Richard C. McPherson

Available Light

The suffocating desert heat wilted everything, even the sound of distant artillery fire, even Andi’s voice as they hurried behind a large rock formation. “We can hide here for the night and get to the road at dawn.” She shifted her dirt-covered pack to the ground, careful not to bump the camera hanging from her belt. She slipped off a dingy white Press armband and passed it to Murphy with a whisper. “Here, use this.”

The grimy soldier collapsed against a car-size boulder and groaned. “Shit.” He glared at Andi as he took the armband and pressed it against the oozing bullet wound on his shoulder. “Shit.”

“We should be OK here till morning. With a little light we can find the road before…”

“What the fuck do you know? You think those dirty fatigues make you some kind of soldier, sweetcakes?” He spat in the dirt and scoffed. “No rifle, not even a pissant pistol. Just a camera. A camera! Shit load of good that’ll do if those Taliban pricks hit us.” He winced in pain, settled back against the boulder.

Andi sipped from a canteen and looked evenly at Murphy. “You think acting badass makes you some kind of soldier?” She sloshed the remaining water in the canteen and gave it to Murphy. “I know what I’m doing.”

He took the canteen, sipped, harumphed. “Yeah, takin’ party pics for the folks back home.” A few desultory rounds from a distant machine gun glided through the twilight. “Gonna show everybody our brave boys in action?” A lazy mortar round thudded not far away. “You think anybody wants to see this clusterfuck?” A bullet pinged off a lifeless tree a few yards away. “Listen, here’s how it’s gonna be. When this bleeding stops, I’m headed to the road,” he jerked his thumb, “then back to our last position. And you,” his lip curled, “stay the fuck here. You’d just slow me down, get me shot, taking your dumb pics.”

Andi considered Murphy. “Are you sure the road is that way? I think we got turned around when we got separated from the unit, dodging that enemy patrol.”

“So, it’s General Sweetcakes now. You know infantry tactics?”

“I know the direction of our grenade launchers is behind us now. Toward the mountain.”

Murphy craned his neck. “Maybe.”

“This is your first war, right Murphy?”

He looked at her in disbelief. “Yeah, Sweetcakes. And my last if I get out of here in one piece.”

“It’s my third. And probably not my last.”

Murphy was silent while Andi methodically dusted off her camera.

##

Quiet had settled over everything. Murphy watched Andi pick up her camera and look at him through the viewfinder of her camera. “Gonna take my picture, Sweetcakes?” He gave her the finger, then shoved it higher, defiant. “Here, take a picture of this.”

Snap. Snap. “That’s good, Murphy.”

“Bullshit.”

“No. Flipping me off wasn’t bullshit. You’re really pissed. You’re hurt. And scared.” He stared at her, silent. “It was in your face.” She blew desert dust off her camera. “Ever looked at someone through a camera?” Andi offered Murphy her camera and he waved it away. “Here. Take a good look at me and tell me what you see.” She tilted her head slyly. “I’ll buy you a drink.” She reached into her pack, withdrew an airline-sized bottle of Jack Daniels, and tossed it to him.

Murphy broke into a crooked smile. “Well, fuck me.” He opened the bottle, took a swig, and softened a little. “OK, Sweetcakes. If you got another bottle of Jack, I’ll play.” He finished the bottle.

Andi withdrew another tiny bottle from her backpack, held it up, and wiggled it. “First take a few pictures of me.”

He picked up the camera, frowned, and looked at Andi through the viewfinder.

“What do you see?”

“A dumb bimbo who could be back at HQ partyin’ with some officer, but she’s hiding here with me.”

“What else? Who am I? The camera will show you if you let it.”

He studied Andi, moved the camera up and down her. Snap. “A tall, older babe with a good rack. Probably a fox in your day.” A smile just this side of a leer. Snap.

“Good. What’s my face tell you?”

He paused, eye on the camera. “You should look scared shitless. But you’re not.” He put the camera in his lap. “Your face is in a little box, can’t even tell you’re in a war. That’s bullshit.”

