim's
dissertation.

"I told you, that's all I know. There's nothing ...
"

The other raised his hammer again and Qasim went
silent. His hands throbbed. His face throbbed.

"We're going now," the one said. The other let go of
Qasim, who pulled his bleeding hand into his lap. "But if
you hear anything, anything that might help, you talk to
your uncle. He knows who to contact." The man turned
and left, flinging the dissertation across the room as he
went. His partner followed.

Qasim watched them go, desolate and sick with pain,
then curled into a ball on his bed. He didn't respond
when Mohammed and Nazahah came to check on him,



DOKee at fiimt
aoa:a) Ofl1 «'
woule Wril1(,:,

WAR PORN 191

or when Nazahah splinted and bandaged his crushed

finger. Only when they started to pick up his disserta­
tion did he stir, waving them away.

The white empress hovered in the corner, her robes heav­

ing in slow waves, her hands stretching across the space
between them in the heat, head cocked, tears flowing down
her cheeks and splashing her chest with tiny red blossoms.

Qasim sat up, tugging at the sweat-damp sheets, fum­

bling in the tangle. As he leaned toward her, she leapt at
him, her face a dog's face. Qasim fell back and she cried,
"Wh �"y.

Then she was gone. He sat alone, trembling. His bitten

hand, aching, stank. His heart's pounding echoed against
the walls and he thought, How long? Has it begun? He

imagined great whirlwinds of fire spiraling over the city.
Fragments of a dream came back, running through alleys, a

great coal steed at his heels, fire in its eyes, fire
in its mouth.

Its massive hooves pounded the air with sparks. The white

empress watched from a high window, her mask impassive.
Turning and turning, the streets a cyclone, all the world one

ancient, winding alley. Again the dogs and something else,
Anouf, a shard, her hands on his manhood, her mouth on

his neck, while the horse pounded behind him. From above,
the white empress watched-beneath her mask, tears.

He heard someone walk past his room. Dawn shone
in

a red line. Black palms rose like minarets and the mina­
rets rose like rockets: the sky floated black under a starry
blue sea, and that's how they'd come at him, like sharks.



19.2 ROY SCRANTON

Had it begun yet? Were the lights in the sky the sea, or
the city?

Qasim sat up again. The call to prayer had begun. His
hands, chanting dull mantras of pain, told him he was being
punished for his pride. God had struck at him for his stub­
bornness and would kill him if he kept at it. He had no
choice. He had to return to Baqubah. If he stayed, he'd be
destroyed.

Slowly, painfully, shakily he dressed, then opened his
sui tease and threw in his clothes, his photo of Lateefah,
his Discman, a few CDs, his dissertation-now a clutch
of disordered pages-and all the books he could fit. His
other things he stacked in the corner, to send for later.

He hauled his sui tease down the stairs in the three good
fingers of his less-bad hand. In the living room, he saw Oth­
man sitting on the couch in the dark watching CNN with
the sound off Othman turned to him. Christiane Aman­

pour spoke on the screen. Qasim watched her smooth, pale
face, her eyes bleeding tears, distant and accusing. "Why?"
she asked him. "Why did you leave me?"

"I' "h·dm sorry, e sal .

"Qasim," Othman said.
"Please tell my uncle ...

"

Othman stood and came around the couch.
"Please tell my uncle I took ...

"

"Let me help you with your suitcase."
"I ... I have to ... I have to."
"Yes, Qasim. Of course. Let's have some breakfast first."
"No. I have to get the car before the ... before the dogs,

I mean. While it's still black."

\!�

�'

�wr



er han De�,
him hew��

a hUn forijili
a it. Heru:
he 1tareol �t:

WAR PORN 19J

"We'll go soon, but first come, sit. I'll get you breakfast."

Othman led him gently around to the sofa.
"No, now!" He waved his hand, stinking in its scummy

bandage.
"Yes, of course. We'll go soon. Just sit. We'll eat first, then

go. Just sit. Then we'll go."
"I have to go," Qasim said, sitting and dropping his suit­

case. Pain washed over him in broken pink waves.
Othman left to put on the kettle and when he returned,

Qasim had passed out. TV light dappled his wasted face.

Mohammed came downstairs and found Othman and

Qasim asleep on the couch. CNN was on, silently running
a story about a hijacked Cuban plane. Something stank.
Mohammed kneeled to examine Qasim's hand: the bandage
was dirty and loose, a mess of gauze, crusted pus, and filth.
He took it gently up and Qasim jerked awake with a shout.

"Let me see your hand," Mohammed said.

"I ... It's ... I have to go to Baqubah. I need the Toyota."
"You're not going anywhere with your hand like that."

Qasim pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. "You're
not ... going to stop me," he said. "You always want to

'ouen, stop me."

Qasim tried to push past him, but as Mohammed stood
to hold his shoulders, he fell back on the couch. Moham­

med knelt, taking Qasim's bandaged hand on his knee and

e breaKf�d�1 unwrapping it. He gagged on
the stench of the infected flesh.

"beforeili�i:, "Help me carry him out to
the car," Mohammed said to

Othman.



194 ROY SCRANTON

On their way toward Yarmouk Teaching Hospital,
which should have been a ten-minute drive, Mohammed
and Othman had to go through three different check­
points, each time arguing with the clean-faced recruits
and fat reservists that they had a medical emergency and
needed to be allowed to pass. Other than the Hizbis, the
city seemed evacuated, estranged from itself. There was
almost no traffic. Trenches had been dug in parks, berms
built up in front of schools. No buses ran and all the cig­
arette stands stood empty.

The hospital was quiet too. The nurse told them it
might take a while: "We're running a skeleton crew, to
let our staff rest. The full shifts start at midnight." A few
others waited in the lobby: a young boy, crying, his head
resting in his mother's lap; a fat old man wheezing like
faulty bellows; two or three bandaged and broken; others
with less visible afflictions. Guardians ofthe Nation played
on Iraq TV in the corner. Twice orderlies rolled stretch­
ers through to the ER, one man bleeding from a gunshot
wound to his chest, another trembling and hyperventilat­
ing, his leg broken in a Z.

At last the nurse came for Qasim. Dr. aI-Amman,
quiet, short, sleek as an otter, said little to Mohammed
and Othman as he dispassionately examined Qasim's
hands. He examined the splint set on his smashed little
finger. He jabbed Qasim's rotting hand with anesthetic
and, with the help of a nurse, began to cut away dead
flesh. Qasim was awake but delirious, and Mohammed
and Othman helped hold him down. The doctor cut
away the gangrenous bits and dropped them in a bucket



chin� H� while the nurse soaked up blood with a sponge. It did not
rive, Mon�� take long. Finished, he slathered on topical antibiotic and

aifferent(fi had the nurse wrap the hand.
an·facea r�:, "He should be fine. There's no indication of rabies, but

� emer����, we'll run blood tests. We'll call you-Insha'Allah-within
an tneHil�il the next few days. It appears to be a localized infection,

it)e1f nw: but it may have gone further up the arm, so I'm going to

prescribe some very strong antibiotics-he's not allergic, is
he? Good. He needs to take the antibiotic with every meal,

three times a day. He can't miss one single pill. Don't cut the

pills up, don't sell them to someone else, don't hoard them.
Unless he takes every single pill, the infection will spread
and kill him. Do you understand?"

"Doctor, I'm no thief," Mohammed said.

"Very good. He may be delirious for a week or so while
the antibiotic kills the infection. Make sure he gets plenty
of water and bed rest. The hand should be unwrapped every
other day and washed. Boil some salt water for five to seven

minutes, then let it cool. When it's room temperature, use

it to wash his hand, gently. A proper scab must form. I'll

prescribe some topical antibiotic as well. Put that on the

wound, then wrap with a new bandage. With proper care
and regular cleaning, he'll be okay. There is some deep tissue

damage, so his hand will likely be permanently weakened,
but functionality will return in time."

Driving home, Othman pointed to the horizon. Thick black
douds of smoke ribboned up from the greenbelts around the

city, where the army was burning oil in big pits. Beyond them
loomed a distant bruise, thickening across the sky.

I

ro cut dW�I�:

ana Mon��

,
The aOa�l,

(hem in d ��J

WAR PORN ItS

• • •



196 ROY SCRANTON

The sandstorm came later that afternoon, choking the city
with oily grit, turning the world beyond the windows to a
howling red void. It lasted until after well after nightfall.
As soon as it had blown over, Othman went up on the roof
to replace the satellite dish, but now there was no signal.
Ratib thought the storm might have knocked out the local
retransmitter, but Othman was sure it was Saddam and his
flunkies, the stupid bastards, he muttered, blinding us in
our moment of darkness.

They attached the aerial to the TV and tuned in to the
local station replaying the same programs from earlier in
the day, the same state demonstrators cheering, ministers
pontificating, Saddam speechifying. "Shut it off," Oth­
man said.

"Nothing to do but wait," said Ratib, slumping into an
armchair.

"I can't believe it's happening again."
"I was in the south last time."
"You could feel it. The air would hum and you could feel

it in the back of your neck. You could feel them coming."
"It was fast in the south. Everything was fast. You'd be

sitting there for hours, bored out of your mind, and all
at once the earth would explode. There'd be a whistling,
you wouldn't hear it until later, after the explosion you'd
remember-/ heard whistling. But before, nothing. They
hit us with jets and artillery. Those rockets they shoot."

"I helped dig people out of the rubble. After every raid,
as soon as the explosions finished, we went down to the
mosque-this was when I lived offAsmai Street, in Adhami­
yah. When I worked for the Iraqi Film Commission.

"II

i@,

�tt



cnobn!�. Anyway, after a raid, we'd meet down at the Abu Hanifa.
iliewinQ�w!: We had boys, some of the men's sons, and if we didn't know
llafterni�: where the damage was, we sent them out as runners. Then

we'd go dig. It was awful."
eW�n�lt "There wasn't any rubble in the south. Just wrecked

keaoutffi1: tracks and bodies. Men's helmets burned onto their heads
�aaQml�( because of the webbing inside and the coating, the lami-

ea, Dlinrun!� nate on the inside of the helmet. It just melted onto their
skin."

Othman sat on the couch. He watched the TV's blank

Ifrornw�i' screen while Ratib got up and scanned the DVD rack.

"I need a drink," Othman said to himself. "Mohammed!"

Mohammed shuffled in from the kitchen. "Stop yelling,
pig. If I'd known you had the habits of a Jew, I'd never have

lumrin�imi brought you into my home."
"Wh' b l�"ere s your ott e.

"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The good stuff, the Johnnie Walker, not the arak you

anarouww( give your clients. It's time
for a real drink. We could all be

dead tomorrow."

"I should see my God with liquor on my breath?"
''As if your God cared," said Othman.

"He cares," said Ratib.
Othman waved him off. "Go get your bottle."

"You'll order me now, like I'm your little woman?"

Othman leaned back and gazed soulfully into Moham­
med's eyes: "'Your yearning shows, whether you restrain

it or not, and likewise your weeping, whether or not your
tears flow. How many times your composed smile deluded
a companion, while between your hips-what was invisible.

WAR PORN 197



198 ROY SCRANTON

The heart commanded its tongue and its eyelids and they �Im
concealed it, but your body is an informer.'" r�IYI

�mMohammed laughed and rubbed Othman's shoulders. "
"Sad bachelor. If you want to drink so bad, why don't you
go down to the Writers Union?"

"I want to drink with myoId friend Mohammed and his
son-in-law Ratib."

"I don't drink," Ratib said.
"There is a time for your God, and there is a time for

your heart," Othman said. "You'll have one drink." J��
iD,'"Alas, my friend," Mohammed said, throwing up his M

hands. "I already drank it all." Jm�
Othman closed his eyes and covered them with the 11W�

fingers of one hand. '''Father of every perfume,'" he recited, »ru�1
'''not of musk only, and of every cloud-I do not single �;I(K,
out the morning clouds-every man of glory boasts of only iltl)

iD,tone quality, whereas the All-Merciful has joined in you all. M
While other men are esteemed for their generosity, in your wit,
generosity you bestow esteem.'" His eyes opened, peering �tl
into Mohammed's. "Tt is not much that a man should l(1ntu
visit you on foot, and return as king of the two Iraqs. For �111
sometimes you give the army that has come raiding to the ��rf
lonely petitioner who has come begging, and you despise l�ml
this world as one who has proved it all and seen everything �mK
in it-except yourself-perish.'" ilm�

Mohammed smiled, but not Othman. There was a sad- 'r�u
ness in his voice that slowly dissolved his friend's smile, �t�t
and brought Ratib back to the stretches of silence that J��!a
followed the bombs in the south, after the wounded had ��I
been trucked away and the dead buried, when they waited �I 01



eyelias ��:
,»

man'� �n�Q�
0, \Vhf ���It:

Ory Do���i!

joineain I�JI
enerolJry1illi­

. oreneal�:
at a manm',

me nvo In�i,:
me r�illn�tl:
, ana rouJ6:'
a )eeneV1�t

,
Therew�ll

hi) frienaills
) of )ilen(� t

the wouno1J:
wheniliep'l

WAR PORN 199

for more death to come. The feeling of relief at having
survived lent the dread a cutting edge, laced the bitterness
with painful sweetness. "Please, beloved and righteous
Mohammed, name of the prophet, by the grace of God
and by the mercy of God and by the infinite compassion
of God, go get your bottle. This may be our last night.
The last night for Iraq."

"There will always be Iraq."
"Like there will always be Akkadians or Abbasids or

Ottomans. A country is a day. Come. Let's drink like men."
"Ratib," Mohammed said, "go upstairs to my office and

in the filing cabinet, the tall gray one, open the bottom
drawer. There, back behind some blueprints, you will find a
bottle of oil to light our lamp tonight. The Johnnie Walker
Black."

"I'
.

d h
"

t s not permltte t at. . .

"Ratib," Mohammed snapped. "Your piety is commend­

able. Go get my bottle."

Ratib fetched it, and the two older men began to drink.

Eventually, after much cajoling, Ratib did too. In the mean­

time, Thurayya and Warda had returned from putting the

children to bed and, seeing the bottle on the coffee table,
went into the kitchen. The night passed slowly, the men
drank slowly, sometimes going into the kitchen for water

or chai or to speak with the women, and sometimes Warda
or Thurayya would come into the living room to speak
with the men. It was a quiet night, a night of conversa­
tions and stories of other wars, quiet but quickened by an
unheard buzz. The radio played a low babble behind their

talk, old patriotic songs and bullshit state bulletins. Just



JOO ROY SCRANTON

after midnight, as the men were becoming drowsy, Othman
sat up with a start. Then they heard it: the distant chug of
antiaircraft fire.

It went on for a while. Othman sat back down. The
shooting stopped. Started. Stopped. A distant machine
turning off and on, throwing metal into the sky. t",

Thurayya and Warda told the men good night and went uri
upstairs to bed. Shortly after that, Mohammed told Oth- �!i
man to wake him if anything happened, then went upstairs �
himself. Eventually Ratib fell asleep in his chair. Only
Othman was left, listening alone in the darkness. He had �,�
another drink, then another.

He woke, later, to the walls' dull shaking. The world I��
shuddered once, then again and again. Antiaircraft guns Ir�
flacked in the distance. There were several more explosions, l�
far but not that far, and more guns. Mohammed came mL
downstairs and looked at Othman. The two men looked at I���
Ratib, still asleep, and went swiftly upstairs to the roof To
the northeast, Baghdad was in flames. :�rl,

A fireball lit the sky. Then came the boom. �i��
"It's all in the Karkh." ��II
"They must be going after the government buildings." I,
Tracers cut the sky in loping arcs of red. r��
"I didn't hear any planes." j
"No, you wouldn't. They're too high. Or stealth jets." mJu
Another fireball; they counted-one, two, three, boom. i�

Red and yellow light flashed and shifted, the city danced ��rU
with shadowed fire. They stayed and watched until the ��
bombs then the AA guns stopped. In the east, the sky light- �wi
ened to a smoky blue. "M



droW�f'O�
e di�tant (��

oaCK OO¥m,:
di�tant md�

ne��,
nl�ht m�,

ammeo t�I��
men went��
n nl� (h�r, l
oar�w,�t:

morea�lrn"
�10hamffidQ

\'0 men 1��lt;

01,

Or�t�ilij�.'
nvo, iliree,�

, ilieci�&;
vatchea unro:

ast, ilie���

WAR PORN 201

They went back downstairs and turned on the BBC.

George W Bush's voice filled the room.

"My fellow citizens, at this hour American and coalition

forces are in the early stages of military operations to disarm

Iraq, to free its people, and to defend the worldfrom grave dan­

ger. On my orders, coalition forces have begun striking selected

targets ofmilitary importance to undermine Saddam Hussein's

ability to wage war. These are the opening stages ofwhat will
be a broad and concerted campaign ...

"I want Americans and all the world to know that coalition

forces will make every effort to spare innocent civilians from
harm . . . Helping Iraqis achieve a united, stable, and free
country will require our sustained commitment. We come to

Iraq with respect for its citizens, for their great civilization,
andfor the religious faiths they practice. We have no ambition
in Iraq, except to remove a threat and restore control of that

country to its own people ...
«

Our nation enters this conflict reluctantly, yet ourpurpose is
sure. The people ofthe United States and ourfriends and allies
will not live at the mercy ofan outlaw regime that threatens the

peace with weapons ofmass murder. We will meet that threat
now . . . so that we do not have to meet it later with armies

offirefighters andpolice and doctors on the streets ofour cities
... I assure you, this will not be a campaign ofhalfmeasures
and we will accept no outcome but victory.

"My fellow citizens, the dangers to our country and the
world will be overcome. We willpass through this time ofperil
and carryon the work ofpeace. We will defend our freedom.
We will bringfreedom to others. And we willprevail.

"May God bless our country and all who defend her."



· - ._.

JOJ ROY SCRANTON

He lay in bed thinking, why them again? The two men, "In
standing over him, one slowly waving his hammer. "J'n

"He's not going to do what he said," said one. �W
"He thinks he knows," said the other. "N
A dull boom outside startled the men and they turned 'ro

to the window. In the street, a line of Crusaders stood 'J'
on guard, the blades of their swords flashing like needles, ,�
reflecting the fiery angels crossing the sky whose wings ir�
and hair burned gold, swooping and soaring. One broke �TI
off and shot jets of flame from his hands-a burst of
white sparks, Crusaders tossed along the road like broken ��o
bottles, a crater. One of the iron men screamed, pointing �
his sword to the heavens, and leapt. An angel fell upon oW
him, wrapping him in flames, but the leaping Crusader ��un
stabbed through the angel's heart and the two, pinned, :100
plummeted writhing to the ground with a crash. '�m

Staring down from atop a minaret, her face impassive ]�O
white split with black, silver robes flowing in the maelstrom h1
wind, she watched. She turned slowly, her eyes passing over IlK
the city, and he could feel her watching him huddled there in ]!, I
his bed. He tried to push himself to his feet, but saw his hand ��m
was crippled, broken blue, a twisted bird's claw. m�tn

He heard the dogs a moment before he saw them, a i'ijy1
pack slavering down the alley at him. With his good :m!1
hand he pushed himself up and fled, feeling her eyes on ��U!,
his neck. h1

He turned one corner, another, then another, through ��r
twisting streets of the old city, the dogs close behind, their �mru,
shadows shuddering on the walls, another corner and �t�1t
another. He fell in through a bakery door. ]�m�



� Th� tw�(
narnm�r,
a on�,

ana tnq�
CrUlaaWt

nln� li�f ��(
��wnOIO:
arin�, O�d:
anaH �illf
roaaliKdl(

reameo, r�m:
an�d ff�t:

learin� Lr�\:
[ne two, r��
acmn,

er fa(f imrl

r ey�rdSl�:
nua&�amr:

anomer, �;

lo)e benin�,�
ower C0rn11i

WAR PORN JOS

"In the cow's belly, we're all milk," the baker told him.
''I'm not milk, I'm water," Qasim said back.

"We must pour milk into you."
"No, no. I need water."

"You'll drink pig's blood before you're through."
''I'll drink dog's blood."
"Oh, the dogs will drink your blood."
"I' Th'"m not a man. ey won t eat me.

"They won't spare you either. They'll kill you and leave you."
''I'll run forever."

"Your hand is running. That's a runhand."

Qasim clenched his blue birdhand in a fist.

"We must pour milk into you," the baker said, hobbling
around the counter and into the back. In the wall was a lit­

tle door and the baker opened it and, bending over, entered.

"Come, come," he said, going into the darkness. Qasim
followed.

He crouched in an endless tunnel of tearing wind.

Machinery chugged somewhere, loud, behind the wail­

ing. Down, down he went, until finally the
tunnel

opened in a series of small caves spiraling one around

another. The spirals became sines, tubes, a line of inter­

woven waves, a spinning weave of light and shadow, until
translucent gold in the darkness shone upon a door: The
House.

He opened the door with his good hand and went
in.

Qusay Hussein and Lateefah sat on the couch, holding
hands. A goat bleated in the corner. Qusay had pulled up
Lateefah's dress and was violating her from behind. Lateefah

moaned with pleasure, sweat beading on her face, her hands



ROY SCRANTON

grasping at the couch, her naked thighs trembling as she r�
pushed back into Qusay. ��

"What are you looking at?" Qusay shouted. He pressed
harder into Lateefah, his hands holding tight to her hips, and �I
she gasped. "You think you know, but you have a dog's hand."

"Stop," Qasim said.
"God is great!" Qusay shouted, and shuddered. Lateef­

ah's belly swelled with his seed, and she was standing beside
Qasim in his uncle's house in Baqubah.

''I'm having it tomorrow," she said, her face split with a
black line.

"Don't."
"But sweetheart, it's our baby. Look," she said, and showed

him the swaddled newborn. Its tiny black nose and furred
snout poked out of the blankets. Cute floppy ears, bright
black eyes, little white teeth, a curling pink tongue.

"I can't ...
"

]W

Lateefah handed the baby over. He knew he had to love
it, so he made cooing noises. Lateefah smiled warmly at
them, but when she turned away, he laid the baby on the
table and smothered it with a pillow. The baby barked and
yipped and Qasim forced the pillow down.

"What are you doing?" Lateefah screamed.
But he didn't stop. He felt the wriggling thing under his

hands and pushed down, down.
"Have some chai!" Lateefah screamed.
He smoothed over the pillow. He didn't understand why

he was in bed now. "It's not ours," he told her. "It's a devil."
"Please have some chai," Lateefah said. She sat next to

him, offering a cup. '11r�



tremolin��

Outea, H� ��
t to h�rru�

kveao�!�

't una�mw�i
o ner, "ItJlI��
'0, )ne )�t ��

WAR PORN JOS

The room was light, there was light in the room. Why
was he lying in bed?

"Cousin, wake up. Have some chai."

He shook his head, covered in sweat, the pillow was a

pillow-his heart pounded in fear-but no, there was only
the bed.

"Have some chai, Cousin," Maha said.

"Yes," Qasim said, taking the cup.
"The bombing started last night."
"Yes," he said.
Maha sat with him, watching him take his chai, telling

him about the first bombs in the night. She gave him his
antibiotic pill and made sure he swallowed. "Go back to

sleep," she said, and left him. He turned on his side and
watched the wind riffle the palms through the window's
white X, his mind blank but for the image of Qusay and

his wife.

Ai Jazeera said nine B-52s had left their airfield in Britain

and were six hours from Baghdad. Othman imagined the
American pilots flying those enormous silver machines:

they'd wear shiny helmets and black masks, like insec­
toid machine-men, but inside they'd be pale and blonde
and say things like "Roger" and "I need a vector on that

approach." Othman lit a Miami and pictured their green
flight suits with all those pockets, and how they'd call
their wives and girlfriends before the mission. Some of
them must have English girlfriends, he supposed, and
others would have American wives who would hate the



J06 ROY SCRANTON

English girls. They'd walk out to their planes and high-five
each other, saying "Got one fer Saddam!" and "Kiss my
grits!" Then they'd put on their helmets and masks and fly
over the English Channel and Paris and the Alps and Bos-
nia and Turkey and push buttons on their control panels �
and hundreds of bombs would fall from their machines
onto his city. The earth would shake, buildings crumble,
men die engulfed in storms of white-hot metal, children
and women screaming, blood bubbling on blistering lips,
and the pilots would high-five, saying, "How you like them
apples?" Relaxing now, they'd turn their big silver planes
and fly back over Turkey and Bosnia and the Alps and
Paris and the English Channel, all the way back to their
wives and girlfriends, who'd kiss them on the runway and Jll
say, "Bet you showed them what for!" Then they'd drive to
fancy restaurants in sports cars, wearing tuxedos, and eat �11
steak and drink Johnny Walker Black. l�l

Most of the rest of the family had gone to sleep, a midday ,:w
nap. Everything seemed almost normal. �!�

Except for the constant terror, especially at night, espe- ill
cially last night. The bombing had started in the afternoon, I�r!
massive raids in waves that shook the city. Sometimes they'd jl�
hear the hum of jets, sometimes not, then the first booms. �1�
If they were farther away, it was like thunder, but the closer I��
they got, the more it sounded like the earth itself was break- 1�1�
ing apart. The house shuddered. Everyone froze, then ran to
the living room, which, having no windows, was the safest ���
place in the house. The adults sat on the couch and arm- �m
chairs, the children on the floor, as if they were all having �Jti�
tea, and waited while the booms multiplied and stirred to :nhJ&lt)



�Ot mft�, (�:
v

on �li!lfri�.
How,d:
:r �i� !�Yfrli
ana mf ��i
\\�r Da(� t� �

WAR PORN )07

crescendo. Usually the wave was simple, peaking then fad­

ing into fewer, quieter booms and finally silence. Sometimes
it was longer, complex, orchestral: a peak would be followed

by a lull, a quieter stretch mistaken for denouement, only to
rise again reborn with a surge of hideous thunder. It might
happen twice, three times, once Othman counted five.

