Elephant Chicken

Original Short Fiction by Ante Perkov, Thanksgiving, 2024

"Walker, check this out."

Corporal Ryan Walker walked over to the tarpaulin setup between two Humvees. Staff Sergeant Jason "Stacks" Blevins, who was in charge of supplies, had opened a newly delivered case of freeze-dried meals called MREs and had a single meal on the field kitchen counter in front of him.

"What is it?"

"Turkey?"

"Can't be."

Stacks held the tray up towards the Afghan sun. 

"Says so."

Stacks had unwavering attention to detail, keeping precise track of every meal delivered and every piece of equipment at COP Sangar Valley, a rugged outpost the 29 U.S. Marines stationed there called "The Pit."

Both men stared down at the Thanksgiving meal. Each MRE arrived shipped in pouches nested inside individual boxes. Sometimes, the meals came in bulk, and someone would prepare them for the entire group. The main pouch oozed a mushy mix of turkey chunks, limp egg noodles, and soggy vegetables in a gelatinous gravy, with unidentifiable bits of carrots, celery, and peas floating trash in a dirty pond.

"It looks green."

"Maybe that's the peas? Let's see what else we got."

Stacks opened another pouch containing something vaguely representing stuffing. 

"That one's gray."

Stacks popped open a Jello container, which was cranberry-flavored.

"Clever."

"Military efficiency. Combine the cranberry sauce and dessert."

Stacks was worried. 

"Can we make a run?"

"No, I called. Some poor bastards hit an IED, and Cobra is closed up to Dari."

Cobra was Route Cobra, the dirt highway that connected Forward Operating Base Dari and other outposts, such as Sangar Valley.

"Shit."

"Yeah, shit."

Intense fighting along Route Cobra had kept the Marines from returning to Dari for weeks. The road's dangers stretched resources thin, leading commanders to plan a pullback, leaving only essential patrols.

"Well, Stacks, what can I say? It's been good knowing ya. These boys’ll have your head."

"Son of a bitch. You know how much shit I've done for you?"

"Alright, alright, but what do you want me to do?"

"Figure it out."

The two men shared a Midwestern ethos, where "figure it out" was an unspoken oath forged through hard work and harsh winters.

Stacks looked at his friend, his mouth set in a firm line.

"Just don't go doing something stupid," he muttered.

The other Marine just grinned, a knowing smile. "You mean, don't get blown to hell trying to keep this place in one piece?"

"Damn right. I'm not in the business of scraping people up off Route Cobra," Stacks replied, folding his arms.

"Wait here."

Walker ran off, yelling, "Magic!" The nickname they had given to their Afghan interpreter, Omar, was "Magic!" He soon reappeared, presenting Omar to Stacks.

"Tell him."

Magic looked at the dirt and his Marine-issue boots, which a wounded Marine had gifted to him.

"Don't be shy. He only looks like an asshole. He's alright. Tell him what you told me. About the elephants."

"I said fil morgh, Corporal—elephant chicken."

"What on Earth is elephant chicken?"

"That's the beauty, Stacks. That's what they call Turkey."

Domesticated in the Americas, turkeys had made their way across the world and now wandered the villages of the Afghan plains.

Stacks decided that Walker would lead Magic and Lance Corporal Jesse "Tex" Martinez. Walker on horseback to purchase turkeys from a nearby village. Walker asked Tex because he was a rancher and their best horseman. Walker couldn't shake the absurdity of it - traveling on horseback through the Afghan night in search of turkeys for his platoon. It made as much sense as this war did, he reasoned. He adjusted his helmet and tightened up his saddle. 

Tex patted his horse's neck and glanced over at Magic.

"Why does he call you Magic? You good luck for us or something?"

"I love basketball."

Tex did not laugh.

"You ever ride a horse?"

"Closest I've come is a donkey outside Kandahar."

"I'd rather have the luck. Shh. Basketball."

The steep, narrow trail shifted under the horses' hooves as they moved cautiously through the night.

Walker's eyes never stopped scanning for movement. They did not speak. Silence speeds travel. The village was in a cleared zone, meaning it was mostly insurgent-free. Walker could hear his Lieutenant's voice from every morning brief—"You're not fighting an army, just one bullet." 

