Baghdad Ain't Shit 1/2
Title: Baghdad Ain't Shit 1/2
Author: buffyaddict13
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing: Gen, Josh Ray Person, Brad Colbert, Nate Fick, Tony Espera, Evan Wright, James Trombley, Walt Hasser, Doc Bryan, Rudy Reyes, etc.
Words: 11,600 total
Disclaimer: I own neither the book nor miniseries Generation Kill. This story is based solely on PJ Ransone's portrayal of Josh Ray Person in the HBO miniseries. I mean no disrespect to the real Josh Person or the other First Recon Marines portrayed in the series.
Summary: Character study of Ray through his teenage years through the end of Operation Iraqi Freedom.
A/N 1: First, I suck at summaries. Second, I've written a fair amount of fanfiction in the Supernatural, Criminal Minds, and Band of Brothers fandoms, but this is my first try writing Generation Kill. Translation: I really hope this doesn't suck. Third, I adore Josh Ray Person with the fire of a thousand suns. This is really just an excuse for me to write a big ol' love letter to Ray-Ray.
A/N 2: Thank you to rain_1975 for the beta. She said this was good. I am assured of this. ;-P
"Hell, these are Marines. Men like them held Guadalcanal and took Iwo Jima.
Baghdad ain't shit."
~Marine Major General John F. Kelly
Josh is 15 when he joins the debate club. He's always liked talking, examining different points of view. His mom's boyfriend says he talks too much. However, his mom's boyfriend is named Rufus which renders anything he says automatic bullshit. His teachers say he doesn't talk enough in class. The truth lies somewhere in the middle.
The other guys on the debate team are total bona fide nerds. They don't have pocket protectors, but Dean's hair is parted right down the middle. You can count the fucking comb marks. And Thomas wears sweater vests, so what does that tell you? Plus, he goes by "Thomas," never Tom, which is kind of fucked up in Josh's opinion. It always make him think of that blue creepy-ass talking train.
There's Dean, Thomas, and Jackson. Jackson's not popular, he's not unpopular, he just is. He does whatever he wants, and manages to fly just under the radar. It's pretty awesome. And the dude actually reads shit. As in, books. Novels written before they were born, even. Graphic novels are great and all (especially Preacher), but sometimes you gotta read something that activates the brain cells, you know?
Most of the kids at Nevada East High School are jock assholes and bitch cheerleaders. They act like they're one touch down or blow job away from getting out of Retardville, as if Crest White Strip- sponsored smiles are enough to earn you a scholarship out of this shit hole. Good luck. Seeing as how Josh isn't a jock, he talks too much, not enough, and "makes inappropriate jokes" according to Principal Johnson, he's pretty much fucked. He accepts this with a kind of weary resignation.
Josh Ray Person isn't a big kid. He's naturally skinny and well under six feet, which is the same as wearing a hand-lettered Kick Me sign on his back. He's comfortable around girls, but most of the ones at Nevada aren't worth talking to. He gets decent grades, has a few friends. He wears Metallica t-shirts, the ones from Ride the Lightning and And Justice for All, not the new shit. His sense of humor, smart mouth, and/or stature earn him a black eye or punch to the kidneys about once every two weeks. Josh is fucking sick of being surrounded by teachers too chicken shit to break up fights and students too retarded to have a conversation with.
Jackson changes that. The debate team is working on their topic for the upcoming competition. They're debating what would have happened if Hitler hadn't offed himself, what war crimes he would he have been charged with, shit like that. Josh is tired, he's been sneaking Rufus' Ripped Fuel again. It keeps him awake long enough to read up on the Nuremberg War Trials, to finish One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and e-mail his thoughts on both to Jackson.
The next day Josh is still vibrating his way through classes. He can't sit still, can't shut up. It feels weird. Not a bad weird, just different. It's like he's finally awake. After school the debate club meets in the library.
"You know," Josh says, "Hitler could have avoided all this shit if he'd been getting laid regularly. It's a shame the little mustached fuck didn't meet Eva when he was, like, 20. If he'd been getting the daily recommended dose of pussy, he could have cut out all that killing Jews shit, just left Europe the fuck alone, you know?"
The other guys stare at him. Thomas drops his pencil.
"Are you on drugs?" Dean finally asks.
Josh glares, annoyed. "Fuck no," he says. "I'm just a creative individual. Get used to it."
Jackson laughs. "Speaking of getting pussy," he says grinning at Josh, "wanna start a band?"
* * *
It turns out starting a band does not automatically earn you unlimited pussy. Shit, it doesn't even earn you a limited supply. Especially when you sound as shitty as Josh, Jackson, and Jackson's cousin Shane do. The name Hillbilly Losers doesn't exactly help attract crowds of chicks either. The name is supposed to be ironic, a global fuck-off to Rufus who's called Josh a hillbilly loser on more than one occasion. But when Josh is on stage singing to a mostly empty room, a loser is exactly what he feels like.
Josh suspected they would suck, but it's a little disheartening at just how much. Person does get to feel up Lisa Hatter after they play a particularly awful set one Friday when Josh is a junior. There's even some dry humping involved and bonus: she kisses with major tongue. Josh pretends she's all over him because he's the next James Hetfield--or even Johnny Cash--but the truth is Lisa's just a sweet girl. And a little bit drunk.
The remainder of Josh's high school years follow a pattern: schoolwork, debate club, band practice, pilfering his mom's cigarettes, driving around Retardville on Saturday nights and praying to every god he can think of to get him the fuck out of here. He works at Walmart after school and tries not to wish for death the entire time he's there. Sometimes he succeeds, sometimes he thinks about walking over to women's apparel and hanging himself with the belt of an ugly pink bathrobe. Although everything's made out of such cheap shit, it'd probably break in about one second. Not only would he still be alive and work at Walmart, he'd have to pay for the fucking robe.
Jackson's cousin knows a guy who knows a guy that gets them a gig opening for some gay-ass band named Limp Bizkit. Limp Dick is more like it. Limp Dick sucks, but so do the Hillbilly Losers. Fuck.
The best part of Josh's teenage years are spent reading in the backyard. It's not really a backyard, just a square of dead grass with two lawn chairs that have seen better days. Josh's mom sits next to him and they share Camels and lemonade. They talk about Stephen King's latest book and wonder why everything Dean Koontz writes has turned to shit. Josh rehearses his part in each debate with her until it gets dark and then they watch the fireflies circle the trees like tiny Christmas lights. They talk about Nascar or Survivor and every once in a while Josh works up the courage to pressure her to dump Rufus. She never does.
Sometimes Josh's grandma comes over. Arlene Person is fucking awesome for an old lady. Shit, she's awesome, period. She's always making him homemade peanut butter cookies, buying him stupid little presents. She'll stop people at the grocery store just to tell them her grandson is in a band, like she's proud, like he's talented and not a giant fuck-up.
Grandma Arlene comes to all the debate meets, wolf-whistles when Josh's team wins the semi-finals. She even slips him money for smokes with a sly wink and a now don't you tell your Momma, y'hear? Man, she cracks him up.
Not much else does.
* * *
Two things happen when Josh graduates high school.
The first thing is, Rufus calls Josh a fucking loser who leeches off his mom. This is an interesting turn of phrase, because as far as Josh can see, Rufus has been leeching off his mom for the past five years. At least Josh brings home a pay check and makes his mom smile once in a while.
And, come to think of it, if anybody deserves the title hillbilly loser, it's Rufus. Josh might not have much, but at least he's got all his fucking teeth.
When Josh shares that tidbit of truth with Rufus, it earns him a solid punch to the jaw. Josh goes backwards over the coffee table. His head roars with pain, the bastard hits harder than any of the stupid jocks at Nevada High.