The raids went on all night. Every time the all clear
sounded, they sat astonished at the reprieve, then blinked
and, like old men stirring from long sleep, came slowly
awake. Some returned to what they'd been doing, others
tried the satellite. Thurayya made more chai. Othman

usually went up on the roof to survey the damage, to see
which part of the city lay smashed and burning. Columns
of smoke strung the sky.

They'd chat or make phone calls, discussing this or

that, what it would be like after, what it was like in the

last war, what it was like during the war with Iran, what
it was like before the war with Iran, what was good or
bad about this CIA guy Chalabi they had on the news, or
was America good or bad, or were the Americans better or
worse than the British. Then the air-raid sirens would grind
up or the AA would cough or something would explode
and they'd all jump and run into the living room and it
would all start all over. It went on and off like that, off and

on, all night. They scrounged bits of sleep, on the couch,
on the floor. Nobody wanted to go upstairs. There was an

argument about whether they should leave Qasim in his

room; they decided he'd be okay, but Mohammed and
Ratib quickly boarded up his window. It was a long, awful

night, restless and terrifying, spent at the edge of anxious



JOI ROY SCRANTON

exhaustion. Little Nazahah prayed and prayed, knowing
somehow it was all in God's plan.

Mohammed decided they should keep all their papers
and money with them downstairs, in case they had to
evacuate.

"Evacuate where?" Thurayya asked.
"We'll go to my brother's in Baqubah."
"How?"
"We'll take the van and the Toyota. If we need to, we can

go to the warehouse and get a pickup."
"We're not going anywhere," Thurayya said.
"J'

"

ust In case.

"Mohammed."

"Just in case. Everybody needs to pack a bag, too, and a
bag for the children, and we'll bring them all down here to
the living room." : �

The bombing let up at dawn. Everything but the satellite
TV still worked, so after breakfast and packing, they got
busy calling friends and family across the city and farther
away, collecting and spreading news. Othman slept. After
lunch they switched, most of the family dozing while Oth­
man fiddled with the Tv, which was how he discovered
that the satellite was back on and AI Jazeera had timed the
bombers.

Six hours.
Great silver jets against the sky and the hundreds of J��

bombs they carried, each one death for someone. He ��
remembered the last war, the ground leaping beneath �r�
his feet, the dead. A child's arm poking from the rubble, �rll
smooth, purple-gray skin sticky with half-dried blood. The �!



prayed, ��

ep ill ilitil�
aseilitrru:

•

a Da�, tOO1L
�jaownk

I

Jn� Duttn�g[

J rac�n�1 rnr;:
,

e cicy 4n�t
j riliman H�t,,;

. olin�wnijlv
ow n� ai!rni:

eeranaa aml

or �omfO��

leapin� ����

g from
th� ru�

f.ariea Dloo�"

WAR PORN J09

man with the shrapnel in his belly, howling all night-how
could he have so much life left in him to keep screaming so
loud for so long?

And the tanks-the tanks will come too. They'll rumble

through Baghdad like . . . He remembers a tank clanking
down a city street, its malevolent cannon swinging side to

side, pointing now at a bakery, now at a bookshop, so huge
it takes up almost the whole road. Its tracks

chew black­

top and sidewalks. A gang of children
tumble from around

the corner and launch rocks at it. The rocks clatter off the

tank's hull and it jerks to a halt. The gun swings around,
its gaping death-eye searching for something to annihilate.
Then the tank lurches into reverse, crunching up the road

at them. Run, kids, Othman thinks, and they do, dashing
around the corner. Was it in black and white, this memory,
or color? Was it even a memory, something he saw on AI

Jazeera or in Saving Private Ryan, or was it something he

just made up?
Six hours.

And will it be worth it?

It had to be. We have to get rid of Saddam and his goatcunt

sons. Donald Rumsfeld says it'll be short. Just a few weeks of

insanity, just a few weeks ofwar, then the Americans will give
us peace and democracy. We'll be a great nation again,

like

Germany or Japan. We have the oil, we have the drive,
we

have the brains and dedication, all we need is freedom and

we'll be as great as Baghdad ever was. We'll be greater
than

Cairo, Damascus, greater than Beirut or Tehran. We'll
rival

Berlin, Tokyo, New York, London ... The name Baghdad
will sing on the tongues of wealthy men and their

fabulous



J10 ROY SCRANTON

women, the name Iraq will jingle like gold coins. We'll fix
all the damage from the last war, from the last ten years,
and we can socialize the oil profits to do it. Then we'll clean
up the ghettos, fix the streets, finish the highways left half
built. We'll raze Saddam's palaces and monuments and hire
Iraqi architects to build real monuments to the Iraqi peo­
ple, monuments to rival the Eiffel Tower and the Empire
State Building. We'll build Iraqi skyscrapers, better than
in Dubai, and we'll become the new economic center of
the Arab world.

And our literature! It'll flourish like flowers after the
rain. No longer will we have to mutter our lines into
our hands, hunched in the dingy corners of the Writers
Union. They used to say Egypt writes, Beirut publishes,
and Baghdad reads, but soon they'll say Baghdad does it
all! We'll shout our poetry in the streets. We'll have pub­
lishers and book fairs. I'll finally finish my epic. Adonis
will come, and Darwish, and Mahfouz, and Munif, they'll l�
all come and speak, and they'll stay because we'll have ]�
what no other Arabs have, not even the Jordanians and
not even the Egyptians-we'll have freedom. Freedom in
a free Arab state, self-determination, national solidarity.
It'll be like the Republic, only better. Think of it! To write
whatever you want, to shout "Down with Saddam!" and
not have to worry about having your arms broken or your
manhood burnt off. And all we have to do is go through a
little war, a little trouble.

Five and a half hours.
He had to put on a movie. He couldn't keep watching

the news. He lit another Miami and flipped through the I�



ld COln�, W�':
the last t��I'
It. Then W1J�'(,
e hl�nwar! 1m

WAR PORN 211

DVDs. Five and a half hours would be two, maybe three
movies. Something the kids would like, maybe Shrek? We
could watch Shrek again. Or, what's this, Air Force One?

Han Solo. Very good. Han Solo and his big silver jet.
Mohammed came in, wiping his hands on his dishda­

sha. "I just finished changing his bandage," he said. "It's
still bad."

"It's only been two days," said Othman.
"He should be better."

"Or what? What can we do? Take him to the hospital
again?"

"We should do something," said Mohammed.
"Give it another day."
"Where are Ratib and his boys?"
"Ratib's on the roof. The boys are sleeping upstairs."
"Good."

"They said ...
"

Othman started. He couldn't carry this

knowledge alone. Someone else had to help him. "They
said we have a little more than five hours."

"Until what?"

"Nine B-52s left Britain three-quarters of an hour ago. It

takes them six hours to fly to Baghdad."
"I' h d"t s no more t an we expecte .

"I just thought you should know."
"God protects all."

Othman thrust Air Force One at Mohammed. "Is this any

good?"
"It's okay. You know. Action movie ... Are you well, my

brother?"

"No," Othman said. "No, I'm not. I'm furious. All we do is



J1) ROY SCRANTON

sit and wait. Wait for more bombs and tanks and ... Whether
it's good or bad, or both ... We should do something."

Mohammed smiled. "What can we do? Shout into the
wind? Would you wrestle the Leviathan? You know how it
is. Life's like a cucumber."

Othman grinned in spite of himself
"That's right. One day in it's in your hand, the next day

it's up your ass. As for today ... Well. Shitty days are only
good for sleeping. Maybe you should get some rest. I'm
going to take a nap now myself, then let's go see if Uglah llif�
has opened his bakery."

"Yes. You're right. That's good. I'll, uh, I'll watch Han II
Solo here. Come get me when you're going." f

Othman turned back to the Tv. He eyed the blue �
void of the screen while he fumbled with the DVD. He'd )[!w
remembered where the image came from: the kids were Pal- i�t
estinian, and the tank was Israeli. It had been on the news. �uli
He thought of other pictures, pictures of Israeli soldiers illlll�
storming Palestinian neighborhoods with M 16s, Israe- :�
li-owned American attack helicopters launching rockets at l��o�
Palestinian cars, Israeli-owned American fighter jets bomb- Mo
ing Palestinian houses. �ril

Five hours, more or less. He pushed PLAY. ij
ill
ill

He was in a cave again, dark and cool. Lights flickered Mo
dim in the distance, sometimes one way and sometimes ltt
another, illuminating winding paths in half-seen flashes. ��,II
This time Faruq was there, standing behind him, off to "n
the side, in front. Faruq was young, much younger than 10



;, Li�ntl fli(li
av ana lom��

��f.�een ��:
enina nimJ �[

ucn youn�trw

WAR PORN )15

Qasim remembered, with full black hair and a thick

mustache.

"You've got to kick the ball, Qasim. You can't be afraid."

"I can't kick."

"Listen," Faruq said, squatting beside Qasim, now a

child. "Whatever you do in life."

"But I did!"

"No, listen. Do you see the angels?"
Qasim looked to the sky, where indeed he saw the angels

his father spoke of "Yes."
"They have come to burn all this away."
"Like the chemotherapy?"
Faruq lay on the ground. "Like the wind. Listen."

Qasim listened, but all he could hear was his father's res-

pirator and the beep of the EKG. He seemed so old, so

wasted, lying there in the hospital bed. It was as if some
evil spirit had sucked all the meat from his body except the

stringy cord of his soul. Faruq watched him but
couldn't

speak because of the oxygen mask. His eyes were pale
and

bloodshot, stern and piercing.
Mohammed stood smoking next to the bed. "You see,

boy," he said. "You see what life is? This is the recitation."
"There's more," Qasim said.
"This is all there is."

"There's more. There's more if! can find it."

Mohammed inhaled on his cigarette, covering Faruq's
face with the sheet. "That was his mistake," Mohammed

said. "He tricked you. Now you've killed him for it."

"There is more."

"Look," Mohammed said, pointing down the hospital



.,_ t··
'

J14 ROY SCRANTON

corridor. A pack of dogs ran at them. "Stand!" Mohammed
shouted.

Qasim turned and ran. Yet it seemed no matter how lit(!
hard he pumped his legs, he couldn't move, and the dogs, ��
impossibly slowly, gained by inches, their jaws snapping ullt,
at his calves. His heart pounded, and he felt their paws on l�tl
his back, slamming him down, their breath on his neck, i�ill
their teeth. ;�

�l�
,

Day and night, bombs crashed into Baghdad. You watched it �lt(
on Tv, you heard it on the radio, you saw it from the roof and �m
when you ventured out into the street: soldiers and civilians, il�
arms and legs roasting, broken by falling stone, intestines �I�j
spilling onto concrete; homes and barracks, walls ripped .M,
open; Baathists and Islamists, Communists and Social Dem- L�n�
ocrats, grocers, tailors, construction workers, nurses, teachers Mij
all scurrying to hide in dim burrows, where they would wait J�lla
to die, as many died, some slowly from disease and infection, L'r
others quick in bursts of light, thickets of tumbling steel, "m�!
halos of dust, crushed by the world's greatest army. ]�t

As the bombing grew worse, the terror of it stained every �,
living moment. Sleep was a fractured nightmare of the day �[��
before, cut short by another raid. Stillness and quiet didn't i�t�
mean peace, only more hours of anxious waiting-or death. llin�
Even the comfort of family rubbed raw. l��1

Maha sat in her room listening to Britney Spears and Wd
Brandy, wishing she was anywhere else. This war was going �n
to ruin her life, she knew it, it was going to ruin her chances �\�u�1for marriage, it was going to ruin everything. Her skin was �ilii



rimer �rtW'
his warw��,

o ruin ntltk

ing, HtrlID�!

WAR PORN JU

breaking out, her hair frizzing, ends splitting. She stood at
her window and gazed through the slit between the two

pieces of plywood nailed over the glass and watched smoke
drift over her city, and the smoke was her future fading to
haze. She started hitting Nazahah, hard. She hated how her
sister kept praying, stupid praying to stupid God, like it
would do anything. She hated her mother and father, her
sick cousin Qasim, whom she had to keep nursing, creepy
old Othman, her sisters. She hated her mother's patience and

stillness. She hated Warda's incessant singing and Khalida's

watchful eyes. They were all conspiring against her: none of
them understood how terrible it was to have her life ruined

at seventeen, before she was married, before she'd even fallen

in love. She stood at her window and gazed through the slit
between the two pieces of wood and watched flames burn

along the skyline, half hoping she'd see it all devoured.
More bombs fell on the city. Day and night, smoke

clouded the sky and the sun blazed like blood. Sometimes
air-raid sirens would break the heavens with wailing and all
across the city people would drop what they were doing and
hide. Then the sirens would subside and no bombs would

fall. Then the all-clear would sound, or not, while AA guns

hacked at the empty gray. What people grew to depend on
was the mosque. After every bombing, out from the many
minarets across the city the muezzin would sound: Allahu

akbar, la ilaha illallah. And more bombs fell on the city.
Warda kept herself busy. She could not bear to be still: as

soon as she stopped moving, her mind bloomed with grim

thoughts of her husband and her boys. She could not
bear

to think of her little Siraj lifeless and torn, or Abdul-Majid,



216 ROY SCRANTON

who cried and fussed so much, falling quiet forever-it was
an emptiness the depths of which Warda refused to peer
into. To lose her beloved Ratib, whose skin she adored,
whose hips and back and shoulders she clung to, whose lips
and cheeks and eyebrows she loved so dearly they made her
ache, after all their struggles, would be losing the world. So
she mended. She cleaned. She baked. She'd watch movies
sometimes with the family, a little, but her mind wandered
and after a few minutes she'd get up and find something
else to do. She reorganized the kitchen and the closets. She
dusted behind the Tv.

And she sang. Quietly, songs from her childhood, in a soft
and lilting voice that sounded through the house, soothing
the family. They couldn't see the horror behind her gentle
eyes, couldn't hear how her songs were only noise to hush
an endless silence, so they were calmed by them, and this in
turn helped calm Warda. So she kept singing. And some­
times, as she sang, she could even imagine a future. She
might go back to work for the Ministry of Trade, where
she'd worked before Abdul-Majid had been born. She
might vote. She might grow old with Ratib, watch her sons
become men, watch them go to college, have careers and
wives of their own. She might live to see her grandchildren
born.

And more bombs fell on the city. Bread prices doubled,
tripled, quadrupled. There was no propane. There was no
benzine. The satellite went in and out and eventually Iraq
TV shut down, but the radio still played patriotic songs and
reports of the Americans' defeat. When they could, they
watched CNN or AI Jazeera. They watched balls of fire



iet forever...;r
da refu�eQ t�:

s�n �ne a�(
lun� to, wo��

early tner mJ�
o�ln� ilie w�rl:

�e'Q Wat(Omf
ner mlndw�

Q find 3�m�
ana ilie dOJI�"

·in�ln�, An��:
agine a furore
t

"

of Tradf, �:
Deen Domi

iD, wat(n�lr!
e have carWH

her�rana(�

ad price� a���:
ane, rnmw�

d eventu�l;
patriotic 30��1

they COW�,�
tched D�l� �fi

WAR PORN )17

rise up in the night across the Dijlah, red and gold flowers

blooming in the black water. They saw their city in green
from above, in videos made by the men who were killing
them, bright neon stripes cutting the screen, pale green
explosions below.

They watched TV reporters in Kuwait, Qatar, and
Israel put on gas masks. They watched American tanks

push across their desert. They watched Iraqi soldiers sur­
render. They watched Iraqi soldiers die. They watched
their brothers and husbands and sons forced to their knees

and thrown like trash into the backs of trucks, blindfolded

and hog-tied. On AI Jazeera, they saw children in rub­
ble, ruptured bodies leaking like cracked pomegranates.
On CNN they saw generals pointing at big maps full of
arrows. Allahu akbar, cried the muezzin, la ilaha illallah.

And more bombs fell.

Nazahah prayed. She bore the abuse of her sister, the dis­
comforts when there was no light, no electricity, or no water,
she bore the tremor of fear, she bore it all, praying constantly
to God and the Prophet, to Khadija, the Prophet's wife, to

Fatimah, the Prophet's daughter, and to Michael Jackson.
God was testing them, just as he'd tested the Prophet, and
she would show him her heart's recitation. So devout in

her prayer was she that her absent-mindedness grew
worse

than ever. She let the kettle boil over. She burned bread.

She forgot to give Qasim his antibiotic. She swept up the
kitchen and left a small tidy pile of dirt in the middle of
the floor. Her mother chided her. Khalida snapped at her.
Maha hit her. And Nazahah prayed for forgiveness and

mercy. She prayed to be less absent-minded. She prayed



J18 ROY SCRANTON

for God to make her eyebrows less bushy. She prayed for
God to keep them all safe.

It was hard with all the fear in the house to feel the near­
ness of God. More and more, she spent her time alone,
writing out prayers on slips of paper, reading the Qur' an
and books on the Sira and the Hadith, and a book from
the seventies about pan-Islamism. She drew secret pictures
of the Prophet and Michael Jackson riding together on
Buraq, the white, winged, woman-faced horse that carried
the Prophet on the Isra and Miraj. She pictured the Prophet
and Michael Jackson walking together in the desert, holding
hands, Fatimah (looking suspiciously like Nazahah herself)
walking behind them. She imagined they spoke together
of the jagged beauty of palm trees and the buzz of bees,
the way honey dripped clear and gold on flatbread, her
father's smell when he'd been smoking-and of how the
purity of God's mercy would conquer all, how great God
was to have given us such a world, with red tomatoes and
green reeds and the great brown Dijlah, the wonder of the
muezzin's call and the glory of "Thriller," the perfection of
breakfast at breakfast time, tea at teatime, and bed at bed­
time. Nazahah prayed in ecstasies of gratitude that she was
alive and that God had made the world and that the world
was so perfect and full.

And more bombs fell. The lights went out. The electric­
ity went out. The water stopped running. It came back on.
It shut off again. They began to leave candles everywhere,
and matches. They went to bed just after sundown, even
though they knew they wouldn't sleep through the night,
and arose at dawn, lethargic and anxious from the night's



on flalDrtlJ,:

.,-ana of ��w:

1 now �rtlt�

.

er sunaOWfl, �

rhrough tnt ni�
from tnefli�

WAR PORN J19

thundering bombardments. There was nothing else to do,
with the power off and on, but lie in their misery and
fear. AIlahu akbar, cried the muezzin, la ilaha illallah. Day
and night, bombs, rockets, and missiles crashed down into

Baghdad, erupting in plumes of smoke, strewing metal
and the screaming wounded. And they watched CNN, AI

Jazeera, and the BBC. And they saw their city burning.
They watched their husbands, sons, and brothers shot,

captured, shamed, dishonored. They watched Umm Qasr
fall. They watched Basra fall. They watched an-Nasiriyah
fall. They watched Karbala fall. They huddled around a

map, listening to the rumors on the news, trying to see
how far the Americans had come.

Thurayya was calm and patient, the burden of her fam­

ily a gratifying weight. She was their center, their mother.
She made sure the men went to get bread, the generator
was full of benzine, and the house clean and orderly and

quiet. She was confident and assured, as if all her life she'd
worked toward this moment, to take the family in hand
and guide them through these hours of danger while the
world outside was consumed in flames. She had what she

needed, she had what she loved, and she would sustain

them. She baked flatbread and made dinner. She told

Maha to sweep and Abdul-Majid to wash his face. She
leaned against her husband's broad back and felt his skin
on her hands, and was happy knowing he was a brave,

good man and that after the war passed, he would go out
as he had the last time and rebuild their lives yet again .
She had him here, now, and she lay with him at night in
the darkness and was not afraid.



lJO ROY SCRANTON

It wasn't like last time, when her daughters were still chil­
dren and Mohammed was away, called up in the reserves.
When she couldn't sleep at night for fear that he would
die and she wouldn't even know. When her nightmares had
woken the children and her days were a torment of wait­
ing. She and her daughters had stayed with her mother,
still alive then but deathly sick, in a tiny back room in her
brother's house. She could still sometimes smell the stench
of her mother's illness-it shamed her to think of, shamed
her that she hadn't been strong enough for both her mother
and her daughters at the same time. But all she could do
back then was wait, pray, write her husband, and keep busy.
Sometimes she would shake so hard from fear her teeth
chattered-not for herself, not even for her daughters, but
for Mohammed. Every night she prayed for him to live.
Every day she prepared herself for his death.

When he came back, she vowed never to let him leave
her, and he hadn't. He never took a business trip that kept
him away more than one night. One night they could be
apart, but no more. She wouldn't allow it. She had him.
She had her home. She was in her home, with her husband
and her daughters and her sister, and all would be well.
They could go through a hundred bombings and a thou­
sand tribulations, and she would stand strong and guide her
household with a firm and loving hand. Mohammed was
there and she was strong. She was full of love and forbear­
ance for all, even her son-in-law Ratib, even her no-good
runt nephew Qasim, who was, under her care, healing,
fighting off the infection, growing stronger-he could eat
solid foods now and even sit up and read. She was motherly



a tormentor�
with nef ffi�:

. Dac� rOOffirn:
�me� mfl[

'u thlnko(�k

WAR PORN JU

even with Othman, toward whom she had always been

polite but distant, for reasons she refused to think about
too much but had to do with the sparkle in the old poet's
eye. She gathered the household in her hands and set it to
order. Even Maha, even Khalida she took in hand and set to

work. There was chaos outside, but her family, her girls and
her men, would sustain.

More bombs fell. There were rumors the Americans

were coming from the east. From the west. From the
south. They'd taken the Karbala Gap. They hadn't taken
the Karbala Gap. They were in Baghdad. They weren't in

Baghdad. The city choked on smog and explosions, lies
and ash. The power went out for good, phones and water
too. They ran the TV on the generator. The satellite came
and went. They passed rumors from their neighbors at

nighttime and rumors from their dreams at dawn. They
began to hear artillery fire, big guns and mortars, distant

thumps and nearer crashes.
One night, the Hizbis all left. The trenches and guard

points around the city emptied, leaving ghost uniforms
and boots and helmets, as if the men had evaporated
where they stood. There were rumors US Marines had
been seen in Al-Rusafa, on the east side of the Dijlah.
Rumors the Kadhimaya Mosque had been bombed by
stealth jets. Rumors Saddam had ordered the Fedayeen

underground. Rumors Saddam was dead.

Suddenly, tanks in the streets. Humvees running down
the avenues, heavy guns lobbing explosive rounds at houses
and shadows. Rifles, machine guns, now the chatter of

small-arms fire peppered their days and nights.



JJJ ROY SCRANTON

They quit going out. They locked the gate. They spoke
to their neighbors through a crack in the second-story
window. They didn't go onto the roof. More explosions,
more shooting. One night they listened to a tank roll down
their street. They heard it stop. They heard the whine of
its turret and heard its gun fire, the sound of hell cracking
open, then again, feeling it throb in their bellies, knees,
and thumbs. They bowed their heads and prayed. Allahu
akbar, la ilaha illallah. They heard a machine gun go tock­
tock-tock, then the tank rolled away. It's target had been
an empty house. Two gaping holes like blank eye sockets
watched the street.

And more bombs fell. Allahu akbar, cried the muezzin,
la ilaha illallah .

The blind man sat listening to the thunder, rubbing the
stub of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It was late.
''Ah-ham,'' he muttered.

Trouble had come again, as it had before and before and
before. He remembered the British biplanes of his youth, :��
when he'd first joined the army, the way you could hear Jl�
the click of the bomb releasing-poisonous gray eggs tum- �l(
bling into the Kurdish lines. And then ... He remembered
the Tommies in their pointy helmets, marching the road to
Baghdad. Before them, the Turk-but he could only faintly (m
summon the Turk. Until the Revolt and the Great War, the III
press of world events had seemed distant. �!

There was so much to remember, so much to recall. So ,��r
much to see and know and feel, so many dead to hold on �



�ate,Tn�r�� to. So many dead. Even one life was too full. Even one life
the ,econ�. was so long and bloody, he could hardly bear it.
More ex�hi: But that's what the poem was for. It was all there, his first
oatanKrO�� love and his last, his long-dead father and long-lost sons,
card tnew�� the fall of Baghdad and the coup d'etat, the many revolu-
ndofnelln1[� tions. He remembered Mohammed al-Sadr's Independence

eir Delli�!J�; Guard and the revolt against the British, the bright hope-
and �rareU: he was what, fourteen? The shining dream of nation ... He

nine�n��; remembered fighting the Kurds, his years in the army, his
:Har��t nl�i: wife, young, the late twenties, the days of hope as the peo-

DlanKere� ple grew slowly to become Iraq-then Independence: 1932.
There were celebrations.

riedmemij[ We might as well have been mourning, he thought, for
all the good it did us.

In the Assyrian revolt, he killed Assyrians. In the Shi' a

revolt, he killed Shi' a. He helped protect the Turkish Petro­
leum Company, then the Iraqi Petroleum Company, as

they pumped out the people's wealth and the people's oil. A

coup, an assassination, another coup, the
British returned

and occupied Basra, Umm Qasr ... The collapse, the Far­

hud, Iraqi Jews blamed and murdered, banished. And then,
in 1948, the Catastrophe, the diabolical birth of the Zionist

state and the war in Palestine. He led his men through the

Jezreel Valley and up the Tell el-Mutesellim, which the Jews
call Har Megiddo, fighting the Zionists, and many good
men died. All for nothing.

