NATE LEWIS

CHARLIE BATTERY

Charlie Battery Has Places To Go
Charlie Battery has places to go
That's why we cruise at 60
All 20 of our trucks
Like a green snake
Charlie battery has Iraqi's to liberate

The engine noise, a late night, no music
I'm lulled asleep
I wake when we slow to a crawl
Ahead on the right another green snake
Bravo Battery stopped, everyone dismounted
I recognize a driver
He's standing there smoking and joking
At the head of the snake a very different scene
Soldiers and civilians in a big group
All sweating and screaming
A mother wails and claws at her face
Blood and dirt cover the front of her Abaya
My insides are grinding
Guthrie says "Shit"  and I see the kid
A skinny boy, maybe 8 years old
His face is covered with a jacket
I stare at his dirty bare feet
Later, back home, when asked by fools and children
Did you see any action?
I always want to tell them
But I never saved the courage to tell
About this sort of action
Rumors whispered by the Bravo boys
Between tobacco spits and drags
And boot heals digging nonsense pattern in the sand
They tell a sad story
Bravo Battery had places to go
That's why they cruise at 60
Water or Skittles are thrown from truck
Water or Skittles bounce back into road
Hungry and fearless kid gives chase
We pass and wind back up to 60
Charlie Battery has places to go

PISS BOTTLES

 I'm riding shotgun and looking out the window.  Guthrie drives and doesn't say much.  Occasionally he lights up one of his old lady bingo cigarettes or requests a new CD.  The many cartons he packed into his bags are gone.  Now he buys the infamous Miami's from the Iraqis on the side of the road and this is fine with Guthrie.   In order to stay conscience, we drink water, lots of water.  The water bottles are drained and filled again after they pick up the waste in our kidneys.  I reach over and take the wheel when Guthrie has to piss.  We're vulnerable to attack when we're pissing, as a precaution my rifle barrel protrudes from the window; an empty threat.  It won't do much against an RPG or a grenade dropped into our cab from an overpass or sidewalk.  I do my job.  My eyes are glued to the Iraqi countryside.  They scan ahead and to the side for danger.  They look into the throwing hand of the Iraqi kid as he heaves a rock into our truck; just to be sure it's not a grenade.  They scan for the Hail Mary RPG shot hissing out of the palm grove.  Today is a long drive.  Half a dozen neon yellow piss bottles roll around on the floor.  We've changed the CD five times already.  Our CD player that hangs from the roof blasts rock music.  Coldplay or Barenaked Ladies don't sound right when you hold an assault rifle.  Jazz is great but it doesn't fit when you're tearing around Baghdad in the awkward days following "mission accomplished".  Two Iraqi men walk down the side of the road arm in arm.  Just as I decide they're not a threat I'm punched in the face with the smell of 110 degree urine.  I look down in time to see the remainder of a bottle spill onto the floor beneath my seat.  The cap must have come off from the bumps or my boot.  I throw my rifle across the dashboard and lift my feet.  Guthrie smells it and curses.  He swerves wildly as he pulls his shirt up over his nose.  It's time I remove the piss bottles.  The first one sails over a guardrail and kicks up a cloud of dust as it lands in the sand.  The next missile is aimed at the wreckage of a tank.  Boom! I score a direct hit.  We both start to laugh.  This is incredibly funny to us.  One by one the piss bottles fly out of my window.  Guthrie hands me his bottles too.  In the excitement I stop looking ahead.  A young Iraqi boy stands by the road waving to the passing convoy.  The last bottle fails to clear the guardrail. The cap is knocked off and the spinning bottle skids down the shoulder of the road.  Piss sprays from the bottle and darkens the sand in a hysterical pattern.  Luckily the boy spots the bottle and leaps into the air just in time.  In the mirror I can see him holding up his shoe.  This is his middle finger.

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NATE LEWIS