The Home Front

When I have nightmares about war, they are never about anything that I actually lived through or witnessed. Those things are only a backdrop; a theme that manipulates events to show itself and expose my deep-seated fear and horror. I could be dreaming about an event that has nothing to do with my experiences in combat, but when the fear creeps in and twists the dream to darkness, there it is. In a car wreck the mangled bodies are in Army Combat Uniforms, soaked in dark blood and screaming. In a lucid ride to the grocery store my truck is rocked by an IED. The mall becomes a dusty street market, filled with clandestine shrouded figures. In these situations, though, my persona in the dream goes from the man at home to the man in war. It's like some sort of defense mechanism. As soon as the shadow on the war's horror shows itself, I morph. I have my body armor, my rifle, and my beloved comrades are around me, even though I don't normally see them.  Sometimes I even hear the whir of the Abrams turbine engine; surrounding me in her impenetrable armor.


It becomes enough to quell the fear. So my mind adapts. In the heat of a counterassault; in the chaos of rendering aid; I hear a voice that is much too familiar. I'm taking cover from enemy fire and see my daughter, standing in the open.
"Daddy, what is happening?"
While I furiously try to stop arterial bleeding, I glance to my side to see my oldest son. He's wearing the same uniform I am.
"Dad, what do I do?"
While trying to recover from a blast that has destroyed my vehicle, I remember. My wife and 9 month old son were in the truck with me!


And so my mind generates the terror in exquisite ways. I scream at them.
"WHY ARE YOU HERE!"


In California yesterday there was another terrorist attack. A Muslim couple entered a crowded building and killed 14 people, wounding 17 others. I ask myself where this is headed. I ask myself if our streets are soon to become like the beleaguered places I have seen. I can face this weak, inept enemy any time and strike them down. I am not afraid of them.
I can't, however, fear for the safety of my family and try to fight.

Rocket attack at GO

We had been out of Sparrowhawk about a week. Although we were next to an Iraqi Army base, we were still out in the open. We were about as exposed as a battalion-sized Unit could get. It was basically a tent city that was in the process of becoming a Forward Operating Base. It was to be named “FOB Garry Owen”, after the moniker of our Battalion, the 7^th Cavalry. At this point, though, there were none of the towering cement “T-walls” in place to cordon off the base, nor were there any bunkers or guard towers. Our protection from a country of people that wanted to kill us was a triple-strand of concertina wire, with a makeshift gate that could be dragged open and closed. Suffice to say, concertina wire is pretty effective at stopping personnel and vehicles, but not mortars, rockets, and bullets. I say vehicles because I have actually seen the stuff disable a tank when it gets wound up in the drive sprocket, so I’m sure a car or truck wouldn’t have much better luck.

We slept in tents called “GP-Mediums” that were designed to house about 20 Soldiers with gear and cots. Losing any sense of dignity is something that happens early on in the life of a Soldier. Terms like “nuts to butts” and sharing porno magazines for “me time” becomes a normal thing. Spooning up on the back deck of a tank with the rest of the crew during a particularly cold night is quite acceptable. This is sometimes a paradox because of the rampant homophobia in combat arms, but men do what they have to when it comes to the basics of staying alive. Here we lived our lives, packed in this tent-our only shelter from the blazing sun. We slept here, bathed here, ate here, beat off here…all within an arm’s reach of the next guy.

The first few weeks out here had been uneventful as far as enemy contact went. Uneventful doesn’t even describe it, really. It was outright boring, other than the events of reverse-evolution that had taken place at Sparrowhawk. We hadn’t been issued Company-level OPORDS (Operations Orders) yet, so there wasn’t much in the way of combat operations going on. Having nothing to do in the Army is just below outright combat in the level of hazard. Here you have a situation where there are men in their 20’s and 30’s, packed together in a place where the barrier between life and death appears paper thin. There are no women in sight, and they have been training for the last year in techniques on how to kill and survive. This is when we see such feats as Soldiers trying to create flying squirrel suits out of 550 cord and ponchos, and jumping off of fuel platforms during a sandstorm. This works just well enough for the Soldier in question to float past his intended landing area and slam his face into an aluminum landing pad, costing him three teeth and an Article 15. It seems that in this mindset, if we can’t cheat the death the enemy attempts to bring us, we will create our own situations in which to do so.

The monotony also serves to intensify the homesickness. A laptop that’s almost dead and some DVD’s only goes so far before we retreat into the recesses of our mind. Even the old crusty First Sergeant visits home in the quiet moments. I had to find a way to break this up. My marriage was shaky when I left, and I had only spent about 8 months of my daughter’s 2 year life with her. I couldn’t dwell in my mind for too long. I always worked out, but at the time there was no facility in place, so I just started running. I would run around the perimeter of the base. I started doing just one lap, which was about a mile and a half. By the end of the tour I could run almost endlessly, and I had shed about 30 pounds. That’s quite a bit of distress dropped in the sound of my feet crunching through the gravel. At this time I was still just starting.

Eventually, the enemy made himself known. We hadn’t ventured out of the base yet for patrols, but they knew we were there. A battalion-sized convoy rolling in to town isn’t exactly inconspicuous, plus I surmised that about 90% of the Iraqi Army would take off those chocolate chip uniforms at night and jihad against the American infidel. We would confirm that soon enough.

It was about 5am in the morning. The tent was still a dark chorus of harsh snores, backed by soft wheezing. I was drifting between waking and sleep, living in some lucid representation of home. I heard a series of thumps in the distance that shook the tent walls. Seconds later I heard the signature growing shriek of rockets. I shot up, grabbing the sides of my sweat drenched cot. It might be a dream.

Thump-Thump-thumpthumpthumpthump.

wheeeeeEEEEEEEEEE

“INCOMING!!”

I wailed it out as loud as I could. In a second the tent was alive with bodies rolling to the floor and clamoring for gear. The first impacts were close enough for the shockwaves to ruffle out tent walls. They were most definitely landing inside the base.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump

Over and over again the cycle continued. We assessed around 40 rockets were launched at us. They were Chinese 107mm warheads, of which about a quarter ended up being “duds”, allowing us to easily identify what was being fired at us. We were getting pelted. This was a highly orchestrated indirect fire attack that probably began as soon as the locals found out we were coming.

A series of them were being “walked in” to our location.

boom boom Boom BOOM!

The last impact was close enough to hear a spattering of gravel hit the roof of our tent. The next set of thumps were nothing less than terrifying. A 107mm rocket would tear through these tents like tissue paper, and a direct hit would generate a horrific mass casualty. I had spread my body armor over my body and had already put my helmet on. I got as small as I could. The next set hit on the other side of the base. We may have been passed in the impact pattern, which allowed me to unclench my mind momentarily and look around. In the distance I heard men yelling over a loud groan.  My heart was pounding so hard I could actually feel the blood whooshing in and out of it. Somewhere in the darkness of the tent I heard staggered breathing. It was the only sound I could hear. The thumps began again.

When the attack was over there was mild chaos. Medics, dressed in nothing but shorts and flip-flops with helmet and body armor, rushed around poking their heads in tents. They were searching for casualties and asking if anyone in needed aid. We still didn’t know the extent of the damage, or if there had been any casualties. It took me a minute or so to swim to the surface of reality. It was like diving into deep water from a high place, and them swimming frantically towards the surface. Once I gained my conscience I jumped to my feet and donned my armor. I reached over and put on my running shoes as quickly as I could. Headlamps were systematically popping on as other Soldiers rambled through their things. Being a Staff Sergeant, I was one of the highest ranking Soldiers in the tent. There were others that outranked me, but I felt responsible for our first actions. Immediately, my training kicked in. I flicked on my headlight and searched each cot.

“Is there anyone that is not accounted for?”

I saw no empty spaces, which gave me slight relief. I had to report our accountability to Command. After any significant act, we were trained to always assess our personnel and equipment accountability. If there was someone missing, we had to find them. I grabbed my rifle, loaded a magazine, and headed towards the Company TOC (Tactical Operations Center). I wasn’t taking any chances that this attack evolve into a complex attempt to overrun us. The sheer volume of indirect fire was more than anything I had ever seen before, so nothing was out of the realm of belief right now. When I arrived to the TOC, which was next door to us, the attack was over. Our First Sergeant, who was a looming, explosive figure, was already red-faced with fury. I reported accountability for our tent, to which he didn’t reply. He shouted over me.

“If you aren’t a Platoon Leader or Platoon Sergeant get the fuck out of this tent!!”

That meant me. Protocol dictated that the Platoon Leaders head to the TOC for tactical instructions from the Commander, while Platoon Sergeants inventory their personnel and report up to the First Sergeant. We had attempted to keep Platoon integrity when placing people in tents, but there wasn’t enough space to do so. In a task organization misstep, we were basically spread out everywhere. I was in a tent with our mechanic Platoon. As far as organization went, we were kind of caught with our pants down. Had this been anything more complex, it would have been complete chaos.

Eventually, FOB Garry Owen became something to be proud of. As a Unit, we assembled a base in the middle of nowhere that withstood a pretty constant stream of attacks. Within months there were bunkers and t-walls that drained a little fear out of the rocket attacks. I learned something on the day of that attack, though. In my first tour we took at least three times the casualties we did on this one. There was a huge difference, though. We spent very little time “inside the wire”. We were out in our tanks, seeking the enemy and engaging any threat we came upon. We knew what our equipment could do and what it could withstand. We “took the fight to the enemy”, in Commander speak. I was afraid then, and I knew that it was just a matter of chance that it might be my day to run over the 500 pounds of munitions. But we were chasing them. Sitting in a tent city while the enemy plays lob the rocket at you is a different kind of fear. There is no fighting back, and the rockets themselves are the only sign of an invisible enemy. I was more afraid than I had ever been.