“No, Murphy, that’s the point. The box, the viewfinder? It keeps the world out so you can see only the person in front of you.” He harrumphed. “You hate bullshit? So do I. You want to see what’s not bullshit? Get yourself a camera and start looking at people through it.”

He picked up the camera and studied Andi again. He shifted slightly and winced from the pain in his shoulder. “Here.” He tossed the camera back to her. “You owe me another bottle of Jack.”

##

“I hear someone.” Murphy’s whisper was urgent. He turned toward the edge of the huge stone shelter and moved his rifle into his lap. A few feet away a voice muttered softly. Murphy winced as he tried and failed to lift the rifle to his wounded shoulder. Andi expertly swept the rifle from his hands and brought it to eye level. Clumsy footsteps got closer, someone slipping. Andi pointed the rifle toward the sound approaching their rock sanctuary, brought it to eye level, and wrapped her finger around the trigger.

“Oy!” A man stumbled into sight and toppled at Andi’s feet. He froze and raised his hands. His U.S. Army uniform was filthy, the pants torn open at the knee. The fear in his eyes turned to surprise as he scanned Andi, then Murphy. “You’re Americans!” A shot zinged high above the boulder. “I’m Chaplain Cohen.”

Andi slipped her finger off the trigger and lowered the rifle. She blew out a long breath.

Murphy spat. “Shit. We need an infantry platoon, and they send us a worthless padre.”

The chaplain brushed off sandy dirt and looked at Andi. “Who are you?”

“Andi Green, freelance photojournalist.”

“Andi Green? Andrea Green?”

Murphy gaped. “You know her?”

“Not personally. But Hurricane Isabelle? The pictures of the bungled response, the human suffering? The Pulitzer Prize? I know about her.” He wiped his hand on his jacket and reached toward Andi. “Rabbi David Cohen. This is an honor. We’re in distinguished company, corporal.”

“We’re in the shitter, is where we are, padre.” He watched Andi shake the chaplain’s hand. “Sweetcakes here is taking pictures of this clusterfuck.” The chaplain flinched as a bullet pinged off a nearby boulder. “What about you, padre, you God squad types just go looking for trouble?”

“I was headed for battalion…” a mortar round threw up dirt and debris not far away. “…for battalion HQ. I was trying to find the road, but I’m lost.”

Murphy snorted. “Then you’re in the right place too. We’re all lost.”

##

A few shots stitched the darkness, slowed, then stopped, a ragged farewell to soldiers on both sides. The three sat still, helping the silence last. Andi checked her camera and Rabbi Cohen studied Murphy’s glowering look, watched the knuckles of his balled fists grow white. “How bad is your wound, corporal?”

“What do you care? You’re not a priest, not even a real padre.” He stuttered the last syllable with scorn. “Just a…Ra…bbbbi? You gonna say some weird Jew prayer?”

Cohen half-smiled. “Couldn’t hurt, corporal.” Murphy was pushing on his shoulder, testing the wounded area. “We Jews are good at getting shot at, been doing it for centuries. Maybe the weird prayers helped. It looks like you could use some help.”

Murphy spat. “I love this fucking wound. It’s gonna get me out of this shitty war.”

Rabbi Cohen nodded. “Why’re you here at all? This unit is all-volunteer.”

Murphy ignored a canteen the rabbi offered. “Better than jail.”

“Jail? The Army doesn’t usually take somebody who’s in trouble with the law. You must have an important skill.”

Murphy straightened a little, a touch of pride in his voice. “I can fix anything with wheels. Take it apart, put it together, whatever. I was part of this crew in Paterson, we boosted cars sometimes. I’d change a car so we could sell it or fence the parts.” He scowled. “I got busted in a sting. Jersey state cops nailed all six of us. I was the only guy with no record, so the judge offered me a deal.” He spat, then shrugged. “Paterson sucked, my old man was a drunk.”

“So, the Army, trucks, the motor pool.”

“Motor pool, my ass.” Murphy’s voice grew weary. “That was the plan, then some geniuses kicked off this dumbass war and they shipped me to a forward unit, needed wheels fast.” He turned away from the rabbi. “Now piss off…” His lips curled. “…padre. I need some shuteye.” He turned back. “And if you got any good Jew prayers, pray we get to the goddam road before the A-rab pricks find us.” He sneered. “I bet they’d love to get their hands on a Super-Jew.” Murphy folded into fetal position and closed his eyes.