They rode through the night and into the dawn. Shortly after, the tail opened to a small plateau, revealing a remote village in the distance. Scattered homes made of sunbaked mud and a few small farms dotted the landscape, patches of green amidst the dusty hills. Smoke rose lazily from a cooking fire in the distance, and goats wandered along the terraces.

The trio cautiously approached the village, saw a farmer working in his field, and rode towards him. The farmer eyed them cautiously.

Tex moved his horse aside and motioned for Magic to take the lead. When they reached the farmer, Magic spoke first.

"Salaam alaikum," using the Islamic greeting meaning peace be upon you.

“Wa alaikum salaam”, meaning and upon you, peace. 

Magic explained their absurd mission to the farmer. Gesticulating wildly, he tried to explain the American holiday of Thanksgiving and its sacred place. The farmer seemed to understand.

"Come.", the farmer commanded in English.

They tied up their horses and followed the farmer through his field carrying their weapons. Walker was always amazed at how comfortable the Afghans were around firearms, given the primitive state of most of the country. It reminded him of how long they had been at war.

As they walked near the farmer's home, he pointed to a small pen containing a dozen turkeys.

"They look a little thin.", Tex noted.

"Like everything around here. They'll do. Tell him we'll take five."

Magic spoke with the farmer, and a lengthy discussion ensued. Walker interrupted.

"Magic, tell him we'll pay his price. Stop haggling with him."

"No, sir, he is insisting we eat with his family. Then he'll make a good price on the turkeys. Fair price, sir."

"Don't call me sir. We don't have time for breakfast, but thank the gentleman."

The conversation continued. 

"I'm sorry, Corporal, but he will not sell us the turkeys unless we sit down for nashta."

Inside the small adobe house, the table was laid out with cheese, boiled eggs, and fresh yogurt. The farmer's wife prepared the hot naan bread in the wood-burning oven. The farmer's young son poured tea from a clay pot for Walker, then the men, then his father. 

The farmer spoke to Magic. Magic's face looked grim.

"What is it?"

"He would like to give you the turkeys."

"Tell him that's very generous -"

"All of the turkeys, sir - Corporal."

"Magic, you know we can't do that. We just came here to do business, not to take advantage."

The farmer began to speak to Walker directly. Walker could not understand him, but somehow, he understood. The farmer pointed at his son and seemed to be pleading with the Marine.

"Corporal Walker wants us to take his son with us and send him to America."

The room grew silent.

Walker looked at the boy. He was a few years older than his son.

"He says in another year, he will be old enough to fight with the Taliban." 

"We need to go."

The farmer's wife began to speak, and Magic translated.

"They will come, and they will take my son. If we resist, they will kill my husband and take me too. They will make him a soldier. A boy soldier. And he will have to fight you, and then you will kill him. This is what will happen. So if you won't take my boy, kill him now."

The weight of her words hung in the room. The boy looked at Walker, challenging him. At that moment, the only thing Walker wanted more than to grant the wishes of this family and save the boy was to be home with his own family for Thanksgiving. Walker had spent most of his time in-country questioning his mission.

"Magic, tell him I don't have the power to take his son with us. But tell him we'll do everything we can to help."

"Tell him," Walker said, "that his son can have a future without leaving this land. We'll speak with our superiors. I'll request that we keep an eye on this village, give it air support, and keep it safe from the Taliban. I'll personally make sure our patrols watch over this village. I can't promise him America, but I'll do everything possible to give him peace here."

Magic relayed the message, and the disappointed farmer nodded resignedly but gratefully. The tension in the room eased a little with a quiet truce between unspoken fears and impossible promises. 

The farmer left, ordering the men to finish their breakfast.

When they finished, Walker placed a stack of hundred-dollar bills on top of a cabinet near the door. They thanked the wife, and Walker ripped a patch from his sleeve and gave it to the boy. He hoped the farmer could use the money to buy his boy's freedom.

The farmer had butchered the turkeys and wrapped them in burlap. 

"Fil morgh." the farmer offered.

"Elephant chicken.", Magic explained.

Tex fixed them to the back of his saddle. Walker paid the agreed-upon price. Magic told the farmer that Walker had left him a gift near the cabinet.