It was all written down, and all for nothing. And many
years later, when he dared speak his mind, when he dared
utter the truth, was he not punished? Saddam had struck
him down-but had not killed him, and that was his

WAR PORN JU



))4 ROY SCRANTON

mistake. For do I not yet write? Do I not mark the truth in �(
my book? Do I not chronicle my poem for the ages, to be
sung by my children's children's children? They would blind
me, but I see the truth. I see the truth and I write the truth,
and our truth shall outlive theirs.

He jabbed the stub of his tongue against his teeth
and pressed his pen to the blackened page. Another sura
remained to be written.

Qasim gathered his strength. He was better now, though his
hand was still weak. He'd decided: staying in Baghdad was :m,
cowardice. He went to Mohammed and asked to use the :m
Toyota to go home to his wife in Baqubah. ml�

Mohammed was proud but worried. There would �I�
be many dangers, not just the Americans. There were
looters, Fedayeen-who knew? And where would you

lget benzine if you needed it? And what would you do �if something happened? Qasim agreed that it might be �m
difficult but argued that he should go sooner rather o�1
than later. No one knew when, or if, things would settle 'l�
down. There might never be a better time than now. "I
understand," Mohammed said, "but you're still healing. :��
Stay a few more days."

''I'm strong now, Uncle. I've waited too long already."
"Qasim, you're still weak. You're not well enough yet. I

can't let you go alone. It's too dangerous." I�lt
"Uncle, please," Qasim said, going to one knee before �ijl,

Mohammed at the kitchen table. "I have to go." :11111
"No. You have to wait. I can't spare myself or Ratib to



marklnetru:
or tne��lt
Tneywow�

I writeili1�

��mt nB�
�e, Anoml!;

WAR PORN JJJ

take you, and we need the Toyota here. This is more of your
foolishness. Wait until things calm down, and we'll figure
something out."

Othman watched the discussion from the other end of

the kitchen, fiddling with his lighter. Then he tapped it

loudly on the table. 'TIl go," he said.
Mohammed waved the idea away. "Don't be an idiot."

'TIl go with him. I can shoot, I can drive. I know the

roads. We both know some English."
"A fool and a cripple. What a team."
"Mohammed, my friend, it's only seventy-five kilome­

ters. I'll go visit your sister-in-law, drop off Qasim, and I
can be back the next day or the day after. I have an old
friend in Baqubah I'd like to check up on. Consider it a
favor-to me. I want to see your nephew do the right thing.
Let me help him."

Mohammed frowned, remembering the day he'd picked
Othman up from al-Amn al-Amm, the

Directorate of

General Security: his face bruised, teeth missing, wincing
as he got in the car, but smiling and joking as if nothing
had happened. They said goodbye soon after, Othman

going into exile in Lebanon, Mohammed not knowing
if

he'd ever see his friend again. He remembered Othman

reciting from the Qu'ran the day he left: "Does there
not

pass over man a space of time when
his life is a blank?"

This time felt different, but how could you know? And

what could he do? A man must follow the recitation of his

soul. Mohammed shook his head in resignation. "Fine,"

he said. "Fine."

Qasim thanked Othman and Mohammed, then
ran



JJ6 ROY SCRANTON

upstairs to pack. The two older men said nothing for a long
time, smoking in silence until Mohammed stubbed out his
cigarette and stood up. "Bring the car back safe," he said,
"or Thurayya will kill both of us."

The poet's eyes gleamed. "Insha'Allah."



nothin� for 11'
ed �tuDDeQ �ij;
ack ��e/I nq

babylon



·

� ,"

.-';;';._���::>t<�Lio



Nothing is over: This is the story of a long-haired half­
crazed Vietnam vet, harassed by small-town lawmen, lost
on his one-man mission of vengeance. Back in the war, he

was part of a ragtag team of misfit soldiers, hand-picked
for a suicide mission to kill Hitler. Good and evil. He's a

downed fighter pilot. He's red and white and blue.

This is the story of the sword. Gun. Dawn

patrols blacktop sit guided in a bad hundred feet drowned

gulf
military units added to the

brass shell dogs devour battle

so they too were made of vanity and 72 hours not from
the stories of previous wars. Violence inflicted on the larg­
est burden themselves, some of which depicted pyramids
and the rest shocked of no-man's land. Lee Marvin leads a

ragtag gang of misfits through the hell of war and loss of
innocence as they fight for freedom and America from the
deserts of North Mrica to the forests of Germany. He's an

idealistic young officer leading his all-black regiment on a

suicide attack on a coastal fortress. No-man. Through me
tell the story of one man's rage and the razing of an

ancient



.no ROY SCRANTON

city. He's an idealistic young officer charged with coward­
ice for refusing to send his men to their death on a suicide
attack

new reports
electricity

widening the circle of direct blame for shooting it up my
ass. On first setting eyes, alas, my son, harassed by small
town artillery emplacements, a bridge no more. Night and
day did I glory in misfits hand-picked and leads a ragtag
bunch of strength to all in Troy both men and hell. From
the glory. A young man discovers commando war noth­
ing, for no one pilot develops a tenuous ragtag bunch of
All-American right hand like a lizard but that's not hell,
a bunch of ragtag boots lying like getting my machine
impression of his wife the flow I mean when I voted for
hell, horses in administrative succession, running the
Achaeans divide the fate DETAINEE-OTs allegations

JJIl

;1

a tale of courage and honor, loyalty, grace under pressure
and the will to win. He's a young, dedicated soldier sent

up the river to kill a rogue agent. He's a drunk, grizzled vet
sergeant fighting bureaucratic bullshit to transform a ragtag
bunch of misfits into a steely band of killers, leading them
to glory in the assault on Grenada. The allegations of

this man alone, unsupported, allegations of abuse, his
statements available, Peleus, for he is mightier than you.
Nevertheless, intel interests dogs and vultures, and a load

,�

i�,



of grief would be lifted from my damage Iraq's eyewitness
reports, life, both Iraqis cried: The British Academy has
committed Muslims. Like people attacking a library. Rag­
tag. A young glory. An Army Special Forces operative goes
up the river. A young man joins the Marines and becomes
a photographer and is sent to Vietnam and learns that war
is hell is hell. War story. A retired Special Forces operative
returns to Vietnam to rescue his POW buddies. This is the

story of the Center in Washington D.C. where he prac­
ticed for conventions ofwar or rules had no way to confirm

they were the war near equipment in civilian areas, main-
enanQn�11J taining Abu Ghraib largely with Iraqis of "no intelligence"

a lot firmer, particularly his own military; a final atrocity

ra�a���[ exploited for detainees were meant to be "exploited
for"

ut tnat'lnm: many shops know coalition forces prisoners scooped up in

lfl�ffirffilL
this way soon flooded the keepers taken all the campaign

wnenlm[(: on the harsh terrain of disadvantages nighttime sweeps gave
Saddam 48 hours on the harsh terrain of detainees at Abu

Ghraib whomsoever Allah overcrowding difficulties

10m of aD�('

miuhrier ili�'/:)
rures, anQ!..

WAR PORN HI

the Iraqi Academy of physical abuse while stuck here

This is a story of we happy stuck here. This is the story
of a ragtag bunch of misfits picked for a suicide mission
to stuck here. A young man. From the ragtag

clutches. A

noble, professional Special Forces commando learns that
war is young. A young hell and ragtag

bunch of All-Amer­

ican misfits fight Japs in the South Pacific and learn war is
war. A bunch ragtag of young ragtag learn the

true meaning
of discipline and camaraderie and war and war. A young



J:sJ ROY SCRANTON

maverick risks everything to save his father from the Libyans.
A ragtag bunch of Australians go halfway across the world
and learn war is is. This is the story ragtag young man.

Stuck here. Stuck here. This is the story of valor, duty, and
the cost of war. A young camaraderie. This is the story of
a young man who learns war always has a cost. A young
wacky. This is the story of a wacky bunch of ragtag misfits
trying to escape from Nazi prison. A wacky bunch of ragtag
misfits running an Army hospital in Korea. A ragtag mav­
erick valor war. This is the story of a young man's war, the

story of we happy few.



a co)!, Alt,
.

ofr��[l
.

� DUn(O �fr�

rea,Ar��

your leader will
control your fire

(operation iraqi freedom, 2004)



 



fear is not shameful

if it is controlled

The plane tilted on its side and through the window in the

opposite bulkhead Baghdad whirled below, taking my
stomach with it. Men and women in brown Deus

turned green as we spun plummeting in a banked spiral.
The guy across the aisle puked in a bag and his buddy
cheered.

We rolled against the sky, then at the last minute flopped
flat and came in straight. The engines growled down into
the final approach, and we dropped the last few inches

slamming to the deck.
They downloaded our bags and we threw them in the

back of a five-ton. The truck took us to a staging area.

Contacting Battalion to arrange pickup, I was surprised
by how eager I felt to see my fellow soldiers-I had to
make sure they were okay, but as much as that I just
wanted to see their faces. They understood. They knew

this shit world we lived in, knew it all better than anyone

I could talk to back in Oregon. I realized as well that I



JJ6 ROY SCRANTON

was itching to get back outside the wire. The berms, palm
trees, and sand around me seemed not just familiar but com­
forting. Normal. I wanted to scan rooftops. I wanted shots
fired. I wanted ninja women in abayas, hadjis in man-dresses.
I wanted to hear and talk salaam a-leykum, ishta, uskut, I
wanted my rifle.

It was hard to believe I'd just been back in the land of
shopping malls and big hair, showing my ex-girlfriend
photo after photo: this is my humvee, this is Captain Yar­
row, this is Camp Lancer, this is the UN before, the UN
after. How was it possible that just a few weeks ago I'd come
down into Portland, rain drumming on the plane's win­
dows, feeling the war slip off like an old jacket?

When I got off the plane, there was my ex-girlfriend
and another girl, an old friend, and we hugged and kissed and
grinned. In the parking garage by the car, they lifted their
skirts and showed off their matching Superman panties.
My heart was full of love.

All the long ride home while the girls talked to me and
each other, I scanned overpasses for snipers and watched
the shoulder for IEDs. I kept reaching back for my rifle,
startled that I'd lost it, and eyeballed cars passing on 205,
feeling spooked, thinking I need a drink, I need a smoke,
how the fuck long do I have to do this alone?

Now, after weeks of being apart, she'd be there waiting
for me.

Geraldo showed up in C7.
'''5 Wh Th' "up, eat Ill.



� mr fX·�t
.: '111C4rtm
j oeforelIT:
wee��Or�i
. mf �lm1'i:
:a ket�

WAR PORN H7

"Good to be home, Cheeto."

"You missed a dope barbecue."
''Anybody get killed?"
"Naw, Burnett some caught shrapnel from an lED. Like

a thumbtack. Purple Heart's tomorrow. You have yourself
some fun?"

"I didn't know what to do with nobody shooting at me. I

got laid, though. Any word on redeployment?"
"Saying April."
"A °1 h ht"pn, u .

"Wh h
"

at t ey say.

"That's like ninety days."
"Ninety days be ninety days."
On the way back to the Cl; I watched the West Side

DFAC go by and the road to Gate 5. The route I had run in
the mornings and the fenced-off mosque. We passed Battal­
ion Maintenance, the mini-PX, and the hemmet lot, finally
pulling into our compound. I didn't know whether to cry
or scream or shit myself

I got out and downloaded my gear.
On my way to draw

my weapon, I ran into Nash and Sergeant Chandler.
"What are you doing here, Sergeant? I thought you were

getting out."
"Yeah, so did I," he said.
"Wh d' t"at you mean.

"Three days before my orders, I get fucking stop-lossed."
"S h t"ayw at.

"Stop-loss. No-Movement Orders come down for
all units in support of OlE Nobody ETSes out of Iraq
anymore."



JJI ROY SCRANTON

"What the fuck's that mean? You don't get out?"
"Not till we get back."
"That is some fucked-up shit. But it's only ninety days,

right?"
"So they say. But enough about my troubles. How was

leave?"

"Fucking-A, man. I ate everything. I drank everything. I
got fucked. I saw the new Lord of the Rings movie, which
was awesome. And this-you gotta check this out." I dug
through my backpack. "You and me, Sergeant, we're Person
of the Year." I handed them the Time magazine with the
lAD guys on the cover.

"No shit."
"Yeah. There's a big article in there about how fucked up

it's been for 4-27."
"I guess we're too boring."
"It's weird man, coming back. At the Dallas airport, there

was this line of flag wavers, and anytime anyone found out
I was in Iraq, they got all serious and shit, started thanking
me and telling me what a great thing it was I was doing. I
didn't know what to say. Like, hell yeah, fuck hadji! I mean,
what the fuck?"

«B 1 f "et you got a ot 0 ass.

"Sure, well ... I was fooling around with my ex, but
... if I'd wanted, there was definitely opportunity. I mean,
what chick doesn't wanna fuck a war hero?"

I left them with the magazine and went to draw my rifle.
As I crossed the motor pool, I seemed to be walking through
a dream. I felt too relaxed. Everyone else was depressed and
hateful, just like I remembered, but the difference was me: I



WAR PORN Jst

get OUtt

rou�l�, H��

was okay. I could see our frustrated rage, our barely checked

aggression, our loneliness, our desperation, and for the first
time ever, I could see it without belonging to it. If! can just
hang on to this, I thought, I'll get through. Everything'll
be fine.

Later I talked to Bullwinkle and he said yeah, that lasts
about three days.

: wasa�rreliro:
fjfferenCfWll:



when defending, or when temporarily halted ��
while making an attack, you must seek cover from fire ),�rili

and concealment from observation �Ir

��I'�
MI

l�lr �
nrlo.
WI

We hauled our gear into the new barracks at FOB Raptor: :IDld
lines of squat, cinder-block rooms inside a dim, echoing, it!loi
sheet-metal hangar. We were assigned four to. My room- l(�ltl
mates were Sergeant Chandler, Stoat, and Reading. I�ffil�

The best part was the latrine. Instead of porta-johns, we :t�OU
had an actual building. Gleaming mirrors. Linoleum floor. ��
Toilet paper. Twenty stalls, separated by white plywood, :!1W
with doors and flushing toilets. White porcelain sinks. ltr�
Fourteen showers with curtains, drains, and high-power ::KK
nozzles. Hot and cold running water. :�(�la

We ranged the FOB with a quickness, reporting back llf�
to each other like kids scouting a theme park. There was jttrn�
a small PX, a hadji souvenir shop, a hadji coffee shop, ��t��
laundry service with three-day turnaround, a hadji barber, :1�tor
internet cafe, hadji boodeg-DVD shop, hadji smoothie !11(�t
stand, gym with elliptical trainers, weight machines, and ��(Knl
treadmills, and some outdoor volleyball and basketball W�D
courts.

:�I�O



�m��rdri�1
��f� (��!r If:'
� Imm ���'I:

atfO�&

o r to, hlrr
� Rearun�,
of rom.j�M
�, linolf�rn:�

y wnitf �I)�:
e rorCfI�n!'
. ana ru�·�i

l rerortin!�
e rark n�r(
naoj! CO�ff!
nO. anaajik

WAR PORN )41

Ninety days.
Too easy.

Our patrols weren't difficult. Baghdad had calmed down
over the winter. There was less shooting, fewer lED attacks,
fewer random ambushes. We rolled through the same gar­
bage-strewn, sewage-washed streets over and over.

Men stood before turquoise-tiled mosque doors, impec­

cably dressed, watching us go by. Little kids in pink pants
waved. Old women in niqabs waved. Shopkeepers waved.

We had terps with us every day now. There was Anu­

man, an older guy with a short beard, once an economist;

Big Joe, who wore mirrored sunglasses and a black
leather

jacket, who loved American TV and thought American
women were "the hottest bitches in the world"; Qasim, a

nervous, stick-thin math professor with a Scottish accent;
and Ramana, who we called Bertha, a great surly mound

of a woman who used to do something with computers.
There were others we only met once or twice: Frick and
Frack the dental students, Akbar the pimp, Ms. al-Radi the

psychiatrist.
Life took on a dependable rhythm. We went to the

internet cafe. We emailed friends and family. Reading and

Cheese played Warcraft III. Other guys posted photos on

Hot or Not and bragged about their ratings. I googled
places to go on vacation, broke up with my ex, and

ordered

thick nineteenth-century novels from Amazon.

We blew our tax-free combat pay on CDs, digital cam­

eras, portable DVD players, creatine powder, protein shakes,



J4J ROY SCRANTON

Maxim, and cases of Red Bull. On patrol we'd drive to the
hadji market in the Green Zone, which had the best boot­
legs in Baghdad. Little kids ran up shouting "Ficky-ficky
DVD," their hands full of porn.

A private in Attack Battery got killed by an lED. At the
ceremony, we stood in formation while the chaplain read
from the Bible and some soldiers got up and talked about
what a great guy the dead kid was. Lieutenant Colonel
Braddock stood and told us how important it was that we
were doing the job we were doing and how important it was
to bring democracy to Iraq, and most important, how we in
were defending American freedom from the terrorists who '1r�
hated our way of life. �Mi

The bomb had gone off under the kid's humvee. The ��:ffi
charge had been buried in a pothole and covered with plas- �in
ter of Paris, probably detonated by cell phone. One of the ;�rr
guys in Attack told me they left more of him stuck charred :(�v
inside the truck than they put in the body bag. W�I

"We're fighting them in the streets of Baghdad," the Col- :m11
onel said, "so we won't have to fight them in the streets of r1��
Jacksonville, Florida, or the streets of Galveston, Texas, or ,��
the streets of PFC Gabriel's hometown of Culver City." �j�!

Taps played on a boombox. Halfway through, the CD :m1'
started skipping. Then somebody bumped it with his foot �m!
and it stopped.



we)u urivt�
au tne ��t:
tin� "fi(q,;.

do not move: la ta-ta-HAR-rak

do not resist: la ta-QAOWM

We set up Traffic Control Points, usually at night, where
we pulled over random hadjis and searched their cars. The
LT's favorite spot was Checkpoint 15, an overpass spanning

"o'l nUffi��,: the main expressway along our route. On the north side it
omeawi�:, fed into a neighborhood, but on the south, the concrete

none,On1�: dropped off twenty meters past the entrance ramp, making
nimltu(�(k the overpass a one-way street and a low-traffic

exit.

}' D�, We set up on both sides to cover all the
zones. Two guys stood

B�naaaJ"m(l at the top of the ramp with rifles and a high-powered flashlight.
em in tne m� We'd flash a car and, once they pulled over, have them get

out

�reltonJ rat and open the doors, the hood, the trunk, everything.
While the

I Culyer(j�.' hadjis stood in the dark by the side of the road,
we dug through

, ilirou�nJ t�l: all their crap, searching
for weapons, I guess, or maybe bombs

in�ili�il: or some kind ofAxis-of-Evil, al-Qaeda spy shit.

We pulled over a van full of young women in hijab, driven

by a middle-aged guy with an enormous mustache. He got



244 ROY SCRANTON

out, but when Qasim explained that the women had to
get out too, he shook his head.

"La. La," he said.
"Naarn, motherfucker," I said. "They come the fuck :t'

outta the van. Everybody." ;m'
The man said something to Qasim and something to us.

Burnett hefted his rifle.

Reading said, "Look at all them bitches!" .�
Qasim explained: "These are his daughters. He says they ii�

cannot be seen standing by the side of road in the night like
this. Is very bad. Okay?" :i11

"No, not okay," I said. "They all gotta come out."
"It is very ... ashamed for them," Qasim said. "Is no
d"goo .

"I get the one in blue," Reading said.
"I don't fucking care," I said. "Everybody comes outta

the van."

Qasim said something to the man, who exploded in frus­
tration, screaming in Arabic. I shouted back: "Those girls
come the fuck outta the car, or we zip you. Got it?"

Qasim translated and the man glared at me, stomping
his foot.

''Tell him," Burnett said gently, "they either come out on
their own, or we drag 'em out."

"Tell him if they don't come out, we're gonna rape 'em,"
said Reading.

"Shut up, Reading."
"Tell him they come out on their own or we drag 'em

out, alright?"
Qasim translated and the man stood indignant.



he Women�t

wn or weJr�

JDQignanr.

WAR PORN 14'

"Hey, Reading," I said, "will you get some zip-strips?"
"Roger," he said, stepping off to the humvees.
When the man saw the zip-strips, he relented. He herded

the girls as far away from us as we'd allow, angry and alert as
a riled dog. The women stared at the ground. Reading hung
back by the railing so he could ogle their asses.

"Come here and open the trunk," I said to the man.

Qasim translated. The man looked at the girls, at Reading,
at the van, at us. He didn't move. "Fucking c'mere, bitch," I
shouted, and Qasim said something to him. The man came
over reluctantly, watching the girls back over his shoulder,

opened the rear door of the van, then scurried back.
We took our time completing the search. We poked

under the sunshades, we dug under the seats. Burnett cut
a hole in the rear bench with his knife. The glove box was
closed so we yelled for the guy to come open it, which he

did, then we had him come back again to open the engine
cover.

"You wanna fuck with him?" Burnett asked me.

"Maybe. How?"
"Let's tell him we think there's an lED in the van, so we

zip-strip him and his daughters and leave 'em sit awhile.
Then we just stand around, right, let him fucking sweat."

"Seems more trouble than it's worth."

"Let him cool his heels awhile," Burnett said. "That

fucking guy needs to learn who's boss."
'�right," Staff Sergeant Smith shouted from the humvees.

"There a problem or you gonna get that van outta here?"
"We're trying to score with these bitches, Sarnt," Reading

shouted back.



)46 ROY SCRANTON

"Score with bitches on your own time, Private. Get that
van outta here."

I told Qasim to tell the man he was free to go, but that )!1j
the next time Coalition Forces told him what to do, he bet- "�
ter just fucking do it. Qasim translated and the man barked
back at us in Arabic, spit on the ground, and stamped his
foot. He loaded up his girls and drove off

:ml
mu

Later that night we stopped a car full of hadjis with a flat �
of beer in the back seat. Foster and Burnett started giving �r
them a hard time, so the men offered us some. Burnett took "I
the cans and passed them around, plus one for Staff Ser- "I
geant Smith and one for the LT, then let the car go. We �Idrank and watched the traffic go by under the bridge and :��
decided to start a shakedown. il�

"You give me beer," Burnett would say, leaning in the
window. M

"No beer," the hadji might say, and we'd let them go, or 1001
"Beer, yes," and they'd hand us some cans. �

After four or five successful contraband seizures, we broke ;(11)
down the TCP and just drove around, our buzz brushing il�
the night to a smooth gleam. i��

:ud

]IUl
Walking back to the barracks one day from visiting Vil- ��!l
laguerrero at Battalion, I saw Qasim sitting outside the terp �mt)
shack, smoking and drinking tea. l(!n

"Sabah al-khayr," I said. ��"Sabah al-noor," he replied. "You speak very good Arabic." ��rl



\ Private r., �\I

r 'om Yi)iti�(
j

'n� OU�iaf wI'

're�gooaM

WAR PORN 247

"Not really, but thanks. You off today?"
"Yes. I was going to go see my uncle, but he says to me ...

is very dangerous, Qasim, and better you not come."
"D h t"angerous ow.

"My, how you say, the husband of my uncle's daughter?"
"Shit, I don't know. Cousin-in-law?"

"So, my cousin-law ... is very religious and ... he does
not like the Americans. He wants you to go home, because

you are not Muslim. So sometime
he stays with my uncle,

because . . . because. Other times he goes to family. When he

stays with my uncle, I do not go. Because I work for you."
"That must be hard."

"Is better than Baqubah. After the invasion I go to Baqu­
bah because my wife and mother . . . My wife . . . My
mother, she is dead now."

"I' h h"m sorry to ear tat.

"Many are dead now. Hers was quiet. Hers was at peace.
She's with God now. But in Baqubah, it is very difficult.

Too many religious, Sunni, Shia, same-same. They fight.
Baghdad is not so difficult. Things are bad-but bad all

over, so maybe Baghdad is more good. Better."
"Is it better now? I mean now that we got rid of Saddam?"

"Some ways better. Other ways more bad.
Instead of

one Saddam, now too many Saddam. You see? You need

to stay, you need to be . . . on the
street. You need to be

very strong. It is very difficult for Iraq; we have no parlia­
ment, no Magna Carta. We have tribes, families. We have

the sheikh, we have the ayatollah, we have the imam. You

see? No Saddam, no sheikh, then we fight, and is why we
need you to stay. Yes? You will be here a long time, I think."



148 ROY SCRANTON

((I don't know," I said. "Probably."
''A long time, I think," he said. "Many things are very

bad now. Water is very bad. You see . . . how do you say,
sewer? Yes? The sewer when we patrol? Very bad. Electricity
very bad. Economy bad. Shops are open but there is much
... Some things very expensive. Small things. Also security
very bad, very dangerous, especially for woman. A woman
cannot go out from the house. My uncle, his daughters
make him crazy. For why? Because they cannot go out.
Two men to go out of the house, and the woman have to
wear very much hijab, and the man have a gun. Very
dangerous. Very bad. In Baqubah is worse. I work with
the American there, like here, but Baqubah very small.
Everybody ... how you say ... everybody all up in each
other's shit. So I cannot work in Baqubah, because they
say they kill my wife and family. But in Baghdad is okay.
Sometimes they try to shoot or kidnap. But they know
my face only. They don't know who is my family, where
I live, and when I go to my uncle, I am very careful. My
... cousin-law, he does not know, but if he did, is safe.
Not okay, but safe. Because family is number one, yes?"

"Are you glad we came? Are you glad we got rid of
Saddam?"

"It is no good to be glad or sad of God's will. We live. We
die. God's will. What do I say to you, Specialist Wilson? Are
you glad you came?"