Josh lies on the floor, vision blurred, the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. He can hear his mother screaming at Rufus, hear her kick him out.
"You can treat me like shit all you want," she spits, "but don't you ever lay a hand on my son. Get the hell out, you asshole. If you even think about trying to come back, I'll call the police so fast it'll make your goddamn head spin!"
And that's that. Good fucking riddance.
The second thing is, Josh Ray Person enlists in the Marines.
* * *
His mom acts like he just volunteered for a hot cup of ebola. She cries and hugs him like he's heading for a nineteenth century prison ship instead of Parris Island.
Josh just kisses her cheek. "Mom, I'll be fine. I just want to do something positive. I want to make a difference." He's not sure how to explain it. "I want to...I don't know, matter." It sounds gay, but it's the truth.
His mother looks stricken. "You matter to me, Josh."
He gives her a crooked smile. "I know." But he wants to matter to himself. As hard as he tries, he can't imagine himself sitting through college classes, and it's not like the Hillbilly Losers are going anywhere. He's tired of coasting through life. He's tired of being a punching bag for assholes, for trying to joke his way out of getting his ass kicked by fuckheads with minds even narrower than their dicks. He wants out of Retardville, out of Missouri.
Of course, what the recruiting officer said about Thailand doesn't hurt, either.
When Josh arrives at Parris Island, the first thing he does is start going by his middle name. Josh sounds like some pansy-ass dick suck who spends all his time writing emo songs, drinking espresso, and mooning over Kurt Vonnegut. Which is exactly what he was doing up until two weeks ago. But Ray? Ray sounds badass. Ray sounds like a fucking Marine.
* * *
Boot camp sucks.
It. Sucks.
He goes in thinking it won't be too bad. At home he'd started running, learned the Marine Rifle Creed, the Marine's Hymn, practiced yelling yessir into the bathroom mirror like a moron.
Ray's never run so much in his life. He's constantly tired. Everything hurts. Christ, even his hair hurts, and he barely has any left. He gets up earlier than God, learns how to salute and march and march and run and march. He marches wearing all his gear until his callouses have callouses. Popping the blisters on his feet becomes the highlight of his day. He listens to the DI like his life depends on it. And he guesses it probably does. If he washes out of basic it's right back to Retardville, do not pass go, do not stop to collect two hundred dollars worth of Thai pussy.
Ray works harder than he's ever worked at anything. He hikes through mosquito-filled woods, swims through algae-covered ponds, his platoon carries fucking logs down a hill. Jesus Christ, what kind of sicko sadist asshole comes up with this shit?
Aside from being so exhausted he feels high, sometimes it's not so bad. He likes the classes. Learning Marine Corps history, the Core values is actually interesting . And most of the guys here are smart. There are guys from New York and Illinois and Texas and Washington. Guys who know shit, who have goals. Guys who don't give a fuck about politics, who just want to be marines. Guys who want to be the best.
Ray grits his teeth through the endless sit-ups, pushes himself to work harder, faster.
* * *
Ray unlearns everything. He isn't Josh, he isn't even Ray. He's a Marine. Part of a unit. Part of a machine. Everything he does is the for the benefit of this machine, not himself.
Ray gets the process, the whole break-you-down to build you up thing, so by the time you're done even Steve Austin looks like a pussy.
He learns all the jargon: topside, rack, head, deck, overhead, starboard, etc. ad nauseum. Also, the cardinal rule of marine speak is to never use the words I, me, or you. You don't say, I think this is bullshit, sir. You say, This marine thinks this is bullshit, sir. Ray finds himself thinking a lot of things are shit over the next few months.
Ray learns close combat training, first aid, combat water survival and weapons training. He likes weapons training. It brings back all those years of playing cops and robbers with toy guns. Only now he gets to play with the real thing. Let those asshole jocks get a look at him now. Ray spends so many weeks carrying around his M-16 it feels like part of his arm. He learns to break down and reassemble the weapon in the dark, in the rain, while timed. And bonus: he's a fucking excellent shot.
Ray actually cries at the Eagle, Globe and Anchor Ceremony. He's not alone. All kinds of huge badass dudes are sniffling and hugging each other like little bitches. It's kind of awesome. His mom and grandma show up after the closed ceremony is over, beaming. Jesus Christ, his mom even brings him flowers. But for some reason he's not even embarrassed.
Ray did it. He's a goddamn Marine, a devil dog, a leatherneck. He's never been happier in his life.
* * *
When Person gets to the School of Infantry, he looks like a different guy. He's still short, still thin, but he's muscular, harder. He has confidence. He swaggers. His fellow marines look at him with respect. There's no eye rolling, no insults, no smack talk here. There's just training and doing your job. You actually get paid to be a grown up and learn shit. It's a fucking miracle.
Ray's goal is to end up a recon marine. Which means he's got a lot more shit to get through. But if you're gonna be the best, you might as well be the best of the best, right? That means he's got Airborne, Pathfinder, Ranger, Sniper, and Combat Diver training. He signed up for four years of active duty, so he's got plenty of time. Maybe by the time he's done he can get a job with some kind of SWAT team. Hell, maybe he'll even sign up for another four years. Fuck you, Rufus, Ray thinks. Hillbilly loser, my ass.
Ray's a Force Reconnaissance Marine by the time he's twenty. That's the good news.
The bad news is, he's going to war.
* * *
Bravo Company is deployed to Afghanistan in November of 2001. At the time, Ray doesn't realize just how smoothly Operation Enduring Freedom goes. He'll think about it plenty later, though. Everyone in Bravo is competent and confident. There's Rudy Reyes, who looks like he's been carved out of marble. Jesus Christ, the guy's a fucking Adonis. Everybody's got a crush on Rudy, it doesn't matter if you're gay or straight, animal or mineral. If a marine says Rudy ain't hot, that gent's a fucking liar.
The LT looks younger than Ray. He looks like an unassuming kid, like he should be at Hogwarts making eyes at Hermione instead of giving orders. But Lieutenant Fick's got big balls of steel and doesn't put up with shit from the higher-ups or enlisted men. Best of all, he knows what he's doing. Which almost makes OEF seem easy. Okay, not easy, but tolerable. Sometimes it feels more like an exercise or drill than an actual invasion.
Ray thinks back to the dicks from high school and shakes his head. Christ, there was a time he'd thought he'd spend his life surrounded by assholes. Instead he's with guys like Pappy and Gunny Wynn and Poke and Rudy. His fellow marines and friends. His brothers.
He likes making the guys laugh, especially that tight-ass blond-haired giant Colbert. Ray is Colbert's driver and RTO. Colbert has shit taste in music, he's bitchy, and he's too fucking tall. He makes Ray feel like a goddamn midget. Still, hours stuck together in the same victor--and a begrudging mutual respect--forges a close friendship. They learn to understand each other. Ray keeps track of the maps, the Copenhagen, and Skittles. He knows when he can get away with singing shitty old Hillbilly Loser songs and when to launch into an overzealous version of Eye of the Tiger. Even Fick sings along with that one, pumping his fist just like everyone else.
Brad recognizes Ray looks and talks like an inbred hick, but that's all a facade. Ray Person is a fucking savant when it comes to getting comms to work. Sometimes Colbert even tells him so. But usually he just insults Person. Whenever Brad calls Person a barefoot inbred gap-tooth piece of white trash scum, Ray just laughs like Brad gave him a fucking compliment.
There's only one time during their stay in Afghanistan that Brad gets seriously pissed.
