FUBAR by Erik Williams
FUBAR by Erik Williams
The term for my situation: FUBAR.
FUBAR, one of those handy-dandy acronyms used in the military to prevent anyone from speaking more words than necessary. Meaning: Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.
The perfect description for my situation.
Usually you pass through two other levels before reaching FUBAR. First, there’s SNAFU: Situation Normal, All Fucked Up. Then there’s TARFU: Things Are REally Fucked Up. As a situation grows progressively worse, it moves naturally from SNAFU to TARFU to FUBAR. Kind of like the way the degrees go up the worse you get burned.
I never got to experience SNAFU or TARFU. No, I jumped right to FUBAR.
FUBAR. Fuck.
***
“You need to give me something more than, ‘I was just following orders,’ Sergeant.”
Second Lieutenant Dexter stares hard at me but his attempt at intimidation doesn’t work. This clown has a nice high and tight haircut, freshly pressed uniform, and a school boy face. Couldn’t intimidate a skittish puppy.
Fresh out of law school, I bet. Uncle Sam paid for college and now Dexter repays his debt. But he’s too pretty to be scary. Never seen combat. Never faced death. An actor playing a role, nothing more.
“That’s the way it went down, Sir.” I tap my fingers on the metal table I’m handcuffed to. “We were ordered to sweep the bunker for WMDs and eliminate any resistance. Someone resisted.”
“Your squad killed eight civilians, Sergeant. Not one of them was armed.”
“One of them fired on us, Sir.”
“None of the Iraqis you killed.”
My nerves are raw. Fuck this little prick.
“We followed the Rules of Engagement. We swept the bunker and took fire. We returned fire. It’s not my fault the eight people were at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
I can tell my words taste sour in Dexter’s mouth. The Marine Corp knew we were following orders. But eight Muslims got killed. It looked bad, especially since whoever did open fire didn’t stick around for the fight. Not our fault, though. In this case, fault doesn’t matter. Perception does. The Corp didn’t want another black eye.
Dexter sighs like a fop, all wispy and girlish. “The prosecution will pursue the death penalty, Sergeant. Maybe if you testified against your Gunnery Sergeant, we could get a reduced sentence.”
My military bearing and respect for rank is the only thing keeping me from beating the asshole’s head against this nice metal table. Well, that and the handcuffs.
I look around the room, letting my anger subside. It looks like one of those interview rooms you always see on cop shows. Puke green-painted cinder block walls, concrete floor, and a solitary metal fan mounted near the ceiling, doing little to help cool the air.
“I’m not going to point the finger to save my ass, Sir.”
“You could die if you don’t. They’re going for the death penalty.”
Big FUBAR.
“Then I die, Sir.”
No way I’m turning rat. Death before dishonor still means something to me.
***
They get these big ass sandstorms in the Middle East. I mean fucking huge. And when they hit, forget about trying to see two feet in front of you. It’s like God decided he wanted to cocoon you in sand.
The thing is, when one of those storms kick up, it moves tons of sand. It’s not unusual to find a whole street full of cars buried, never to be seen again. But when something is buried, often something else is uncovered. That’s how the scout helicopter located the bunker. What had been a sea of sand the day before the sandstorm was now a desolate wasteland with a one hundred foot bunker cresting the surface.
The order came in two hours after the helo reported the bunker. Our platoon would move in and secure it along with any contents within. The brass appeared concerned. If WMDs did lie in the bunker, they didn’t want a bunch of insurgents getting their hands on it.
Just before we took fire outside the bunker, we found the canisters. Don’t know how we missed them on the initial sweep but there they were.
Talk about FUBAR.
The all clear had already been given. Everyone had stripped their masks off, relieved to shed the sweat hats in the 120 degree heat. The dust we’d kicked up rummaging around stuck to my damp face.
Then Corporal Hicks sounded the alarm.
“Biologics!”
Time seemed to slow down. I looked at my Gunnery Sergeant, thinking I hadn’t heard right.
Gunny, though, already had his mask pulled back over his head.
Did I race to put mine back on? No. I glanced at the rest of my squad, seeing if anyone else had donned their masks. Most already had and were fleeing to the outside air. The rest ran toward the exit while pulling their masks on.
Fucking FUBAR.
From the time Hicks sounded the alarm to the time I finally donned my mask, about ten seconds had passed.
Ten seconds.
More than enough time to end a life.
Time returned to normal speed. I assembled outside with the rest of the squad, hoping I hadn’t just killed myself.
A bunch of local camel jockeys stood outside, watching us. I didn’t pay much attention to them because I was waiting for my eyes to pop out or blood to start pouring from my ass.
My point is, I didn’t see what happened once I got outside. Panic raced through us. Adrenaline surged, you know?
Then I heard the gunfire.
The response was swift and immediate.
I didn’t shoot one round. My hands were to busy feeling my ass for blood.
***
The first mark appeared on my chest a week after our visit to the bunker. It looked like a patch of ringworm; round, scaly, itchy about the size of a quarter. A few days later the puss bubbled over it.
Then it started to spread.
FUBAR, buddy. FUBAR.
At last count, I’ve got ninety-six bubbles on my chest, stomach, and back. None have burst yet. The protective layer of skin holding the puss in is tough and leathery like a football.