''I'm glad we made it this far."
"Yes. This far."
"Yeah ... Well, I should go hit the gym. It was nice to

talk with you, Qasim."



WAR PORN 149

y tnin� �(
, now 00 /��

I bao,tl�\
OUt tnertil�
in�,N�a�,

"Okay, yes. Very nice to talk with you, Specialist Wil­
son. You see, we can all speak together, Iraqi and American.
Friends, yes? But soon I must go from Baghdad and return
to Baqubah. My wife is sick. I think you will not see me for

many weeks. But someday we meet again, insha'Allah."
He gently shook my hand, then touched his heart.
"Stay safe, Qasim. Salaam a-Ieykum."
"Leykum a-salaam, Specialist Wilson."

, cannoq�:
e WOm4fl�I:

nave a ���,1
'or�e, I warh

ow v�ryl:
oar all uri�:
oili, �e(am(:

Ba�haaailv.
, Bu! tn�!l

}' familr,�;
verrweM,1
if he aia, il �

�'m, ItW��



..

'

... - ..�-

arabs, much more so than westerners,
express emotion m!

in a forceful, animated and exaggerated fashion j�n

We woke up Porkchop and Geraldo. "Get up, fuckers. h�
You're relieved." ��m

"Where's Sergeant Gooley?" Porkchop asked, blinking. ]1r�
"Sergeant Reynolds is SOG." iili
Reading took offhis Kevlar and set it on the Jersey barrier. ill�

His buzz-cut hair glowed a sickly brass in the fluorescent ;TI�U
light, a field of bruised pennies. )�WI

"Where Sergeant Reynolds at?" Geraldo asked. i��
"He's right behind us," I said.
"Aight, We out." Geraldo took his rifle and stepped off iN

down the road. Porkchop followed and they met Staff Ser- �tn.
gean t Reynolds at the clearing barrel, where he watched iII
them clear their weapons. i]ll!

When there was a pause in the radio traffic, I picked up i��
the walkie-talkie: "Red Steel Main, this is Red Steel India. "An
Radio check, over." �OCK

"RED STEEL INDIA, THIS IS RED STEEL MAIN, ROGER ��1D
OUT." i�O



o �ij t�a� W��I��
���r��w'

: m���raj�� Ir

WAR PORN U1

Staff Sergeant Reynolds came up, glowering at us with
his bug-eyes. "Reading, I want you to have your Kevlar on
at all times," he said.

Reading turned his face away as if he hadn't heard.
"Now listen up, men, you need to make sure you police

this AO. There's cigarette butts in the dirt back there. This
is a high-visibility area and the sergeant major's gonna come

through. And get inside the guard shack, too."
"Hooah, Sergeant," I said.
"Now what do you do when you open the gate?"
"One of us goes up and the other one covers him."

"Right. Now, if you're gonna open the gate, I want both
of you up there, one to handle the door and one to watch

outside. Somebody could shoot an RPG right through
there. That's what I'd do, if I was them. I'd come by in one
of those pickups and send somebody to knock on the door,
and when you opened the gate, I'd shoot an RPG right
through. Bam!Then what? Huh? You gotta think tactically.
Now, what do you do if somebody comes over the wall?"

"Shoot 'em!" Reading barked.
"Right! Then call it up."
"Nobody's coming over the wall, Sergeant. It's like fifty

feet high."
"That's what you think. That kind of complacency is

what gets soldiers killed."

"R S
"

oger, ergeant.

"And when the ICDC come through, I want you to
check each one. Don't let the other hadjis do it. They could
have bombs hidden anywhere."

"No way," Reading said. "Hadjis fucking stink."



UJ ROY SCRANTON

"Roger, Sergeant," I said. "We'll take care of it."
"You know these ICDC," he said. "They've taken an

oath, but they could still be Fedayeen or al-Qaeda or who
knows what. Just because they're on our side doesn't mean
you can trust 'em. One ICDC with a hand grenade would
jack up your whole day. What would happen if they got
into the chow hall? Check, and double check."

"Shit, I wish they'd blow up the chow hall," Reading said.
"Roger, Sergeant Reynolds. We'll search each one ourselves."
"Okay. You guys already set for breakfast and everything?"
"R S "oger, ergeant.
"Make sure you do your radio checks."

"Just did, Sergeant."
"Okay. I'll be back in a couple hours, and I expect this

AO to be straight."
"R S "oger, ergeant.
''And Reading, keep your Kevlar on. Carryon, men."
We watched Staff Sergeant Reynolds walk away.
Reading giggled. "In the case of an all-out assault, I'm gonna

shit myself and throw it at 'em. Take that, hadji! Shit bomb!"

m

�Io
In

It began with a knock at the gate, prom-prom-prom. The
sliding rusted metal door, thirty feet wide and twenty feet
tall, trembled from the pounding.

"F'tal bob," I said.

Reading snickered.
The two ICDC stared at him.
"F'tal bob, motherfucker!" I shouted, pointing at the

gate, pointing at the younger of the two hadjis.



The light was a clear yellow-gray, the sun a white smear
still low in the sky.

The younger hadji got up and picked up his AK and
started walking out toward the gate.

"See who it is," I said.

"You," Reading said back, not looking up from his Game

Boy. ''I'm in the middle of a level."
"Fuck your level. Go see who it is."

"Why you such a bitch, Wilson?"
"Because I hate freedom, motherfucker. Go see who it is."

"Whatever," Reading said, pausing his game and setting
it on his chair. "Don't touch my game."

''I'm gonna kill your fucking Metroid, is what I'm
JI d

"

anu �Xr1a: gonna o.

Reading flipped me off and walked around the barrier,

putting his Kevlar on as he went.

�'on,m1�,' "Hey, John Wayne. Forget something?"
Reading turned back at me, scowled, and shook his head.

He came back for his rifle, picked it up, and went back
toward the gate. The ICDC had unlatched the gate

and was

throwing his weight against it, sliding it open with a rumble
and a creak. Reading held his weapon at the ready.

A hadji in civilian clothes stood outside the gate with
a gym bag. Thin and scraggly, with messy black hair and
a large mustache, he wore a checkered work shirt, track

pants, and sandals.

"ID," Reading said.
He pulled out his Iraqi Civil Defense Corps badge and

showed it. Reading checked the badge against the man's
face and nodded, directing him inside.

e of it.})

neive t�1�
�·QaeaaOrt
ioe aoe�n't[:
o �renao1W�,
��en if ili�':

"

eek"
'

WAR PORN us



U4 ROY SCRANTON

"Come here," I shouted, waving him forward. I stood,
picked up my rifle, and slung it at the ready. I nodded to
the older ICDC sitting smoking against the shack wall.
"Check his bag," I said.

He lurched up and went around the Jersey barrier
and when the hadji came up he took his bag and poked
through it.

"Pat him down," I told the older ICDC. I pointed at
the one in civilian clothes and spread my arms and legs.
"Search, search," I said.

The one in civilian clothes mimicked me and the older
one patted him down.

"Turn around," I said to him, swirling my finger.
He stared at me.
"Turn around," I shouted, swirling my finger again.
He turned to face the gate. The older ICDC patted him

down.
I swatted at the Iraqi's ass and said, "Check here, yeah." I

cupped my groin. "Check his package."
He shook his head and grimaced, but I repeated my

order, so he stuck his hand between the other man's legs
and batted it around.

"Mota dudeki," I said. The hadji in civilian clothes
laughed.

The guard stepped back, scowling, and tapped the man
on the shoulder, who turned back around grinning.

"Go on," I said, pointing down the road at the ICDC
barracks. Meanwhile, more hadjis had showed up for their
shift, and Reading checked their IDs and lined them up.
I gestured the next one forward. First one by one, then in



e Jer�tr �u
Da� an� :

c. [ �oim�
�. arml dn��

� ,

1O��ra��,

CDC�am[

WAR PORN us

twos and threes, then one big gaggle, and at last the last

stragglers.
The sun was up now, the morning chill burnt off
Soon two new ICDC in ill-fitting fatigues and old boots

came to relieve the two at the gate. The old shift handed

over their AKs and secondhand flak vests and the new shift

took up positions in the cheap white plastic chairs.
"Well, that was exciting," Reading said, returning to

Metroid.

I took off my Kevlar and dug through my backpack. I

pulled out a Maxim and an FHM and a Harper's, and the
ICDC leaned toward me staring. I gave them the Maxim
and kept the other two for myself.

It went like this: report for guard mount at 0750, then

you're on duty in the sun till 1400. Then you clear your
weapon and walk back to the barracks and sleep until 0100.
You get up in the dark, get ready, and make it to guard
mount at 0150, pull duty until 0800. The sun's come up.
Then you go eat breakfast, jerk off, and sleep until 1300.
Guard mount 1350, on duty till 2000, clear your weapon,
walk back to the barracks in the dark, think of some other

life you lived once, sleep, get up at 0700, back to guard
mount at 0750, and the cycle repeats. Light, dark, dark,

light, night day whatever.

Reading played Metroid in the doorway. I sprawled on
the

cot inside the shack, drifting in and out of consciousness.



H6 ROY SCRANTON

The two ICDC sat outside in the night, smoking and look­
ing at body-spray ads in FHM.

"Shit, man," Reading said.
I ignored him.
"Shit, I'm so bored, I'm bored of Metroid."
I lay still, pleading with God to make him silent.
"I know you're awake. When you think we'll get off this

shit?"
"Let me sleep, fucker."
"All you fucking do is sleep."
"That's because I don't drink all those fucking Red Bulls."
"Shit keeps me alert. I'm a killing machine!"
"You're a fucking talking machine."
"Shit, man. Shit! When you think we'll get off this?"
"Never."

In

"We gotta get off sometime."

"Nope. Never. The unit's gonna redeploy to Germany
and they're gonna leave us here to guard the ICDC gate.
We're mission essential. We're the tip of the goddamn
spear."

"I wanna go out on patrols like the other guys."
"So tell Lieutenant Krauss you wanna go out on patrol."
"He's pissed at me because I shot up that house."
"You shot the shit outta that house."
"There was a dude with an AK up there, I swear."
"Yeah, he was up there fucking your mom."
"Shit. Whatever. He was up there."
"That's why you got taken off the SAW?"
"Yeah."
"Dumbass."

IIHICl

lo
10



WAR PORN )s7

mohln�anal� "What'd you do to piss him om"
"I don't fucking know, man. I read a book one time. I just

fucking do what I'm told."
"Well, you musta done something."

oid.n "Maybe he wants me to watch your dumb ass, make sure
nim�ilent, you don't shoot up the gate."
I. wdl �et��: "Whatever.

"

The radio popped: "RED STEEL MAIN, THIS IS RED STEEL
FIFTEEN. BE ADVISED WE GOT A VEHICLE STOPPED ACROSS

"

THE ROAD.

"ROGER THAT, RED STEEL FIFTEEN."

"H hat'
"

ey, tats our tower.

"RED STEEL FIFTEEN, THIS IS RED STEEL SEVEN. MONI­

TOR THE VEHICLE. IF IT STAYS LONGER THAN FIVE MINUTES,
"

CALL US BACK.

"ROGER, RED STEEL SEVEN. STAND BY."

I sat up and grabbed my Kevlar. Reading paused his

game. We looked at each other, reaching for our rifles.
"RED STEEL SEVEN, THIS IS RED STEEL FIFTEEN. THE

"

VEHICLE HAS LEFT.

"ROGER RED STEEL FIFTEEN, RED STEEL SEVEN OUT."

I dropped my Kevlar and lay back down. Reading dug
through his backpack and pulled out a Red Bull.

"Hadjis coming," he said. "Ali and Ahmed."
"Ali Dudeki?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck."

The two hadjis came in. Ali was tall for an Iraqi,
with a stubborn, mischievous face. He made a game
out of grabbing guys' nuts, though ever since Porkchop



JSI ROY SCRANTON

hog-tied him with zip-strips and left him like that for
an afternoon, he was less inclined. Ahmed was shorter,
a hunchback, and some kind of NCO-he was always 1
harassing the guards, berating them, checking their AKs. I�
With us he played the clown, shouting the handful of
obscenities he knew in English over and over. Ali seemed m�
to be Ahmed's sidekick; it was clear the hunchback ran wit
things. llr'

"Sadiki! Sabah an-noor!" Ali shouted. 1''Ali Dudeki," Reading croaked, not looking up from his
game.

"Fuck shit, shut up!" Ahmed barked, slapping Ali on
the back of his head. "Yeeeeeah," he crooned, twisting his m '
head back over his hump.

"Ahmed, sadiki," I said, sitting up. "Shaku maku?" ill�
"Very good, very good, yeeeeah! No problem!"
"Sadiki," Ali said, lifting his eyebrows and pointing at

my bag, "you bring ne ficky-ficky?" ·�r
"No, Ali. No ficky-ficky."
"Tomorrow and tomorrow, Sadiki? Any o'clock? You

bring ne ficky-ficky?" �Ifl
"Maybe if you're good."
Ali smiled at me, then tiptoed over to Reading. Reading, M

absorbed in his game, seemed not to notice the big man as \!�tl
he reached out slowly for Reading's nuts. Then, in a swift
blur, Reading dropped his Game Boy, grabbed Ali's wrist,
and lunged up, pulling his arm around his head and lift- 1ing him into the air, then bending him onto the concrete. ij
Reading fell on the big hadji, pinning him with his knees, ��I
slapping his face. i�(



1 on(O ili� (����

Jim \�1ili ni� ll�

WAR PORN JJ9

"Shit fuck, shit ass, shit!" shouted Ahmed.
"You mota mota good, huh?" Reading asked Ali, slap­

ping him, "You mota me, huh? Mota mota? Ali Dudeki?
Ali Menuch?"

Ali grinned and tried to cover his face and buck Read­
ing off, but Reading had him wrapped up. "You fucked
with the wrong motherfucker, Ali. Now you're getting
zip-zipped.

"

"No, no," Ali begged. "No zip-zip. Sadiki no zip-zip."
"Then knock it the fuck om"

"No zip-zip. Ali no zip-zip."
"Alright, fucker," Reading said, standing and helping Ali

to his feet. "No zip-zip-this time!"
Ali stood up and smiled shyly at Reading. "Sadiki," he

said, very seriously.
"What, fucker?"
"Tomorrow and tomorrow, you bring ne ficky-ficky?

Any 0' clock?"
"No, you fucking faggot."
"Tomorrow you, you, meshi meshi, ficky-ficky?" Ali

pointed at Reading, then at himself, then at the gate.
"What?"
Ali made moon eyes at Reading. "You, you, meshi meshi?

Mota? Mota?"
"I think he wants you to go home with him," I said.

"No fucking mota, dudeki!"
"Yeeeeeah!" Ahmed crooned. "Shit! Fuck! Shut up!"
Ahmed the hunchback went outside and started

talking to the ICDC. Ali sat on the edge of my cot until
I kicked him in the hip and he walked off, staring at



260 ROY SCRANTON

Reading, who resumed his game. After a minute, Ahmed
called Ali away.

"Fucking fag," Reading muttered.

Explosions in the night. We tumble out of bed and throw on
our armor and wait for more mortars. Silence. Half an hour
later someone comes and tells us stand down. The next day
there's a pit gouged out of the earth behind the guard shack.

Two EOD sergeants and a first sergeant from DrVARTY
come down and do crater analysis, stepping in and out of
the hole, divining esoteric data.

The radio squawked: "MEEEOW."
"What the fuck?"
"MEEEOW."
"It's the fuckers in the towers."
"MEEEOW."
"THIS IS RED STEEL SEVEN. WHOEVER'S DOING THAT,

\

�I
l'�

"
YOU BETTER KNOCK IT OFF RIGHT NOW.

"MEEEOW."

"Fucking retards."
"LIMIT YOUR RADIO TRAFFIC TO ESSENTIAL MESSAGES. I'M

SERIOUS. RED STEEL SEVEN OUT."
"OR I'LL FUCK YOU IN YOUR EYEBALLS! FUCK-A-

DOODLE-DOO!"
"THIS IS RED STEEL SEVEN. KNOCK THAT SHIT OFF.

RIGHT NOW. I'M SERIOUS."
"MEEEOW."

ill



WAR PORN J61

•

Clouds hung low over the mucky earth, turning everything
gray. Shots had been fired at the guard tower in a drive-by,
so everyone was on alert. Staff Sergeant Reynolds warned us

Sergeant Major might be coming through. Reading worked
his thumbs on the Game Boy.

"What fucking day is it?"
"'T" d t"10 ay.
"No. Yesterday, motherfucker."
"Yesterday was the day before."
"What day today?"
"Fucking shit day."
"'I: d t"lues ay.
"Whatever."
Two ICDC guards sat smoking, flipping through my

copy of the Vanity Fair issue with the big Michael Jack­
son expose. One of the ICDC was younger, chubby,
trying to grow a mustache and failing, the other
was slightly older, his face pocked with acne scars. I
watched them look at the fashion shots, the pictures of
Neverland Ranch, the ads for J. Lo perfume and Patek

Philippe watches.
"You like America?" I asked.

''Al-Ameriki?'' the younger one said.

"Yeah. America good?"
"Yes, al-Ameriki good," he beamed.
"Michael Jackson good?"
"Yes yes, Michael Jackson. Ee-hee. Very good."
"You like Bush? Bush good?"



JU ROY SCRANTON

"Boosh good yes."
"How 'bout Saddam? You like Saddam?"
"Saddam no good. Saddam Ali Baba," the older one said,

stamping his foot and spitting.
"You Shi' a?"
"Sunni." rom

"Ayatollah Sistani good?"
He shrugged.
"Moqtada al-Sadr good?"
"Al-Sadr very good," the young one said.
"Shi' a?" I pointed at the young one.
"Naam, Shi'a." He pointed at himself.
"Bush good, no Saddam?"
"Saddam no good."
"Bush no good," I said, shaking my head. "Bush Ali Baba."
"No!" the older one said, aghast.
"Saddam, Bush, same-same," I said. "Ali Baba, Ali Baba."
"No, Boosh good," the young one said.
'�i Baba," I said.
The older one pointed at me. "You Christ-ian?"
"L N d"a. a go .
He seemed cross: "Yes God."

I�O

"La."

He shook his head. "No good."
There was a bang at the door. I pointed at the young one

and pointed at the door, got up and grabbed my rifle, and
followed him to it. "Fral bob," I said, and he unlatched
the gate and put his shoulder to and slid it open.

A middle-aged hadji stood outside in a dishdasha. A cou­
ple more stood behind him.



f't·ial

ar ilieJo��F
Dea mrrWt,�

a ne u��(�:
ir oren,

�i)naasna,M

WAR PORN JU

"Salaam a-leykum," I said.
"Leykum-a-salaam," he said back, bowing slightly.
"Wh r' �"a sup.
He started talking Arabic, then "Boom, boom, koom-bal­

lah. Ali baba." He gestured back for one of his friends to
come up.

"We have information," the guy said. "Bomb and bad yes."
"Okay, hold on." I turned back to Reading. "Fucker," I

shouted. He looked up from his game.
"What?"

"Get on the radio and see if you can get a translator."

"For what?"

"This guy says he has information."

"About what?"

"About your mom. Fucking call somebody."
Reading picked up the walkie-talkie and called Staff Ser­

geant Reynolds. They talked back and forth for a minute
then Reading shouted, "Sergeant Reynolds gonna go see if
h

"

e can get one.

"Call up Red Steel Main and see what they say."
"What I tell' em?"

"Tell them we have an Iraqi who says he has information
on a bomb."

"He got a bomb?"

"He has information on a bomb."
"Information.

"

"Yeah."

"So what?"

"So call Red Steel Main."

He picked up the other walkie-talkie and called Red Steel



264 ROY SCRANTON

Main. He talked to them for a few minutes, then shouted at ]rl
me: "They say he gotta go to Foxtrot Gate." I�K�

"That's the one on the south side, right?" :�K
"Fuck if I know." �It�
Staff Sergeant Reynolds called Reading back so I waited, ��t

and when they were done Reading shouted, "He said he It
can't find a translator, and I told him Red Steel Main said "�
send him to Foxtrot Gate and he said that's fine." ;�Il�

I turned back to the hadjis. H�
"You go around, go to Foxtrot Gate," I gestured around, Jtr

pointing toward the southwest edge of the FOB. A
"We have in-formation," the one said again. ru�&
"Yeah, I know. You have to go around." ��o
"Go round?" iwrra
"Yeah, Foxtrot gate. The other bob." �ut
"You help? Ali Baba?" "I
"No, go around. You gotta go to the other bob." ]�nl
"We have in-formation. Koom-ballah." :mt�r
"Yeah, I understand, but you gotta go around. Salaam," ]u(

I said, grabbing the gate and yanking on it. "Sit'l bob," I ��
shouted at the ICDC.

The hadjis started shouting in Arabic, but we closed the
gate and latched it and went back and sat down. bOll

:,!)Iat
:I�OU

We got off shift. Daytime, nighttime. I slept about five I�ldr
hours. When I got up, I worked out, cleaned my rifle and :���O
watched Malcolm in the Middle. Reading slept. At

We lost track of the other guys, the daily patrols, what "�o
the fuck was happening. We started talking all the time ll�



,I
er Do�,n

Moun a, ��[

iC")Jt'!oof'

I �Jert �oo�t �

anea mr��t
)Jert.
�Jr ratrO�'('
bn� �j m1�

WAR PORN us

in pidgin English. The big news was that one patrol got
attacked by a retarded kid throwing rocks. He threw a
rock and hit Bullwinkle in the face, knocking out one of
his teeth. The patrol stopped and Lieutenant Krauss and
Nash covered the kid.

The kid picked up another rock.
"Put the rock down," Nash shouted, but the kid lifted it

up like he was gonna throw, so Nash shot him in the
chest.

Healds was with them, so he patched the kid up, then

they drove him to the hospital in the Green Zone.
A week or so later they got me and Reading up in the

middle of the day, when we were trying to sleep, and made
us go down to formation. They had a little ceremony and
awarded Nash a Bronze Star for valor. Captain Yarrow talked
about what a great job he'd done defending the patrol.

"The only thing Nash did wrong was forget his train­

ing," the captain said. "We trained and trained, two rounds
center mass! Maybe next time you'll get it right!" Yarrow
chuckled.

Nash stared straight ahead.

Reading sat watching Friends. I read Chomsky's For Reasons

ofState. Headlights flashed at us from down the road and
I shouted at Reading to hide his DVD player. I put on my
Kevlar and stood and grabbed my rifle. A big black SUV
rolled up and a sergeant got out.

"A
"

h id "v d h t"tease, e sal . l.OU on guar ere.

"R
"

oger.
"Listen, there's a suspected VBIED attack tonight. We've



266 ROY SCRANTON

got jammers in here but you gotta shut down your radios
while they work."

"Uh, alright. Let me call up higher and let them know."
I called up Red Steel and Staff Sergeant Gooley and let

them know we were gonna be out of radio contact. Red
Steel verified the jammers had priority. I shut off the radios
and the sergeant said thanks then climbed back in his truck.

Reading went back to Friends. I went back to my book.
They stayed there for about two hours, then the sergeant
opened his window and told us we could turn our radios
back on. After that they left.

Ali Dudeki came by and asked for ficky-ficky magazine.
I offered him the Michael Jackson Vtmiry Fair but he didn't
want it.

"You bring ne ficky-ficky tomorrow, any o'clock?" he
asked. "Tomorrow and tomorrow?"

"No ficky," I told him. "Tomorrow and tomorrow and
tomorrow."

;11n\,

:�till



i ca n 't tell you if the use of force

in iraq today will last five days,
five weeks, or five months,

but it won't last any longer than that

rn Oill�:

Seven days and a wake-up, then I'm on the first chalk out,
with Sergeant Chandler, the newly promoted Sergeant

"

an}' oJ(loc�' Nash, and Bullwinkle. The rest of the battery would stage at

BIAp, then drive to Kuwait, where they'd fly out as Chalks
anaromOrmWi 2 and 3, leaving behind a small rear-detachment to port­

load the equipment. Seven days, then freedom.
We got up and went to the gym,

then Sergeant Chan­

dler, Sergeant Nash, Bullwinkle, and I went to breakfast,
then to the internet cafe. We checked our email. I read

the news. Four American contractors had been killed in

Fallujah and lit on fire, their burned bodies strung up over
a bridge.

We went back to the tents we'd moved into and relaxed

until lunch. At around three we went to the gym again and

lifted. Then dinner, then we came back and showered, then

we went to the hadji coffee shop for cappuccinos and ice
cream. Then we came back to the tents and played volley­
ball till the sun set.



)68 ROY SCRANTON

That night there was a mortar attack, three rounds. We
sat in the dark in our battle rattle, waiting.

Slept in and after a late start, Sergant Chandler, Sergeant
Nash, Bullwinkle, and I went to breakfast, then to the
internet cafe. We checked our email. I read the news. There
were protests and riots in Sadr City. Baghdad was in flames.
I googled airline tickets from Frankfurt to Athens. Since
Sunday was our rest day, me and Sergeant Chandler skipped
the gym but Sergeant Nash went anyway, and around 1630
we met him at the chow hall for dinner.

"You read about this fucking Moqtada militia shit?"
"Th t"e protests.
"Fucking Moqtada al-Sadr and his goddamned Mahdi

Army. Shit's going crazy. Najaf, Karbala, Basra. Everywhere.
Even here in Sadr City."

"Fallujah, too."
"Yeah, but that's fucking Sunnis."
"Man, I can't wait to get back to Germany," Sergeant

Chandler said. "I got this girl there, we're emailing-she
just emailed me some fucking naked pictures of herself. I
don't even hardly know her."