"I've been thinking about this, Brad," Ray says, reaching for the round tin of Cope on the dashboard. "I bet your people wouldn't have ended up fried in all those crematoriums if Hitler had been getting a little more pussy."
The look on Brad's face flashes Ray back to dim school hallways and clenched fists. He thinks, shit. Sometimes he just goes to far. Sometimes he just talks to keep himself awake. He should know better.
But the glare seeps out of Brad's face and he just sighs. "Shut up, Ray," he says, a faint trace of affection in his voice.
* * *
Ray's mom has a bunch of yellow streamers all over the house. There's a banner outside that reads Welcome Home Hero in giant letters.
Grandma Arlene is standing in the doorway waiving one of those gay little flags people stick on their cars. If they decorate their cars with the stars and stripes, they don't have to actually think about the guys still fighting in the Middle East. Pretty fucking convenient.
His mom hugs him and keeps trying to play some stupid dick sucky song about America and eagles and shit. Jesus fucking Christ.
Ray sits down at the kitchen table. "Ma," he says, "for God's sake, turn it off." He pulls the flag out of Grandma's hand and drops it on the table. "You don't have to play me propaganda music or wave trial-size flags. I'm a marine. I think that's good enough, okay?"
His mother wipes her eyes, smiles. "I'm sorry, Josh."
Ray shrugs, grins back. "Don't be sorry. Just get me some pizza."
Being on libo is nice. Retardville isn't quite as horrific as he remembered. Although there is a Starbucks, which is regrettable. Those things are everywhere. They're the Walmart of overpriced coffee.
* * *
Ray's first mistake at Camp Mathilda is thinking this shiny new invasion will go as smoothly as the one in Afghanistan. After all, a lot of the guys are back, men Ray trusts with his life. Rudy still runs around in a million degree heat carrying a pack full or rocks. Crazy motherfucker.
The problem is, there are new marines as well. It's the officers in particular who give off the telltale stink of incompetence that no amount of cologne can hide. Schwetje in particular. And that fuckhead McGraw who runs around like he's trying to earn an Academy Award for hamming his way through Platoon or some shit. What the fuck is that about?
Luckily, Ray doesn't have a lot of time to wonder because the LT has them doing run-throughs about a thousand times a day. That only leaves time for working on their piece of shit Humvee, writing letters, or jacking off.
The letter from his mom comes the same day as the latest batch of kiddy we're thankful for our troops correspondence a couple of hippie dipshit teachers forced their third graders to write. His second mistake is reading the letter from little Freddie, instead of the one from his mother.
He doesn't get around to his mom's letter until after chow. He expects the usual: I love you, I miss you, Nevada is still fucking boring, Grandma put your picture on the hood of the car so everyone can see what a super awesome hero you are, blah blah. Only it doesn't say any of that. The letter is short. His mother's handwriting doesn't even look right. Ray understands why after the first sentence. Grandma Arlene is dead.
* * *
If he'd read the letter before chow he wouldn't be standing out here by the porta-potties dry heaving into the sand. Fuck it. He's got spaghetti flavored spit and orange vomit down the front of his t-shirt. Great. Here he's been content with ordering extra shit for the Humvee, rewiring comms, teaching Trombley not to be so pathetic, sweating through PT, and wondering if J-Lo's really dead for the last week. Turns out J-Lo's just fine but Arlene Person isn't.
Fuck.
When he'd enlisted the nation had been at peace. When all the terrorist 9/11 shit started and Bush bitched about WMDs and began declaring war left and right, Ray accepted it. He's a Marine. As a warrior, it's his job to go to war. Some dudes carry a briefcase, he carries an M-16 and a kabar. It's not like he was drafted, he fucking enlisted. It's like those dudes who enlisted before Pearl Harbor. Timing is everything.
Sure, he's been scared shitless about a million times. He's seen his friends hurt, he's killed enemy troops (people), but killing is what he's been trained to do. They're not building sand castles out here for fuck's sake. If first recon doesn't spearhead the invasion, who will? The Army? Then they'd really be fucked.
So Ray's never really complained about the long deployments, being away from Missouri. But right now he feels like complaining, preferably with both middle fingers, followed his fist. Grandma Arlene was good to him, she loved him, she was proud of him long before he became a marine. She never cared if he was Josh or Ray, she just loved her grandson. And now, as stupid as it sounds, he feels a little lost without her, without her love.
And now she's buried at Pinecrest Cemetery outside of Nevada and Ray's standing here trying to dig the Cope tin out of his pocket but his hands are shaking. His hands are shaking worse than the very first time Bravo got lit up.
"Ray?"
It's Brad. Of course. Whenever Ray's drooling dip down his chin or looking like an asshole or crying like a bitch, Brad's always around to see.
The wind gusts and sand blows around them, momentarily envelopes them in tan fog.
"You okay?"
Ray almost tells Colbert about his grandma. He knows Brad would offer an ear, a shoulder, an awkward hug, whatever. Ray's shared everything else with Brad: his hatred of Retardville, songs by his crappy band, letters from his girlfriend, care packages from his mom (and Grandma, those are all gone now, over with, done), the status of his Athlete's Foot, that mushrooms always make him fart, that he has, in fact, drank an iced mocha and did not hate it. Ray's shared all of that and more.
But he can't share this. Not now. Not yet.
Ray screws his face up into a semi-believable smile..
"I'm fine." He shrugs, nudges Brad with his elbow, "but this fucking sand is killing my eyes, man."
* * *
Someone, in one of the higher levels of retardation decided it would be fucking-A to embed a reporter with Bravo. At the very tippity-tip of the spearhead, which places him smack in the back of Ray's Humvee. So now, not only does Ray have to drive like his buddies' lives depend on him--which they do--now he's protecting a civvie as well. It's a good thing Reporter wrote Beaver Hunt or Ray might be a little pissed.
At least he has somebody new to regale with his many highly-amusing anecdotes. Trombley's new too, but he doesn't count. That kid is fucking creepy. He looks like the result of a hook-up between Elijah Wood and Chucky. If Ray can keep his interaction with Trombley down to less than ten minutes, it's been a good day.
If Ray had to guess which retard was in charge of making such epically retarded decisions, he'd go with Godfather or General Mattis. And then their retardese would trickle down to Encino Man and he'd only increase the retardation to heretofore unimagined heights.
Said retardation including, but not limited to: embedding a reporter with Recon Marines who are invading a hostile country in possession of chemical weapons, WMDs and who the fuck knows what else, in unarmored Humvees that are about as safe as that fucking talking car. And not the cool talking car, no. Not KITT, he's talking about Herbie. Actually, riding in Herbie would probably be safer, at least the motor mouth could warn them when shit was about to go down.
Then again, Ray doesn't really want to compete for attention.
So Ray will smile and bitch and crack jokes because that's what he does. He'll also keep one eye on the road and victors in front of him, and one on the rear view while listening to comms. He'll watch for landmarks and make sure Trombley's not sucking down Charms in the backseat. He'll remind the Reporter to wear his helmet while anticipating what Brad's next order will be. Because that's what Ray does.
* * *
"Oh no," Ray says, "the Ripped Fuel's wearing off." He holds out a hand toward Brad. "Quick dude, gimme."
Brad cocks an eyebrow, reaches under the seat. "I am always amazed by your refined breeding and manners, Corporal Person" he says, unscrewing the cap. He hands Ray the bottle. "You're an example to us all."
"I'll have you know I have fucking excellent manners," Ray replies, grabbing the bottle. He tilts his head back, pours a few capsules into his mouth. "But I'm not gonna waste them on the likes of you assholes." Ray glances in the rear view mirror. "No offense, Reporter, but I'm afraid you're an asshole by association."