Getting to Hood

During my time at home I realized some things. First, I wasn’t the same person that left. I was eager to tell stories about what I had been through, and what I was doing. I wanted to explain the power of the mighty Abrams; I wanted to laugh about the things Soldiers laughed at, and I wanted everyone to be impressed. This was the first in a series of disconnections that would span the rest of my life. It took me a long time to learn this lesson, and I still probably feel a little miffed at the reactions I get when I misstep in conversation. I slowly learned an unforgiving truth about being a Soldier. It’s one long process of leaving everything behind. Your identity, your ability to relate to anything outside of what it gives you, and even your family will be left behind in some fashion. When I tried to talk about it, my friends would listen, but it was like I was speaking broken English. They understood some words; some ideas; but I could tell that there was just no way they were grasping what I was talking about. And this was just basic training.

I arrived at Fort Hood in September of 2004. I was assigned to First Brigade, 4^th Infantry Division. We were herded into an in-processing center, where we would spend approximately the next three days. I knew nothing about the Units I was assigned to. I did know that I recognized the black and yellow 1^st Cavalry patch from war movies, and had never seen the strange diamond pattern of the 4^th. I would wear both in my career, but for now, I was a member of the “Steadfast and Loyal” Division.

In-Processing was a series of paperwork and stamping that had us traipsing all over half of Fort Hood. We had no Unit patches, and every one of us was carrying a dogged manila envelope full of our most valuable possessions: paperwork. This appearance made us stand out with flagrance. On a day many years in the future, I was driving down what is now called “TJ Mills Boulevard”, heading towards the main gate for the last time as a Soldier. I stopped at the main intersection on Battalion Avenue, and watched as a herd of peach-faced Privates shuffled to the Soldier Center across the road in front of me, manila envelopes in hand. It was profound to me…here I was rolling out of the gate for the last time, and crossing in front of me were these boys still filled with feelings I could never have again. Right now, though, I was still one of them.

The last part of in-processing consisted of going to the “CIF” (Central Issue Facility). Upon arrival we were given a grocery store shopping cart and a computer printout. It was one of the early 90’s style printouts, with the overly wide paper that had perforated strips on the sides bearing holes for the printer crank. When unfolded, it was literally about 7 feet long. There was a Sergeant escorting us that I guessed was about 60 years old. He was probably about 35, but I had no knowledge of the Army aging factor at this point. Every time we saw him he had a bottom lip so full of chew that it couldn’t close, exposing the slimy brown mass next to his gums.

“You lose that and you’re screwed, Private. That right there is paper gold to you.”

I heeded his words and vowed to keep this document safe for eternity. He was right, actually.

 We were assembled into a line that reminded me of a grocery store. This place was actually a huge warehouse, with several aisles separated by walls with large windows that resembled a concession stand. When it was my turn to venture down the first one, I noticed that standing in each window was a Korean woman. These ladies were nothing less than venomous. I pulled up my cart to the first stop. The lady stood there glaring at me with her arms crossed.

“Uhm…I’m here for-“

She interrupted my mumbling.

“PAYPAH.”

I stared at her confused.

“Wha…”

“PAYPAH PAYPAH GIVE ME YOU PAYPAH!”

Oh…paper. Ok. I handed my folded paper over to her. It was apparently not in the right spot, and she forcefully snatched it from me, slamming it down on the desk and manipulating it to the right page. This was a game I couldn’t win. She scrawled some mark on my paper and disappeared into the equipment abyss behind her. I glanced around at some of the other guys. I locked eyes with a guy on the other side of the hall from me pushing a cart that was already heaping with a green mass of gear. He reassured me that she was coming back. She came waddling back with a stack of Army BDU’s in her arms. After plopping them into my cart she slid my paypah back to me and yelled out.

“NEX!”

As I was carting away I looked back, and she had returned to her original position as if she hadn’t moved. Arms crossed and glaring at me. This went on for approximately 40 windows. I approached each window from this point on with my paypah extended. Once we were finished we were corralled to an area where we were to remove all of our stuff and inventory it as we packed it up. It seems like a boring task, but I was kind of excited. This was cool. I was smelling and feeling all of these new things, and for the time being they were mine. I got two of my Armor crewman’s suit, called NOMEX (or green pajamas), one of the best sleeping bag sets I had ever seen, winter gloves, NOMEX gloves, goggles, Oakley eye protection, and a helmet along with a pile of other sweet sundries. It was like a grown man Christmas morning! I stuffed it all into my two big green duffel bags and heaved them on my back, skipping off like a troll with bounty.

This was our last day of in-processing. The next morning after PT we were to move to our assigned Units. I was eager to see where I was going. When we got our orders we immediately huddled together to see who was going where. My orders read “B CO, 3-66 AR 1^st BDE, 41D”.  The Black Knights. I had already scoped out all of the Unit crests we were to wear in the middle of our berets at the clothing and sales on post. This one was not one of my favorites. Three other guys from my basic class were headed there with me. The Battalion area was only a few blocks down the street on “4^th ID side”, and we moved out, lugging our bags of gear with us.

It was just before morning formation when we arrived, and Soldiers were trickling in after their shower and change from PT. We were instructed by a passing Specialist to drop our gear and report to SGT McClain, the training room NCO. SGT McClain was already there, fastidiously typing away on a laptop. We approached the desk and stood at parade rest.

“FNG’s.”

He said this without looking up from what he was doing. FNG, by the way, means “fucking new guy”. He asked us for our orders, which we already had in hand. We handed them over and he told us the 1SG would want to talk to us. This made my chest jump a little. First Sergeants were notoriously crusty and cranky, and the thought of having to stand in front one this morning was less than savory. He hadn’t arrived yet, so we were told to wait in his office.

As we walked in I noticed framed flags, a wood rack with a massive collection of coins, and a few pictures from the front lines. There was also a picture of three Drill Sergeants standing together and smiling. I guessed one of them was him. I was reminded for a second about getting a rusty bayonet in my back. From behind us a tall Mexican man walked in. I called “AT EASE!”.

The NCO moved around us, sat down at the desk, and propped up his feet. I noticed immediately that his rank was not that of a First Sergeant. This guy was a Staff Sergeant. He regarded us in silence with a blank expression. He then farted loudly, jumped up out of the chair, and left. A few moments later we heard someone in the training room yell the real “AT EAAASE!”

Top was coming. “Top” is the affectionate name Soldiers give their 1SG. Before any of us even had a chance to say a second “AT EASE”, which would have been wrong, he entered the office and said “Relax.”

We continued to stand at parade rest. When he sat down I noticed that, again, this NCO wasn’t wearing the rank of 1SG. He was a Sergeant First Class. Turns out Bravo 3-66 didn’t actually have a First Sergeant. SFC Kavanaugh was more than capable of running the Company, though. I would learn in my short time with him that he was one of the most badass damn tankers that ever tanked. He asked us a few questions, such as where we were from and what we did before the Army. He also assigned us to Platoons. I was to go to 2^nd Platoon.   

After Easter

 
Weeks droned on after Easter left. There were a few other instances of note...like the one where one of the guys got the most grotesque staph infection I had ever seen in his armpit. Or the one where a guy decided he couldn't take it anymore and was going to kill himself by chugging a bottle of Simple Green cleaner. You know-the cleaner that says "NON-TOXIC" in big yellow letters on the front? Then there was the looming Ft Knox legend of the Private that devised the most violent plan ever to kill himself. This guy was so committed to his death that one night during his fire watch he decided he would lug one of the gigantic floor buffers (that we all became master operators of) to a window on the third floor. He wrapped the power cord around his neck and heaved the buffer out, jerking him to the cement blow with the added force of the 150+ pound piece of machinery. Story goes that he exploded like a water balloon. I discovered later that this tale has about as much truth to it as Paul Bunyan. There was still that guy, though, that would swear on his Mother’s life that it actually happened during his cycle. The Army is full of some of the greatest tall tales to ever be told, and some guys tend to be particularly skilled at clinging to them.


In the last few weeks of the cycle, the drill Sergeants began to berate less, and counsel more. They were teaching us how to survive in the Army. We had made it this far, and only had our final Field Training Exercise (FTX) to go. Sometimes they would even joke with us. We were almost real Soldiers, and we were getting a glimpse of what our relationship with our Platoon leadership would be like. One night in particular I was roaming the halls during the small hours for my shift on the fire watch. Our Platoon drill Sergeant, SFC Ostrander, was the one assigned to stay in the barracks that night. At this point in the cycle there were no more late night torture parties, and the Drill Sergeants had scaled back to one on duty at a time. They stayed in a mysterious room at the end of the first floor hall. Any poor, unsuspecting Private that ventured too far in that direction was usually brought close to death via pushups and sit-ups. I was wiping sleep out of my eyes and jiggling door handles when I noticed the door at the end of the hall swing open. SFC Ostrander peered out down the hallway. I immediately noticed that he wasn’t wearing his signature “brown round” hat. Something was strange about the look in his eyes. He saw me.