After dinner we went to the hadji coffee shop for cappuc­
cinos, then went back to the tents.

Staff Sergeant Gooley stood waiting. "Where the fuck
were you guys?"

"Same place we go every day, Sergeant."
"We got a platoon briefing in two mikes."
So we went over and Staff Sergeant Smith and Lieutenant

:ey

:m.



iliree rou��,

�
amn1�.\l

oam, IV1�'�i

WAR PORN 269

Krauss sat on MRE boxes and told us we needed to sign out
with our chief whenever we left the tents, and also we had to

get all our ammo together to be collected. They told us the
nearest shower trailer was off-limits because it was broken.

They said Second BCT had been extended and deployed
to Najaf to assist putting down the Mahdi uprising, but as
of yet nothing had changed about our redeployment. We
were also told a convoy was going to BIAP tomorrow and

they asked for volunteers. Sergeant Chandler and I looked

at each other, then away. Sergeant Nash raised his hand.

Four days.

Got up and did PT. Read the news. Moqtada al-Sadr had
called for a general uprising against the CPA.

That night, as I was coming back from the showers, I
could see the guys returning from the convoy. I ran into

Sergeant Nash, strung out and sweaty, carrying a load
of

ammo into our tent.

'''Sup, Sergeant. What happened?"
"We got fucking ambushed is what the fuck happened."
"Shit. Everyone okay?"
"Yeah, it's a fucking wonder."
"Get anybody?"
"They ambushed us and fucking ran. Two

RPGs and

then small arms. We had the fucking colonel with us

and the stupid fucker stops the convoy in the
middle

of the kill zone and gets out and starts directing traffic.

Like we're a fucking I don't know what. I almost shot
the

fucker myself."



)70 ROY SCRANTON

Lieutenant Juarez gave the briefing that night. He told '.:rlc�
d h h ahd '1.1,Wus about a justments to t e ROE. T e M i Army could

be identified by a green armband or a green flag. They were .:��.A
considered combatants, and we were to engage them with ;�tCO
deadly force. 'Tn�

�q�
)m�ili

That night we woke to another mortar attack. One explo- !I�i�
sion, then one more. I looked at Sergeant Chandler in the Ina
bunk opposite. He looked sideways at all the other guys
slowly getting up and putting on their gear, then rolled over jut I
and went back to sleep. There was another explosion, then
I went back to sleep, too.

Got up and went to the gym then to breakfast then the
internet.

Each platoon designated a counter responsible for col­
lecting all our rounds and grenades. We each kept one
thirty-round mag each, but everything else went in cans to :�tili�
hand over to 1 st Cav. !mVOr

At around three we went to the gym and lifted, then to �mey
dinner, then to the coffee shop for cappuccinos. After that ::\(00
we came back and played volleyball and watched videos till ��
it got dark. :mto

About twenty minutes later, we were rousted for stand-to. "ro�
"Command's expecting an attack on the FOB tonight,"

Lieutenant Krauss said, "so gear up and stand by."
We got all gussied up then stood around bitching about irm

having only thirty rounds apiece. When the LT came back, 'm�l



ack On�IT
cnan��r['

�I tOeom1r;
I tOenro��:

�r ex�joli��I:

WAR PORN HI

he picked five guys, including me, to ride in the back of
C27. We were assigned to secure the northeast corner of the
tents. Another five were put in C26 and sent to the south­

west corner, and everyone else was QRF.
"They're expecting some kind of concentrated attack,

so eyes and ears open. Maintain radio
contact. If you see

something, fucking radio it up first. The last thing we need
is a friendly-fire incident."

There was some shooting far away, a lot ofshooting closer,
a couple more pops very close, then quiet. Mter about ten
minutes or so, we heard a barrage of machine-gun fire from

the south wall.

Then the shooting died out and we waited another forty
or fifty minutes before the call came to stand down.

We

got back to the tent and
asked what happened but nobody

knew, so we went to bed.

Thursday. Our Big Day. Chalk 1 got up and got
our shit

together and staged at 0545 for an SP time of 0630.
Our

convoy of five-tons was ready, but our escorts
hadn't shown,

so they told us stand by. At about 0730, they told
us to go

get chow and report back by 0900.
Bullwinkle, Sergeant Chandler, Sergeant Nash,

and I

went to breakfast. We ate a big meal and grabbed extra fruit

and rolls and boiled eggs for later.

"I can't fucking wait till I touch down on German
soil. I

swear to God I'm gonna fallon my knees and
kiss the ground."

"I'm gonna kiss the first fucking German girl
I see right

on the lips. Just grab her."



J7.l ROY SCRANTON

"Shit, I'm gonna kiss the first fucking German I see no ltw
matter what. Klaus, Dieter, Heinrich, Adolf. I give a fuck." ::tt�,

"You know, we've been here so long, that ain't even gay." jltntl
Bulldog Battery had already sent out their first chalk all :j(hln

the way to the airfield at Balad. We watched the last corn- ��a
pany of 82nd Airborne roll out. ��Un

We waited until 0850, then found Staff Sergeant Gooley �[n�
and asked what was up. "Stand by," he said. "Stand by until
further notice."

We waited. Some guys smoked, some guys slept. At 1 0 15
they told us mount up. We cheered and loaded our gear in
the back of the five-ton, clambered aboard, then waited,
grinning like retards at lunchtime.

"Let's go!" Sergeant Nash shouted.
"What the fuck's the holdup?"
"Can you drive a five-ton?"
"I can, but I don't have a flight manifest."
At ten minutes to eleven, Staff Sergeant Gooley came out

and told us to download our gear and take it back to the tents.
"What the fuck, Sergeant?" Bullwinkle shouted.
"Your LT'1l brief you. Download your gear."
"Negative, Sergeant. Negative on that."
"What the fuck's going on, Sergeant?"
"You'll be briefed by your platoon. Don't make me tell

. "

you agam.
We dispersed, dragging our bags behind us. Inside Sec..

ond Platoon's tent, Lieutenant Krauss stood down at one end

talking. He was saying words but not words. I couldn't hear
anymore. The air was like water, like I couldn't breathe, like if

somebody bumped me wrong I'd slide floating across the sky.



WAR PORN H)

It sounded like something ninety days or until com­

plete. Something about Karbala. Something mission
essential. Something about not wanting to hear any
fucking bitching, because we were soldiers and we were
called on by our commander-in-chief, the President of
the United States of America, and we would do our duty
with pride.)er��t�

, ·�tanQ�!,.

!lllert.h;,
oaoeaollria

OJ men �t:

Gooley I:
i Da�wili1[

looutea,

�ear,n

a til, Imi�1
aown�t��((

Irru, I CO�®I�
lQn't Dream��
acin�acro�IDI:



Thefog rolled in offthe sea, clouding the trees, closing in on the
mountain so that when I woke it was as iffrom sleep to waking
dream, a mirage of insubstantial gray pierced by great black
spires. I'd make myselfcoffee and inhale the chill air and roll a
cigarette and think.

I'd sit at theformica table in the trailer and, staring through
the mesh behind the slatted windows into the fog, drink my
coffee and scratch poems onto notebook paper, poems about the
way memory shifts in and out offocus, the way we imagine
things that never happened and remember other things wrong,
the daily reconstruction work of being, who I am, what I'm
doing, how can I be the same I was before and who am 1
tomorrow.

Sometimes I'd go out into the mist and listen to all the green
held thick in the moist air, my palm on the trunk ofa treejust
to feel the heft of it. Sometimes a deer would come through,
wild and wary, and I wouldfill with longingfor the wholeness
ofanimal life.

;1�lliI

It took the sun a long while to come over the mountains and j��t/;
until it did my vision was bound to the few gray yards around ,j�ff�1
the trailer. It was day but not day, dim but not night, a fugue MJ



WAR PORN 27'

ofhalf-thoughts and disconnected images, pulsing with power
beyond easy meaning-a crowflapping, glowing black against
the gray-a shadow like a man crouched with a knife-park­
ing lots aching with pink blur-so overwhelmed by thought I'd
have to sit back, set down the pen, set down my coffee, and it

goes on-glass towers gleaming out ofgray cityscapes, blinding
silver-an old man with a red guitar-the boomingflame of
rockets trailing smoke-a girl's face, her freckled cheek downy
withfine hairs, fleshy lips spread in a smile over crooked teeth.
I sink in reverie-and what, what does it mean?-then scrape

a few more lines with my pen. Nothing even approximate.
Anotherfailure.

I'd moved that June into the mountains just outside Newport
because my uncle hadfinally bought a house and moved out of
his trailer. He wasn't sure what to do with the land, so he said I

could stay there over the summer ifI did a little work for him.
There's no Tv, he warned me, no cable, no internet, no phone,
no mail but I could get letters delivered in town.

I was at loose ends, which Tm sure my mom had told him.

I'd spent the winter in Eugene, taking a couple classes
at Lane

Community College and working as a delivery driver for
an

organic juice company. I'd been dating this girl but it
ended

badly and I was itchy to move on, tired of the scene
with all

its dreadlocked anarchists, tired of weed and patchouli, the

protests to save trees, stop globalization, and free
Mumia. I

thought about trying again with the old ex-girlfriend up
in

Portland, but thatjust made me feel worse.

My uncle's offer seemed perfect. It'd give me a
chance to get



J76 ROY SCRANTON

my head on straight, really figure shit out. I thought I could
work part-time and write some poems, maybe finish that
screenplay. A good word from my aunt got me work at the
bookstore, which was more than enough to get by. I closed
shop three nights a week and the rest ofthe time just chilled,
read, smoked a little weed, and helped my uncle with his odd

jobs. I wrote letters to the ex-girlfriend in Portland. I wrote
poetry. I hung out with this guy namedff who worked at
Ripley's Believe It or Not! I hung out with Lisa from the
bookstore and her husband, Mike, a house painter. I met a
girl named Alice at Nana's Irish Pub and we started hook­
ing up. She was a totalflake, which I guess is sort of what I
wanted.

!�
J

j
The sun came over the rise around ten, burning off the fog,
unveiling vivid green. I'd lose my sense of boundlessness then)
my dreamscape ofwandering intellection, and come back to the
blood-filled breath oflife, the hum ofbugs and the warmth of
sunlight. I'd come back to the fact that I didn't know what I
was doing, that I was killing time, that when I went into town
later I'd be the same aimless transient I was yesterday, still no
goal no point to my story.

Often I'd hike to the top ofthe mountain, about two miles
from the trailer, to a clear-cut along the ridge where the view
opened and beyond myfarthest gaze unrolled the wide Pacifies
endless sweep.

I'd watch the blue waves and think, today you're coming
up with a plan. You're gonna figure your shit out. You going
back to school? You gonna get certified at something, get a real

ii'
11(11



·J tnou�nlh
maJoe finil!:

qot me wor��
to get oJ. It.

�e timejullrt
.

unck wil��.
n Porl�nJli"
].J. wno w�rll:

itn lila j�1

�urnmt �!I;!'
; bounal�in(!;�

aruicome��I;:
anatnewurn.

'O�J Joure�
r init out. �i!"

!ometnin� [ai'

WAR PORN 277

job, be a plumber or a nurse or tend bar? Thirty wasn't quite
around the corner but it wasn't so far away, either, and Ifelt
the need to do some thing, accomplish some thing, do something
real.

Ob, sure, I knew it was all a con. I knew the system was out

to get me. I knew we all wanted to be free and live our lives
and make art and all that bullshit, but I couldn't remember

the last time I'd been to the dentist. And what ifI broke a leg,
or got sick, or hit by a car? How would I pay for anything?
And why did my circle offriends seem to be shifting, turning
seedier, more addiction-prone, less aware oftheir own lives as
a series ofchoices they'd made and more inclined to ascribe to
events wholly metaphysical causes-I just had a feeling, you
know, it was like the universe gave me a sign, sometimes you do

a reading and it's just like so spot on, it was like there was this
voice telling me ... How much longer would it take till I was

trapped in a world without responsibility, where thingsjust sort

ofhappened and we alljust got along, stumbling in a fuzz of
pot smoke, excuses, and superstition?

Yet there I went into town, working at the booksbop, drink­

ing with II, fooling around with Alice, getting high, ending
the night in a hazy drive back up the mountain or crashed in
Alice's bed, waking to strange light through a strange window

burning away the illusion ofease life wore by night and reveal­

ing beneath it the grim furrows ofbad habits too deeply
rutted

to pull out of

Fog, thick, hung in the trees. Igot up early and shuffled through
the trailer, started the coffee pot, rolled a cigarette. I opened the



,

-'
'" '.< ,;,"""'"""':,."..........

','

'104.;.', _

�

HI ROY SCRANTON

door and let in the mist, let out the smoke, hoping yet again
for clarity.

I left my notebook andpen untouched on the table. For some
reason that morningpoetry seemed even morefutile than usual.
I was always going over the same pluckedfield, picking at the
same thoughts and sensations. What was the point ofthinking
things? Writing them down? Nobody read, nobody cared-no
one needed the navel-gazing mystifications ofyet another con-
fused and sensitive young soul.

I opened the fridge and saw I had a couple eggs, so Iput on
a pan and started it warming, melting butter. I cut two slices
from a loafoforganic multigrain and laid them on a plate.

For company I turned on NPR. Atfirst it wasn't anything,
just a stream of meaningless sound, then as I stood over the
stove with an egg in my hand the babble squirmed into sense.
Someone hadflown a plane into the World Trade Center. No,
two planes. Both towers. One was collapsing, smoke rising up,
peoplejumping. It was an attack ofso me kind We were under
attack.

I turned up the radio and cracked the eggs, listening to voices
cry out over the sizzle ofbutterfrying.

:�



n tne tao�, hi;
orefoti�tna�1.

leU, li(�i�l'
.f lointofl�i'l

noooJJ(all�

i am an american soldier

i am a warrior and a member of a team

i serve the people of the united states
and live the army values

Trucks roll, gunners scanning the horizon. The sun an

incandescent smear. I sweat and turn up the music.

We drive south through the desert in a line, miles long,
of big green machines.

We stand in the heat by the road and the wind whips sand

at us. Waves of grit slide and ebb across the seething black.

Engines hum.
In the distance two Bradleys spin heaving clouds of dust

as they circle a cluster of hooches and rumble over a hill.
We

hear the noise of their guns then their engines fade. Smoke

oozes up. An Apache hovers overhead.
Blackened humvees jut up from the sand.

Pictures come out of hadjis getting fucked with at one of

the prisons. Hadjis getting punched, hadjis standing
on



JlO ROY SCRANTON

boxes, hadjis with panties on their heads, naked hadjis get­
ting laughed at by skanky Nasty Girl bitches.

I know what I'm looking at, but at the same time, fuck
'em. Fuck 'em to their goddamned shitsucking hadji hell.
They're shooting at us every day and I'm supposed to give a
flying fuck about human rights? Fuck that. Once they quit
chopping people's heads off and lighting dudes on fire, then
maybe we'll talk.

Command comes down and says just what you'd expect,
reprehensible unprofessional blah blah blah, but who the
fuck cares? A few bad apples, they say, make sure you know
the regulations, but we all know the score.

The muezzin calls out five times a day. Gunfire breaks the
night. No running water. No electricity. No air condition­
ing. No grass, no carpet, no windows. No fans. Little shade,
bad food, no joy, little laughter, no decent sleep. Everyone
in the world wears camouflage-the others talk gobbledy­
gook and stare.

Geraldo reenlists for a 20K bonus.

Burger King, daisy-chain. Cordon and Search. Stack
team. There's a glazed shock in everyone's eyes, the simmer
of hatred barely contained. We get in fistfights. We listen to
"Hey Ya!" and count the dead.

What had I done before? Who had I been? Was there a life
befo re this?

Negative. I'd never been anyone. I'd never done anything



naked hauji!!
hes,

what rou1u ��
Dim) out W�ij:

ana �ear(n, �

Ie') ere�) tn� lim]

l(7nt�, W� li)t�,

WAR PORN )11

but drive down this highway forever, the road eternity itself,
punishment for an abandoned dream's half-imagined sins. This
was all I'd ever done, all I'd ever do: drive in the heat through
the sand and the pain and stink in the unceasing noise.



Jr·)t
w tn�
r

i stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy �nlt
the enemies of the united states of america ��ill

in close combat �n
W�

�m
"W

Ue

��lnl
0200 go. Stoat flips the humvee lights, starts the engine, I�wn
and with a roar and crash slams through the front gate. We �te
jog across the night-hung street around the humvee and Inl
into the yard. We take our positions by the door and switch on "El
the flashlights affixed to our rifles. Burnett rams the door "�
open and Bullwinkle goes in, then me, our rifles stabbing �o
beams of white into the black. The rest of our team follows; ��J!
the snatch team comes behind and pounds up the stairs. We )\(lUr
take the first floor, living room, sofa, Tv, clear the corners I�OO
quick and into the kitchen, tomatoes and cucumbers in a wou�
bowl on the counter, flatbread, water, towels, we kick open "H�
a door and a hadji stands in the corner in his underpants, M
shielding his face. :�rnl

"On your knees, motherfucker!" i���t
"Inhanee!" I�r
The hadji's slow to move, so Bullwinkle slams the butt of �(Ktl

his rifle in his gut, jackknifing him at the waist. �ue1
"Inhanee, motherfucker!" rui�re



____

___._:Bkr

WAR PORN JIJ

He goes down. I keep my rifle at his head and Bullwinkle

zip-strips his arms behind him. Once he's tied, we drag him
to the other room.

The lights on now, you can see the worn but cared-for
furniture and brass knickknacks. A family portrait hangs
on the wall.

Shouting upstairs.
We dump the hadji on the floor and my rifle slams

against a vase, knocking it to the ground where it smashes.
"Watch it," says Staff Sergeant Gooley.
Lieutenant Juarez and Captain Yarrow stride in, the terp

behind them, just as the snatch team drags the first hadji
down the stairs, a middle-aged man in boxers and a wife­
beater. A woman wails somewhere.

I hear Burnett shout, "Shut that bitch up."
"First floor clear," Sergeant Nash tells Staff Sergeant Gooley.
"Search it," the LT barks.
So we go back to the hadji's room and turn on the light.

He's got a pile of letters, a little boombox, and a tiny framed

picture of a woman on the table in the corner. He's got a bed,
a bookcase, a rug on the floor, a trunk, a pair of shoes. I flip
through his stack of CDs while Bullwinkle strips the sheets.

"He's got every goddamn Sting record there is."
Bullwinkle grunts. He goes over to the

bookcase and

flips through the books one by one, then sweeps the
whole

shelf to the floor.

I grab the letters from the table and stuff them
in my

pocket. I pick up the picture and look at it-girlfriend?
Wife? I think of him lying out there with his thumbs zip­

stripped, blubbering face-first on the floor.

����I a���!:
� �!�� ij! !I:

m �lij�1�'



ROY SCRANTON

"Help me with this chest," Bullwinkle says, so I put the
picture down and we overturn the trunk. Clothes fallout,
folded dishdashas, slacks, loose shirts, a wallet, a few small
wooden boxes, a Koran.

"Circle up!" somebody shouts from the other room.
Bullwinkle and I head back. Our hadji's still weeping

on the floor, begging for his life, and the middle-aged one
sits cross-legged behind the couch, zip-stripped, muttering,
his bottom lip swollen and bleeding. A woman in a scarf
is howling after Staff Sergeant Smith and Burnett as they
come down the stairs. Two kids watch from the second
floor.

"Wrong house," says Staff Sergeant Gooley. "Bad intel.
M

'

h"ount up, we re outta ere.
"Cut' em loose," shouts the LT, heading out with Yarrow

and the terp.

We ride back to the FOB as the horizon lightens in the
east. The sky is empty, the road empty. I realize I still have
the hadji's letters in my pocket, so I pull them out and look
at them. The pages dance in the wind, the words so much
meaningless ink. They tell a story, maybe, just not to me.
I let them go, and in the humvee's slipstream they lift and
scatter.



babylon

ay�) �o I rw:
Cloilielf�t,
illet) a f�wl:

omerroom,

.�
oUI\�ilil�

1jUltnotWw
l·eamIDey�i



 



When he played till he was tired and went to sleep, he would
lie in bed and attack Iraq. 235,000 troops at the borders. His
staff managed to move most of the collection to safety, sending
boots about fields on rutted roads.

the apostle should capture dull rumblingI was aware
III my ears

tingling command of Allah not all were lost. Allah, who

destroys insurgents and some you eat. Further lessen the abjec­
tion of war, unable in desperation to turn itself into grotesque
infantile guard force
subordinate world with no

aberrant, outlandish Center that sets conditions for

pornographic action, he adds, is refuge in Allah for the inter­

rogators of the heavens and the earth, the War
on Terror, no

helping do not know
and the blind and the inherent groping power do not know

and the blind and purposeless officials charged with investi­

gating do not know for to him life is the Army,
and I had

some idea what I was doing. The United States had invaded

Mghanistan and was making diplomatic preparations for
the

invasion of Iraq. I had a good idea we were going and, despite



U8 ROY SCRANTON

my attempts to see things geopolitically and realistically, we
follow the dust, heading off the main road through fields then
grids of now flattened and overgrown former modular units
by air, tractor-trailer, or ship can be fully functional in 24 to 48
hours. Even at the CSH level, the goal is not definitive repair.
The maximal length of stay is
policies and practices developed and approved for use on
"the war against terrorism is a new kind ofwar," in fact, a "new
paradigm [that] renders obsolete Geneva's strict limitations."
No sane man can be a world, and do not try to do too much
with your own hands. Better the Arabs do it tolerably than
question the use of national military power. Most people
shall say: Yea, associate with policy
most surely to help the most forgiving, no doubt concealing
bombs, others on the day when the witnesses of this Tv,
nor in the hereafter, and pediatrics benefit the unjust

for them curse
the inmates of fire, so we made Allah, surely Allah sees
moral will to act, a reminder to men of what they planned,
meantime

How is it that I call you to salvation and you call me to the
fire?

You calion me that I should disbelieve in Allah and associ­
ate with Him of which I have no knowledge, and I call you
to China's foreign minister Tuesday. Baghdad residents have
started fleeing the capital as the deadline nears for President
Hussein to leave or face war. No sane man can be happy, for
Saddam rejected the ultimatum, saying he has no heart of the

FULL STORY



reali�o�
,I

o'h�I��
erm�'t
'on�illl�i'
Oefmiowrt

for llle��
", C I

1 tn [�crl�

'cr llmiu��:

nas nontdfl�i:

WAR PORN

anyone brought before the world, "even directed at intelli­

gence targets," as they go on to concede and glut themselves,
goodly raiment made by hands ofTY you can never again
wear, and military police, which is not a matter of

religious discussions will be frequent. With the Bedu, Islam
is so all-pervading that there is little religiosity, little fervor,
and no regard for externals. The current plan discussed is

fundamentally unacceptable. Accordingly, popular elec­
tions are necessary within the "Babylonian" mathematics
of general history, another thousand years on, several cen­
turies of sustained astronomical observation and consistent

recording in the temples of Uruk and humvee enabled the

development of predictive mathematical astronomy: I will
show you D ETAINEE-07 alleging that CIVILIAN-17, MP

Interpreter, Titan Corp., hit DETAINEE-07 once, cutting
his ear to an extent that required stitches. Meantime the
Hooded Man pictured abuses-and shall be brought before
the spear, a certain "even directed at intelligence targets"
fact, as they go on to concede they glut themselves, goodly
raiment by hands of violent/sex abuse which you can never

again wear, a matter of men and women like dogs forced to
crawl on his husband's sisters and the wives of his brothers,

General Sanchez fain to die in her distraction. When drawn

from General Miller's GTMO she sobbed and made lament

among the Trojans yelling: We see cars going by in a
still-se­

cret city, CNN correspondents escape us no longer.
Stay here for Al-Qaeda
lust battle you

must find these inner reasons (they will be denied,

219



J90 ROY SCRANTON

but are nonetheless in operation) before shaping your argu­
ments for one course or another. Allusion is more effective
than logical exposition: they dislike concise expression.
There is nothing unreasonable, incomprehensible, or inscru­
table in the Arab mind.



�ln�rour�
� moree[�

l�e ex�r�!,
lIDle,or��

strange hells
(columbus day, 2004)



 



The joint's red ember glowed in the night as it passed from
Matt's hand back to Aaron's.

'That was kind of intense, dude," Matt said.

"Some bullshit is was it was."

"Mel gets worked up about politics sometimes."
"So I get to be her fucking rag doll? I don't think so."
"That's not what I meant. I'm sorry I brought it up. I was

. "

Just ...

"Curious. Yeah. Everyone's curious fucking George."
"Well, I don't know about that, but I'm sorry. I should've

let it go."
"Whatever, man. You want any more of this?"

"N I'd"0, m goo.
Aaron stubbed out the roach and lit an American Spirit.
Matt bummed one off him. "Listen, Mel's really sweet,

you know, she just gets worked up. She's angry
at the

government and her dad and all kinds of shit,
so it's touch­

and-go sometimes, but other than that, she's
fine. It's just

insecurity, you know?"
"Fuck that and fuck her little dog, too."

"Man, I forgot about Xena. I hope he's okay."
"Fucking dog comes at me, I kick it."
"I just meant, about Mel, you know, she's fine,

but she



294 ROY SCRANTON

has, like, gender issues. Masculinity issues. So if you just "Ho
apologize-I'm not saying she's right, she's not, she was way
out of line, but if you apologize, she'll let it go. She won't �tal
apologize first. I know it's irritating but, you know, it's like
she's has something to prove."