The reporter laughs, amused. "No offense taken. When you get to know me better you'll see I'm an asshole all on my own."
Ray nods, thoughtful. "Good to know." He continues with his lecture. "For your information Brad, I only trot out the please and thank you's for really important people. Like J-Lo or my mom."
Brad smiles. "Don't forget your grandma and future parole officer."
Shit. Ray's stomach drops like a fucking elevator. He doesn't want Brad joking about Arlene Person. Ray doesn't want to talk about her, think about her. He squints at the highway. Goddamn, it's fucking bright out here. The sun is a blazing nail in his head. And could it get any hotter? Jesus, it's like living in a sauna. He's fucking suffocating. He fumbles between the seats for his canteen, takes a long drink. He's aware Brad is watching him, a cross between curiosity and concern on the sergeant's face. Time to change the subject.
"Fuck it," Ray says, wiping water from his chin with the back of one hand. "I take it back. Manners are totally gay."
Brad looks out the window. "Country music is gay."
Trombley leans forward. "Gay people are gay," he says, with a smile that looks like something he tore out of a magazine and pasted on his face.
"For fuck's sake, James," Ray snaps. "Gay people are not gay. I mean they're gay, but they're not gay. I grew up in Retardville and even I know that. Shit, some of the jocks at my high school were so stupid I swear the girls lost IQ points every time they fucked them. That means they had to become lesbians or risk becoming officer-level retarded. In fact, maybe that explains what's wrong with Encino Man. If he stopped boning chicks covered in stupid, or simply turned to the dick side, he wouldn't feel the need to cover his windows with fucking tape."
The reporter laughs. Trombley doesn't. Brad rolls his eyes. "Did you just say 'the dick side?'"
Ray grins. "Yeah. That should totally be a porno, right?" He considers. "I bet Rudy would be great in it."
"It is a porno," the reporter says. "I reviewed it when I worked at Hustler."
Person risks a glance behind him, eyes wide. "War Scribe, are you shitting me?"
"Nope," Wright shakes his head. He chuckles, then guffaws. "It really...it really sucked."
Ray slaps the steering wheel, but he's smiling. "Just for that Reporter, now I think you're gay."
* * *
Ray leans against the side of the victor. His t-shirt is sweat-glued to his his back and chest and it's not even 0800.
A few feet away Brad, Poke, Garza and Walt observe a hamlet through binoculars. A couple of kids run around kicking a ball back and forth. Assorted moms and grandmas yell after them. Ray smiles into his tin cup. It's the same everywhere. Don't run with that stick, look both ways when you cross the dirt road, don't get on a camel with someone you don't know.
Ray's listening with one ear while Garza and Hasser talk about Haji soccer. Then Gabe says:
"My grandma used to beat me with a 2x4."
Person nearly drops the cup. What the fuck?
"Your grandma mean like that, Gabe?" Walt asks.
"No, man. My grandma hit me because she loved me and she wanted me to turn out good."
Ray's not sure wearing some Haji's hinky motorcycle helmet and boasting about retard strength equals good, but whatever. He opens another packet of creamer, pours it into the cup. Grandma Arlene never hit him once. Never even raised her voice. All she ever did was believe in him. Ray sighs, stirs the shit in the cup. What can you do? Everybody dies sooner or later. Sitting out here melting in air hotter than hairy donkey balls, Ray figures his time's coming sooner. His mind tries to slip back to the image of a dead girl lying alongside the road, her legs gone. Ray frowns, mutters fuck it, and rips open a packet of sugar.
Brad speaks into his radio. "Hitman Two, this is Two One. We've had eyes on the village for over one hour now. There are seven women and children, no adult males. No sign of the men who fired those mortars. How copy?"
Fick's voice crackles back. "This is Hitman Two. Solid copy."
Pleased with his MacGyver culinary skills, Ray flicks his lighter, starts heating the bottom of the cup.
Colbert turns his head. "Ray, what the fuck is that smell?"
Person grins. Who needs care packages? He can make his own peanut butter cookies.
"MRE cookies," he explains proudly. "What I did was I saved up all those creamer packets and all the sugars, and I mixed in peanut butter until I sort of made this--"
Brad cuts him off. "Don't set your face on fire again," he warns.
Ray huffs in annoyance. Now that? Was uncalled for. Ray turns on the street talk just to annoy Brad. Peanut butter cookies and fucking with Colbert? What could be better?
"Word to the motherfuckin' street, yo! I was not the one who set my face on fire. I was the fuckin' victim and you know it."
Reporter ambles over to Brad. Ray's not paying much attention, he's busy thinking about cookies. Even if they turn out shitty--which they will without, you know, actual ingredients--they've got to be better than chunked mystery meat or pop tarts. When he gets home he's gonna eat a whole fucking package of Nutter Butters, yes sir.
And then the hamlet is gone.
One minute he's watching kids run, the next there's nothing but fire and smoke and sand.
Ray drops the cup. His ears ring. A cloud of sand blows over them. He blinks, trying to see. There's nothing left to look at. The peanut better concoction puddles on the ground.
"Jesus Christ!" he shouts.
Doc Bryan runs up, face closed, eyes narrowed.
Gabe looks at Brad in wonder. "Did we call it, Sergeant?"
Brad fumbles for an answer. "I, uh...someone called it."
That's right. Someone called it. Some useless fucker who didn't feel his day was complete until he killed a few innocent Hajjs. Ray runs a hand through his hair. Fuck. Who the hell is running this thing? Fucking monkeys could do a better job. This kind of--Ray can't even find the word--would never have happened in Afghanistan.
Doc is seething. "Fucking Godfather called it. One thousand-pounder from a Navy F-18."
Poke shakes his head. "God damn it."
"We don't have the full picture," Brad says, ever the diplomat. But he looks shaken.
Ray picks up the tin. His cookie mix is thick with sand. He closes his eyes. They sting like a bitch. From the wind. The sand. His allergies. He can't think about this. He can't think about dead kids or moms or grandmas. He can't think about home because he might realize he misses it. He can't think about his girl because she's probably moved on already, and if by some miracle she hasn't, what's Ray supposed to write tell her? Dear Sadie, how are you? I'm fine except somebody fucked up and we wiped a fucking hamlet off the face of the earth. When Godfather isn't forcing us to leave food and ammo on the side of the road he's killing civilians. Sincerely, Ray. P.S. Send cookies.
Fick's back on the radio.
"This is Hitman Two. RTB. Over."
"Roger." Brad starts walking. "We're moving out."
"Man," Walt says, disgusted, "we keep making the same fucking mistakes."
Poke looks gutted. Ray swallows, dumps out the cup.
"My fucking cookies got schwacked," Ray bitches. This is all he can do. He can bitch about ruined cookies which were never going to be cookies in the first place. He can't bitch about the dead civilians. If he does, he's liable to cry or scream, or both. He'll think too much about how Godfather was probably a jock back in high school, about how Godfather won't lose a minute of sleep over fuckups like this. He'll think about how Captain America is probably off high-fiving everyone because they just killed a bunch of 10 year-old insurgents.
Ray can't remember the last time he's had more than 15 minutes of sleep. For the first time he's glad, because he knows now there are going to be nightmares. Ray bitches because maybe, maybe his bitching will give Poke somewhere to focus his rage. Ray's been a convenient punching bag for other people's fear, anger and bigotry plenty of times. At least he likes Poke.
Espera just glares at him. But if looks could kill, Ray'd be sitting at Arlene's table in McHeaven.
Ray looks around, still playing the part, because he's the clown, he's the funny guy, and if they're looking at him, they're not looking at the fucking hole in the ground.
"What the fuck is his problem?" Person asks, a little too loudly.