“Priiiivate Benton. C’mere, dick.”





I moved quickly and sounded off.





“Moving, Drill Sergeant!”





He replied with a hiss.





“Shut the fuck up.”





When I arrived to the area of the room I hesitated. This might be a trick. There was a black line of tape on the floor that we knew not to cross. SFC Ostrander was behind the open door, with only his head peeking out. I stopped at the line. He laughed and shook his head.





“Come in, Soldier.”





As I rounded the door I was shocked to notice that SFC Ostrander was clothed in only a pair of black PT shorts. I noticed that he was covered in tattoos. He was an exceptionally small man, shorter than me and weighing probably half as much. I had grown to respect him, though, and knew that he had prepared me well for life as a Soldier. I surmised that I may have been the only living recruit to see the inside of this room. The only light was from a television that was sitting on a lonely stand in the middle of the room. There was a ratty recliner placed in front of it that was in the open position. This is where the DS on duty would catch a few hours of sleep. There was a kitchenette in the back of the room that looked like your standard workplace break room, with a microwave, a full-size refrigerator, a sink, and a table with chairs. SFC Ostrander told me to pull up one of the chairs as he plopped down in the recliner. I was perplexed, as this was the first time it was apparently ok to address him not at the position of parade rest. I reluctantly pulled up a chair from the table. SFC Ostrander reached down beside the recliner and produced a bottle of Budweiser I hadn’t noticed before.





“What are your plans for the Army, Private Benton?”





He spoke without looking at me, staring ahead at the TV.





“I may want to go Green to Gold later on, or try flight school.”





Green to Gold is a program that transitions enlisted Soldiers with enough college credits to Commissioned Officers. Flight school would be the equivalent of “dropping a warrant packet”, meaning trying my hand at becoming a Warrant Officer-primarily the pilots of the Army. SFC Ostrander choked slightly, and turned his stare to me for the first time.





“Private Benton, Armor is a small community in the Army. If I ever see your ass somewhere down the road when my time on the trail is done, I will kill you with a rusty bayonet.”





I stared back at him, confused. I noticed for the first time a thick scar snaking from his hairline to the middle of his forehead. This was his way of complimenting me by threatening to kill me. I didn’t know it yet, but what he was saying was that the Army wasn’t a place for somebody like me. He was saying that he wanted better things for me. Sitting there, staring at him, I realized I was seeing my first broken man. One of many I would see, and even become. Neither of us said anything for a few seconds. I spoke quietly.





“Roger Drill Sergeant…”





He didn’t say anything, and returned his stare to the TV. He finished the beer in a prolonged guzzle. I was experiencing an increasing level of discomfort. We sat like this with only the light and muffled sound from the TV for several minutes. I stared ahead at it with him, not actually watching, just as he was. In a short time, I heard faint snoring.


Basic training’s approaching end was what I believe coming out of hyper-sleep in a sci-fi space travel situation would be like. Or like when Luke Skywalker was unfrozen. Except there was no 7’ tall wookie there to comfort me. My last dream was standing on a parade field at Knox during a ceremony that seemed to be about 15 hours long. I got an option in my recruiting process called “hometown recruiting”, which basically meant that I would be able to go home for 10 days before reporting to my first duty station. Just a few days earlier I had been told I was shipping to Fort Hood; “The Great Place”. The drill sergeants, who had become slightly more cordial to us as we approached graduation, would laugh maniacally while reading duty station assignments any time they came across Fort Hood or Fort Bliss. Not only did these places suck, apparently, but those poor souls headed there were to ship off to Iraq immediately upon arrival. I never understood this scare tactic personally, because if anyone here was under the impression that they weren’t going to have to Iraq or Afghanistan, they were delusional.


I maintained my position of Platoon guide for the entire cycle. I was the only guide that did this. The others were cycled in and out, berated for constant “leadership failures”, consisting of someone in the Platoon messing up. That’s what being the Platoon guide was all about-being responsible for when someone else messes up. This was a valuable Army lesson. The Drill Sergeants recognized a trait in me that I didn’t yet know I had. I was a natural leader. My achievements earned a few perks coming out of training. I was chosen for the Gen. George Patton Leadership Award, and was entered into the Excellence in Armor roles. Because of this, I was chosen to stand in front of the Company along with two other award winners during this eternal graduation ceremony. I was terrified that would be “that guy”. That guy is the guy that falls out while standing for long periods of time. It never happened to me during my career, but I saw it happen often. Eventually the ceremony ended, and I was on my way home for leave.

Joining the Army and PVT Easter

My decision to join that Army was about as close to involuntary as it gets, I guess. I was 29 years old and newly unemployed. I was in a vicious depression and drank it all away on money I didn’t have. I drank so much of my money I couldn’t pay rent, or a power bill, or a phone bill or any other bill. I had lived with my girlfriend/fiancée for the last 6 years, on-and-off. In that time I was semi-successful, working steadily for AT&T and depending on her for every bit of self-worth I could scrape together. She was a pharmaceutical sales rep and made decent money and even more decent connections. With doctors. Single doctors. One day, out of the blue, she told me she was moving away. Without me. In hindsight I am sure she was through with my worthlessness, and I kind of don’t blame her. All this coupled with the mounting financial mess I was making and the drinking sent me spinning to the depths of a chronic depression. One day I got a letter from Sallie Mae-the company handling my school loans. You see I had decided that college was fun, I guess, and lived the student life for way too long. Maybe, say, 8 years too long. The government was still giving me what I perceived as free money, though, so I kept taking it. As it turns out-and this is a lesson everyone should avoid having to learn-you have to pay that money back, and the government WILL get it out of you somehow. Me…well I had maxed it out. $62,000 in 10 years of college. I stayed in college so long they gave me a degree just to keep me from coming back, if that says anything.  So here I was staring at a consolidation proposal from Sallie Mae. 30 years with a total of $112,000 paid in full. My first thought upon seeing this was where I could get some bullets for my pistol. Or just one bullet would do.

My only way to get money at this time was working for the bar/pub I always drank at. It was close to the Air Force base where my Mom works and the owner always had a soft spot for me after I scared the shit out of some guy who was apparently trying to rape one of his female bartenders in the parking lot. I had no idea about that, I thought he had kicked my truck and that’s why I confronted him. I would work there all day sometimes-cooking during the day and bouncing at night when it became a college bar. The best part to me was that I almost always got to drink for free as much as I wanted. Oh yeah and the girls didn’t hurt. The owner-who I’ll refer to as Carl-would pay me cash. When I would get too drunk Carl would either let me sleep it off in the upstairs room or personally make sure I got somewhere safe. I will forever be in debt to him and his place. One night when I was supposed to be working but more likely was getting hammered with my buddies I was overheard lamenting the college loan issue by one of the Airmen from the base. He proceeded to inform me that I could have that paid off in 4 years without ever giving any money back. He said the military had an enlistment plan where they would repay my loans in return for my service. That seed, needless to say, went deep into the soil in the back of my mind.

Football had more to do than anything-my mother and father included-with who I am today. I lived and breathed it for most of my life. Coaches took the place of my absent Dad.  It was my avenue to acceptance and heroism. It was my outlet for the strange, innate lust for combat I would later discover resting in my soul. I learned to test my limits early in life-even if it was through that twentieth wind sprint or that last “up-down” in conditioning. My first 5 years in college were paid for by partial football scholarships. I played at 2 tiny NAIA schools and I will never regret a second of it. In the last game of my freshman year, though, on a day I thought was the end of the world, I tore my ACL in my right knee. It was surgically repaired and I went on to a successful career at another college close to home. I found, though, that when my college athletic eligibility had run out, I was not interested in going to class. Thus began the cycle of academic probation and switching schools and new financial aid checks. Somewhere in there I decided that I would join the Marines. This was not in a time of war-September 11 was only a storm cloud on the horizon. I maintained the middle linebacker physique well-225 lbs of muscle and mean. When the Marine recruiters saw me walk in they acted like your dog acts when you get home from a long day. They had spewed forth no less than 15 stories of “guys that I reminded them of” ranging from one punch knockouts to chicks I could fuck in less than half an hour. When they handed me the medical questionnaire (among other papers they were handing me between stories) there was a slot for prior surgeries. I marked “YES”, and in the PLEASE EXPLAIN ANY ANSWERS MARKED YES field I put that I had a surgically reconstructed anterior cruciate ligament in my right knee. It was like the movie scene where somebody takes the needle off the record with a loud scratch. The recruiters went to dejection in no time flat, and in so many words told me I could never get in any branch of service-even the shitty Army. My feelings weren’t hurt too much. I kind of did that on a whim-and besides I could still get loads more financial aid, so I didn’t pursue the idea anymore.

This time I decided I would visit the recruiting office in the nicest suburb I could drive to. There was one to the south of the city. I knew exactly where it was because it was across the street from one of my favorite mini malls. It was one of my favorites because it had 2 bars and the best strip club in the state. And the office itself was next door to Hooters. What better placement than that? Suffice to say that recruiters for the most part are used to seeking their prey, as it very rarely falls in their lap. Many times when people walk in off the street they are drug-addicts or felons or both. Many times they are the guy that has barely enough rocks rolling around in his skull to pump gas or bag groceries, and he just got fired. I know the latter for a fact, because the Army is FULL of those guys. The recruiters were very suspicious. I even thought I heard them making bets on whether I was dumb, addicted, or a felon. Because of my stature I was pretty sure odds were on felon. Maybe assault. I told them what I wanted. I wanted the loan repayment and an easy job for 4 years, where I could work out and be home every day by 4:00. “Well, you’ll get to work out. Can’t promise the rest…and no job is that easy in Iraq.” With that they all giggled like it was the greatest joke of the day. I figured now was a good a time as any to drop the bomb. I was thinking about how they would never expect this in their little pool about why the Army would reject me.

