The Wax Bullet War
89
dirty word in the infantry. It was slang for non-infantry, or someone who didn’t have to go through the same stress we did. “Yeah, mechanics without a jack or a spare. Imagine if we went to war and forgot our guns.” I opened my eyes and sat up. “We’re going to need help getting these guys moving. Call it in to the next chalk, see if they can help.” Baldwin yelled from the back of the truck, “Holy shit, Sergeant, there are kids out here.” I turned and saw four boys dressed in rags and dirty dishdashas—ankle-length, shirt-like garments that most Iraqis wore—but with all the caked-on dirt and stains, they could have been wearing colored burlap sacks. The oldest had on green and couldn’t have been more than fifteen. A kid in blue with a block-shaped head almost as wide as his shoulders pushed a kid wearing an old gray private’s shirt with the word “ARMY” on the front. He must have gotten it from a soldier somehow. The youngest had to be around four years old, in brown rags that folded up around his feet and dragged in the sand. The oldest recognized that I was in charge and walked toward me with a thumbs-up and a smile. I told him to go home in his language, but he kept moving with that smile like he had no doubt I would help him. He pinched the fingers of his right hand together and bounced them off his pursed lips. “He wants food,” Baldwin said, standing in the back of my Humvee. I looked back at him. “I know.” My first instinct was to give them food and water, but one of the staff majors told us before heading out not to give them any. I didn’t want to start out my tour by disobeying orders. They were dirty, disheveled, and thin, but didn’t look starved. I hesitated for a second before shaking my head no, and the kid knew that hesitation meant I still had enough sentimentality in me to exploit. The kid turned without missing a step and walked