But he's not talking about Poke.
Author: buffyaddict13
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing: Gen, Josh Ray Person, Brad Colbert, Nate Fick, Tony Espera, Evan Wright, James Trombley, Walt Hasser, Doc Bryan, Rudy Reyes, etc.
Words: 11,600 total
Disclaimer: I own neither the book nor miniseries Generation Kill. This story is based solely on PJ Ransone's portrayal of Josh Ray Person in the HBO miniseries. I mean no disrespect to the real Josh Person or the other First Recon Marines portrayed in the series.
Summary: Character study of Ray through his teenage years through the end of Operation Iraqi Freedom.
A/N 1: First, I suck at summaries. Second, I've written a fair amount of fanfiction in the Supernatural, Criminal Minds, and Band of Brothers fandoms, but this is my first try writing Generation Kill. Translation: I really hope this doesn't suck. Third, I adore Josh Ray Person with the fire of a thousand suns. This is really just an excuse for me to write a big ol' love letter to Ray-Ray.
A/N 2: Thank you to rain_1975 for the beta. She said this was good. I am assured of this. ;-P
"Hell, these are Marines. Men like them held Guadalcanal and took Iwo Jima.
Baghdad ain't shit."
~Marine Major General John F. Kelly
Josh is 15 when he joins the debate club. He's always liked talking, examining different points of view. His mom's boyfriend says he talks too much. However, his mom's boyfriend is named Rufus which renders anything he says automatic bullshit. His teachers say he doesn't talk enough in class. The truth lies somewhere in the middle.
The other guys on the debate team are total bona fide nerds. They don't have pocket protectors, but Dean's hair is parted right down the middle. You can count the fucking comb marks. And Thomas wears sweater vests, so what does that tell you? Plus, he goes by "Thomas," never Tom, which is kind of fucked up in Josh's opinion. It always make him think of that blue creepy-ass talking train.
There's Dean, Thomas, and Jackson. Jackson's not popular, he's not unpopular, he just is. He does whatever he wants, and manages to fly just under the radar. It's pretty awesome. And the dude actually reads shit. As in, books. Novels written before they were born, even. Graphic novels are great and all (especially Preacher), but sometimes you gotta read something that activates the brain cells, you know?
Most of the kids at Nevada East High School are jock assholes and bitch cheerleaders. They act like they're one touch down or blow job away from getting out of Retardville, as if Crest White Strip- sponsored smiles are enough to earn you a scholarship out of this shit hole. Good luck. Seeing as how Josh isn't a jock, he talks too much, not enough, and "makes inappropriate jokes" according to Principal Johnson, he's pretty much fucked. He accepts this with a kind of weary resignation.
Josh Ray Person isn't a big kid. He's naturally skinny and well under six feet, which is the same as wearing a hand-lettered Kick Me sign on his back. He's comfortable around girls, but most of the ones at Nevada aren't worth talking to. He gets decent grades, has a few friends. He wears Metallica t-shirts, the ones from Ride the Lightning and And Justice for All, not the new shit. His sense of humor, smart mouth, and/or stature earn him a black eye or punch to the kidneys about once every two weeks. Josh is fucking sick of being surrounded by teachers too chicken shit to break up fights and students too retarded to have a conversation with.
Jackson changes that. The debate team is working on their topic for the upcoming competition. They're debating what would have happened if Hitler hadn't offed himself, what war crimes he would he have been charged with, shit like that. Josh is tired, he's been sneaking Rufus' Ripped Fuel again. It keeps him awake long enough to read up on the Nuremberg War Trials, to finish One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and e-mail his thoughts on both to Jackson.
The next day Josh is still vibrating his way through classes. He can't sit still, can't shut up. It feels weird. Not a bad weird, just different. It's like he's finally awake. After school the debate club meets in the library.
"You know," Josh says, "Hitler could have avoided all this shit if he'd been getting laid regularly. It's a shame the little mustached fuck didn't meet Eva when he was, like, 20. If he'd been getting the daily recommended dose of pussy, he could have cut out all that killing Jews shit, just left Europe the fuck alone, you know?"
The other guys stare at him. Thomas drops his pencil.
"Are you on drugs?" Dean finally asks.
Josh glares, annoyed. "Fuck no," he says. "I'm just a creative individual. Get used to it."
Jackson laughs. "Speaking of getting pussy," he says grinning at Josh, "wanna start a band?"
* * *
It turns out starting a band does not automatically earn you unlimited pussy. Shit, it doesn't even earn you a limited supply. Especially when you sound as shitty as Josh, Jackson, and Jackson's cousin Shane do. The name Hillbilly Losers doesn't exactly help attract crowds of chicks either. The name is supposed to be ironic, a global fuck-off to Rufus who's called Josh a hillbilly loser on more than one occasion. But when Josh is on stage singing to a mostly empty room, a loser is exactly what he feels like.
Josh suspected they would suck, but it's a little disheartening at just how much. Person does get to feel up Lisa Hatter after they play a particularly awful set one Friday when Josh is a junior. There's even some dry humping involved and bonus: she kisses with major tongue. Josh pretends she's all over him because he's the next James Hetfield--or even Johnny Cash--but the truth is Lisa's just a sweet girl. And a little bit drunk.
The remainder of Josh's high school years follow a pattern: schoolwork, debate club, band practice, pilfering his mom's cigarettes, driving around Retardville on Saturday nights and praying to every god he can think of to get him the fuck out of here. He works at Walmart after school and tries not to wish for death the entire time he's there. Sometimes he succeeds, sometimes he thinks about walking over to women's apparel and hanging himself with the belt of an ugly pink bathrobe. Although everything's made out of such cheap shit, it'd probably break in about one second. Not only would he still be alive and work at Walmart, he'd have to pay for the fucking robe.
Jackson's cousin knows a guy who knows a guy that gets them a gig opening for some gay-ass band named Limp Bizkit. Limp Dick is more like it. Limp Dick sucks, but so do the Hillbilly Losers. Fuck.
The best part of Josh's teenage years are spent reading in the backyard. It's not really a backyard, just a square of dead grass with two lawn chairs that have seen better days. Josh's mom sits next to him and they share Camels and lemonade. They talk about Stephen King's latest book and wonder why everything Dean Koontz writes has turned to shit. Josh rehearses his part in each debate with her until it gets dark and then they watch the fireflies circle the trees like tiny Christmas lights. They talk about Nascar or Survivor and every once in a while Josh works up the courage to pressure her to dump Rufus. She never does.
Sometimes Josh's grandma comes over. Arlene Person is fucking awesome for an old lady. Shit, she's awesome, period. She's always making him homemade peanut butter cookies, buying him stupid little presents. She'll stop people at the grocery store just to tell them her grandson is in a band, like she's proud, like he's talented and not a giant fuck-up.
Grandma Arlene comes to all the debate meets, wolf-whistles when Josh's team wins the semi-finals. She even slips him money for smokes with a sly wink and a now don't you tell your Momma, y'hear? Man, she cracks him up.
Not much else does.
* * *
Two things happen when Josh graduates high school.
The first thing is, Rufus calls Josh a fucking loser who leeches off his mom. This is an interesting turn of phrase, because as far as Josh can see, Rufus has been leeching off his mom for the past five years. At least Josh brings home a pay check and makes his mom smile once in a while.
And, come to think of it, if anybody deserves the title hillbilly loser, it's Rufus. Josh might not have much, but at least he's got all his fucking teeth.
When Josh shares that tidbit of truth with Rufus, it earns him a solid punch to the jaw. Josh goes backwards over the coffee table. His head roars with pain, the bastard hits harder than any of the stupid jocks at Nevada High.