“I have a surgically repaired ligament in my right knee. It has 2 screws in it.”

I would even enjoy their dejection a little, because I didn’t really like these guys much already.

“Uh, ok…and?”

It’s funny how a prolonged political war changes things. Soldiers want out and equipment is destroyed and repaired over and over again. Soldiers, as I would learn, ARE equipment-right down to a serial number. 45 days later I was having my head shaved at Ft Knox, Kentucky.

There are some stipulations on the SLRP (Student Loan Repayment Plan) enlistment. Recruits must enlist “needs of the Army”; meaning whatever job the Army is short on people for is your new field specialization. For me this was somewhat tragic. I had gotten one of the highest GT (military aptitude) scores my recruiter had ever seen, and that is normally how your career field is designated. I could have done any job the Army offers.  As it was, I got to choose from cook, infantryman, artillery, and something along the lines of washing dirty clothes. I imagined bombs going off around me while I screamed to my men “Don’t let ‘em get the dirty underwear! Protect the skivvies!” with a wad of t-shirts in my arms. While entering the recruiting station I saw a propaganda poster depicting the mighty M1 Abrams MBT (main battle tank). It struck me as ominous and powerful; an indestructible monster. I asked if I could drive a tank like the one on the wall outside. The recruiter snorted and mumbled something to the effect of “fat dirty tankers”-the exact snort and comment I would hear hundreds more times when any non-tanker was presented with “tanker stuff”. He got me a slot in the 19K OSUT (One Station Unit Training) Armor School in Ft Knox. I was becoming a tanker.

Apparently you have to take the Army’s means of transportation to basic training. I lived only 3 hours away from Ft Knox, but had to ride a bus through St Louis and back to Louisville to get there for training. I remember this as the first numbskull, pointless, and dullard act in an ever continuing stream of them that occurred all throughout my Army career. When I arrived at the Louisville bus station I saw uniforms. They were herding recruits on to an Army school bus. I followed the herd, had some Sergeant inspect my papers, and climbed on the bus. I could smell and feel sheer terror. So much it felt like it even saturated me a little. I was never scared or afraid on my own accord, though. I was never afraid of a uniform or a hat or a loud voice. I was 29 years old-probably older than many of the drill sergeants themselves.  I was still very physically imposing as well, which helped me with my confidence. I did learn very quickly when to fake fear. I learned what responses were demanded of me much quicker than the horrified kids around me.

The 35 miles to Ft Knox was dead silent. At the front of the bus sat a drill sergeant identified by his “brown round” hat and the golden crest placed meticulously in the front center of it. I noticed the razor thin creases in his sleeves and pants. His uniform was crisp and spotless and his boots shined like patent leather. His appearance seemed more like it had been assembled by a machine, not a person. The fear he created on the bus was immense-and he never even twitched for the whole 35 mile ride. I expected him to explode and call somebody something like “shit stain” or “cum guzzler” any second, but never so much as a deep breath. He just stared out the front window. He was sitting on the corner of his seat with his left leg out in the isle, and he was leaning forward with his right arm resting on the seat back in front of him. His back never touched his seat. I studied him for the full 45 minute ride. The strangest part of the whole ride to me was when we arrived, and he got up. He turned around and I was ready for the whole “shit stains” thing, but he spoke in a soft, calm tone and told us to line up outside the building we had parked in front of. That was the last time I saw this particular drill sergeant.

 

There was a brief period of a few days where we kind of had it easy. We were stripped of everything civilian and forced to wear, eat, and use whatever the Army decided to give us. When I think about it now it strikes me as humorous, but in the moment I was feeling pretty besmirched. Here I was in a PT uniform consisting of a gray t-shirt and black running shorts with a black stocking cap on my head. I had black knee high wool boot socks on and running shoes. This was our required uniform. It was the first of June in Kentucky; 89 degrees and sticky.

Fortunately I had managed to fly well under the radar. We still had only seen one drill sergeant and he was actually kind of…cordial. We were given a guide of sorts, though, who was making plenty of noise. His name was SGT Burr. I assessed him to be in his early 20’s, maybe, and he was in the final stages of pattern baldness. His pattern turned out to be the one that is the whole top of one’s head with the nice hair ring around the sides. He was overweight and had a blaring speech impediment. It was the impediment that causes a person to slur anything that starts with an “s”, because they force the air across the sides of their tongue instead of over the top of it. I’m sure there’s some sort of technical name for it, but I have no idea what it is. Oh…and he was cross-eyed. I know this sounds contrived, but as I said before, anyone in the active Army has seen hundreds of guys just like this, and they will surely back me up. For some reason he reminded me of a retarded, cross-eyed goose. I noticed the special pleasure he took in lining a reception recruit platoon up and berating them for not knowing anything about how “the Army works” and stating how especially stupid we all were. Sometimes I almost laughed at the things he said. How the hell would I or any of these horrified kids next to me know anything about how “the Army works”?  We had been here for 3 days. Armor is a relatively small community. Remember that.

After 4 days of droning issue lines, shots, inspections, paperwork and being cursed by a slurping, bald goose, we were herded onto a bus to move to the training area. Still, we had seen no drill sergeants. I continued to stay as inconspicuous as I could. My size and demeanor sometimes drew attention, but not for long. We had two large green duffel bags of strange smelling new basic issue items. One of those new items was a set of bdu’s (battle dress uniform), which we were now allowed to wear. I was 2 ranks ahead of most of my piers because of my college, so I was allowed to wear Private First Class rank on my collar and patrol cap. Later on I discovered that I should have been given Specialist rank, but as with many details in the Army’s giant paper shredder, that didn’t happen. We were instructed to load one bag on our backs, and the other on the front-“frontloading”. Needless to say this configuration really sucked when stuffed into a school bus seat. The bus ride took about 30 seconds. Those unlucky recruits who were treated to a window seat-of which I was one-could stretch their necks around enough to see outside. The buses stopped, and as if in a choreographed movement, two drill sergeants had placed themselves perfectly on either side of the each door. Everyone sat paralyzed as the doors opened. We heard the steps up the stairs leading to the door.

“GET YOUR ASSES OFF THE DAMN BUS.”

There was maybe another second of paralysis, and then all at once 40 recruits stuffed on a school bus with 2 huge duffel bags strapped to them began to stampede. It was textbook chaos. Bags were dropped. Hats flew off and were lost in the melee. Somebody fell in the aisle and was trampled. I was probably responsible for that. When I made it out the door the chaos turned to madness. There were 8 drill sergeants yelling and pointing and charging. The recruits looked like a huge flock of spooked turkeys. They fell all over each other and fell all over themselves. Some of them cried. I moved around, but observed what was going on, and focused on keeping my cool. One drill sergeant would charge up to a group of the horrified and confused turkeys, his eyes wide and neck veins bulging. He would boom out a direction for them to run and the mass would fall down and stumble around until they got moving in the direction he had told them to go. As soon as they were moving another drill would charge in.

“WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING?! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE ENGLISH?! THAT WAY, DICK!”

And of course, when they changed directions, there was another drill sergeant there waiting for them. I stayed in the back of the mass and thus moved as little as possible. This went on for about 10 minutes, at which time we were arranged into a formation. The duffel bags were getting heavy and a lot of the guys were exhausted from the herding incident. I was sweating. We were instructed to pass our military ID cards that we were given in reception down to the end of the formation. They were handed off to some of the drill sergeants and they walked away. A few remained. They conferred in the shade for a short time while we stood in our formation sweating and struggling under the increasing weight of the duffels. They approached us in a fashion that reminded me of an offense breaking their huddle.

“Who wants to quit raise your hand.”

Nobody dared move.

“Aw come on now. I know somebody’s out there thinking ‘holy shit I what did I do’ right now.”

They were surveying us. I could see them doing it. They were looking for a victim…an example. I stared ahead hoping that by not looking at them I wouldn’t draw their attention.

“Do you want to go home to Momma?”

It was one of the ones that cried. His face was red and soaked with sweat and tears. He was a kid, no older than 18 for sure, and I was positive that he did in fact want to go home to his Momma. He squeaked out a reply.

“No.”

“NO WHAT, YOU SON OF A BITCH?! WHO AM I YOUR FUCKIN PAL FROM BACK ON THE BLOCK?! HEY LETS GO HAVE A DRINK TOGETHER, PRIVATE. WE’LL BE BUDDIES! YOU CAN SCREW MY SISTER HOW’S THAT?!”

“No, Drill Sergeant. Sorry, Drill Sergeant.”

“HOLY SHIT, PRIVATE. HOLY FUCKIN SHIT. I SURE HOPE FOR YOUR SAKE THAT YOU’RE NOT SAYING I’M A SORRY DRILL SERGEANT. I HOPE-FOR YOUR SAKE-THAT YOU ARE STATING THE OBVIOUS, BECAUSE I ALREADY KNOW YOU ARE SORRY AS SHIT.”