No one’s noticed. The orange jumpsuit they make me wear in holding is baggy and hides the protrusions easily.
I wonder if anyone else from the squad has broken out with the same bubbles. I doubt it. If they had, the Corps would be taking a more active interest in my health. I’d be seeing doctors looking for anything mysterious. But that hasn’t happened. All I’ve seen is my jerk-off Judge Advocate — a lawyer for you civilians.
As my finger passes over the leathery bubbles, I think maybe we found a new type of biological weapon down there in that bunker. Something engineered to spread and mature but not activate until the carrier chooses the time and place.
It makes sense. The disease spreads but only over areas easily concealed by clothes. The bubbles have coating which keep them from popping easily. Then whatever’s inside is released at a time of the carrier’s choosing. And I doubt there’s a cure buried under another mound of sand.
I don’t know anything about biological weapons or diseases. But I know what I’ve got ain’t normal.
Is there a disease named FUBAR?
Yeah, I can tell someone and get myself moved to a quarantine unit. I wouldn’t have to deal with the trial. Or see the fop Dexter again. But I want to hear the Corps’ case against me. I want to see if they sell us down the river.
***
“The prosecution has turned Corporal Hicks and Gunnery Sergeant Lowe.” Dexter stands over me, a broad smile on his face. “They’re going to testify against you. They’re going to testify under oath that you fired first.”
It feels like a phantom has shoved a bayonet into my testicles. Thos sonsofbitches flipped. Now I’m facing death for the rest of those assholes.
“Oh well, Sir,” I say. Although I feel like shit, I’m not going to let Dexter win this little “I told you so” battle he wants to fight.
“With their testimony, you’re as good as dead, Sergeant.”
Now I smile. “I guess you’re going to have to work that much harder to defend me, Sir.”
Dexter’s smile shrinks. “Yes, I guess I will.”
He won’t. I know Dexter wants to see me fry as much as the Corps does. Then I think of the bubbles. I think how nice it would feel to grab Dexter’s face and rub it in my chest. Then I could sit back and see what exactly these fucking things are designed to do.
Dexter turns and leaves before I can put my plan into motion. I’m left to reflect on my fate and my comrades who’ve betrayed me.
***
“So help me God,” I say and sit down on the witness stand.
The puss bubbles, over two hundred now, are pressed tight under my uniform. None have burst, though. Thanks to the great number of bubbles it just looks like I’ve gained weight rather than have odd lumps forming on my body.
The trial has been a joke so far. The Corps has done a great job painting a portrait of a squad out on a basic security patrol and one sergeant, me, looking to start trouble with the local Iraqis. Not one word about the mission. Not one word about the bunker we killed the fuckers outside of.
Gunnery Sergeant Lowe and Corporal Hicks have already given their testimony. Like they read it from a script how perfect it was.
Dexter did an excellent job sitting on his hands. His cross examination of Lowe and Hicks was weaker than soggy cardboard. He kept insisting I needed to get on the stand and tell my side. That’s where my only chace to clear my name lay.
So here I am, ready to clear my name. Lowe and Hicks sit in the front row of the courtroom, not making eye contact with me.
“Sergeant, can you tell us about the events of that day?” the prosecuting officer says.
I do. Nice and to the point. Don’t leave out one detail.
“So you claim your squad was ordered to this supposed bunker to search for WMDs? You also claim you found WMDs. Yet no report of any mission, bunker, or WMDs exist. All we know is your squad set out on a security patrol and you thought it would be fun to kill eight innocent civilians.”
What an asshole.
But he’s just doing his job, you might say.
Fuck that. He’s a Marine, just like Lowe and Hicks, selling out another Marine.
“This is a load of horseshit,” I say.
“Is that your testimony?” the prosecutor says.
I smirk. “You know, I wouldn’t care if you charged me or anyone else in my squad with killing the civilians for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s a gray area. I understand that. But what I can’t understand is how the Marine Corps can so easily write off men that were only trying to do their job, the job they volunteered for, to the best of their ability, to protect its own image.”
“Sergeant, your personal views–”
“What pisses me off is the Corps denies it sent us on that mission.”
I undo the top two buttons of my uniform.
“What pisses me off is the Corps denies there was a bunker there at all.”
Another button pops free.
“What pisses me off is the Corps willingly portrays its own men as thuggish brutes looking for blood to protect its image in a land full of people who hate us. It makes up lies about us and all of you in here let it.”
The final buttons are undone.
“But most of all, I hate the fact the Corps lies about there being no biological weapons in there.”
I rip open my uniform, exposing the bubbles to the warm air in the courtroom.
Every eye is on me, studying with awe the postules which have taken the place of my normal skin.
While they stare, I borrow a pen from the judge’s bench. He doesn’t notice, his eyes locked on my bubble-wrap torso.
I hold the pen up for all to see. My thumb clicks the tip out. My eyes focus on Lowe and Hicks.
“Death before dishonor.”
Then I start popping, stabbing bubble after bubble with the pen.
“Semper Fi, motherfuckers.”
People squeal, yelp, and make other odd assortments of noise as the puss shoots and oozes. A putrid stench fills the room. I breathe it in deep and grin.
“FUBAR, every last one of you.”