Josh lies on the floor, vision blurred, the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. He can hear his mother screaming at Rufus, hear her kick him out.
"You can treat me like shit all you want," she spits, "but don't you ever lay a hand on my son. Get the hell out, you asshole. If you even think about trying to come back, I'll call the police so fast it'll make your goddamn head spin!"
And that's that. Good fucking riddance.
The second thing is, Josh Ray Person enlists in the Marines.
* * *
His mom acts like he just volunteered for a hot cup of ebola. She cries and hugs him like he's heading for a nineteenth century prison ship instead of Parris Island.
Josh just kisses her cheek. "Mom, I'll be fine. I just want to do something positive. I want to make a difference." He's not sure how to explain it. "I want to...I don't know, matter." It sounds gay, but it's the truth.
His mother looks stricken. "You matter to me, Josh."
He gives her a crooked smile. "I know." But he wants to matter to himself. As hard as he tries, he can't imagine himself sitting through college classes, and it's not like the Hillbilly Losers are going anywhere. He's tired of coasting through life. He's tired of being a punching bag for assholes, for trying to joke his way out of getting his ass kicked by fuckheads with minds even narrower than their dicks. He wants out of Retardville, out of Missouri.
Of course, what the recruiting officer said about Thailand doesn't hurt, either.
When Josh arrives at Parris Island, the first thing he does is start going by his middle name. Josh sounds like some pansy-ass dick suck who spends all his time writing emo songs, drinking espresso, and mooning over Kurt Vonnegut. Which is exactly what he was doing up until two weeks ago. But Ray? Ray sounds badass. Ray sounds like a fucking Marine.
* * *
Boot camp sucks.
It. Sucks.
He goes in thinking it won't be too bad. At home he'd started running, learned the Marine Rifle Creed, the Marine's Hymn, practiced yelling yessir into the bathroom mirror like a moron.
Ray's never run so much in his life. He's constantly tired. Everything hurts. Christ, even his hair hurts, and he barely has any left. He gets up earlier than God, learns how to salute and march and march and run and march. He marches wearing all his gear until his callouses have callouses. Popping the blisters on his feet becomes the highlight of his day. He listens to the DI like his life depends on it. And he guesses it probably does. If he washes out of basic it's right back to Retardville, do not pass go, do not stop to collect two hundred dollars worth of Thai pussy.
Ray works harder than he's ever worked at anything. He hikes through mosquito-filled woods, swims through algae-covered ponds, his platoon carries fucking logs down a hill. Jesus Christ, what kind of sicko sadist asshole comes up with this shit?
Aside from being so exhausted he feels high, sometimes it's not so bad. He likes the classes. Learning Marine Corps history, the Core values is actually interesting . And most of the guys here are smart. There are guys from New York and Illinois and Texas and Washington. Guys who know shit, who have goals. Guys who don't give a fuck about politics, who just want to be marines. Guys who want to be the best.
Ray grits his teeth through the endless sit-ups, pushes himself to work harder, faster.
* * *
Ray unlearns everything. He isn't Josh, he isn't even Ray. He's a Marine. Part of a unit. Part of a machine. Everything he does is the for the benefit of this machine, not himself.
Ray gets the process, the whole break-you-down to build you up thing, so by the time you're done even Steve Austin looks like a pussy.
He learns all the jargon: topside, rack, head, deck, overhead, starboard, etc. ad nauseum. Also, the cardinal rule of marine speak is to never use the words I, me, or you. You don't say, I think this is bullshit, sir. You say, This marine thinks this is bullshit, sir. Ray finds himself thinking a lot of things are shit over the next few months.
Ray learns close combat training, first aid, combat water survival and weapons training. He likes weapons training. It brings back all those years of playing cops and robbers with toy guns. Only now he gets to play with the real thing. Let those asshole jocks get a look at him now. Ray spends so many weeks carrying around his M-16 it feels like part of his arm. He learns to break down and reassemble the weapon in the dark, in the rain, while timed. And bonus: he's a fucking excellent shot.
Ray actually cries at the Eagle, Globe and Anchor Ceremony. He's not alone. All kinds of huge badass dudes are sniffling and hugging each other like little bitches. It's kind of awesome. His mom and grandma show up after the closed ceremony is over, beaming. Jesus Christ, his mom even brings him flowers. But for some reason he's not even embarrassed.
Ray did it. He's a goddamn Marine, a devil dog, a leatherneck. He's never been happier in his life.
* * *
When Person gets to the School of Infantry, he looks like a different guy. He's still short, still thin, but he's muscular, harder. He has confidence. He swaggers. His fellow marines look at him with respect. There's no eye rolling, no insults, no smack talk here. There's just training and doing your job. You actually get paid to be a grown up and learn shit. It's a fucking miracle.
Ray's goal is to end up a recon marine. Which means he's got a lot more shit to get through. But if you're gonna be the best, you might as well be the best of the best, right? That means he's got Airborne, Pathfinder, Ranger, Sniper, and Combat Diver training. He signed up for four years of active duty, so he's got plenty of time. Maybe by the time he's done he can get a job with some kind of SWAT team. Hell, maybe he'll even sign up for another four years. Fuck you, Rufus, Ray thinks. Hillbilly loser, my ass.
Ray's a Force Reconnaissance Marine by the time he's twenty. That's the good news.
The bad news is, he's going to war.
* * *
Bravo Company is deployed to Afghanistan in November of 2001. At the time, Ray doesn't realize just how smoothly Operation Enduring Freedom goes. He'll think about it plenty later, though. Everyone in Bravo is competent and confident. There's Rudy Reyes, who looks like he's been carved out of marble. Jesus Christ, the guy's a fucking Adonis. Everybody's got a crush on Rudy, it doesn't matter if you're gay or straight, animal or mineral. If a marine says Rudy ain't hot, that gent's a fucking liar.
The LT looks younger than Ray. He looks like an unassuming kid, like he should be at Hogwarts making eyes at Hermione instead of giving orders. But Lieutenant Fick's got big balls of steel and doesn't put up with shit from the higher-ups or enlisted men. Best of all, he knows what he's doing. Which almost makes OEF seem easy. Okay, not easy, but tolerable. Sometimes it feels more like an exercise or drill than an actual invasion.
Ray thinks back to the dicks from high school and shakes his head. Christ, there was a time he'd thought he'd spend his life surrounded by assholes. Instead he's with guys like Pappy and Gunny Wynn and Poke and Rudy. His fellow marines and friends. His brothers.
He likes making the guys laugh, especially that tight-ass blond-haired giant Colbert. Ray is Colbert's driver and RTO. Colbert has shit taste in music, he's bitchy, and he's too fucking tall. He makes Ray feel like a goddamn midget. Still, hours stuck together in the same victor--and a begrudging mutual respect--forges a close friendship. They learn to understand each other. Ray keeps track of the maps, the Copenhagen, and Skittles. He knows when he can get away with singing shitty old Hillbilly Loser songs and when to launch into an overzealous version of Eye of the Tiger. Even Fick sings along with that one, pumping his fist just like everyone else.
Brad recognizes Ray looks and talks like an inbred hick, but that's all a facade. Ray Person is a fucking savant when it comes to getting comms to work. Sometimes Colbert even tells him so. But usually he just insults Person. Whenever Brad calls Person a barefoot inbred gap-tooth piece of white trash scum, Ray just laughs like Brad gave him a fucking compliment.
There's only one time during their stay in Afghanistan that Brad gets seriously pissed.
"I've been thinking about this, Brad," Ray says, reaching for the round tin of Cope on the dashboard. "I bet your people wouldn't have ended up fried in all those crematoriums if Hitler had been getting a little more pussy."