This kind of stuff went on for about another 10 minutes. It moved to a few other guys, but I was successful in my plan to hide in plain sight. About 200 yards (I’ll use yards here, because I haven’t been programmed to think in meters yet) away the other drill sergeants who had taken our ID’s were grouped in a parking lot. We were instructed to fall out of formation and go to the drill sergeant that had our ID. Of course, we had no idea which one had our ID. Again, turkey madness. I figured I would be systematic about it, and ran to the closest drill sergeant. When I got to him he looked appalled.

“What the…Hey battle! (Meaning ‘battle buddy’-they referred to each other as ‘battle’)Battle look at this shit! It’s a meathead! Hey meathead the Army tests for steroids, you know…”

They fell all over themselves laughing. I felt fury explode in my chest. As a civilian, any insult like this from another adult man would have triggered a right hook that would knock out a full grown bull. Besides, I hadn’t taken steroids in over a year. Being 29 years old served me well here. The drill sergeant told me he didn’t have my ID card, but he knew for sure the other drill sergeant across the parking lot did. When I turned to run one of the straps on my front duffel bag busted and it flopped to the ground. For some reason this made me so furious I couldn’t control the hoarse “FUCK!” that shot out of my throat. This marked the first time of many that my temper became an issue in the Army.

I had been doing pushups for approximately 5 minutes with a full duffel bag on my back. Three drill sergeants were standing around me yelling about my abuse of bad language. I say “abuse of bad language” instead of just “use of bad language”, because much of my yelling lecture had to do with how I had not earned the right to use the word “fuck” yet. I also learned that apparently, and this isn’t just an Army thing, the general consensus is that having big muscles correlates directly with a tiny penis. Again, my years served me well. I would beat these guys because I would beat their game. Or at least that’s what I thought at the time. When I was instructed to “recover” (if they tell you to ‘get up’ and you stand up you will be on your way back down. You get up in the morning, dick!) I was face to face with one of the drill sergeants. I was sweating profusely, very angry, and very exhausted. He was skinny, and even with his huge “brown round” on he didn’t look very tall. He, along with the other drill sergeants, was either not wearing a nametape on his uniform or had it covered. I saw what was either the end or the beginning of a deep scar snaking out from under the right side of his hat to the middle of his forehead.

He moved closer, bumping my forehead with the brim of his hat, and hissed “Platoon guide. Your platoon is over there, Private. Get them in formation.”

At the time I had no idea what “platoon guide” meant. What I discovered was that I had just been handed a shit sandwich, and it was lunch time. I managed to arrange the 20+ guys into a formation and fell in with them. No, this was wrong. No. Get my ass out in front and march these guys up the sidewalk to the barracks. Turkey madness forthcoming.

EASTER

My Mom always wanted me to write about this. She saw it as such a touching story, but in all reality it is only a look into how unforgiving and intolerant the world of a soldier can be.

Routine became the only comfort in the first 3 weeks of basic training. I think the hardest part for me to get used to was what I perceived at the time as sleep deprivation. Performance without sleep is a skill that is demanded of all soldiers. Other than that, I was more than capable of handling anything the drill sergeants could throw at me. The “smoke” sessions and PT were laughable compared to the three-a-day training I had endured in football practices years ago. By observing, though, I found it best to at least act distressed under the circumstances. Drill sergeants were never short on an array of torture, and it didn’t have to be physical. I remember one kid who couldn’t let go of his ‘hood mentality. I guess he watched too many rap videos to be fooled into such conformity. He was in especially good physical condition, as I witnessed the daily attempts to physically stress him with exercise. One day he stood on the walkway in front of our barracks for 4 hours dancing like Michael Jackson. The sideways knee kick, the finger snap, and then he would turn his head and grab his crotch. For 4 hours. Eventually he wasn’t around anymore. I was surprised by the ruthless deviousness of the drill sergeants sometimes. They were even a bit cunning. Their art was obviously refined.

This is the only story I will tell about basic training, in part because it was just the fraction of my Army career that is basic training, and because it is one of the only things I remember well. To this day there are very few if any soldiers from my basic training class whose names I remember. One guy from my cycle has somehow followed the same path as myself and I still saw him every day, but most others have either been kicked out, reached their separation date and left the Army, or are floating around somewhere. I do remember faces and personalities, though, and one name in particular. PVT Easter.

I was keen on inspecting the demeanors, reactions, and personality traits of the guys around me. I surveyed their physical traits as well, just because I had always been a people watcher. I noticed one guy was obviously gay. He was more effeminate than most women I have ever seen. And all of his teeth were rotting out of his head. I was actually alarmed at the number of guys who had horrid rotten tusks in their mouths, or remnants of horrid rotten tusks. I noticed a Korean guy who was out of his mind terrified. I remember feeling sorry for him a little, because he thought screaming and going crazy was what his environment demanded of him, but in actuality he was looking pretty insane. Later on in the cycle I would have to actually physically restrain this weirdo, but I didn’t know that then. I saw a few cases of shocking acne. They were those acne cases where even though it disgusts you, you have to stare at it. Some guys had to be literally blind. I had never seen glasses of such thickness, and to make it worse they were Army “BCG’s” (birth control goggles).When we had to sound off with name and rank, I noticed one or two guys with speech impediments that were no less than debilitating. I began to wonder if I had arrived on the isle of misfit recruits.

As I watched and gathered information on what to do and what not to do I began to notice social trends. Some of them were quite alarming. The first was the state of some guys’ teeth, as I said before. I couldn’t imagine how or why any adult would allow their teeth to actually rot out. I was oblivious at the time to the fact that in many cases it is a by-product of drug addiction, so I was simply horrified. I began to notice deeper and more disturbing trends. From talking to some of the other recruits I found that approximately 70% came from poverty. Even more than that came from broken homes. For many of them the basic training life was significant improvement to their living conditions at home. Few had graduated high school; most had endured what upper-middle class people would consider some kind of physical or emotional abuse in childhood. I had remembered from one of the sociology or psychology classes I took in college what to look for in physical traits associated with certain mental deficiencies or disorders. The most alarming trend I noticed among any of them was from what I had learned to look for in one of those classes. I assessed that about half of these recruits around me suffered from fetal alcohol syndrome. I am by no means a professional, which means I could be way off. I would be very interested in the results of an independent study done on any random group of combat arms Army recruits.

I noticed a quiet kid who always seemed to have a lazy grin on his face under wide, empty eyes. He was mildly buck-toothed and looked malnourished. He was definitely one of the ones I assessed as suffering from fetal alcohol syndrome. His eyes were spread wide apart and he had a large, flat forehead. He also had a bit of a speech problem, coupled with a distinct southern drawl, but his words were discernable. His name was PVT Easter, and he was mildly retarded. The more I talked to him the more distressed I became that there had been some kind of mistake; that he shouldn’t have been sent here. I had learned already about the unforgiving nature of the drill sergeants. I will attempt to describe why their actions are nothing less than absolutely necessary later. I decided that I could care for PVT Easter and help him along until someone realized the mistake and sent him home. I would protect him as best I could. The Army had not yet destroyed my ability to generate sympathy.

Time in basic training seemed to drag out to forever to me. I hadn’t the pleasure of a combat deployment yet, and the closest I had come to this was some football camps I had attended when I was younger. 16 weeks felt like it would break my soul. I wondered if this is what prisoners in the state penitentiary felt like. At least they weren’t charged with the care of a 19 year-old operating on an 8 year-old mentality. Caring for PVT Easter was beginning to tax me with each passing week. I would spend hours trying to teach him to shine his boots, and when I tried to get him to do it himself he would just say “I forgot how.” He would forget a lot. He would frustrate me, but I surmised that frustration and anger towards him was a norm in his life. Sometimes I would wake up at the usual time-0400-after having slept only an hour or two. I had spent the small hours of the night quietly instructing Easter over and over again until exhaustion, at which point I just did his work for him. He became utterly dependent on me for everything he did. I would listen to him while he spun lavish tails about his home and conquests with his wide eyes blazing like a child relating some new discovery. The other recruits would roll their eyes and ask sarcastic questions exposing the lack of truth in the epic stories. I just listened. He would finish a whopper, maybe about killing a bear with his bare hands or something, and look to me with a child’s pride for just having presented to me a crayon masterpiece. I would generate a generic and contrived comment…”wow”, or “man you’re lucky to have lived through that”. I wouldn’t be able to carry him for this whole cycle, and I knew it. My efforts began to curb.

 Soon the state of Easter’s uniform began to draw negative attention. I tried to help him…I tried to show him, but I could no longer do it for him. One day he showed up for formation in a uniform that looked as if it had been wadded up and thrown in a corner (it most likely was), and his boots were covered in clumps of black shoe polish. It was his child-like attempt to shine his boots. He was descended upon by drill sergeants like vultures over carrion. They were yelling and berating him with their hands laid out flat pointing in his face. He, to my relief, was expressionless. Part of me thought maybe he didn’t understand what was happening; maybe he thought this attention was actually positive. Another part of me-and probably the more correct part-reckoned that he was used to this type of admonishment. Maybe this wasn’t even as bad as what he was used to. We were sent to our barracks and he was kept outside for “corrective physical training”. I could hear him sobbing a few minutes later.

I had not expected to be tried in basic training. I knew the physical training could never compare to the conditioning I had endured on the football field. I was intelligent and wise enough to resist the mind games. This, though, was trying me.

