Read Online Kaboom by Matthew Gallagher - Free Book Online Page B

field grade. Major Moe wasn’t so much a person as he was a trend; nicknamed after the character in the classic Three Stooges films, Major Moe could be found, in multitude, on any FOB in Iraq. If a field grade didn’t grasp the nuances of counterinsurgency doctrine, didn’t subscribe to the application of decentralized warfare, believed that all of the war’s issues could be quantified into a PowerPoint presentation, spoke vaguely of concepts like standards and discipline but never applied those same banalities personally, and consistently displayed a clueless obtuseness about day-to-day operations, he qualified as a Major Moe. In short, Major Moe made the war for line soldiers more difficult—the exact opposite of what qualified as purpose for a deployed army officer—by focusing on irrelevant regulations and out-of-date procedures. Did it really matter that some soldiers wore fleece caps during the day when they were cold, when the Iraqi police still weren’t hiring Sunnis in Saba al-Bor or anywhere else in the Taji region? It did to Major Moe and his noncommissioned officer (NCO) equivalent, Sergeant Major Curly. They didn’t know any better, though, because they rarely left the FOB. And when they did . . . it got ugly.
    One brisk winter afternoon, a certified Major Moe from our squadron visited Saba al-Bor. It was his first trip to our outpost, and our troop’s artillery lieutenant, Skerk, gave him the tour. Major Moe picked up a bundle of Baghdad Now newspapers stacked at the top of the staircase and asked what they were.
    â€œThose are copies of one of the Iraqi national papers, sir,” Skerk responded.
    Major Moe was confused and let it be known. “Why are they here? Why aren’t they being distributed?”
    â€œWe do distribute them, sir. Every patrol that goes out picks up a stack and distributes them to the locals and to the Iraqi security checkpoints.”
    â€œThat’s excellent to hear.” Major Moe responded in classic Major Moe fashion, lips puckered, chin protruded, arms crossed, nodding the all-knowing nod that was supposed to convey male dominance. He continued speaking. “I assume you’re gathering the atmospherics of this distribution?”

    Skerk replied like most well-informed individuals would in such a circumstance. “Huh?”
    Staff Sergeant Boondock and I were sitting nearby, at the computers, and could not help but openly eavesdrop at this point.
    â€œWhy, yes, of course,” Major Moe continued. “Atmospherics. We need to check on the local-nationals and ensure that they are all reading the newspaper.”
    Staff Sergeant Boondock arched his eyebrows and turned to me. “Can most of these Iraqis read?” he whispered.
    â€œFuck no,” I whispered back. “Not here.” There were many hot, dusty towns between the two rivers of the Euphrates and Tigris, and none of them contained a very educated populace anymore; most of the learned had escaped to the cities or fled the country entirely. The global media called it the Iraqi diaspora. Saba al-Bor was no exception. Unfortunately, the newspapers we distributed were intended for a very distinct minority.
    Skerk eventually sputtered out a reply. “Why would we . . . may I ask why, sir?”
    â€œBecause it’s important to find out if they are reading them, that’s why. Like this article here—” Major Moe’s fingers slammed down onto the newspaper and pointed at Arabic words—“what is this article about? If we read it, then we can talk to the local-nationals about it when we’re on patrol. Then we can gather those atmospherics and send them up to brigade.”
    Skerk leaned over and looked at the newspaper. “Sir, that article is about dinosaurs evolving from birds.” An awkward pause followed. “And, sir, truthfully, I’m not sure that the papers we give out are really being read right now. I think