The look on Brad's face flashes Ray back to dim school hallways and clenched fists. He thinks, shit. Sometimes he just goes to far. Sometimes he just talks to keep himself awake. He should know better.
But the glare seeps out of Brad's face and he just sighs. "Shut up, Ray," he says, a faint trace of affection in his voice.
* * *
Ray's mom has a bunch of yellow streamers all over the house. There's a banner outside that reads Welcome Home Hero in giant letters.
Grandma Arlene is standing in the doorway waiving one of those gay little flags people stick on their cars. If they decorate their cars with the stars and stripes, they don't have to actually think about the guys still fighting in the Middle East. Pretty fucking convenient.
His mom hugs him and keeps trying to play some stupid dick sucky song about America and eagles and shit. Jesus fucking Christ.
Ray sits down at the kitchen table. "Ma," he says, "for God's sake, turn it off." He pulls the flag out of Grandma's hand and drops it on the table. "You don't have to play me propaganda music or wave trial-size flags. I'm a marine. I think that's good enough, okay?"
His mother wipes her eyes, smiles. "I'm sorry, Josh."
Ray shrugs, grins back. "Don't be sorry. Just get me some pizza."
Being on libo is nice. Retardville isn't quite as horrific as he remembered. Although there is a Starbucks, which is regrettable. Those things are everywhere. They're the Walmart of overpriced coffee.
* * *
Ray's first mistake at Camp Mathilda is thinking this shiny new invasion will go as smoothly as the one in Afghanistan. After all, a lot of the guys are back, men Ray trusts with his life. Rudy still runs around in a million degree heat carrying a pack full or rocks. Crazy motherfucker.
The problem is, there are new marines as well. It's the officers in particular who give off the telltale stink of incompetence that no amount of cologne can hide. Schwetje in particular. And that fuckhead McGraw who runs around like he's trying to earn an Academy Award for hamming his way through Platoon or some shit. What the fuck is that about?
Luckily, Ray doesn't have a lot of time to wonder because the LT has them doing run-throughs about a thousand times a day. That only leaves time for working on their piece of shit Humvee, writing letters, or jacking off.
The letter from his mom comes the same day as the latest batch of kiddy we're thankful for our troops correspondence a couple of hippie dipshit teachers forced their third graders to write. His second mistake is reading the letter from little Freddie, instead of the one from his mother.
He doesn't get around to his mom's letter until after chow. He expects the usual: I love you, I miss you, Nevada is still fucking boring, Grandma put your picture on the hood of the car so everyone can see what a super awesome hero you are, blah blah. Only it doesn't say any of that. The letter is short. His mother's handwriting doesn't even look right. Ray understands why after the first sentence. Grandma Arlene is dead.
* * *
If he'd read the letter before chow he wouldn't be standing out here by the porta-potties dry heaving into the sand. Fuck it. He's got spaghetti flavored spit and orange vomit down the front of his t-shirt. Great. Here he's been content with ordering extra shit for the Humvee, rewiring comms, teaching Trombley not to be so pathetic, sweating through PT, and wondering if J-Lo's really dead for the last week. Turns out J-Lo's just fine but Arlene Person isn't.
Fuck.
When he'd enlisted the nation had been at peace. When all the terrorist 9/11 shit started and Bush bitched about WMDs and began declaring war left and right, Ray accepted it. He's a Marine. As a warrior, it's his job to go to war. Some dudes carry a briefcase, he carries an M-16 and a kabar. It's not like he was drafted, he fucking enlisted. It's like those dudes who enlisted before Pearl Harbor. Timing is everything.
Sure, he's been scared shitless about a million times. He's seen his friends hurt, he's killed enemy troops (people), but killing is what he's been trained to do. They're not building sand castles out here for fuck's sake. If first recon doesn't spearhead the invasion, who will? The Army? Then they'd really be fucked.
So Ray's never really complained about the long deployments, being away from Missouri. But right now he feels like complaining, preferably with both middle fingers, followed his fist. Grandma Arlene was good to him, she loved him, she was proud of him long before he became a marine. She never cared if he was Josh or Ray, she just loved her grandson. And now, as stupid as it sounds, he feels a little lost without her, without her love.
And now she's buried at Pinecrest Cemetery outside of Nevada and Ray's standing here trying to dig the Cope tin out of his pocket but his hands are shaking. His hands are shaking worse than the very first time Bravo got lit up.
"Ray?"
It's Brad. Of course. Whenever Ray's drooling dip down his chin or looking like an asshole or crying like a bitch, Brad's always around to see.
The wind gusts and sand blows around them, momentarily envelopes them in tan fog.
"You okay?"
Ray almost tells Colbert about his grandma. He knows Brad would offer an ear, a shoulder, an awkward hug, whatever. Ray's shared everything else with Brad: his hatred of Retardville, songs by his crappy band, letters from his girlfriend, care packages from his mom (and Grandma, those are all gone now, over with, done), the status of his Athlete's Foot, that mushrooms always make him fart, that he has, in fact, drank an iced mocha and did not hate it. Ray's shared all of that and more.
But he can't share this. Not now. Not yet.
Ray screws his face up into a semi-believable smile..
"I'm fine." He shrugs, nudges Brad with his elbow, "but this fucking sand is killing my eyes, man."
* * *
Someone, in one of the higher levels of retardation decided it would be fucking-A to embed a reporter with Bravo. At the very tippity-tip of the spearhead, which places him smack in the back of Ray's Humvee. So now, not only does Ray have to drive like his buddies' lives depend on him--which they do--now he's protecting a civvie as well. It's a good thing Reporter wrote Beaver Hunt or Ray might be a little pissed.
At least he has somebody new to regale with his many highly-amusing anecdotes. Trombley's new too, but he doesn't count. That kid is fucking creepy. He looks like the result of a hook-up between Elijah Wood and Chucky. If Ray can keep his interaction with Trombley down to less than ten minutes, it's been a good day.
If Ray had to guess which retard was in charge of making such epically retarded decisions, he'd go with Godfather or General Mattis. And then their retardese would trickle down to Encino Man and he'd only increase the retardation to heretofore unimagined heights.
Said retardation including, but not limited to: embedding a reporter with Recon Marines who are invading a hostile country in possession of chemical weapons, WMDs and who the fuck knows what else, in unarmored Humvees that are about as safe as that fucking talking car. And not the cool talking car, no. Not KITT, he's talking about Herbie. Actually, riding in Herbie would probably be safer, at least the motor mouth could warn them when shit was about to go down.
Then again, Ray doesn't really want to compete for attention.
So Ray will smile and bitch and crack jokes because that's what he does. He'll also keep one eye on the road and victors in front of him, and one on the rear view while listening to comms. He'll watch for landmarks and make sure Trombley's not sucking down Charms in the backseat. He'll remind the Reporter to wear his helmet while anticipating what Brad's next order will be. Because that's what Ray does.
* * *
"Oh no," Ray says, "the Ripped Fuel's wearing off." He holds out a hand toward Brad. "Quick dude, gimme."
Brad cocks an eyebrow, reaches under the seat. "I am always amazed by your refined breeding and manners, Corporal Person" he says, unscrewing the cap. He hands Ray the bottle. "You're an example to us all."
"I'll have you know I have fucking excellent manners," Ray replies, grabbing the bottle. He tilts his head back, pours a few capsules into his mouth. "But I'm not gonna waste them on the likes of you assholes." Ray glances in the rear view mirror. "No offense, Reporter, but I'm afraid you're an asshole by association."
The reporter laughs, amused. "No offense taken. When you get to know me better you'll see I'm an asshole all on my own."