Unbeknownst to almost anyone but my family and my closest friends, I was-and still am-an emotional person. The state of my emotions currently is confusing even to me-sometimes pouncing on me out of nowhere. This is the product of 2 combat tours I am sure. I am still sympathetic, I guess, but I know where my sympathies lie. They most definitely DO NOT lie anywhere close to the enemy. I could, and have, killed men without emotion. If there was any emotion for me to describe, I guess it would be fulfillment that my enemy has been destroyed. I killed a man whose only crime may have been being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t care, and to this day I am glad he is dead. I hope the bullets hurt. I hope he was terrified. I can think this way, and then the sight of a baby makes me feel like I want to cry (as long as it’s not the enemy’s baby, then I would be indifferent). Welcome to the mind of the Soldier.

At the time, though, emotional short circuitry had not taken place. I wondered how anybody could let a retarded kid from West Virginia come here. How could his recruiter have been such a snake? How could these drill sergeants pick on a mentally handicapped person and call themselves men? I was questioning my own decisions to join an organization where this was allowed. If the men doing this were what they called “the top 10% of the NCO’s in the Army”, then I wanted nothing to do with it.

With the drill sergeants, attention is bad. If they know your name without even looking at your name tape, it’s really bad. Easter was tops on the attention list. No matter how much I tried to help him he was just too incapable. His torture was a daily occurrence now. Fortunately, he wasn’t the only one who had made his name known for all the wrong reasons, and that was all that kept him from constant scrutiny sometimes. If anything I did admire his resiliency. He would be drenched in sweat, red-faced and out of breath for the better part of every day, but he still displayed child-like pride for just being able to be there. His breaking point would be soon.

A big portion of the first few weeks of basic training, as I remember it, was spent in a classroom environment. This posed another trial I hadn’t expected: trying to stay awake during 4 hour classes designed for people of below average IQ to understand easily. You couldn’t prop your head up with your hand, which I found was a habit I had I didn’t know about. Both feet had to stay on the ground and you had to keep your eyes forward. Any deviation would result in either the whole classroom being “smoked”, or maybe just you doing a battery or core exercises for a while led by a bored drill sergeant over on the side. I actually found that being smoked was beneficial. I would literally have to do things like hold my breath or pinch the hell out of my own leg to stay awake. Holding myself up with my hands on the sides of my chair and the heels of my outstretched legs on the ground for 10 or 15 minutes, though, that got my blood flowing. I was good for at least a half an hour after that. Easter was another story. I wondered how God allowed him to have narcolepsy on top of all the other ailments. He probably didn’t have narcolepsy, but he would lose the fight with sleep quite often. One day, just as I looked over to see him with his chin buried in his chest drooling, I heard his name blasted out by the drill sergeant on the side of the classroom.

“PVT EASTER COME ON DOWN!”

He said it like on The Price is Right, of course. Usually the one not teaching was the “monitor” type, sneaking up on unsuspecting recruits asleep in the classroom. Sometimes it was funny when their sleepy eyes would roll open to see a drill sergeant, eyes wide and smiling, as close to their face as the brim of their hat would allow. Easter jumped and wiped his mouth, then realized what was happening. He looked confused for moment, and then figured it out. He got up and walked over to the drill sergeant standing on the side of the classroom with his arms crossed. Easter reported at “parade rest” with his arms behind his back, in front of the drill sergeant. In the interest of not interrupting the class the exchange was kept at low volume. Easter had a strange look on his face. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. The drill sergeants exchanged a quick glance, and we were told to file out of the classroom and get in formation on the sidewalk outside. The classroom was an old cafeteria, by the way, and didn’t have air conditioning. I didn’t know of any building on Ft Knox that did. The windows were the kind that has the turning handle lock in the middle and fold in, and they were all open. I could hear every word of the following exchange, as well as everybody else.

“It’s real easy, PVT Easter. All you have to do is say you refuse to train. You don’t want to do this shit just say you refuse. It could all be over.”

He began sobbing again, which I had almost gotten desensitized to at this point. His crying made his speech impediment worse. The drill sergeants began to tag team him.

“What are you going to do PVT Easter? It doesn’t get any easier, dick. You’re crying now what the hell do you think is going to happen when your ass goes to Iraq. Oh and by the way you will go to Iraq.”

“Oh I know-you’ll cry and say you can’t do it and everything will be ok, right, dick? I’ll let you in on a little something, asshole. When your pussy starts to hurt and you lock up when the shit hits the fan guess who gets killed? Nope, not you. Never you, dick. It’s me! Or my battle buddy or your squad leader! They get killed because you want to be a pussy and cry when shit gets hard instead of soldiering up and doing your GOD DAMNED job!!”

Easter emits some sort of cry of frustration during this. He is broken, and I know it.

“I REFEWSE TO TWAIN!”

The drill sergeants tell him to recover and join our formation. Every recruit standing outside had expected nothing less than a severe beating for these words. There was silence as Easter exited, the drill sergeants trailing behind him. We were marched in cadence back to the barracks, where business as usual resumed.

Easter wasn’t seen until later that night. He approached me to tell me it was his last night there-he would be leaving in the morning. He presented me with a crudely folded letter and told me not to read it until he was gone.

I opened the letter the next day after Easter had left. It was hand-written in a blue ballpoint pen. The handwriting was worse than I had imagined it would be, and I thought his grammar and spelling was on a third grade level at best.  The words were scrawled across the paper, sometimes with no regard for the lines they were in. When I read it, though, I found that the writing was not the most appalling part. He began by thanking me for trying to help him, blaming himself for always being “to dum” to keep up. He went on to talk about going home and about his family. He lived with his grandmother, as apparently both of his parents were somehow in dispose-he never explained where they were. From what I gathered she only tolerates him. He then went on to describe his life to some extent. Parts of the writing were not discernable, but I did my best to try to decipher it. He said that he was not always so dumb; that he had been almost normal when he was younger. His consciousness of his retardation indicated to me that he was constantly reminded of it by someone other than himself. He said that his mother tried to kill him when he was four by tying rope around his neck and smothering him with a pillow.  In his own words he said that the only reason he lived was because someone caught her and stopped her. He had been rendered unconscious, though, and was not revived in time to avoid the brain damage that is an effect of oxygen deprivation. This wasn’t his explanation, but it is what I believed happened. He just said that this incident was what made him the way he is. I was trapped in a painful introspection for quite a while after reading that letter.

Slowly I began to understand the necessity of the drill sergeants’ actions. He was stern but fair and he performed his job to perfection. PVT Easter didn’t belong where he was. The Army is as unforgiving and unaccommodating as combat itself. It has to be.

Effects

I did it because I wanted to commit suicide. Not real physical suicide. I wanted to commit what I termed in my own head as personal suicide. I wanted to kill my personality. Unfortunately, when the personality is killed what remains is emptiness…and filling the cold depths of that hole was a hard thing to do. No one would love me. I couldn’t do anything right. I lost jobs and quit even more. I was an alcoholic and a womanizer. I forced anyone that cared about me away. All I could do was distribute the pain inside me to those around me.

Dusty men in cumbersome body armor sacrificed their lives. Many that didn’t sacrifice their lives lost everything they cared about anyway, but I didn’t know that yet. I watched them run through the streets of a hot and filthy place, eyes burning with fear and hatred. They survived and destroyed on a TV screen. This was what I had decided my body would do after the soul had been ripped out of it. After the personal suicide I would commit, I would save the world from the murderous cowardice of the enemies of all mankind. I couldn’t waste my soul in real suicide, when there was such a purpose waiting for the still useful remains of it’s demise. 

My suicide was not my only reason. Who would refuse this calling? Who says they are too imbedded in their own comfortable (or uncomfortable) world not to do this? I was strong and there was resolve in me yet. These men would not face the Coward without me. They would not survive and destroy without my remains. I had given up but I was not wasteful. What if 10 more like me made the decision that it was somebody else’s problem? What if 100 or 10,000 more said that? Already there was thunder in the distance of my being.

I told my friends I was wading into a forest. I told them that I would see them on the other side. I have found that there is no other side…I have found that I may be turning a corner that never ends. As we all will do, I slipped off to face my death, silent and alone. I have forgotten those friends…their faces and voices are as dark and distorted as my own mind was when I saw them last.

I spent time at the gates of hell. I spent time flying with the wings of a demon, asking myself if I was still an angel. I swung death's scythe and realized that it's arc is a circle. It visits those that bring it to bear just as much as those it has been dealt upon.

Death of a Soldier

I can’t hear. Sounds like air is rushing in my head. Ears are ringing. I can’t see. I might be blinking my eyes but I don’t know. I may be moving my hands but I don’t know.

I hear her little breath in my ear. A morning where we got to sleep in. I open my eyes to my beautiful girl. Her arm is wrapped around a drinking cup. Her hair isn’t so thin anymore. I remember we had to cut it because it was getting in her eyes. Her legs are long. The baby fat rolls on her wrists are gone away. Her fingernails are painted red…she already wants to be like mommy. The sun has risen and is shining bright, reflecting off the white sheets. Her little breath is in my ear.

A drop of mud falls on my face. I’m surprised how that happened in my bedroom. Somebody outside in the yard is screaming. My stomach hurts…where is my little girl? I clutch for her with mud caked fingers. Noises that are abominations surround me. I hear breathing again but it’s a gasp…it’s me… it’s so hard to breathe. My stomach hurts.

