Azraeil & Fudgie: A Short Story Read online

procedure, a foot-deep square was traced in the sand by the scoop to ensure any trip wires were uncovered that may have extended to a roadside detonator. The men breathed a sigh of relief when nothing was located.

  Next Sgt. Moore maneuvered the arm so the scoop was horizontal over the shiny object and thrust the joystick forward. The scoop dug out a large quantity of sand. The object sat glistening on top of what remained.

  “You got the honors today, Fudgie,” said Cpl. Vance as he gave him a pat on the back and smiled. “Go have a look see, Rookie.”

  Pvt. Fudgerié sighed. He was visibly nervous, a thousand terrors racing through his mind. The private took a long breath and paused before shuffling his way over to the scoop. He stood as far away from it as he possibly could and stretched out his arm.

  It gave Cpl. Pence a chuckle. “Hate to tell you this, Fudgie, if the bomb goes off, standing a few inches farther away isn’t going to help.”

  The private paid the catcalls no mind. He slowly reached his hand under the shiny object, closed his eyes, and lifted. Dry grit spilled over the sides of his hands and through his meaty fingers.

  Feels like gravy powder, Fudgie, the kind you get in those packets.

  Dusty sheets wafted into the desert. At once it occurred to his racing mind that the bomb was not heavy at all. It was actually very light; so much so that it weighed hardly anything.

  “Fudgie, I can’t believe you,” came the shout from one of the marines standing behind him. “Open your freakin’ eyes.”

  “It’s a candy bar wrapper! Oh jeez. A blasted candy bar wrapper!” ejaculated Cpl. Pence. “Fudgie!”

  By this time the private had one eye open. Usually he felt satisfied holding an empty candy bar wrapper, but not today.

  Sgt. Moore dumped the scoop of sand onto Pvt. Fudgerié’s boots while the others hooted.

  It was common for the team to investigate false alarms in their meticulous and slow journey to clear the path from anything that could remotely be an explosive. Just last week they examined a lump of clay, a patch of windblown sticks, and a kid’s shoe inset with a plated buckle.

  “Let me see that,” said Cpl. Pence walking over to him. He snatched the wrapper. “This is from your stash, Fudgie. Nobody eats chocolate covered marshmallow bunnies out here but you and that’s because your mommy is the only one to send them in the entire United States Marine Corps.”

  “It is not mine,” he retorted in an unconvincing fashion.

  “The Talis certainly don’t eat marshmallow bunnies.”

  “It’s not his because it’s mine,” said a thin, female voice from somewhere near the Humvee. “What’s wrong with marshmallow bunnies anyway?”

  The three men standing outside their vehicles snapped back to look.

  There, standing in the blowing grit, was a thin Afghan girl with piercing green eyes. She wore a Pashtun outfit—yellow trousers, a long qmis shirt that reached mid-thigh, and a ḥijāb head covering. She looked to be about seven or eight.

  The marines were stunned that a civilian had gone undetected across the barren wasteland, especially one in a brightly-colored outfit. There would be write-ups and reports to fill out by all of them. Yet at that moment paperwork was the last thing on their minds. What struck them as even more mysterious than the appearance of the girl were the items she was holding.

  In one hand was a paint can and in the other a dripping brush. The large tires on the passenger side of the Humvee had been painted to resemble flowers. White petals fanned out from the wheel rims.

  The marines stood agape.

  “I said that the candy bar wrapper is mine. Don’t blame him!”

  “Engage. Engage,” whispered Cpl. Pence.

  “Uh, what’s your name?” asked Pvt. Fudgerié.

  “Name’s Azra’eil. Ask me again and I’ll never tell. What’s yours?”

  The three marines introduced themselves. Cpl. Pence asked why she had painted the tires of the Humvee like daisies.

  Azra’eil plopped the brush in the paint can and sat the can on the ground. Hands went to her hips. “Daisies? They’re lilies, sillies. Don’t you guys know flowers?”

  The marines looked befuddled. There was a long pause as the wind tousled the bright outfit of Azra’eil against the desert landscape. Thoughts that the girl could be strapped with an explosive were running through their minds.

  Finally, Cpl. Vance said, “We want to help you and those in your village. We have lots of bottled water in the truck. We build schools and bridges. We’re not here to take the country over or to divide it into little pieces like many people think.”

  “Guess you’re here on vacation then! As for me, I’m just brightening the place up a bit. Your ugly truck looks much better.”

  The marines imagined how they would get laughed to scorn at base camp when they rolled up with flowers painted on their tires.

  “We saw your other artwork back there,” informed Sgt. Moore who had climbed out the back of the Skullcrusher.

  “It’s part of my personal desert beautification project. Your tanks and trucks are all the same color. They are so drab looking. Just one costs more than all the buildings in my entire village. So I figured, hey if so many of you guys want to come here on vacation, I want the place to look nice. Brighten it up a bit.”

  “You certainly do that,” Sgt. Moore said.

  “There is some more of my artwork up ahead,” Azra’eil confessed. “Look!”

  Off in the distance the marines spotted more destroyed vehicles and colorful swipes of paint that could only be her flowery artwork. Pvt. Fudgerié managed to smile and immediately tried to hide it when Cpl. Pence glanced at him.

  “So what’s a girl gotta do to get a ride around here, huh?”

  The four marines told Azra’eil to stay put. They huddled in consultation near the bumper of the Skullcrusher. On the one hand they were never to pick up a civilian as a safety measure. Thoughts that she could be wired with explosives or have a tracking beeper strapped on her marched through their minds. On the other hand they realized the chances of the child getting blown up by running across a desert that had not been swept were high. It happened nearly every day.