"If! was a fucking pussy." I�tfrl
"5 �" !\It!norry. .
''I'd apologize ifI was a fuckingpussy." ir�(l�
"Okay, fine. Just think about it." Matt studied the sky. !�nv

"So, uh ... How long you been back in the US?" m�a
''About three weeks." !�tm
"Were you over there long?" i��Ul
"Later, Matt. You want to know what it's like, I'll show mij(n,

you some shit later. Let's talk about something else right �W��
now. Tell me about your global forecasting program." W(ly�

"Oh, yeah. Sure. Okay. It's called Constellation. I'm inter- "W1
ested in the way we take disparate, seemingly unrelated "�o
points, and make visual patterns. Like that's Draco and �IQOI
that's Virgo. There's Scorpio and the Big Dipper. They don't runhl
really mean anything, not like an astrologer would tell you, �lfit
but by constellating points we make a map of the sky. Then ��n�
we can use that map to navigate on earth. It's like a data �(ffi
aggregator, but ... See, it's ...

"

He laughed. "It's supposed \�Qtn
to tell the future. I don't know. It's still ... I haven't quite :oow
found the right interface." Wtn�e

"How long you been working on it?" �(ml
''About two years, I guess, since Dahlia and I moved out lirun�

here." �ru�1
"You seem like a cute couple, you and her." "Ho:"Huh? Oh, yeah. Thanks. We're really happy together." "Go



�o if r�ij �
Ot, )n�w��

�o, �no::
knOW,i1'1

tuai�am1[
C��"

'� I��, !'�!t:

iliin� �111�
rro�ram,"

rion,!'m[;

rrer.neyt:
WOW�11��,

ofilieley.rt:
. It'� liKnru:

Q, It')l�r�
, I nay�n'I�C

"

er.

apr, tO��ffi11.'

WAR PORN

"H 'd
"'I"

ow you two meetr

"College. University of Washington, class on statis­
tical analysis. She was on crutches, she'd broken her hip
playing soccer, and one day I helped her with her books.
Then I started helping her with her homework. We were

just friends then, but I really liked her. I liked her accent,
that she was from Virginia. It seemed historical, you know?

Special. And she always seemed so ... I don't know, like
she was searching for something and a little sad about it.

I liked that she was a searcher. Anyway, after graduation, I

got involved in a web startup with
some guys, and she went

to Guatemala to work on an organic farm. I guess we lost

touch, like people do. But then a couple years later, we ran
into each other in a bar on Capitol Hill and it just clicked.
We've been together since."

"Why'd you move to Moab?"
"So the startup I helped found-cyclopsicope.com­

sold out to Yahoo! in April 2000, which was pretty lucky,

thinking back, because the boom was already over by
that

point. The correction was bad, since everybody
was liqui­

dating and the job market was overstocked with guys just
like me, coders with crazy ideas and a lot of slick talk.

But I

had the money from the sell-off and I knew
some people, so

I could get by freelancing. Then after 9/11, we just
decided

we needed a change. Get off the grid, you know? I was in

the middle of this project with some friends and Dahlia
was

getting her master's, but once we'd tied up
our loose ends in

Seattle, we made the jump."
"How's it working for you out here?"
"Good. Good. We're a little restless, I guess, but that's

29'



)96 ROY SCRANTON

just how you get, right? That's just life, getting older, right?
We go hiking a bit, she works the river some with Mel. I
guess we'll head back to civilization soon, but we can live

cheap here, there's some nice people, and it's quiet. There's
space to think. Really think about things."

"Like constellations."
"Yeah ...

"

Like Orion and Scorpio, Cassiopeia and Canis
Major. "So, uh, what about you and Wendy, huh? You two
got a thing?"

"You like her, don't you."
"I, uh ... I don't, uhm

"

Matt coughed. "Dahlia and
I are really happy. But you

"

"We fuck."
''AI

.

h
"

M I h d "H
'

h �"ng t. . . att aug e. ow stat.
"It's trim. She's a liar and a cunt, but she fucks good."
"Dude ...

"

"It is what it is."
"Uhm ... I don't know what to say. Wendy's a friend."
"That all?"
"I d 'kn h "on t ow w at you mean.

"No, you don't. Anyway, I'm just passing through."
"That's probably best." Matt laughed again. "I mean

nice ... It must be nice."
"S h"ure enoug .
"You said you're going back to school in December?"
"That's the story I tell people. The truth is, Matt, I'm

gonna burrow like a tick in the skin of the grimiest, nas­
tiest Rust Belt shithole I can find and shoot heroin till
I die."

"Wow. You're kidding, right?"



mrou��,"
aa�n, II m�
b

Dec�m��[!'
fl iI, Md�J

e �rimi��[, �
flOor n�will�

WAR PORN 297

"We're devils, Matthew. For real. You gotta see things for
what they are ... And there it is. Hello, beautiful."

"Y' all doing alright out here?" Dahlia asked, appearing
out of the shadows.

Matt twisted in his chair to see her and thought, did he

just say that? "What did you say?"
"You feel the spin, Matt?" Aaron asked.
"Wait, what? What?"

"We're all good out back," Dahlia said. "Mel's a little
riled yet, but Xena calmed down. My darling Mel said she'd

apologize to you for being such a bitch, if you apologize to
her for kicking her dog. Then we can all make nice and get
on with our par-tey."

"Listen," Aaron said, looking deep into Dahlia's eyes.
"Here's the deal. I'm not sorry for defending myself. The

dog gets it, he understands I'm a bigger dog. This is a fact
I can see Mel struggles with. She's like one of those terriers
that picks fights with German shepherds. Nevertheless, I
will apologize-to the dog and to Mel. I'm the bigger dog,
I'll be the bigger man. Tell you the truth, Dahlia, all I ever
wanted was peace, love, and understanding."

Dahlia stared back. "I don't know if I like you, soldier

b
"

oy.
"You don't have to." Aaron smiled wide, suddenly all

charm. "Run along now, sugar, and bring your tribe my
offer of peace."

Dahlia left, scowling, and Matt wondered, What do I do?

How do I make him leave? "Her name's not sugar," he said.

"Chill out, bro. It's all cool."

Matt groped for leverage, but with the planet spinning



)9' ROY SCRANTON

the stars were the only fixed points. "There's no devil," J�u�n
he said. "No such thing as evil. We're human beings. We j�r�lI
reason. We make choices. It's like I was saying: it's all Jltl)
just space and stars, but there's an order we impose on W�n
it. We make maps to navigate by. You have to admit that ;1�tnl
at least." :tWt

"I know what I am, Matt. You don't have to be good." �ilil
"No, there's an order to things. There's a map we're J�ntX

responsible to." )illllJ
"Wendy, for example. She'll give it up. You just gotta :l(fron

take it."

Matt wanted to say, You need to leave now. Or: Quit
looking at her like that. Or: I'm gonna kick your ass.
Instead, he regarded Orion hanging overhead and tried to
think of an answer. It wasn't just stars. It was more.

Dahlia went back out back, saying to herself what an ass- Wm�
hole. The house creaked or the door maybe or the sky on Mtl�
its hinges at the horizon and she was out under the black ��i
world glittering like dark mica. The grass rustled live as irni�
snakes. Wendy, Mel, and Rachel huddled over something 'Wtn
in the yard, Xena watching. ifuc�

"What is it?" Dahlia asked, thinking small and helpless. �W�n
"Mel's making fire," Wendy said. '��ri�
Then it lit with a crackle, a small flame ringed with 'Wm

stones. Where'd she get stones? Where'd she get fire? ':�IWt
"Where'd you get that?" Dahlia asked. �W�n
"Me pray Goddess Moon, call up spirits from stone, �,llkc

make fire," Mel said. "I can put it out if you want. I just T�D



WAR PORN

ere') M�rl:
an D�iij�,:
�a,iij�: il'!
we im��,

[Qa�ilt

thought it'd be nice. There isn't a burn ban on or shit, is
there? I don't wanna bring down the fuzz."

"It's cool, I think," said Dahlia.

Wendy leaned toward her. "Did you see the way the stars
are behind the trees and inside them at the same time? I

mean the branches. Like they're caught."
Dahlia laughed. "Damn, y'all couldn't wait for me on

the next bowl? Buncha weed-bogartin' bitches. Listen ...
"

Dahlia sat on the ground by the fire. "I talked to the boys
out front. Soldier boy said he'd apologize. Says he just wants

peace."
"We change like chameleons," Wendy said. "Inside, out-

side. Skin on skin."

"You do," Dahlia said. "I don't."

"No," Wendy said. "We all do."
"So who's Dahlia then?"

Rachel said, "She's the one who fed us tasty tofu."

Wendy said, "She's the one who has what she wants."
Mel said, "She's the one who knows what's enough."
Dahlia lay on her side. "Enough is enough."
"This is fun," Wendy said. "Who's Wendy?"
"Wendy's a bitch," said Mel.
"Fuck you, Mel."

"Wendy's a self-centered, self-quoting bitch," Mel went on.

"Seriously, fuck you."
"Wendy's too smart and too pretty but she's crazy

and

fun, so that makes up for it," said Dahlia.

"Wendy's a cat," Rachel said. "One of those little jungle
cats, like an ocelot."

''I'll be an ocelot."

[Q D��OC{
'� amlr�

now, �r:(,
�(K J�lli,

eaa �om�,

a5mort.

e�wnu

De or m��::
una�r ���i

.� Mu�ol�i
oyer IOffi�[

e rin�IJ ,:
e �et hr�1

irit� from !I�;

you wantl,

299



JOO ROY SCRANTON

"What's your animal, Dahlia?" Mel asked. "A fox?"
"Me? I'm a moth. I'm a swallow. A crane maybe, some

kind of migratory bird."
"I'm a coyote," said Rachel.
Wendy laughed. "You're no coyote. You're a poodle that

thinks it's a coyote."
"You're mean."

"I'm, uh, what's that dog from that old beer ad?"
"Spuds Mackenzie? He's a bull terrier."
''I'm one of those," said Mel.
"I'm not a poodle," Rachel said. "I'm a heron or an egret,

like Dahlia."
"You're a cuckoo," Wendy said.
They lapsed into silence. Dahlia lay on the earth,

watching Wendy, thinking of the way Matt watched her.
The sense of fear. The rush when the dog leaped. Aaron.
Mel broke a stick and threw it in the crackling fire. Rachel
cleared her throat and began to sing in a low, nasal lilt,
a voice like reeds and red thread and honey, tapping her
knee with her palm:

On,
Ana
An�
Mr

Oh, the cuckoo, she's a pretty bird.
How I wish that she was mine.
But she never hollers cuckoo
Till the fourth day of July.

She sucks all the sweet flowers
To make her voice so clear.
But she never sings cuckoo
Till summer draws near.



WAR PORN

Afo��!
e m�r��J):

She flies the hills over,
She flies the world above,
She flies back to the mountain,

Where she mourns her ain true love.

Oh, the cuckoo, she's a cruel bird,
And she warbles as she flies,

eer�Q!" And ev'ry time she passes,
My true love says goodbye.

ronom�; Rachel let the last note fade and
the hush that followed

broke like waves washing hard against clapping, sharp, at
the door. They all looked up at Aaron applauding, his eyes

on h bright in the glow of the fire.
r wdtM "That was just lovely," he said.

le�real "What do you want?" Wendy asked.
l' t. �, "S�"
m�rlfe,N; orry.

alowJn��, "How long were you there?"

e!Jtdrri�1: ''I'm only passing through, Chief,"
he said, coming

toward the fire. "I left Major Tom in orbit, and if! don't get
back we might lose him in the Martian time-slip. But listen,
it's totally aces, we're solving the mysteries of the universe.
One thing I wanted to say: Mel, I hope we're cool and

I'm

sorry for calling you names and overreacting to your-how
you say-interrogation. We cool?" He knelt

and offered

Mel his hand. Xena watched nervously.
Mel observed him, turning her head this way and that,

then nodded. "Yeah, we cool," she said, giving his hand a

firm shake. "Sorry for calling you a Nazi."
"No problem," he said. "It's not the worst thing I've

been

J 01



SO) ROY SCRANTON

called." Then he offered his hand to Xena. "Cool, doggy?" \llttlo
Xena hugged the ground and licked the back of Aaron's ,�t.H
hand. "Great. So we all cool." "�ou

"We're not all cool," Dahlia said, sitting up. "���
"Oh h?" "Hoyea .
"Yeah. You and me ain't cool." "Ml�
"Well, I am heartsick to hear that, sugar, and steadfastly "lao

resolved to make things right. What could I possibly do to '�am
rectify this situation?" Mdt!

"What are you two talking about?" asked Wendy. "�tm
Dahlia felt her face twitch. "You bring violence into lill�n

my home, you fuck up my party. You owe me." Her eyes :�w,W
reflected flame. "Put your hand in the fire." \llttn�

The other women watched, waiting. Aaron smiled and "Ioe
took a drink of his beer, then gazed around the circle. "�no
"What are y'all up to out here besides singing campfire
songs? Some witchy coven shit?"

Dahlia glared at him. Jf�turn
"We're just talking," Wendy said. "��ili,
"Sweet. I'll work on getting Major Tom down from �ron

orbit, and maybe then we can resume our explorations. ��f oJ
In the meantime . . ." He leaned forward and passed his ::�wm�
hand through the fire, slowly side to side so the orange heat Mdtt
licked along his hand and singed the hair on his wrist, then \�ffieor
pressed his palm to Dahlia's cheek. They looked at each �wu
other, faces close, then he pulled away and kissed Wendy jwin�t
on the top of her head. "I shall return," he said, giving a �11wind
sloppy salute, and disappeared through the gate. 'Ift, talk

j1 air. �
• :pner



WAR PORN

CooU�� Matt looked over at Aaron's face, washed blue in the moon's
adof� light. He was pushing a bottle at him.

"Yc beer?"au got eer.
�, "Yeah. Take one."

"How long were you gone?"
"All your life, sweetheart. You want a beer or not?"

analt�Qt "I don't know what you're here for."
I�O)li�l�j: "Same thing we all are: kill, fuck, and die."

Matt took the offered beer.

Wenor "Strange trip to the backyard," Aaron went on. "The
violeij(1: ladies have gone native. We talked some. Everybody groks

me,n�1Ii now. Why don't we take a ride in your time machine,
Matthew?"

onlmil�l 'The machine's broken."

noh "Show me."

�1fl�(J;: "It's sludge. It's like a rollercoaster that won't
come down."

"So show me. Invite me in. I got something to show you
in return."

"Yeah, what?"
Aaron grinned, pulling from his pocket a silver thumb

drive dangling on a gray cord. "Some real war shit. You
show me the future, I'll show you the past."

Matt thought for a moment, then nodded. "Okay.
Come on."nnillwilt1t:

·looKea ![�

a �lleaW�:
oe I�OI �i\�i

He stumbled up and ambled into the house,
Aaron fol­

lowing through the dark to Matt's work zone. Through
the window, they could see the girls spread out around the

fire, talking and laughing, their hands framing
forms in

the air. Matt sat at his desk and jiggled his mouse, wak­

ing the machine.
�te,

us



)04 ROY SCRANTON

Matt eyed the fire anxiously. "I think there's a burn
ban on."

"Fuck all that. Show me the future."
The computer's fan whirred, its hard-drive light flicker­

ing red in the dark. Matt clicked an icon of the Big Dipper.
"It's fairly crude, so I can only feed so many different data
streams off the web before it freezes. I linked it to different
sites that update their data, you know, like Dow Jones or
whatever. I got a couple easy ones like US weather, so the
graphic gives us a pattern like this." He clicked on the menu
and a visual popped up in the center, a slowly morphing
fractal cone in greens and golds covered with bumps and
indentions. It spun slow on three axes, displaying its lan­
guidly shifting planes, and as it revolved a swirl of orange
and white sank into one side. "The trick is with the oper­
ator, right, because this is just a data pattern. It's no better
really than raw data except in this: humans are primarily
visual, so we interpret visual patterns much more quickly
than we do numerical, syntactical, narrative, or even lin­
guistic ones. But the new operator doesn't see much in one
pattern, like this one here, until they've seen dozens of them
and compared them against each other. As well, the algo­
rithm doesn't measure data but rather the rate of change.
So with this, I can tell you that the weather patterns for the
US are generally changing slowly now, but that there's some
serious turbulence here"-he pointed to the swirl of white
and orange-"that represents a relatively intense but locally
manifest change in weather conditions. Not very helpful, I
realize, for meteorology, but that's not the point. Let's do
stocks." He clicked a menu button and the first graphic

:I�rrea
'I�fwld�
J�� on
i[JtrCe �
�OCK exa

It traa�

��, �tuff

�lc�m
�1trln�
]�ytr�e

illr�l�
�IIKelJ

:mturOUIU�ut I
�lt can

iWCKEx

:1, wna

I��e.l
:�wmu

)I�own

�tma, I,
�It can

it�l, Bl



WAR PORN

disappeared, replaced by a new cone, green and gold, this
one wider, shallower, and bumpier, red and strangely spar­
kling on the edges and growing darker and darker, toward
a fierce purple, at the point. "This is all the world's major
stock exchanges, along with some other transnational data
like trade deficit numbers, wheat production, the price of

oil, stufflike that. This seems about normal, actually, gener­

ally calm with local fluctuations. Sometimes you get a
wave

sweeping across, either in concentric circles or as a shifting
convergence. See, like this point here, this bulge-if it got

any bigger, I'd say that's probably gonna start a
wave that

will likely spread and affect other markets. I'd say watch out

for turbulence in the global economy."
"But it doesn't tell you where."

"It can." He hit Control-M and markers came up: Tokyo
Stock Exchange, NASDAQ, Crude Oil DPB. "But

remem­

ber, what it's measuring isn't the change but the rate of

change. I don't care what the level of the Dow is, or
even

how much it went up or down, but how much it
went up

or down relative to, a, the overall size or value of the data

set and, b, its previous movement. A steady increase, as long
as it continues to change at the same rate, won't show up
at all. But if the increase slows, right, even if the change is

now zero, the change in the rate of change will be what
we

see. You got it?"

"Like it measures acceleration and deceleration,
not

d"spee .

"Exactly. I mean, it doesn't so much tell
the future as

show turbulence in complex systems, which I think might
offer a key to understanding the systems

themselves. Part

li�nt�i�
e �i��i).
Qjffmm�
ittoic
Dow j��,
'ealn�r,�:

on lli1�l

'l� m��l
�um�lt

la}'in� i��
'irlofm2

ltnlli1�
, It'ln�k;

aff �r�r.

morf�ill�
, or m��
mll(�m�:

olenlol�
we�, ili1�'

te 01 (�u\;

( ilierf'll��
�wirlolw[;
meDlltl�i
yerynelr�'
oint.Ut'lu
firlt �r�rt:

lOS



of the problem is that so far the systems are user-defined. I
mean, if I had enough computing power, I could feed thou­
sands and thousands of real-time data streams into the thing
and you'd get a global picture. Another problem is real-time
data-most good data is private or secret. What you're seeing
now is very narrow. It's like taking a poll offive hundred peo­
ple; it just doesn't tell you much. Whereas if you polled five
hundred thousand, you'd have some real numbers."

"Huh."
"Yeah. So there it is."

"Trippy." Aaron pulled out his thumb drive. "My turn."
"Okay." Matt closed down the program and plugged in

Aaron's drive.

"Iraq Pix," Aaron said. "Camp Crawford."

"Wed

J06 ROY SCRANTON

The fire crackled between them.
"What was that with you and Aaron?" Wendy asked,

turning to Dahlia.
"Just messing with him," Dahlia said.
"Dolly working her mojo," Mel said.
"I ain't got no mojo."
"Dirty Dahlia," Wendy laughed. ''I'd be jealous if! didn't

know you were so stuck on Matt."

"Sure," Dahlia said. "Like a tar baby."

J�wor
LamrC
ua,not
maintel
�;un·Y�U
;v

r� were

J1nortn
i�itan

IIHdaji�
"Ird�i�,
"DoJa
"�rw
H� aia

:mwnHl
]�Drow

i�� the �

The first picture was of a dusty, tan-colored building loom­
ing against a bruised sky. Barbed wire coiled on the wall
tops.

--. - - .



"We did a bunch of stuff in Iraq," Aaron said, "includ­

ing working at several different internment camps. This is

Camp Crawford. We called it the Pit. It was north of Bagh­
dad, not far from Taji, and it was specifically for insurgents

[JouJr1� and intel targets. It's not like Cropper, on BIAp, which was

nun�;: high-value, or Abu G, which had a bunch of different shit.
ou��oo� We were supposed to get hard cases from other assets in

n,n the north and northwest, a lot of hadjis from Fallujah and
Tikrit and Baqubah, a lot of Sunni triangle shit."

"H dii �"a )IS.

e,uMJ� "Iraqis. You get real racist over there."

a�l,�, "Do you?"
"Anyway, Camp Crawford. Click forward."
He did and the next pic was a bunch of soldiers, some in

brown t-shirts and some in black, all wearing desert boots

and brown camouflage pants, making gang symbols or flip­
ping the bird, men and women both. Aaron was in there,

Wenar��: leaner, more muscular, squatting with a
rifle.

"These are the dudes I worked with. There's Sergeant
Dickersen, and that's Grimes and Woolsley and Peanut

and Garber. That's Staff Sergeant Cortazar and Lieutenant

Viers. The guys in black t-shirts-see,
brown t-shirts, that's

oud!' the Army standard. The Air Force
wear black t-shirts, but

these guys aren't Air Force. They're OGA. Bill and
Pete and

Dick and Gary."
"OGA?"

"Other governmental agencies. That dude there, the

Duilain�loc: hadji-Iooking one,
he's our terp, Wathiq."

eo on m1f.

WAR PORN J07

• • •



J08 ROY SCRANTON

"The thing with Aaron," Wendy said, "I think he had a
hard time in Iraq."

"What do you mean a hard time?"
"I don't know. He won't talk about it. He says he just

wants to put it behind him. But he's really tense now, and I
think ... I think something happened."

"You think he has PT5D?" Rachel asked.
"I don't know how you know. He says he doesn't."
"Has he gone for counseling?"
"I don't know. He just got back. He just showed up."
"What's the deal with you two?" Dahlia asked.
"I don't really know," Wendy said. "We started dating in

Tucson, like, almost two years ago. I was finishing my MFA
then, and he was still working on his bachelor's, but he's only
a year younger than me ... and we'd been dating for like six
months but hadn't discussed it as anything serious when he
got called up, and then we started having these really super
intense discussions about the future. I just couldn't make
the promises I think he wanted me to. I think he had this
romantic idea I'd wait for him, pining away with a yellow
ribbon, but I can't live my life like that. And I didn't even
know if we were right for each other anyway. It'd just been a
thing. So we basically made a tentative agreement that we'd
keep writing and then check back when he got home. He
thought the war would be over quick and he'd be sitting in
the desert twiddling his thumbs the whole time like in that
bookJarhead. So we wrote each other letters while he was in
training, but then once he got to Iraq, it stopped. A couple
emails, then nothing ... until he called me from the airport
in Atlanta, a year later. I couldn't believe it. I thought I'd let

:�o, I
d

itrnon
uwnat

��ta,
�Hone�

�l�few
�1�\V11t
:i�l clo�

'J�us,"
'DiM
Wsal

jl��ren
:mTucs
HJQS

1t next

��ilr a
�,tture's fr
�tmRAs

wl��row

:ttnolaerl"Inat's
il!in for

]�isn, Sfj
rnene

',11oreast
:nop o�



WAR PORN

it go. I thought I'd moved on. When I heard his voice on
the phone, though, I sort of fell apart."

"What did you think when he quit writing?" Rachel
asked.

"Honestly? I thought he was dead. I mean, I read the lists
for a few months and didn't see his name, but how could I

know? It was the not knowing that made it so bad. Finally
I just closed off the part of myself that cared."

"J
"

esus.

"Didn't you call his parents or somebody?"
"He's always been a loner. He never really talked about

his parents much. I know his dad used to
live somewhere

near Tucson, and I'm not even sure where his mom's at.

He had some friends in college, the guys in his band and

his stoner buddies, but they didn't know any more than

I did."rloUlwk

er�!�;:
coclan1t'

nd��: The next picture showed a young Iraqi woman smiling
uneasily at the camera, looking at something outside

the

picture's frame. She wore loose orange prisoner pants
and a

PANTERA shirt and her hair was streaked with blonde, dark

roots growing out over platinum stripes. She couldn't
have

been older than nineteen or twenty.

"That's Connie," Aaron said. "We called her Connie. She

was in for theft, I think, but she was nice and spoke some

English, so she got a lot of freedom. Click
forward."

The next picture was of Connie pulling her shirt up
over

her breasts, tugging the waist of her orange pants
down to

the top of her pubic hair.

(

�O[ n�rn�"

'0 Dellm�i
meIIKel�:

Inuene��:

rea, A (��:
omilie�:
mou�ntl��;

J09



JlO ROY SCRANTON

"Two dolla. Some dudes paid five for the whole nude,
but I dig how this one's flirty, like she's not showing you
everything yet. She did other stuff, too, on the D L, but I
wouldn't touch that cooze with a ten-foot pole."

"Other stuff?"
"Yeah. Command looked the other way as long as we

kept it quiet."
"What ... what did she do with the money?"
"She hid it, saving it for when she got out. She had her

own cell, for privacy. We took care of her, you know, treated
her pretty good, gave her extra MREs, cigarettes, shit from
Any Soldier packages back home. Connie was alright. Some
of the Army bitches complained about the guys, you know,
pimping her, but nothing ever really happened. It never
went official."

"That's awful."

"Oh, shit. You're totally right. I'll put it away, then."
Aaron reached for his thumb drive.

"No, wait," Matt said. "It's awful, but I think I should
see it. So I know what it's like. I should know what it's like."