Breathing turns into waves crashing upon a beach. Abominable sounds change to the wind. Screaming becomes a gull. Smoke becomes white clouds high above me. It’s a familiar beach…I remember walking and being carried here. The war is over.

There was something there...

It was tour #2. We had arrived in an enormous air base outside of Nasiriyah called FOB Adder, or Talil Air Base. There was a huge DFAC (dining facility), with bacon and eggs for breakfast, sodas, and dinners that made me almost feel at home. We had nice metal buildings to live in called "CHU's", with electricity, wireless internet and air conditioning. There were warm showers and washing machines, and a gym that rivaled Gold's. Other than an occasional rocket or mortar pop shot, there was very little evidence of enemy in the area. It somewhat stifled the expectations I had for this tour. I almost felt guilty. It wouldn't last, though.




In about the time it took to get used to the kushy routine in this "combat zone", we got our orders to move out. We had been informed previously that we wouldn't be staying. We (meaning our battalion-the 2-7 Cavalry) were to push out to the outskirts of a city called "Amarra" and set up shop. This place was about 15 miles from the border of Iran. If the thought of a battalion-sized convoy pushing down roads that hadn't been patrolled since the initial invasion wasn't enough to instill a looming sense of dread, the thought of being within a rocket strike of the Iranian Army was. We knew all to well that Iranians were crossing back and forth to execute hit-and-run attacks on the coalition forces. These guys were trained, and had munitions manufactured within the last few years in their own country, as opposed to your average Iraqi insurgent using antiquated Russian equipment in ill-advised and lazily executed ambushes. We would learn about their accurate fires soon enough. That's for another story, though. This one is about the night when there was something there.


After enduring a few terrifying and somewhat accurate rocket attacks, base command decided that a rotating patrol duty would begin running at night through known launch sites to deter enemy activity. They only attacked in darkness, and their methods were effective. They built adjustable stands to place the rockets on, with a crank mechanism for elevation. Once the rockets were set to the right trajectory, they installed timers that had been removed from clothes dryers as the launch catalyst. When the rockets finally launched they had been gone for an hour or more. The patrols were meant more as a deterrence than a means to actually catch anyone in the act. That never happened.


This duty was particularly tedious as an add-on to what we were already doing, and when it came around we just had to "embrace the suck". We patrolled during the days, each with assigned local governmental or law enforcement bodies to interact with and train. This was in addition to an all night patrol when it was your Platoon's turn, so sleep wasn't happening.



We were given free reign as far as what to do when we were patrolling our designated areas. We could stop and search vehicles, personnel, or buildings if we felt it necessary. There was a curfew in effect, and anyone out and about was suspicious, anyway. Usually, we would take up positions in our trucks and "black out", using only night vision or thermal viewers if they were available. Our positions were not static, and we would move around every hour or so to cover more ground.


On one particular night, we had taken up positions in a marshy area surrounded by sparse palm groves. We exited the road and moved about 300 meters back into the darkness to watch. On the other side of the road was a home that sat on top of a hill, with a long, winding driveway leading downward.


"Somebody's digging next to the road."


It was my Platoon Sergeant. He was keeping his radio transmissions short. We all knew what digging next to the road meant. It meant that the hole being dug would be impregnated with something along the lines of a 155mm artillery round, set to blast the next bunch of American devils that roll by in their Humvee's. That was us on this night. I spoke up.


"Where?"


"At the end of that driveway."


I scanned with my night vision and saw the figure. He was stooped over hacking at the ground with some kind of short handled tool. There were some red flags, though. If this guy lived here, and he was planting an IED at the end of his own driveway, he either had a death wish or he was in the running for Iraq's dumbest insurgent. I kept my doubts to myself, and observed for a few more minutes. He dropped the tool and picked up something that was laying on the ground, depositing it into the hole he had just dug. That was all my Platoon Sergeant needed to see.


"Let's go."


Our M-1114 Up-Armored Humvees rumbled to life. The gunners in the turrets were hunched down, peering through the faint green light of their night vision. We assaulted to the digging man in seconds, and were on top of him before he knew what was happening. Looking back, we were pretty surgical about this stuff. Two gunners pointed in at the man and his hole, and two gunners pointed out for security, scanning outside of the half-moon we had formed. He dropped everything he was doing and screamed, putting his hands in the air and falling to his knees. His eyes were wide and he was breathing through his mouth, displaying the fact that he had about four tusk-like teeth left in his head. He had a long, scraggly gray beard, and his face was deeply lined and cracked. This guy was old.


Drivers and gunners stayed in the trucks while everyone else got out and approached the man staring down their sights. Luckily, we had an interpreter with us that shouted commands. The man shouted back as we watched. After a few quick Arabic exchanges, the interpreter turned to us, and in his thick accent explained what was happening.


"He was bury his trash. Look. Look...his trash is there."


One of the Soldiers in my Platoon approached the hole.


"Yup. Its a bag of trash."


We searched it, and it was, in fact, a bag of stinky, rotten vegetables. Not enough to take out an Armor Platoon. My Platoon Sergeant wasn't happy that we had exposed ourselves, and in the interest of operational security, decided to search the man's house. We wanted to be sure that he wasn't calling his Iranian Commando buddies to set up a hit for us as soon as our tail lights were out of sight.


We took the man in the back of one of our trucks and headed to the top of the hill, where his house sat. Upon arriving at the crest, my stomach started to turn. This wasn't a house, it was a compound. The small house that was visible from the road was just the front of it. Behind the house were several large garages with high ceilings, and a few other run down metal buildings. The whole area was strewn with remnants of cars and other machinery. This guy was obviously some kind of junk broker. My stomach turned because of the possibilities. That area was a death trap, and I knew some of us would be searching it. As we fanned out and my Platoon Sergeant was dealing with the man, I decided to split the Platoon up. Three would search the house with the Platoon Sergeant and the interpreter, while three would come with me to look around the back. The others were either drivers or gunners, and had to stay with the trucks. I told them to go "white light", meaning use your flashlights. I wasn't taking my chances with the sometimes distorted green view of out PVS-14 monoculars. Plus, if there was anything back there, they already knew we were here.


We skirted a makeshift fence to our right, heading towards the first large garage structure. It was more the size of a small warehouse, with a huge opening in the front. There was no door, and it was pretty dilapidated. It was nothing too crazy, and definitely nothing I had not seen before. My throat started to tighten. As we approached this building, my heart began to steadily pick up pace. There were no indications of danger, and I wasn't sure why this was happening. I was almost frustrated with it.


I have a recurring dream. It's actually a recurring nightmare, and I call it recurring because its a dream that doesn't begin the same way, but always ends the same way. I could be dreaming anything.


No matter where I am, or what I am doing, though, I begin to know that it's coming. What "it" is I have yet to figure out, because I have never seen it. It could be the feeling it generates alone...a steadily growing sense of horror and darkness, engulfing my dream in blackness. I can never run from it; as if I become frozen. I can only stand and attempt to howl in fear as it surrounds me. It seems to come from the ground up, swirling around me in terror, awakening me to a pounding heart and usually the wide eyed gaze of my wife.
I was feeling this terror. Almost to the point of questioning whether I had dozed off while scanning in my truck. This was too visceral...too real to be a dream. I could feel the salty crust of dried sweat around the neckpiece of my body armor. I could smell the livestock bedded down in the back of the compound. The Soldiers with me were moving independently, and obviously not sharing the terror that was welling inside me. My breathing began to speed up. I could feel me heart pounding in my ears. I was a leader, and my men could not see this happening to me. I tried my best to contain any signs.
As we reached the building we "stacked up" on the near side of the opening in front. I knew that if I spoke my voice would sound shaky. I pointed to the first man up and directed him to move out with hand signals. Both of them shot me a perplexed look over their shoulder, wondering why I didn't vocalize orders, and it served to change the seriousness of the movement. As soon as the first man moved we were all moving on each other's heels. We rounded the corner and what I saw served to kick up the sense of dread I had already been grappling with.
The building was empty, save some old run down tractors parked in the back. The part that made me flinch was the fact that there was a series of walkways along the inside of the roof. There was a stair leading up to them on our right. In the darkness there would have been no way to tell if there was a sniper's barrel trained on us, a series of barrels, a trigger man, or worse.
There was thick dust hanging in the air. It was accentuated by a shaft of moonlight shining through a hole in the roof. My heart was pounding so hard that I could literally see my body jumping with each beat. There was something there. My conscious was screaming at me. There's something here. Get them out. Get them out!
I vocalized quickly.


"Move out. Let's go! Get out of here!"


One of the Soldiers with me was half-way up the stairs to the cat walk. He looked back confused, but quickly moved back down and out. If I said it, I must have seen something.
The guys with me never spoke about it. They never asked what I saw. Not one word. As we were walking back to the gate I looked back at the structure. It seemed to be breathing...yawning...brought almost to life in fury; angered that whatever warning system touched my soul had stolen us away from it.
After searching the man's house the other guys found nothing of interest. As far as I know, nothing ever happened in that spot while we were on our tour there.


