Iraq ‘91

“Are you hungry?” Ferguson asked.

Ken looked up from his book. “What’s that, Corporal?”

“Hungry. Are you hungry?”

“Always, Corporal.”

“Me, too,” Ferguson said. He stood up. “Come on. This is a shit detail.”

Ken tucked a bookmark into his book and slipped the paperback into a side pocket on his BDUs. He stood up and grabbed his cover as Ferguson led the way out of the office. The Post was quiet as the young men put their covers on, each adjusting the brim. The air was cool, the sky dark with the stars bright above them.

Ferguson pulled his car keys out of his pocket and hit a button on the electric key. The headlights on a new, black Camry flashed and Ferguson smiled.

“I don’t like it that my wife works, Private,” Ferguson said, “but there are definitely some perks.”

Ken followed Ferguson at a half-step behind.

“Get in,” Ferguson said.

Ken walked around to the passenger side and opened the door as the Corporal slid in the driver’s seat.

“Hold on, I forgot about this shit,” Ferguson sighed. Ken stood there, hand on the door frame as Ferguson removed some papers and a small hard-case from the passenger seat. “Okay.”

Ken got in and buckled up. He looked at the Corporal as the man set the hard-case in the back seat.

“Part of my birthday present from my wife,” Ferguson explained, starting the car. “She gave me a brand-new Glock .45 and the case.” Ferguson gave Ken a big grin as he shifted the car into drive. “We’ve got a ton of weapons at home. It’s all we get each other for gifts.”

“Wow,” Ken said, “That’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah,” Ferguson agreed, driving out of the lot onto the Post’s main road. “She’s pretty fantastic.”

“Where’d you two meet?” Ken asked.

“Africa.”

“Africa?” Ken asked, looking away from the road to Ferguson.

“Yup,” the Corporal nodded, signaling then turning left. “She was a missionary with the Latter Day Saints and I was in the Legion.”

Settling back into the seat Ken said, “The French Foreign Legion.”

Ferguson nodded. “McDonald’s?”

“Sure.”

Ferguson turned again and the golden arches appeared a few blocks down.

“I was in the Legion for three years before I met her,” Ferguson said. “The Legion doesn’t let you marry, so I had to desert when she was done her missionary work. I love her dearly,” Ferguson said, looking over at Ken, “but leaving the Legion was hard. I had a couple of good friends in my unit. We saw combat in Iraq together.”

“The Legion was in Iraq?” Ken asked.

“The Legion’s everywhere,” Ferguson grinned. He signaled and turned into the drive-thru of McDonald’s. Pulling up to the microphone he glanced over at Ken. “What do you want?”

“Ah…two cheeseburgers and a large fry,” Ken said just as the microphone squawked. “And a medium coke.”

“Hello, welcome to McDonald’s, may I take your order, please?” a young woman asked.

“Yeah, four cheeseburgers, two large fries, one medium coke and one large water,” Ferguson said.

“Is that all?” she asked.

“Yes it is.”

“Okay, pull up to the first window.”

“Anyway,” Ferguson said, easing the car forward as he dug out his wallet. Ken reached for his own and the Corporal shook his head. “I’ve got it.”

“Thank you, Corporal.”

Ferguson nodded, coming to a stop at the first window. Ken looked out at the Post, a pair of MPs walking by with the obvious intent of fining someone.

“They should get a real MOS,” Ferguson said, dropping his change in his unused ashtray before moving the car up to the second window.

“Is forward observer your second MOS?” Ken asked, turning his attention back to Ferguson.

“No,” Ferguson laughed. “Nope.” He drove up to the next window and took their food. He nodded his thanks to the teenager at the window and pulled the car into a parking space. “Sort this, will you,” he said, handing the bag and drinks to Ken.

“Sure,” Ken said.

Ferguson put the car in park. “No,” he said again, taking a box of fries and his cheeseburgers from Ken. “FO is my fourth MOS.”
“Wow,” Ken said, handing the Corporal his water.

“Yeah,” Ferguson grinned. “I was infantry with the Legion. A ground pounder when we went into Iraq. I was in an APC when Saddam was sending all of those SCUDs over. That,” he said, unwrapping a burger, “was not fun.”

Ken ate some of his fries.

“We didn’t know what Saddam had put in the SCUDs for payloads,” Ferguson continued. “We had heard that they were just straight up explosives, but,” Ferguson shrugged, “we knew that he and his buddies enjoyed gassing people, too, though.

“It’s tough enough when heavy stuff is coming in,” Ferguson said, “but it gets harder, you know, when you think there’s some agent that’s going to turn your lungs into soup and drown you.”

Ken finished his fries, listening to the veteran.

“I don’t know how many times we scrambled for our masks, just sitting inside the APC. Finally, Jacques, the Sergeant, said screw it and sealed the APC.”

“Sealed it?” Ken asked.

“Overpressure system for NBC warfare,” Ferguson said. “It helps if you’re in a chemical or bio weapons attack. You button up the APC and wait for the all clear. You’re still supposed to wear your mask though.”

“Even inside?”

Ferguson nodded. “Yeah. Standard operating procedure. But,” he grinned, “Jacques said screw that. He had us button up and take the masks off.”

“Yeah?”

“Yup.”

“How come?”

“He figured if the seals on the APC didn’t hold we’d be dead anyway.” Ferguson finished one of his cheeseburgers and opened the second. “Your food okay?”

“Yes it is, Corporal,” Ken answered.

“Good,” Ferguson said, looking back out into the night. “Good.”