Andi watched the rabbi look in the distance, as if searching for an unseen enemy.

Snap.

##

Andi accepted a crumbling energy bar from Cohen and took a bite. She chewed thoughtfully, then picked a nut from her teeth. “Are there many Jewish chaplains?” She handed the energy bar back.

“Not many. We may be God’s chosen people, but we’re not chosen very often by the Army.” He started to take a bite but looked at Murphy’s still form and stopped.  “I’ll save the rest for him.” He slipped the remains of the bar into his pants pocket. “Most of us are stateside.” He rubbed the stubble on his face. “I’d just finished rabbinical training and there was so much antisemitism everywhere. I needed to do this. You know, a Jew in the foxhole might change a few minds.” Brief machine gun fire added minor emphasis, too far away to merit a look. “I was a 9/11 kid, fifteen when it happened. It hit us pretty hard. We lost an uncle and his son - my cousin Adam - in the Trade Center.” He sighed. “Uncle Moishe had just opened a restaurant in one of the towers, Adam was at NYU and was waiting tables. He was like an older brother to me.” Cohen fell silent.

“I’m so sorry, rabbi.”

He fingered his chaplain insignia. “I just wanted to reach people. To help stop the hate.”

Andi picked up her big camera, looked it over, and set it back on the ground. She pulled a smaller camera out of her fatigue pants, scanned the tiny sanctuary through the viewfinder, framed the chaplain, and zoomed in close.

“Is moonlight enough to get good pictures?” he asked.

Snap. Snap. “Sometimes the light you’re given has to be enough.”

Rabbi Cohen smiled. “That’s what I tell people, too.”

##

The Rabbi studied Murphy, balled up against the boulder, hands tucked to his chest. “Murphy’s afraid, scared right down to his core. Back in Jersey he had his crew and knew his enemies – the other gangs, the cops. But here? Murphy’s all alone, truly lost.”

The sound of his name drew Murphy from a half-sleep, but he remained still, eyes closed, listening.

Andi nodded in the pale moonlight. “Yes, scared is one thing. Normal, natural. But to feel like you’re facing possible death alone?” She shook her head and pushed back a lock of tangled, dark hair. “That’s the hardest thing there is.”

“Is that why you took up photography, Andi? To capture people alone? Your pictures - don’t get me wrong, they’re magnificent - but they’re bleak.”

Andi breathed deeply. “I got my first camera for my twelfth birthday. My mother and I were at this little lake in Pennsylvania. Eagle’s Mere. Tiny lake, so clear you could see the bottom, peaceful, no motorboats, just canoes. Surrounded by thick woods and a trail where we’d pick wild blueberries.” She smiled. “The Laurel Path.” She chuckled. “Corny, right? But I couldn’t wait to get there every summer vacation. It was just a week or two, but I waited all year for it. Summer friends, swimming, the ice cream shop.” She leaned back. “That winter, my dad got terribly sick. Chemo was awful, it took months. He died on the first day of Spring.” She picked up a pebble and tossed it from hand to hand. “Mom was determined to go to Eagle’s Mere, like we always did. She wanted me to see there was still sunshine and laughter in life. So, she gave me a camera and we went.”

Rabbi Cohen reached over and touched Andi’s hand. “What a hard age to lose a parent.”

Andi nodded. “I took pictures everywhere. My dog in our canoe, my friends, strangers, the blueberry bushes.” Her voice lost its wistful quality; now she was reporting. “When school started, I took the camera with me everywhere. I hid behind it, to keep myself apart from people.” She picked up her camera briefly, then put it on top of her backpack. “But all the camera did was bring me closer to people. I was afraid of connecting with strangers, and the camera brought connections that were incredibly intimate. At first, I felt like an intruder, looking at their faces. But later? I realized I was being allowed to share their humanity. That was their gift to me, and it became my gift to the world.” She laughed softly. “Wow, that’s pompous. I’m sorry.”