"Your call, Chief. You wanna click forward?"
"Yeah," Matt said, then regretted it.
A young, mustached Iraqi man lay naked on the floor

of a cell, his face ruptured and bleeding, his hands secured
behind his back with zip-ties. A soldier stood with one boot
on the back of his neck, grinning at the camera.

"That's Woolsley. We ... he was stressing the prisoner,
you know, in preparation for an information session, and
the guy got a little crazy, so we ... we kept running him
into the bars until he fell over. Fucked him up pretty bad.

�t lost:

�on�the
lilreth
"[work
IIDia yc
Ilt��I�
"Wtrex
"ltolal

�l�rOU lOG

�outitwl
"Ufi..,
Aaron �

wtaat tn

J�(K, the I
Iillron l

J\aron �

"What'�
"What!

"Inh!!

"Oh,W
"Awna
"AChe

Th�r're aij
i[�reaKs

wn�, It
!on'tlm
�ijt. But

"Ho
Tve



"What?"

(ninKIln�wi "In his butt. What is that?

"Oh, we made him stick a chemlight in his ass."

wnol� �ijll
�nowin� J�t

e Dl, �ijli
»

e

as lon� �il

, �ne hd� ��
�ow,[r�[[

tte�, lhit ���

�ri�nt.���
y�, ,ou���,
nea, It n�'Q

)"

on me �oo

nana� lewrr!
witnone�

era,

� lie rril�nlr,
n �el�ion, �I

( runnin� �iID

up pretcy�J�

WAR PORN JI1

He lost a bunch of teeth," Aaron said, sliding his finger
along the right side of his upper lip.

"Are these torture pictures?"
"I worked in detention."

"D·d 1 �"1 you ... torture ... peop e.

"L llv?"ega y.
"Were you actually involved in doing this?"
"I told you," Aaron said. "I took pictures. Nobody's mak­

ing you look. All you gotta do is pull out. Listen. You
think

about it while I get another beer. You want one?"

"Uh ... sure."

Aaron got up and rummaged in the fridge while Matt

stared at the man standing with his boot on the naked man's

neck, the naked man's split lip and gashed face, his blood

shiny on the concrete floor.
Aaron brought back two beers and handed one to Matt.

"What's that?" he asked.

''A what?"

''A chemlight. It's a little plastic, you know, a glowstick.

They're about as big around as your thumb. You bend
it and

it breaks this glass capsule inside so it glows. It's a chemical

thing. It doesn't really hurt, it's just invasive,
and the hadjis

don't know how the chemicals work so they freak the fuck

out. But like I said, they're not that big, so as long as you
don't tense up, it's not painful."

"How would you know?"

"I've had bigger shits. I mean, you get your



JU ROY SCRANTON

prostate checked, right? It's not any bigger than that. It's
just uncomfortable."

"And humiliating."
"Yeah, but so's a fucking prostate exam."
"I don't think they're the same."
"It was standard operating procedure. Not a big deal."
"That's fucked up."
"It gets better. Click forward."
«vvz.: I' S d I ;>"walt. Just... 0 ... you torture peop e.
"Enhanced interrogation, technically. Whatever you

want to call it, I told you, I fucking held the camera. How
many times I gotta say that? Click forward."

"I didn't know what to think. All I could do was imagine
the worst."

"Oh, Wendy," Rachel said, rubbing her shoulder.
"It's just all so intense. After he called, after everything,

after I thought he was dead, he's alive again and we keep
talking on the phone and I can't stop thinking about him and
I can't sleep and I start thinking about moving back to Tucson
or him moving here and basically I'm in this crazy emotional
spiral for like a week and that's part of why-I mean, I won't
say I went to Grand Junction Thursday explicitly planning
to fuck David T. Greene, but I needed something, some kind
of counterweight, some blockage to put between Aaron and
me. Something to keep me from falling."

Mel grunted.
"But when he showed up, I knew. I knew. I knew

instantly that we'd have a good time but that was it. Because

[just ca�
Inere's
�4a'Doy
llflimits
1��Kand j
mffeelin�
ruanlt use�

"UKe
"Tfiat

r�f next �
i�on fii�

'�fnou
mfr!tooa

"I (lnlt

�n�,ZaD
�!ition,
r�� nonlt
)�anat�

:'ilnu�1ij�iliatl t�
"Canlt)
"�ure, I

��oto,
"Yeah,'
"That':

merAb,
�a��ene
!nlt, be(



The next picture showed a naked Iraqi man wearing pant­
ies on his face, handcuffed to a metal grating on the wall,

passed out and dangling by his hands. A tall Hispanic
sol-

W�lffi�illi dier stood
next to him.

"I can't remember this puck's name. It was like Z some-

�der, thing. Zabar ... Zartan ... Zazar ... Anyway,
that's a stress

r everytill�� position. You keep them
handcuffed like that for hours.

and wd�1 You don't give them water,
because if you do, they have to

Doutrumwl piss and then you have to unhook them
and everything and

aCKtoTU�� it's a huge hassle. You don't feed them, either,
because if you

emoo��� do that, then they have to shit. Click
forward."

meanllw��'1 "Can't you go to the
media or something?"

"Sure. You see this guy?" he pointed to the soldier in the

photo.
"Yeah."

'That's Staff Sergeant Cortazar, He took us all aside

after Abu G broke and-this conversation never officially

happened, realize-and told us that
because of one stupid

shit, because of that blue falcon Joe Darby who turned
in

atmr r��
amera, ���

WAR PORN
IU

I just can't. I've done this kind of thing and I can't anymore.
There's something self-destructive in him, you know, that

bad-boy thing, and the chaos energy's thrilling, but there
are limits." Wendy looked into the fire. She picked up a

stick and poked at the coals. "I don't know. Sometimes I get
the feeling he just doesn't care what happens anymore. He

didn't used to be like that."

"Like with Xena," Mel said.

"That wasn't his fault," Rachel told her.

..

-

--



)14 ROY SCRANTON

the photos, a whole bunch of good soldiers who did their Inow
shi

jobs, who were doing what they were told, were now getting �mistak
totally fucked by the system. It wasn't their commanders mcir

ass £

getting punished, it wasn't Dirty Sanchez or Rummy or li�abou

Dubya, it was the men and women doing their jobs. And Ifl-which
not only that, but this fuck Joe Darby was jeopardizing the ��nt1-the
whole intel-collection apparatus in Iraq, which put the lives ru(hln�aia
of our fellow soldiers at risk. Those pictures fucked up the w�narreni
whole occupation. Fucking Joe Darby got American sol- min�el�e�e
diers killed." @(�rOum

"But ...
" �dtDack.

"We didn't decide to do this shit. We didn't ask for the wn�tldiaw

torture detail. Staff Sergeant Cortazar told us to do this [�uDlnoI
shit because Lieutenant Viers told him to do this shit, and �utldidit.

Captain Weems, the company commander, told him to
do this shit and so on up the fucking chain of command.
Plus, our guidance with the OGA fucks was full cooper- �ialarD
ation. They say jump, we don't ask how high, we don't �urrbat
ask shit. We jump. Now these orders were put never in I(w��tne
writing, realize. Everything was verbal. The OGA guys go oowl1Mar
straight back to Langley or whatever cesspool they ooze «��ilii'
out of, and we're their tools. We did what we were told "!aon't
to, just like those kids in Abu G. So Sergeant Cortazar is «Girl,y,
all like, here's the deal. Think about this fact: if we decide ru�nt,we'
to talk to somebody, show somebody pictures, we better w�tneld
damn well think about who exactly is going to be getting wmtto�
it in the ass. Bush? Rumsfeld? The general? The CO? Or let's
your battle buddy?" "Yew

Aaron took a drink of beer. "The fact of the matter is, "You
fucked up as it may be, most of these fucking hadjis didn't IIFu



o aia �1r

ow���
mm��t�

Rummrm
'r jOOj,k�
araizin�mt
�ut ili��I�
ckea ���

,

Iencan WI'

t oJRforwt
noU

i� �nitl ��
wla nim t�

f cOffim��,

full (Gortl'
nl W� ao�t
ut nmlm

GA �llr!��
I iliq0011
'e wer� tol�

t Cortmril
ifweac(iJt
�, we �ett1l

to De �em�!
neW�1

nematterlll

naaji�aiMt

WAR PORN
su

know shit. I'd say the majority of them were locked up

by mistake, or at best they were grunts who didn't know
their ass from al-Qaeda. It's a little depressing when you
think about it. But if I had a problem with what was going
on-which I did, of course, I'm a red-blooded American,

right?-then the time for me to address that was before I

fucking did it, before it got done, or at the very least while it

was happening. Not afterwards. Not later. Not now. Some­

thing else Sergeant Cortazar said that stuck with me is
that

once you make a decision, once you do something, you
can't

take it back. And he's right. You don't get to say 'Oh, wait,
what I did was wrong, so now I want to get someone

else in

trouble so I can feel better.' If it was wrong, it was wrong.

But I did it. Nothing can change that. Click forward."

Dahlia lay back in the grass, staring into a sky so black it
was

purple, watching Perseus and Cassiopeia chase
each other

across the galaxy. "Hey-you guys want to fire another

bowl? Maybe do some shots?"
"Yeah," Wendy said. "Let's party like it's 1999."
"I don't know," Rachel said.

"Girl, you got to live a little," Dahlia
said. "It's a gorgeous

night, we've got plenty of stuff to keep us going,
and when

was the last time you partied till dawn? C'mon. Sunrise. I

want to feel like I did something epic for once."

"Let's do it, man," Mel said.
"v h" °d'vT d "C'

"

rean, sal wen y. mono

"You think the boys'll want to?" Rachel asked.

"Fuck the boys," said Wendy.



J16 ROY SCRANTON

"I suspect they will," Dahlia said, "but regardless, Wen­
dy's right. Fuck 'em. We can have us a girl's night while they,
whatever, jerk each other off and talk about computers."

"They're in there now," said Rachel.
"Where?"

"They're on the computer. They've been in there awhile."
"I bet Matt's showing him that dumb program."
"It's not dumb," Wendy said.
"That's sweet, Wendy, but it kinda is. It's just blobs of

color you can't tell apart, and it doesn't even really work.
Plus, he can't seem to finish. I mean, I don't want to talk
about him behind his back ...

"

"Even though that's what you're doing."
"Yeah, well. Maybe you're right. I'm just tired of hearing

about it."
"I'm guessing Aaron will be too in about five minutes."
"So let's get lit then before they come out and start talking

about complex visual representations of turbulent systems.
Please."

There was a line of men in prison garb kneeling, black bags
over their heads, their hands zip-tied behind them. Some­
one whose face was out of the shot was standing over them
prodding one in the back with a baton.

"So, you get a bunch of new guys in and you have to
establish control. You can't fuck around. We'd line them
all up and get them down and scream at them for about

twenty minutes, poking them with batons and kicking
them, then we'd leave them there for a few hours with a

(Duple
Irream at

One p

m�eling R
I(moved a]
m�m, Am

:��rriwn
w�r� olue s

;l�DI�e�t
r�wwet�
wlt(n,Tnen
�� (nl� case,
mawnlcne

]lwcKand

Ine�tan�
Hm�eliJ

Ult'� �l a
mi� �ur In �

llU�n� and I
l'nacK In tn

Jl1�re��lon,
Tne n�

Grlffies� h
IIThat's

little blur
rnat's a �



couple dudes and if they moved, the two guards would
scream at them and knock them down. Click forward."

One prisoner was standing in front of the line of

kneeling prisoners. The kneeling ones' hoods had been
removed and they all looked up at the man standing over

ereawn�t: them. A male American soldier stood behind the stand­

ing prisoner, a female soldier next to him. The soldiers
wore blue surgical gloves. The male soldier had a pair of
SCIssors.

"This is sort of a mass technique we developed with the

OGAs for when a bunch of fresh pucks came in. So after

fucking with them for a while, we take one out of the line,
the biggest fucker in the group, and stand him up in front.

Then we take off their hoods, right, but not his, so they can
watch. Then your point man here, with the scissors, Grimes

in this case, he cuts open the prisoner's outfit and strips him

and whichever female we have, that's Littleton, she points at

his cock and laughs. Click forward."
The standing man was naked now except for the hood, and

the female soldier was pointing at his genitals and laughing.
"It's all a big show we put on. We-Grimes-pokes

this guy in the ribs, pokes him in the butt, while
Littleton

laughs and points at his cock, then we give
him one good

whack in the belly and he goes down. Bam. Makes a huge

impression. Next."
The naked and hooded man was on the ground and

Grimes's boot was slamming into his stomach.

"That's a good one. Action shots are hard. The boot's a

little blurry but you can see the impact. I
like that picture.

That's a good one."

�ant to [ill

• I

mllluttl.

ent�lttllli.

g, DlacK��
hem. �Offit·

goverililffi

you navtW

'0 line tnlill

m for a�o�1

ana �(hl�1
our� witnl

WAR PORN :S17

-

. -

-

--



511 ROY SCRANTON

"That's fucked up. This is fucked up."
"Yeah. You mentioned that. Next."

Matt clicked forward to a close-up head-and-shoulders
of a mangled, bloody face. A middle-aged man with a thick
gray mustache.

"That dude died. I mean, he was dead when I took the

picture."
"Did you kill him?"

"Fuck no. We just stressed him to the point where his
body failed. He was kinda old, anyway, and the older ones
can't take much. I wished we'd had dogs. Dogs would have
made life so much easier. We complained about that all the
time, but our battalion K-9 had been tasked out to some
other bullshit. It's totally easy to stress dudes with dogs, and
you don't even have to touch 'em. Dogs scare the shit out
of people. Next."

Matt clicked forward. Another dead man. He clicked
forward. Another man in a stress position, head hooded,
passed out and dangling. He clicked forward. Two Ameri­
can soldiers punching a man in a hood. He clicked forward.
Naked men piled on top of each other.

"That's like the photo," Matt said.
"Yeah. That's basically 'cause we were bored. I mean,

one of our OGA dudes came from Abu G, and he gave us

guidance on a bunch of shit he said worked really well over
there. Naked Dog-Pile, Electric Wire Box, Fake Menstrual
Wipe, shit like that. But a lot of shit we did' cause we were
bored. I mean, plus all the normal shit-sleep deprivation,
hostile environment, loud music, stress positions, beatings,
immersion-you know, the basics."

"Immel

"It's like

��ter long
��U �otta b

I

m�ilierfuck

J�ia�ott
il��n, �ne

�taitto I
]W DacK ar

��mlOKe arl
w�in�tre�,
"ItninK tn
"fucK reili
"Her, I was

]nuncorne
"We can 10
"The CliCK

�m

"We can �el
ftdcro�� dl

Mellaugh�
"I love the
Mel kept 1
"I think I

�inmym;
��n� of the
�t. None
it happen,



WAR PORN :119

"Immersion?"
"It's like waterboarding. You put their head in a bucket of

·�no��tij water long enough to fuck with them, then you take it out.
'tn4ilii(t You gotta be careful though. It's surprisingly easy to drown a

motherfucker." Aaron waved his hand impatiently. "Next."

wnmrul
olaf! ��5
'oulO�dfI
tnat�mt

He di(�t�

a �o�odl
"0 Aomi·

eQfonv��,

Q. I ffi�1

�e ��v� �

Ivwe�owl
e'Memtru�
mewewtre

aerriv�Uo�1
), oeaun�1

Dahlia got the bowl out and tapped the old ash and packed
it fresh. She handed the bowl and the lighter to Mel, who

passed it to Rachel, who passed it to Wendy, then Dahlia,
then back around again. Everyone was silent, focused on

the smoke drifting into the night, the streaking stars, the

rustling trees, the skunky savor.
"I think that's cashed," Rachel said, tapping ash.
"Fuck yeah," Mel said.
"Hey, I was thinking," Dahlia said, "if we're gonna watch

the sun come up, we should hike up on the
cliffs."

"We can look for the cuckoo," Rachel said.

"The cuckoo cock." Mel burst into laughter and fell
over.

"We can see rosy-fingered dawn," Wendy said, "traipsing

light across distant horizons."
Mel laughed harder.
"I love the dawn," Rachel said. "It's so, like, nascent."

Mel kept laughing. Rachel petted Xena.
"I think I finally got it," Wendy said. "It's not that you're

all in my mind, but it's like the yous
in my mind are reflec­

tions of the yous in reality. All I can see are the
shadows you

cast. None of this is really happening except how I make

it happen. That's not right. It's happening,
but I make it



no ROY SCRANTON

happen in my mind at the same time. It's happening but
. , "

Its me.

"I gotta get up," Dahlia said. "I gotta move around."
"What are they doing in there?" Rachel asked.
"Yeah, go get the boys."
"Go get the cuckoo cocks," Mel giggled.
Dahlia stepped off toward the house.

Matt clicked forward. More pictures of Connie, of Aaron's
fellow soldiers, of the gray concrete halls and brown outer
walls of Camp Crawford, more pictures of hooded men,
bleeding men, men in handcuffs. He clicked forward. A
thin, mustached man stood handcuffed to a head-level cell­
door crossbar.

"That's the Professor. Puck named Qasim. He got picked
up on a raid in Baqubah. He tried to tell us the first couple
days how he worked as a terp for the Americans in Baghdad
and he was in Baqubah because his wife was sick or some
shit, and it was all a big mistake, he just got caught up in
things, he didn't even know the guys they picked him up
with. The OGA fucks, on the other hand, said according to
their information he'd been using his position as a transla­
tor to pass intel to al-Qaeda. We fucked that puck up."

"You keep saying puck. What's a puck?"
"PUc. Person under control. Click forward."
The next picture showed Qasim hanging against the cell

door, naked now, blood across his chest and thighs, his face
cut, bruised, swollen, and bleeding.

"This was two days later, after some stressing and a couple

�eat·down
�icture, f1�
��n�, my h

�Iili oiab bl

The next

m�cell aDO
IIAaron, wH

�m, One oj

m�oilierma
III �ot �er�

[licKforwara
rn� next r'

��im'� neaa
�!tina�rat,

'Tnat'� Ju
�irili!' Next.
"Wnatnap
"Tneruc
"��ili,JJ

"Well,eitn
�lo!tlrtney j

"Ju�t trans
lI�eili,Clil
Tnenext t

�(ewas pre�
�ninQhim
m�the crm

"Justthi:
lmean, it

"1 thou



enin� ��I

una,"

fOwn �m�

oeo m��,
fonv�a,,\
�·levela�·

�ot ri(�oo
flmmurlt
in �����
CK or !�m�

u�nturill
eo nimu,
ccorilln�w

as a trami!·

cKUr,"

'mtilif(t�
�hll hi!f!a

WAR PORN
JJI

beat-downs. I remember when I came on duty, I took this

picture, right, and the flash woke him up and he started bab­

bling, my friend this and that, mistake, mistake, Mista Mista,
blah blah blah, my friend, my friend. Click forward."

The next picture showed the man still hanging against
the cell door but now his eyes were open and he gazed up
at Aaron, who'd opened the door and was standing next to

him. One blue-gloved hand rested on Qasim's shoulder and

the other made a peace sign.
"I got Sergeant Dickersen to hold the camera for

me.

Click forward."

The next picture was the same, except Aaron was pulling

Qasim's head back by his hair and holding his other hand

flat in a karate chop against Qasim's neck.
"That's Judo Chop. It's a joke we had, 'Judo Chop.

Hiyah!' Next."
"What happened to all these people?"
"The pucks?"
"Yeah."

"Well, either they died or got transferred or got let out.

Mostly they just got transferred."

"Just transferred? Like, just sent to another prison?"
"Yeah. Click forward."

The next picture was of the same scene, only now Qasim's
face was pressed into the cell bars. Aaron grinned, standing
behind him forcing his skull into the metal, one hand pull­

ing the crossbar for leverage.
"Just this once, right, I let someone

else take the pictures.

I mean, it wasn't a real interrogation. Just fucking around."

"I h h
"

t oug t ...



"It's a weird thrill, having that much physical control )tones
a

over somebody, knowing what you're doing. It's ...
" mey rea

The screen door leading out back squawked. Both men �on�the
looked up. Matt minimized the photos just as Dahlia It'IIDe
came in.

"Dark in here-what are y' all doing, looking at porn?"
=vvr. " A id «vvr. ;:>"war porn, aron sal. wanna see.

"Hell yeah!"
"No," Matt said, yanking out the thumb drive.
"Hey, I wanna see," Dahlia said.
Matt rose to his feet and shoved past Dahlia toward the

back door. "Let's get some fresh air."
"Show me the pictures."
"Dahlia, sugar," Aaron said, ''I'll give you a private show

JJJ ROY SCRANTON

later."

"Will you-can we just go outside?" Matt said.
"We cashed another bowl," said Dahlia. "We're gonna go

up on the cliffs and watch the sunrise. You punks up for it,
or y' all gonna pussy out?"

"It's late," Matt said. "I have to work tomorrow."
"Oh for fuck's sake, Matthew, give it a rest. You gonna

party with us or not?"
"Fine. Sure. Whatever. Let's just go outside."
"Yes, let's," said Aaron, standing. "My thumb drive?" He

held out his hand.
Matt looked at Aaron, then at Dahlia. Aaron snapped his

fingers. Matt dropped the drive in his palm.
"Good work, citizen. Now let's all take a hike."

mmmur, t�

Ir ao�n
�mtner
(4J11� ur De

"Her, fie
�mllaaDo
"Wfiatt

Illt'!terrlj"��ili, w
��rilie�
"Tnechl
III was U

maCK on t

��ln that
"Itmus
IIIt)S ju

lhey)re 1
!hlt. Th
formed



c� COntml

at �orn!"

'e,

D arivd"Ht

))

e,

WAR PORN UJ

Stones and stars. The journey undertaken, in ten minutes

they reached the mouth of the narrow canyon leading
along the dry creek to the heights, the plateau above town.
It'll be twenty minutes or half an hour before they clear
the ravine's brush and make it into the open. They warned
each other to watch out for coyotes, snakes, cougars, then

plunged in, up.
The noise of drunken revelers pushing through brush

dried all summer long. The clatter of rocks and shoes, the

murmur, the occasional shout.

Why doesn't he do something? Say something? But no,
there they are, whispering together, sharing some secret. He

came up behind them.

"Hey, hero," Aaron said. "What's up? I was just telling
Dahlia about Iraq."

"What?"

"It's terrible," Dahlia said.

"Yeah, well." Aaron frowned. "It's always the children that

suffer the most. I mean, we did what we could, you know?"

"The children?" Matt said.

"I was telling Dahlia how one time we had this
VBIED

attack on the ECP, and there was this bus full of kids com­

ing in that got caught in the blast. It was
bad."

"It must have been so hard," said Dahlia.

"It's just-these kids, their lives are basically
fucked.

They're never gonna get out of Iraq.
Their schools are

shit. Their hospitals are shit. And they were coming in

for medical stuff, right, like basic vaccines, and when the



))4 ROY SCRANTON

truck blew ... it just ... We lost seven. I spent the whole
day in the aid station, helping the medics with triage. The
boots I wore that day-I had to get rid of' em. The blood
wouldn't ever come out ... Seven. We saved the rest, but
we lost seven. And one of our own, Private Ballard. That
was a tough day."

"You have pictures of that, too?" Matt asked.
"Jesus, Matt, what wrong with you?" Dahlia said. She

turned back to Aaron. "Sorry about him. You must find it
hard now being out of the army-I mean after Iraq-the
way people react sometimes."

"It's been difficult, no doubt. But you deal with it. You
drive on."

"I can't even imagine. It must be so strange, such a strange
and different world."

"There or here?"
She laughed. "Either one."
"Honestly, it was weirder coming back than it was going

over, because ... I mean, you go, and you're thinking one
thing, you're thinking about the military and Iraq and
America, and what you learn when you get there . . . You
learn that nothing's quite what you thought it was. It's a
cliche, but you really learn what you're made of."

"Ha, I bet," Matt said.
Aaron and Dahlia looked back, then Dahlia tripped on a

stone and flung forward. Before she hit the ground, Aaron
had her, one hand on her arm, the other sweeping under
and picking her up, setting her on her feet. She could smell
him, close, the tobacco and fresh sweat and something else,
something warm and hungry. "Thanks," she said, flushing.

"Hey,
"You j

I�a,
"�ig he

�I�nt 'caus
�tnathow

"I ju�t , ,
"Irao
"Matthe

Wmar,"
"I ao wh

"J�m�, M
�m�wnere!
"M,fi

MJrou c
"

muwant.

"Iat l�

I�J,"WIII

Mattma

Iwar,

!aronl,(WOK�a
�rl'It�urned I

1��Knew s
l�OUt It. B

Oncew
I�eln th�
ilil�\owc
lt�eeme(

!newas



"I
. "

Just ...

"Why don't you go chill out somewhere?"
"Matthew," Aaron said. "How 'bout you go check up on

Wendy."
"I do what I want," Matt snarled.

"Jesus, Matt," Dahlia said. "Go! Buzz offl Go chill out

somewhere!"

Cnamm!1 "Yeah, fine! Fine. I'll chill out. Totally
chill out. Like ice.

And you can talk with Rambo fucking Himmler here
all

"

you want.