Ray nods, thoughtful. "Good to know." He continues with his lecture. "For your information Brad, I only trot out the please and thank you's for really important people. Like J-Lo or my mom."
Brad smiles. "Don't forget your grandma and future parole officer."
Shit. Ray's stomach drops like a fucking elevator. He doesn't want Brad joking about Arlene Person. Ray doesn't want to talk about her, think about her. He squints at the highway. Goddamn, it's fucking bright out here. The sun is a blazing nail in his head. And could it get any hotter? Jesus, it's like living in a sauna. He's fucking suffocating. He fumbles between the seats for his canteen, takes a long drink. He's aware Brad is watching him, a cross between curiosity and concern on the sergeant's face. Time to change the subject.
"Fuck it," Ray says, wiping water from his chin with the back of one hand. "I take it back. Manners are totally gay."
Brad looks out the window. "Country music is gay."
Trombley leans forward. "Gay people are gay," he says, with a smile that looks like something he tore out of a magazine and pasted on his face.
"For fuck's sake, James," Ray snaps. "Gay people are not gay. I mean they're gay, but they're not gay. I grew up in Retardville and even I know that. Shit, some of the jocks at my high school were so stupid I swear the girls lost IQ points every time they fucked them. That means they had to become lesbians or risk becoming officer-level retarded. In fact, maybe that explains what's wrong with Encino Man. If he stopped boning chicks covered in stupid, or simply turned to the dick side, he wouldn't feel the need to cover his windows with fucking tape."
The reporter laughs. Trombley doesn't. Brad rolls his eyes. "Did you just say 'the dick side?'"
Ray grins. "Yeah. That should totally be a porno, right?" He considers. "I bet Rudy would be great in it."
"It is a porno," the reporter says. "I reviewed it when I worked at Hustler."
Person risks a glance behind him, eyes wide. "War Scribe, are you shitting me?"
"Nope," Wright shakes his head. He chuckles, then guffaws. "It really...it really sucked."
Ray slaps the steering wheel, but he's smiling. "Just for that Reporter, now I think you're gay."
* * *
Ray leans against the side of the victor. His t-shirt is sweat-glued to his his back and chest and it's not even 0800.
A few feet away Brad, Poke, Garza and Walt observe a hamlet through binoculars. A couple of kids run around kicking a ball back and forth. Assorted moms and grandmas yell after them. Ray smiles into his tin cup. It's the same everywhere. Don't run with that stick, look both ways when you cross the dirt road, don't get on a camel with someone you don't know.
Ray's listening with one ear while Garza and Hasser talk about Haji soccer. Then Gabe says:
"My grandma used to beat me with a 2x4."
Person nearly drops the cup. What the fuck?
"Your grandma mean like that, Gabe?" Walt asks.
"No, man. My grandma hit me because she loved me and she wanted me to turn out good."
Ray's not sure wearing some Haji's hinky motorcycle helmet and boasting about retard strength equals good, but whatever. He opens another packet of creamer, pours it into the cup. Grandma Arlene never hit him once. Never even raised her voice. All she ever did was believe in him. Ray sighs, stirs the shit in the cup. What can you do? Everybody dies sooner or later. Sitting out here melting in air hotter than hairy donkey balls, Ray figures his time's coming sooner. His mind tries to slip back to the image of a dead girl lying alongside the road, her legs gone. Ray frowns, mutters fuck it, and rips open a packet of sugar.
Brad speaks into his radio. "Hitman Two, this is Two One. We've had eyes on the village for over one hour now. There are seven women and children, no adult males. No sign of the men who fired those mortars. How copy?"
Fick's voice crackles back. "This is Hitman Two. Solid copy."
Pleased with his MacGyver culinary skills, Ray flicks his lighter, starts heating the bottom of the cup.
Colbert turns his head. "Ray, what the fuck is that smell?"
Person grins. Who needs care packages? He can make his own peanut butter cookies.
"MRE cookies," he explains proudly. "What I did was I saved up all those creamer packets and all the sugars, and I mixed in peanut butter until I sort of made this--"
Brad cuts him off. "Don't set your face on fire again," he warns.
Ray huffs in annoyance. Now that? Was uncalled for. Ray turns on the street talk just to annoy Brad. Peanut butter cookies and fucking with Colbert? What could be better?
"Word to the motherfuckin' street, yo! I was not the one who set my face on fire. I was the fuckin' victim and you know it."
Reporter ambles over to Brad. Ray's not paying much attention, he's busy thinking about cookies. Even if they turn out shitty--which they will without, you know, actual ingredients--they've got to be better than chunked mystery meat or pop tarts. When he gets home he's gonna eat a whole fucking package of Nutter Butters, yes sir.
And then the hamlet is gone.
One minute he's watching kids run, the next there's nothing but fire and smoke and sand.
Ray drops the cup. His ears ring. A cloud of sand blows over them. He blinks, trying to see. There's nothing left to look at. The peanut better concoction puddles on the ground.
"Jesus Christ!" he shouts.
Doc Bryan runs up, face closed, eyes narrowed.
Gabe looks at Brad in wonder. "Did we call it, Sergeant?"
Brad fumbles for an answer. "I, uh...someone called it."
That's right. Someone called it. Some useless fucker who didn't feel his day was complete until he killed a few innocent Hajjs. Ray runs a hand through his hair. Fuck. Who the hell is running this thing? Fucking monkeys could do a better job. This kind of--Ray can't even find the word--would never have happened in Afghanistan.
Doc is seething. "Fucking Godfather called it. One thousand-pounder from a Navy F-18."
Poke shakes his head. "God damn it."
"We don't have the full picture," Brad says, ever the diplomat. But he looks shaken.
Ray picks up the tin. His cookie mix is thick with sand. He closes his eyes. They sting like a bitch. From the wind. The sand. His allergies. He can't think about this. He can't think about dead kids or moms or grandmas. He can't think about home because he might realize he misses it. He can't think about his girl because she's probably moved on already, and if by some miracle she hasn't, what's Ray supposed to write tell her? Dear Sadie, how are you? I'm fine except somebody fucked up and we wiped a fucking hamlet off the face of the earth. When Godfather isn't forcing us to leave food and ammo on the side of the road he's killing civilians. Sincerely, Ray. P.S. Send cookies.
Fick's back on the radio.
"This is Hitman Two. RTB. Over."
"Roger." Brad starts walking. "We're moving out."
"Man," Walt says, disgusted, "we keep making the same fucking mistakes."
Poke looks gutted. Ray swallows, dumps out the cup.
"My fucking cookies got schwacked," Ray bitches. This is all he can do. He can bitch about ruined cookies which were never going to be cookies in the first place. He can't bitch about the dead civilians. If he does, he's liable to cry or scream, or both. He'll think too much about how Godfather was probably a jock back in high school, about how Godfather won't lose a minute of sleep over fuckups like this. He'll think about how Captain America is probably off high-fiving everyone because they just killed a bunch of 10 year-old insurgents.
Ray can't remember the last time he's had more than 15 minutes of sleep. For the first time he's glad, because he knows now there are going to be nightmares. Ray bitches because maybe, maybe his bitching will give Poke somewhere to focus his rage. Ray's been a convenient punching bag for other people's fear, anger and bigotry plenty of times. At least he likes Poke.
Espera just glares at him. But if looks could kill, Ray'd be sitting at Arlene's table in McHeaven.
Ray looks around, still playing the part, because he's the clown, he's the funny guy, and if they're looking at him, they're not looking at the fucking hole in the ground.
"What the fuck is his problem?" Person asks, a little too loudly.
But he's not talking about Poke.