“No, Andi, you found a purpose and it’s all about connecting with other people, especially when they’re suffering.” He motioned toward Murphy. “Or scared.”

##

Rabbi Cohen reached toward Murphy’s rifle and hissed. “Stay down! Quiet!” Rustling in the surrounding brush grew twig-snapping close. Cohen took the weapon and peered around the boulder, one knee on the ground. Silence. He edged into the brush beyond the massive boulder’s protection. Still no sound. He crouched and took a careful step, rifle held high. Two more steps, snapping a twig.

Bam! Bam! Then the sound of a different weapon. Bang!

Thrashing erupted in the brush, punctuated by the angry, confused shouts of two men grappling amid erratic gunshots.

Behind the boulder Andi crouched and held her breath.

Murphy pulled a grenade from his belt, sat straighter, and put his finger through the pin.

Rabbi Cohen crawled, struggled into sight. His voice was hoarse. “We’re OK. He was alone.” His words were ragged. “He…he’s dead.” Andi rushed to grab the chaplain’s jacket, covered in blood. “Andi, go get the rifle. I couldn’t…I can’t…” His body went limp, eyes empty.

Andi checked his pulse and breathing. She looked at Murphy. “He’s gone.”

##

It was dangerously close to dawn, the sky a faint but irreversible slate color. Units on both sides would start moving. Murphy shifted, rotated his shoulder slowly, and groaned. “Listen up, Sweetcakes. I’m headed out toward the road. You stay here. If you don’t hear anything after ten minutes, go any direction you think…”

“Quiet!” Andi cut him off and grabbed the rifle. “Something’s moving.”

The footsteps were stealthy, several men getting closer. Murphy whispered, “Hand me the bayonet.”

Andi lifted the rifle, slippery with Cohen’s blood, crept to the edge of the boulder, and inched around its craggy end.

Two ear-splitting shots ripped the silence. Murphy gritted his teeth and raised his bayonet but dropped it when Andi fell back on top of him.

An American soldier appeared, his rifle aimed squarely at Murphy’s chest. He froze. “Sarge, over here!”

Murphy tried to push Andi off him. She was bleeding from bullet wounds in her head and chest. Her small camera fell into his lap.

##

Top Dog, this is Dune Buggy. We need mobile evac. We have friendlies. One wounded, Two dead. Repeat, friendlies.

Say again, one wounded, two KIA?

Negative. One KIA. The other is a civilian journalist.

Dune Buggy, confirming a civilian fatality from enemy action?

Negative. There was a pause. Civilian fatality was from friendly fire.

##

A medic was dressing Murphy’s shoulder, and Murphy reached past him to pick up Andi’s small camera. The medic ripped off a length of tape with his teeth. “They let you carry a camera out here, corporal?”

“It was hers.” Murphy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She gave it to me.” He lifted the camera and scanned the scene through the viewfinder: He framed a young soldier on his knees, his rifle on the ground, wailing over Andi’s body. He was gripping his head, pulling on his hair, rocking back and forth, praying in Spanish.

Murphy shifted his view to the right: The chaplain’s body was being prepared for a stretcher by two soldiers, one a young Black woman who examined Cohen’s chaplain insignia and softly issued instructions.

He turned the camera to the left: A captain was conferring with a sergeant. “Humvee’s on the way, just a couple of minutes.” He pointed over his shoulder toward Murphy. “Can he walk? The road’s only about a hundred yards.”

Murphy laid the camera in his lap and looked again at Andi’s body and the young soldier who shot her. He picked up the camera and framed the sobbing soldier in the weak light.

Snap.

The soldier looked up at Murphy with tears streaming down his face, eyes pleading to a stranger for forgiveness.

Snap.

Richard C. McPherson’s short stories have appeared in Living Springs Anthology Stories Through the Ages, the Black Fox Literary Journal, the Unleash Press 2022 Anthology, Conversations, The Write Launch, Twelve Winters Journal, and Bright Flash Literary Review. His first novel, Man Wanted in Cheyenne, was released in January 2023 by Unleash Press and has been called “smart, funny and tender,” and “satisfyingly original.” He taught digital communications at New York University and UCLA, and lives in California His website is richardcmcpherson.com.