  It was Sgt. Moore who thought of a compromise. This was a rare occasion for the battle hardened marine. “Why don’t you walk right beside one of our vehicles? We don’t move fast.”

  “Tell me about it. A grandma in a tight qmis could beat you guys.”

  “But we’ll have to pat you down first. That okay?”

  “Whatever floats your boat,” Azra’eil said, raising her arms.

  Sgt. Moore motioned to Pvt. Vance who strode over and lightly swatted at the girl’s puffing, blowing outfit.

  Azra’eil chortled and giggled. She pulled off Pvt. Vance’s sunglasses and tried them on. She made fun of his “absurd looking” outfit that needed a splash of color. She told him to smile more. She asked him how making war could bring peace. She instructed him not to ask her name again because she would never tell.

  Pvt. Vance finally gave a signal that Azra’eil was clean. He felt drained from the encounter.

  Following strict Civilian Encounter Procedures (CEP), they searched around both vehicles, as well as the undercarriages using a round mirror secured to an extended metal rod. They searched the interior compartments and last, the roofs.

  There was concern the girl was communicating with—or acting as a spotter for—insurgents. Sgt. Moore put the team on high alert as the marines piled into their respective vehicles.

  Azra’eil began walking beside the Humvee right between the two wheels; a yellowy flower between two white ones.

  “That was strange,” said Cpl. Pence as he took his seat next to Pvt. Fudgerié in the Humvee. “Can you see her out there?”

  The private put his window down and checked the side view mirror. “Yep.”

  “Think she’s a little terrorist?”

  “I hearddddd that!” came the call from outside the Humvee. Azra’eil hopped on the s
tep below the passenger door and spoke in the window, which made Pvt. Fudgerié lean away from her. Azra’eil stuck a leg and arm into the air. “Weee! Never ridden on one of these before.”

  “You are not to be riding on the side of the vehicle,” Cpl. Pence warned. “Get off now.”

  She mouthed the words back to him.

  This made Pvt. Fudgerié laugh uncontrollably. When he collected himself he was surprised to see that the girl was no longer there.

  “Where is she?” Cpl. Pence

  Pvt. Fudgerié checked his sideview. “Got me.”

  They were about to radio the Skullcrusher when they heard, “Boo!”

  The girl’s head appeared, adorned in the ḥijāb head covering, upside down at Pvt. Fudgerié’s window. She was on the roof, piercing green eyes staring into the cab. They had no idea how she had gotten up there so fast and without them seeing her.

  “Off!” demanded Cpl. Pence. He had never felt so helpless in the armored vehicle.

  “What are you going to do, force me to peel potatoes back at base camp? That’s not what we eat around here, solider boy. You know, when in Afghanistan.”

  “Down!”

  The girl finally complied by sliding down the windshield and then hopped off the Humvee and continued walking beside it.

  “What gives with grouchy pants in there?” she asked Pvt. Fudgerié in a hushed voice.

  He shrugged. “Uh, so how long have you lived here?” Pvt. Fudgerié said and immediately felt stupid for asking it.

  “About a year. Before that I was on a tour of duty—as you blokes would call it—in Iraq. This country needs my special attention now. I am a big fan of Afghanistan.”

  Pvt. Fudgerié glanced over at Cpl. Pence and saw a scowl on his face.

  “What? She’s cute.”

  “‘Cute,’ Fudgie? Haven’t heard that word since junior high.”

  Through the open window Pvt. Fudgerié heard Azra’eil say, “Tell him to quit calling you Fudgie. Tell him I’m going to go sand-ghetto on his desert derrière. He still has time. The paint isn’t dry yet.”

  The private didn’t understand about dried paint, but the little encouragement from the girl emboldened him. He turned to the driver. “Stop calling me Fudgie. I’ve told you, it’s pronounced Fudg-aye. It’s French. You know, like lingerié.”

  “Like you’ve ever seen real lingerié, Fudgie,” responded Cpl. Pence.

  Pvt. Fudgerié bit his lip in distain just as he had done when the rest of the family sat around the dinning table laughing at him in his besmeared seersucker suit that had gravy oozing down the leg.

  Along the dashboard were taped photos of his dog, him catching a fish in parts unknown of the Midwest, and his favorite football player back in the States. In the backseat were his laptop computer, a bag of cured beef sticks, and a wrapped cherry pie from a vending machine at the base. This wasn’t the first cherry pie he got out of the machine that morning. The first one he dropped onto the tile floor and the sides began leaking crimson jelly. This caused him to flash back to the gravy boat incident under the stress of knowing today was to be his first time to hold a skull.

  “From all the food you bring, you’d think we were going for a month,” said Cpl. Pence.

  “I eat when I get nervous. It keeps me alert. If I get hungry I get distracted.”

  “When we have food in my village,” said Azra’eil, “I eat when I got nervous, too. So don’t feel bad.”

  “And don’t smudge the seats with your greasy fingers, Fudgie. How are you going to hold a skull if we find one?”

  “I haven’t eaten any chips today,” Pvt. Fudgerié responded.

  “Keep it that way.”

  Slowly, methodically, the two sweeper vehicles continued moving across the sand. Next to the rear vehicle was a brightly colored girl issuing Pvt. Fudgerié words of advice and wisdom far beyond her years. And when her mouth took an infrequent break, he heard the handle of her paintbrush knocking inside her paint can.

  Within a hundred yards Sgt. Moore announced over the