As they rode back to COP Sangar Valley with the turkeys, Tex turned to Walker, breaking the quiet of the morning. "Why do we fight?"

Walker kept his eyes forward, letting the question settle in. He thought about the farmer's family, the boy who had only known war, and the simple hope they had placed in him. After a pause, he finally spoke.

"Maybe we fight so kids like that boy don't have to someday. So they can grow up in peace and live freely, even in places where freedom is fragile. That boy has known nothing but war, but I am grateful my family has not. We fight to change that for them and keep it that way for us. I don't know if we'll get it right, but we gotta try. I'm grateful that I can try."

Later that night, the Marines gathered for their Thanksgiving meal as the turkeys—"elephant chickens," as the locals called them—roasted over an open fire. Stacks raised a toast, asking Walker to say a few words. Walker looked at the circle of men, each far from home but bound together by purpose.

"On the way back, Tex asked me why we fight," Walker began. "Shoot, I still don't know. But when I see this place and all its scars, the suffering of these people, I'm grateful for home. And here we are, gathered around these 'elephant chickens,' sharing a Thanksgiving meal because we can. That's why we fight—for the ones back home and for the chance to bring a little peace, even here."

The men raised their cups and responded in unison. "Oorah!"

The Marines slept well that evening - at least as well as they could in the Afghan desert. Walker even laughed as he faded off, thinking of his boy. He hadn't slept soundly since arriving in-country, so he wasn't surprised when he was awakened not by the dawn but by a young Marine working patrol, asking him to head towards the gate.

He could hear a commotion, and as Walker got closer, he saw a horse outside the gate. Marines had their rifles drawn and pointed at the horse. This was such a strange sight that he thought he must have been seeing things incorrectly. The Marines were shouting, and he could see that Magic was translating.

At the gate, Walker recognized the boy from the village. Trembling as he stood beside the horse, his hands raised in panic as the Marine guards kept yelling commands. His dark eyes darted around wildly.

"Hold up, hold up!!" Walker shouted, rushing forward. The boy held Walker's patch in one raised hand, shouting to Walker rapidly.

"Magic!" 

"What's he saying?" Walker pressed.

Magic turned, his face pale. "The Taliban are moving toward his village. Scouts saw us there, getting the turkeys. He thinks they're coming to punish his family for helping us."

"And he came all this way on his own?"

The boy nodded as if understanding the question. Walker cursed under his breath, moved by the boy's trembling frame.

"He's asking for help," Magic added. "He says they'll kill everyone."

"Yeah, I got that. Someone get this kid a blanket."

Walker's jaw tightened. "Get the Lieutenant up." he snapped at the guards.

In the command tent, Walker stood before the Lieutenant, his knuckles white as they gripped the edge of the map table. "Sir, we owe them. They gave us those turkeys for next to nothing and trusted us. We have to do something."

The Lieutenant sighed. "We're stretched thin, Walker. You know that. Route Cobra's still locked down. We can't commit ground forces."

"Sir, I owe them. This was my hair-brained scheme. And now I've put the finger on them. If you won't let me lead a team, call in air support," Walker countered. "We know their location. A quick flyover with Apaches could push them back. And we can evac the family while we're at it."

The Lieutenant studied him for a long moment before nodding. "I'll make the call."

Hours later, under the cover of darkness, the sound of rotors filled the air as two Apaches soared over Sangar Valley. Walker and Magic rode with the boy back to his village on borrowed horses, flanked by a small team of Marines. As they neared the plateau, the Apaches engaged, their weapon systems lighting up the hillside as insurgents scattered.

By the time Walker and his team reached the village, the Taliban forces had retreated. Smoke from burning vehicles lingered in the air, but the villagers were unharmed. The family hurried to meet the Marines, tears streaming down the mother's face as she clutched her son.

A Chinook arrived shortly after, landing in a cloud of dust. The family climbed aboard, carrying little more than their gratitude. The boy hesitated at the ramp, turning back to Walker. Without a word, he held out a small, hand-carved wooden figure—a token of thanks. Walker took it, nodding.

"Thank you for the Elephant Chickens, my friend. Take care of each other."

xAP 11.24