"What is it with you people tonight and Nazis?" Dahlia

itwaJ�olll! said. "Will you just go?
We'll talk later."

in�n�o�t Matt made a
face and waved his hands in the air, stalking

d Ira� mJ away.
Aaron looked at Dahlia and she at him. He grinned his

it WaJ, It))� crooked grin at her,
and she shook her head and smiled.

f' It
burned her arm and waist where he'd touched her, and

she knew she was hurting Matt and part of her felt terrible

rrirreaon�
about it. But only part.

ouna)Aaw�
Once when she was young, she and her family went to a

epin!u�cr
lake in the Blue Ridge Mountains where you could dive off

]J
II this low cliff into the water. It was only twenty feet or so but

cou u lmt�

eiliin�el!1)
it seemed stratospheric, and the water deep and cold, and

'd,flusIDnl
she was terrified the first time, shaking with fear and about

tnewn�11
tri�e,I�1
TneDlo�
e fe)t) �m
lara,Hlt

a ��a, ��1
ult fln�it

f Ira�-ffil

WAR PORN
JU

"Hey," he said, stepping back.
"You should watch where you're going, honey," Matt

said.

"Big help you are, riding my heels. I nearly took a face

plant'cause you're hovering. You want me on crutches again?
Is that how you like it?"



J.J6 ROY SCRANTON

to throw up, but she closed her eyes and jumped and didn't
open them until she came back up through the water into
the light, dizzy and gulping.

Which choice didn't matter so much as that there was

one, something being done. Who's choosing? Didn't mat­
ter. She was the one doing.

She touched her fingers to Aaron's forearm. "Thanks for
catching me," she said. "I could have really hurt myself"

Soon the interminable exodus, the weed-induced sense of
ceaseless toil, dissolved against the newly exposed night sky,
the moon cool and blue down upon them like a curved

blade, the stars cold and far, and they came up the last
stretch of canyon and scree to the plateau, where they found
a circle of flat rocks around a charred smear littered with
cans faded white by the sun, cigarette butts, and footprints.
They pulled beers out of their pockets and realized no one
had thought to bring an opener, so Aaron and Mel used
their lighters. They lit another bowl and talked about how
they couldn't believe how long it seemed but how short it
was, how the stars seemed so brilliant, how the sky seemed
everything and the night, walking like forever, was just so
yeah.

After a while they realized Matt had wandered off. Aaron
touched Dahlia's wrist. "Help me go find him?"

She nodded. Off they went, leaving Mel and Rachel and
Wendy. Aaron glanced back at Wendy as they walked away.

WendyB
!miled an

rnqcnat�
�im aoout

Mwrral P

mqwere c
M(iwt En

ltltf line I

���f! !now

atr�ctlon,
@til a DIOII
f�!!illzea n
f�una in n

IlU�nin�1 �
mfm�r�a

��until ne
���f!, ana;w�rK, �ne
ImI!take cl
m !cnool al
m�u�n,"

"You ana
IIOne of
Aaron al

�oin� witt
�f frontifi
in history
iliings tb



ater int�

tnerew�
On'tffiat·

nanhfm
r�df'

�efile �f

ni�nt!�,
a curvd

p the I�t

qfounJ
erea \�lli

foot�rin�,
eo noon1

MelmeJ
aDout now

w!nortit

�!eeffid
wasj�t!O

off,A�on

WAR PORN U7

Wendy barely shrugged, her lip half-curled in a sneer. Aaron
smiled and turned to follow Dahlia.

They chatted their way back down the canyon. Dahlia told
him about the people who used to live in the region, the
Ancestral Puebloans, and how recent evidence suggested
they were cannibals. "The Navajo name, Anaasazf, means
Ancient Enemy," she said. In fact, a dig just across the
state line in Colorado had found seven skeletons whose

bones showed evidence of defleshing, chopping, marrow

extraction, and burning. There'd been a lot of skepticism
until a biologist from the University of Colorado tested
fossilized human feces at the site for myoglobin, a protein
found in human muscle. "Their shit didn't lie," she said,

laughing. She talked about how much she missed reading
the marks and fractures in old remains. She'd studied biol­

ogy until her soccer accident, then she got
obsessed with

bones, and an anthropology class turned her on to field­

work. She confessed she thought she might have made
a mistake coming out to Utah. She should have stayed
in school and finished her PhD. "I got an exit strategy,

though."
"You and Matt gonna head back to Seattle?"

"One of us is, anyway," she said.
Aaron admitted he didn't have any idea what he was

doing with his life, either. When he was a kid,
he dreamed

of fronting a punk-rock band. Then he was getting
a BA

in history, not really sure why except he liked stories about

things that happened in the past, and
now he didn't know



us ROY SCRANTON

what the fuck. Everything seemed changed. Unfamiliar.
Disconnected. The scales on which he weighed possible
futures were out of balance, and he didn't know how to set
them right. "It's hard to see what really matters now," he
said. "But I'll figure it out. Maybe just ride my motorcycle
back and forth across the country till I have a vision."

"v I;:>"IOU got a motorcyc e.

"Yeah," he said. "I'd always wanted one, and when I got
back from Iraq I just bought it. You have to know what you
want, right, and when you figure it out, you have to grab it.
What else is there?"

She nodded at this, biting her lip, brushing his arm
with hers. At a certain point, climbing down a pair of
small boulders, he offered her his hand for assistance and
when she came down she held on to it and deep in the
canyon, stars overhead, they stood as if in another world
and looked in each other's eyes. She felt a little dizzy and
he leaned in close, closer, she could feel the warmth of his
body and his breath on her lips, closer, she closed her eyes
and he pressed his palm on her hip, she could feel him
just back teasing her, holding, then, aloft, she rose up and
kissed him.

Matt walked along the hardpack. From up here, the
moon-colored blue plateau seemed nearly endless until in
the distance buttes and spires erupted from the flats like
exclamations breaking a sentence. His brain didn't seem to
be working. Nothing worked. Who the fuck did he think.
The fuck. Them. The problem was rubbing a spot clean,

dear am

noise,Oli
aon, as t

Itin0ng
�ometbi
1 �nould

l�� Aaron

l��ut tne pi
m�1Tnen l'

��llna and
Wmarand
hnatifI
ili�aar KIlO
m�wwnat

ty�rytnin
w�w�ntto ]

w�ntto n�e

wnaole. ]u�t
Imowrou'r
r�u want, W

��l� me be I
H��tumb

Ir1ared befG
�ir�o. That
1(1 not Vir�
�e�ly I wa
�eilie guy
!�aCe, but
De anythi
fault. If s



� nl� drm
a �dlr �r

�tan(� d��

ee� In (�1

(n�r \Vorl�

alzzJ lfl�
mtnoHl1

ea n�rq�
a f��1 11m

ro�e urm�

WAR PORN U9

clear away the crosshatching, the problem was silence and
noise. Once things were silent he'd be able to see the solu­
tion, as they say, clearly, but there was too much noise.

Thinking thoughts like. Impossible.
Something startled in a bush nearby.
I should go back, he thought. I should go back and

tell Aaron he's no longer welcome. I can tell everyone
about the pictures. Tell him he has to leave. And if he hits

me? Then I'll hit him back. No I wouldn't. I'd lie on the

ground and they'd laugh and he'd leave with Dahlia and

Wendy and the other two, they'd go off and have an orgy.
Or what if I told everyone and they ignored me? Do they
already know? Maybe they already know. How can you
know what other people know?

Everything noise and fuzz. Her you. Remember that time

we went to Taos and slept in a teepee? Or the hot springs we
went to naked? Maybe I should just go talk to her. Be rea­
sonable. Just sit and talk and work it out. Explain. Decode.

I know you're upset. I know it's my fault. Just tell me what

you want, so I can fix it. I can't
fix it if you don't tell me.

Help me be good to you. Help me.
He stumbled into a gully and sat against the side, his legs

splayed before him, lying staring at the sky. Now
there's

Virgo. That wasn't Virgo earlier. That was Lyra? Hydra?
It's not Virgo now, that's Orion, and before it was Pegasus.

Really I was supposed to be an astronaut. I
was meant to

be the guy who zoomed
into the future, the one floating in

space, but I never
could be an astronaut. Maybe I'll never

be anything. Maybe I'm cursed. Maybe it really is all my
fault. If so, what's the point of fighting it? What's the point



no ROY SCRANTON

of fighting anything? Nothing. I've never done good things.
I've never done bad things. What's worth hurting for?

Dahlia sank back onto the gray comforter and pulled him
down on top. She bit his lip, dug nails in his back. He
licked the salt off her neck. Rough hands up under her
dress, tanned hands on white thighs, fierce hands tugging
her tank top, pressing her breasts. Yes, she said yes, yes, she
slid her hands down the muscles of his torso, his chest and

ribs, she grabbed at his pants and fumbled with his zip­
per. She took him in her hand, the tense heat. He pulled
off her tank top then undid her bra and was at her nip­
ples with his teeth. She said yes, yes. She felt herself burning
with life, alive like the world, fire and blood. He slid his
hands under her skirt and pulled her briefs off and threw
them on the floor. He sucked her tongue. Rubbing her
crotch with his palm and thumb, he slid one then two
knuckles deep and she said yes, oh god, yes. She pulled
away and stretched, reaching for the nightstand, opening
a drawer and pulling out a condom. She handed it to him.
He stood up.

"You ever been tied up?" he asked.
She sat up and looked into his eyes, then smiled and took

him in her mouth. She slid on him and sucked and licked,
rubbed and pulled. Then she let go and looked up.

"Tie me up," she whispered. "Tie me up and fuck me."
He reached over to the phone and pulled out its cord,

then yanked the cord from the wall. He walked around the
bed and told her to lie down across it.

"Make
Hesmi�
�ne fell,

m�m toget}J
m�cord rbn

"Tnat's re
, k

))

"lt� 0 ay.
"It'� ti�nr.))
"It'�fIne," H

w�cnorner,
�� ili� �oor

'

�n�aner ill'
m� her wetn

��(K�a ner nl

�1rhan�tlea
"ruck me,"
"�eili,» ne�

�� her hir. 'T
III wantrou
"�oulike to
"I'mwwet
"�ou\lke g
"�e�, p\easl
"Yeah," he

�1r over on 1
�atill the p
m�edgeof t
�ack at hill

"Put th(
"Yeah,"



011

II�a �im
aCK, �1
naff �11

tu�i�!
, ff!, !�1

ChWa��

ni!li�
frwloo

t hfr ni�.
IfDur�!
f !liQ �i!

ana mf1W

DDin� n11
InfO (W�

ne rllllt�
,Orfnlil!
ittonim,

a ana toO�

ana licKf�1

ur'
fuCKffit,"
ut il� corJ1

arounailit

WAR PORN
UI

"Make me," she said.
He smiled and shoved her back.

She fell, looking up at him. He took her hands and tied
them together over her head with the phone cord, looped
the cord through the metal base-frame, tied it.

"That's really tight," she said.
"1' k

"

ts 0 aYe
"It's tight."
"It's fine," he said, then kissed her, their faces upside down

to each other, and went back around the other side. He knelt

on the floor in front of her and pulled up her skirt and she

opened her thighs around his face. He burrowed in, spread­

ing her wetness around, tasting deep. She
moaned again,

bucked her hips, wanted to reach and grab his hair but with

her hands tied and beginning to tingle she couldn't.
"Fuck me," she said, "oh please, please fuck me."

"Yeah," he said, pulling away. He kissed the flower tattoo

on her hip. "I'm gonna fuck you."
"1 want you in me."

"You like to be tied up, huh?"

"I'm so wet, god, please fuck me now."
"You like getting fucked all tied up, huh?"

"Yes, please, fuck me. C'mon and fuck me."

"Yeah," he said, then grabbed her by the thighs and flipped
her over on her front. He pulled her toward him along the

bed till the phone cord stretched taut and she was kneeling
at

the edge of the mattress, her knees on the ground.
She looked

back at him as he lifted her skirt up over her ass.

"Put the condom on and fuck me," she said.

"Yeah," he said, rubbing her hips, sliding a finger inside



JU ROY SCRANTON

her. The same finger he pressed against her asshole, rubbing
it between her buttocks, and she jerked.

"Hey," she said.
"Shhh."

"No, really, hey."
"It's fine," he said, rubbing the wetness around her

sphincter, then pushing his finger in.
"No. No. I said no."

"I'd"ts goo .
"No wait a minute," she said, going cold inside. "Untie me."
"It's good," he said again. "Tight."
"No, seriously, untie me."
His left hand slid along the line of her jaw, his finger

brushing her lips. Then he clutched her face and pressed
hard in her cheek where her jaw met her skull, cracking
her mouth open. He swept her briefs up off the floor and
crammed them in her mouth and held them there with one
hand while she bucked and tried to scream. He grabbed her
top with his other hand and looped it around her mouth,
cinching it tight like a bit and double-knotting it at the
back of her skull.

"Shush now. You know this is just what you wanted."
She felt him get up from behind her. She writhed, wailed

muffled shouts, trying to get free. Over her shoulder she
could see him digging in her dresser and she kicked and
bounced until she was on her back facing him. He had a
bunch of her tights in his hands. She tried to shout and
curse through the gag-her taste-choking on spit and cot­
ton. She tried to scream.

"Roll back over," he said, grinning, taking her by the

lnhles a
into tbe g,
�a legs UR
lOa�he bo

I�ytrage; be'

�tr anhles to

w me mattr

(Iim�ea on t�

r�inforce the

He�raDDea
��lelnto me c

w�reatne, co
;na "�nlililili,
U'b'

l�dW rou ana

�ll!nnOW," n

��t!out."
�new� WD

II�r,rte�eno,
lie, we�ening
�fMeaaan

�lleezea hard
�ne went

�melf, thlnJ
�llt offocus, t
iliin�t Thin!
wnols this. 1
�o,Whose ,
Not mine.



una �1r

T' !

nU�m1,

nl� fln�1r
Q �r��
,cra(�!
flooranJ

wiili�n1

aoo�a�1r

her Dr ili�

WAR PORN
nJ

ankles and flipping her smoothly. She kicked, shrieked
into the gag, but his hands held her like cuffs. He pulled
her legs up in the air, forcing her weight onto her neck,
and she howled in pain. She tried to kick back but had no

leverage; he'd pinned her legs in his armpit. He secured
her ankles together with a pair of tights, then dropped her
to the mattress, her knees slamming to the floor, and
climbed on top of her. He used another pair of tights to
reinforce the gag.

He grabbed her hard by the back of the neck, forcing her
nose into the comforter. She inhaled the gray fabric, trying
to breathe, could feel him on her, his flesh dense and burn­

ing. "Shhhhh. It's okay now. It's okay. I saw you looking.
I saw you and knew what you wanted.

It's gonna be okay.
Hush now," he whispered, "or I'll knock your fucking day­

lights out."
She was sobbing, trying to talk, trying to say no, don't,

stop, please no. Trying to get free but feeling her will
evacu­

ate, weakening by the moment. He slapped her in the back

of the head and told her to hush, then grabbed her neck and

squeezed hard.
She went slack. Gray. Feeling herself rattle loose from

herself, thinking: who's this happening to-the room going
out of focus, the gray fabric blurring. Thinking: who decides

things. Thinking: where's Matt, and
what happened, and

who is this. How? Who? What's happening and who to, yes,
no. Whose body? No. Who makes choices? No. It's not me.

Not mine. No. No.

• • •



JU ROY SCRANTON

When he was done, he found a kitchen knife and cut the

phone cord from the bed frame, got dressed, and walked
through the house, dim and blue in the early morning, then
out the back, past the fridge and blank-faced computer, past
Xena watching him from the floor, into the yard where the
dying embers of last night's fire smoldered in whitened ash.

A moment of indecision caught him there amid the party
detritus, the empty beer bottles, the grease thick on the

grill's black rack, the complicated flowers on the table, then
he went back out the way he came, through the gate, got
on his motorcycle, and rolled past all the quiet houses rus­
tling to wake now on Columbus Day, past the silver-black
gleam of picture windows and past the yellow light shin­
ing from a kitchen or bathroom where some early-rising
citizen prepared for the day. At the bottom of the lane, he
turned west.

Bleeding over the redrock, dawn spilled across the land.
Monument Valley was out there somewhere, where they'd
shot all those old cowboy flicks, and in the south an isolate
line of mountains massed white-capped and gray. To the
north, the valley narrowed to a chasm, rust-colored cliffs
closing in over the Colorado, then the highway climbed out
of the gorge, past the turnoff to Dead Horse Point, and up
onto the plateau, opening to flat land.

Silent where he'd left her, cut loose and curled in a
wounded ball, Dahlia opened her eyes.



d

Okilitn
�at�, �m

Olli�rill'

v�r'Dla(�

'�nt lOIn·
rlr·rllln!

� laml�t

babylon

ili� lan�,

�re tnti�
an IlOlat�

aI' To ili�

loren (11ffi

�lmDdout
Ilnt, ana ur

urlea In I



r�( fortn yo
��Iain� me s
���r olacK se

I��(b ana s

oomo�
locuments ae

rur�ana rass
,Wilitrue,

�� minK of

ill�J(ICYto �
�l(ions fi�nt
I��(i� officer
�fwlmslgn
more tnan II

mltmany h�
meaafor Iral
me senior L
wrote abou1

��n the �
and urine
Gull rum



Put forth your strength: bureaucratic construction now

holding the soldier and man of no tomorrow
over black seas under nay, we used not to call upon lED

attacks and suicide

bombs young exulted in

documents detailing Takbir, gates of hell abide therein, tor­
ture and pass along main supply
Allah true.

So think of the Department of artillery, tank rounds and

die, city to kill, employed to carry out the strike. The occu­

pations fight
special officers definitely better than we

gulf with significant success
more than 12 hours. "But I think massive aerial strikes

that many here said before pilots aboard the USS last week

ahead for Iraq's interim also went to Baghdad University or

the senior Library at Basra and Command Council issues

wrote about the case of an Iraqi man who ...
"

again the same, certain we send apostles by
bench in water

and urine

dull rumbling tingling command of Allah



JJI ROY SCRANTON

lost. This statement has Iraq's major museums and libraries l strate
retribution and that time is despite detainees, in addition, �reast whl
material assets oh yeah, she's bomb. "We're hit," the voice Mawing d�
and angle measurement with his eyes I left uptown, 29, of
Lomira, Wisconsin. 'Babylonian' mathematics jump the
gun, groups of insurgents took over common the wooden ��miliism
mountain of Placus and should be allowed in. End of fuck- ma��ingjy
ing where they killed seven, a child-ill-starred sire of an �ffi� as eas
ill-starred care many push-ups you can do from the ambush r�rwffierock
into the house when we need you to kill somebody, a sor- inciae
rowing widow in your house. The ancient culture is kill ��(�,�umnot
them. Yet as a mere infant �ntand ana

now that you are, kill m�r�fr��uentl
the first days after the war. Even though he escaped the �n�
action began at 5, his life henceforth one oflabor and killing ur, ID
two GIs and wounding mellow, spaced out from waiting,
says the sheikh the police shocked the motorist down the
road.

In-depth oral history of the war based on interviews with
political leaders between the sexes in Punic gulf any civic.
These shall enter the garden resistance and US forces killed
at least

the light of his sky

another in the fire, then the secret one read by Jordan, a lot
of pressure to produce and other interrogation centers how
is it that here in Babylon, I call you to occupy and said no
title to be called to, Abdul told AI Jazeera TV

under control



'ew�wiili

anr cme

C� hlll��

aan,alo(
ntWnow
a ��a no

WAR PORN "9

a strategy of weakness. By late summer pointed to the
breast which had suckled him. Officials expected to start

drawing down Hector, my son, but occupation forces of
no more than 30,000 Americans comfort from my own

bosom, 130,000 troops, loosing the initiative to protect us
from this man; stand not nowhere and after carrying out its

increasingly managed disappearance, intelligence officers
kill me as easily as though there is no parleying with him
for some rock TV

incidence of penetrating wounds. Better fight at

once, gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries or blast thus did
he stand and ponder the heart, but Achilles required far
more frequently than in civilian

taking
up, I begin to

feel

of holes

Fort Sill-BerLin-New York, 2005-2015



r�i! oooK has

m� it in 1��),
lir!taraninl0

llijournq to r
�m circuitom

M� �on� the
w�o Dr their d
mawno Dr the

Mr�reate�t
�otm, Hi� am

mlWlo, ana hi
�tln air ana c
I mit thank
�ronwen Hr
�ow�, Gary
atm�lary �
ij�work1n�
� �rovocat
works of a�

Many
Blackstoc



Acknowledgments

This book has been a long time coming. I began writ­

ing it in 2005, while still in the Army, and
finished the

first draft in 2007, after having moved to New York City.
Its journey to publication-and into its present

form-has

been circuitous and difficult, with many obstacles and haz­

ards along the way, but also with many friends and allies
who by their close reading helped make the work better,
and who by their support helped keep it alive.

My greatest thanks go to my editor at Soho Press,
Mark

Doten. His ambitious vision for \far Porn was a refining
volcano, and his insight, care, and boldness have been been

fresh air and cool water to a parched and weary traveler.

I can't thank him enough. I'm also immensely grateful to

Bronwen Hruska, Amara Hoshijo, Abby Koski, Rachel

Kowal, Gary Stimeling, and everybody at Soho:
a truly

exemplary publishing team. I feel very lucky
to have wound

up working with people who care
so deeply about books­

as provocations, as contributions to a conversation,
and as

works of art. Thank you.

Many thanks to early readers Helen Benedict,
Peter

Blackstock, E. L. Doctorow, Jim Fitzgerald, Matt Gallagher,



54) ROY SCRANTON

Travis Just, Phil Klay, Kseniya Melnik, Shakir Mustafa,
Nawal Nasrallah, Hilary Plum, Joydeep Roy-Bhattacha­
rya, Jacob Siegel, J.W, and Martin Woessner. Further, I am
awed and amazed by the consistently superhuman levels of
patience, acumen, and brilliance my partner, Sara Marcus,
has been able to access reading and rereading this book. I
owe whatever is beautiful or humane in it-or in myself­
to her wisdom, perspicacity, and love.

In 2014, I had the chance to go back to Baghdad for
Rolling Stone. This visit was an important experience in
its own right, but it also helped me rework the middle
chapters of this book with a more informed eye. Thanks
to Will Dana for making the trip happen, to Alison
Weinflash for arranging the logistics, and to Phoebe St.
John for her painstaking fact checking. Special thanks
go to everyone who helped me connect with people in
Iraq and to the Iraqis and journalists there who took the
time to talk with me: Isra Abdulhadi, Samr Abdul-Satar,
Ghadah Abdul-Sattar, Ali Adhab, Sarem Dakhel Ahmed,
Jane Arraf, Raad al-Azzur, Hassan Blasim, Matt Bradley,
Hanaah Edwar, Borzou Daragahi, Haider Falih, Dexter
Filkins, Alice Fordham, Haider Hashim, Naseer Hassan,
Ahmed Farouk Lafta, Quil Lawrence, Christopher Mer­
rill, Nadia Fayidh Mohammed, Soheil Najam, Ayman
Oghanna, Ned Parker, Methaq Waleed, Kael Weston, the
English students at Mustansiriyah University, and all the
others on Mutannabi Street, in the Shorja Market, and at
the polls in al-Saydiya. I am especially grateful to my inter­
preter on that trip, Aziz Alwan, may he rest in peace, and
to my driver, Ahmed Qusay: brave, courteous, patient,

and sere
would h2

My fit

�f� diffe
�ftwork 0 I

�fr�eant H,
O�! Mitcb

filllffif �hoTI

WO!aDe out

�it! of ilii

(�Mn, CITY,

�r(DaCa
��I Tneory a
r1�rinteaher



MU�tafa,
hattacna.

rther, lam
level� of

ra Marcu�,
is nook I
my�elf-

a�hQaa for
erience in

the mia&f

yeo Thanb
ro �i�on

Phoeoe �to
ci� thanb

people in
o took tnf

DQul·�atar,
elAhmeo,

art Braalq,
ih, Dexter

rket, ana at

WAR PORII us

and streetwise, they guided me through the labyrinth. I
would have been lost without them.

My first visit to Baghdad, from 2003 to 2004, was a

very different kind of labyrinth, and relied on a different
network of support. Thanks to Lieutenant Chiarrez, Staff

Sergeant Hayes, Homan, Lieutenant Juarez, Sergeant First
Class Mitchell, Nick Lehman (RIP), "Smokey" Robinson,

Timmy Shore, and Javier Velasco for helping me stay alive
and sane out there. FTA 4evah.

Bits of this book were published in different form in

canon, CITY, Fire and Forget: Short Stories from the Long
W'llr (Da Capo 2013), the New York Times, Prairie Schoo­

ner, Theory and Event, and "\,%rrior Writers. These parts are

reprinted here with grateful acknowledgment.



 



 



11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111
3 0000 157 010 632 I



ROY CRANVON
is the author of Learning to Die in the Anthropocene:

Reflections on the End of a Civilization, and co-editor

of Fire and Forget: Short Stories from the Long War.

He grew up in Oregon, dropped out of college, and

spent several years wandering the American West.

In 2002, he enlisted in the US Army. He served from

2002 to 2006, including a fourteen-month deploy­

Iraq. After leaving the Army he earned a

Chung @ A-Men Project
grafiaBasica /Getty Images
hy



"Roy Scranton is merciless-and why should he be anything but? War's
corruption soaks through every layer of life, and War Porn drives home that
truth with unflinching, and ultimately harrowing, honesty."

-BEN FOUNTAIN, author of Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk

"In prose that rises to aphoristic, coruscating brilliance, Iraq vet Roy
Scranton has painted, in words, the equivalent of Goya's war etchings. A
rare and genuine masterpiece." -JOYDEEP ROY-BHATTACHARYA,

author ot I he Watch a nd The Storyteller of Marrakesh

"A harrowing novel of the Iraq invasion and occupation, War Porn exposes
the dark heart of that war for all to see. A stunning accomplishment."

-MA GALLAGHER, author of Youngblood

ISBN: 978-1-61695-715-5

111111111111111111111111111111 I lfilfli"llfII