Magazine article WLA ; War, Literature and the Arts

Black Jack

Magazine article WLA ; War, Literature and the Arts

Black Jack

Article excerpt

Five years later I still stare at the blank white wall. All I see is your face except your face always has more red and less face. I scream for Doc Fagan in my sleep. Steph wakes up asking if I'm okay. I lie, kiss her cheek, tell her not to worry. Then I think about that time we sat on the roof all night drinking Black Jack whiskey we bought from the Iraqi Police, smoking French cigarettes that were five dollars a carton and we watched the Kiowas fly over Mosul with their lights off. We swore that we were done with this grunt life, we would fly one day, wouldn't have to worry about getting our faces blown off by some lucky Haji with a Kalashnikov and Allah. We got so drunk we couldn't walk and watched our bootleg copy of Inglorious Basterds that we bought for one dollar from the Turk with the slicked back hair, we smoked a joint that that kid in supply had gotten sent to him in a medicine bottle. …

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