About two years after I had returned home, in another pitched night of attempted sleep, that place appeared in my dreams. I was there, in the hanging dust, standing alone in the middle of the structure. I looked down at my rifle, and immediately noticed that the barrel was bent. It most certainly would not fire. I dropped my hand to my leg, only to finger the empty hole in my drop-holster where my pistol would be.  There was movement on the catwalk above me. It was coming. The terrifying darkness that always chased and froze me was blowing in like a cold breeze. I struggled to howl...to yell for help...but my mouth wouldn't open. As the shroud came over me, releasing me to run down the tunnel, I saw a glowing set of green eyes staring down from the catwalk. I was supposed to have belonged to it, whatever it was.

'05-'06 Bagdhad

The images are still there in my mind. The person that viewed them isn't.


In combat, differentiating one day from another becomes a daunting task. They run together, separated by visceral things, such as if it was 130 degrees outside that day, or if you remember the particular stench of an area or an image that you can't ever forget. It was late summer in 2006. This day separated itself from the blur of sweat, dust, fuel and the whine of the Abrams engine early. There were streams of dark blood snaking through the dust and dirt on the streets.


We had a mission to infiltrate and lock down an area of southwest Baghdad called the "Doura Market". Unbeknownst to us, a tank company with an attached infantry platoon, we were part of the spearhead for the "Surge" of 2007-2008. Al Doura was actually a neighborhood just outside of the "Sunni Triangle", also called the "Triangle of Death". There was a large outdoor market situated in the middle of towering apartment complexes and shops, giving this area the Doura Market nickname. On this day the market was deserted. That's not to say there weren't people out. There were hundreds of people out. Maybe thousands. They were lining the sides of the streets, carrying everything they could find on their backs or in makeshift carts. Men with lined faces that looked years older than they actually were, veiled women, and children, all moving in endless lines to nowhere. Some of the kids understood, and trudged along sharing the load and the looks of disdain and despair on their parent's faces. Others were oblivious, hopping and playing with their siblings or others around them, having not lost the innocence and hope they were born with. They were fleeing. As imposing as we were, thundering around in our 60 indestructible killing machines in displays that would actually register as a small earthquake, they weren't fleeing from us. We had seen this before in the rural area where one of our outposts was located. We knew what was happening. These people were Shi'ite people, fleeing ahead of the Sunni thugs-the Al Queda we were looking for-that were threatening their lives. The Shi'ite people had their own thugs, called the Mahdi Army, and they were lead by a man named Muqtata Al Sadr. Invariably, both were what waited for the Coalition forces in every deserted alley. We were a target of opportunity in a war for control of a collapsed country.


We were assigned as security for the door-to-door clearing mission our grunts were undertaking. We would patrol the streets, block by block, and scoop up any threats. Military doctrine used to say that tanks are ineffective in urban areas. We rewrote the book. I was inside the turret, peering through the sites coupled with the 120mm main gun and its coaxial machine gun. I could see what brand cigarette someone was smoking two blocks away. I could also belch out a burst of 7.62 from that coax with enough accuracy to take cherry off the tip of that cigarette. With the flip of a switch even more terrible things would happen if I pulled the trigger on my "Cadillac" handles. Sitting inside the breech of the main gun was what was called a "canister round". Basically, a 120mm shotgun shell with 3000 pinball-sized orbs of tungsten. When it was fired, targets literally ceased to exist, having been so thoroughly shredded that no remnant of them could be found. One of my best platoon mates was above me in the commander's cupola directing the tank. Beside him was our medic, resting in the loader's hatch, and below in the belly of the tank, called the hull, was my barracks roommate and the best damn tank driver that had ever chewed Copenhagen.


During this time and in this place it was not unusual to hear explosions and gunfire often. It was a war zone...I remember our dark jest when hearing a particularly large explosion. "Somebody's day just got f*cked up", we would say, grinning not because it was funny, but because in our minds this somehow lowered the chances that our day was the one being f*cked up. Soldiers at war tend to develop as sense of humor that is just as dark and hopeless as their surroundings. We were laughing about some lost macabre joke as we transmitted to each other from tank to tank, in between short spot reports and decisions on where to turn next. I was concentrating on scanning with the turret. As we rounded each corner the barrel of the main gun was the first thing anyone would see. By the time the body of the tank was in view it was pointed directly at wherever the tank was headed. I wasn't participating in the radio chatter. To be honest, I wanted a kill. I visualized some thug, trying to get a shot off with his RPG and duck back into an alley, not knowing how quickly he would be sawed to bits by the accurate fires of my coax. I was hyperaware, even though I was soaked in sweat and suffocating in the my airless hole.


Gunfire rang out often, and sometimes it was only one or two blocks over from where we were. Radio traffic dictated that it wasn't our guys. We headed in the direction of each burst, and just as we arrived it would seem like it moved either to where we just were, or to the next block over. Welcome to the Iraq war, where you never see who you are fighting. Something new was on our next street. As we turned the corner I noticed two people laying behind some rubble. There they were. The dumbasses that were actually going to give it a shot. I broke in to radio traffic reporting what I was seeing. There was no RPG, though. Not even an AK. And they didn't seem to be looking at us. Maybe they didn't see us? It was a possibility. One of the first things I learned about fighting "insurgents", or any other enemy in Iraq for that matter, was that when it came to combat they were hopelessly inept. They could generate casualties with their IED's and ambush tactics, but most of the times their plans were shoddy, and their will to carry them out was even more defective. Most were horribly inaccurate with any weapon system they used, and they were just plain lazy. On top of that, their equipment was outdated and dilapidated; remnants from the USSR's military monster of the 70's and 80's. I respected their resourcefulness, and recognized their equipment issues, but they were not a dedicated enemy. I read books about wars often, and had read several about Vietnam. The Viet-Kong...that's a dedicated enemy. Not these guys. We slowed to a crawl, with 20 weapon systems poised to annihilate what appeared now to be a man and a teenage boy laying on top of one another behind the rubble.


I remember wondering if I had ever seen a black person in Iraq. These guys were obviously black. Both of them. We halted our crawl and I was directed to inspect them closer through the sites. Neither of them moved. Their heads were turned so that their faces were away from my view. It finally dawned on me that I was looking at two dead men. It actually took me that long to figure it out. I still don't know if I understand it. Once we decided they were dead one of my buddies from another tank was ordered to dismount and get a look from the ground. The streets in Iraqi cities are strewn with wire. In the absence of infrastructure and any public works, people run primitive power lines from their houses to any active source they can find. This street was no exception. We were weary that a detonation cord could be mixed in with the masses of wires running overhead and on the ground. There was a high possibility we were being watched. Weapon systems, rifles, and sites that were all fixed on one target immediately started pointing out, scanning every window, shadow, and rooftop. My buddy inched closer, looking down the barrel of his rifle. When he got within 10 feet his tense posture eased. He circled so that he could see their faces. I could have been standing next to him, even though I was almost 100 meters away, with the aid of the sites. He gazed down for a second and dropped the barrel of his rifle down. He paused briefly, then started back to his tank. To me, this played out in silence. He knew I was watching and made a face at me as he walked back, drawing his lips back over his teeth. When he returned to the tank he informed us that they had been dead a while, and that they were black because they had been baked by the sun. He told me the face he made was what they looked like, with their lips drawn back in the beginnings of decay. He also said that the boy was probably about 10 years old, and that they both had several holes in their skulls that seemed to small to be caused by a bullet. We would learn later on that a power drill was the preferred tool of torture used by some of the ghouls that had appeared there. I remember when I watched the movie American Sniper, that part was particularly difficult for me.


We chose to move on. The gunfire exchanges were picking up and seemed to be getting closer. I was being stifled by the heat. I asked the medic in the loader's hatch if he would trade spots with me for a minute so I could come up and get some air. He obliged, and soon my nostrils were filled with the aroma of gas and vomit-the official prominent smells of Iraq. We came to an area of the sector that actually had moving traffic and several cars on the street. Our movements came to a crawl, and we searched for side roads to go around. Being help up in traffic was a bad idea if our grunt pals called for the cavalry. We peeled off left at the next alley. As we turned, I noticed that we were heading down a road with houses on either side. They had walls around them, like most houses there do, with green lawns that stood in contrast to the bland, dusty surroundings. They had elaborate gates at the front of each house, and I surmised that we were in what would be considered an affluent area. As we crawled down the street I noticed a large pile of clothes in the front of a house that was ahead and to my left. There were shoes and several robes piled on top of each other. As we drew closer I noticed the flesh of arms and legs mixed in. I was looking at another pile of dead bodies. These were much newer than the ones before, with dark crimson streaks of blood snaking away to the sides of the road.
The mass was so jumbled that I couldn't tell how many bodies were actually there, but judging from the size and counting visible hands and feet, I guessed at least four. They couldn't have died in this fashion, and had obviously been thrown on top on one another. Again we stopped. Again the call went out for a dismount to investigate. Abruptly, and seemingly involuntarily, I said "I'll go". My actual position on the tank was that of loader, and the loader is always the dismount should the need arise. This allowed it to be a viable option. I was on the ground in my green Nomex crewman's suit, with my body armor and mitch helmet on. I was carrying my M-4 carbine and 3 magazines on my vest, and I was walking down a street in arguably the most volatile part of Iraq at the time by myself. Curiosity still flickered inside me at this point. As I drew closer I saw that the thumb on one of the hands had been cut off. The meat and exposed bone caused me to hesitate. I was carrying an ICOM radio, and my platoon leader quickly came over the net asking why I stopped. I replied no reason. I raised the barrel of my rifle and crept forward in a more aggressive posture, somehow hoping that maybe it would scare away any more horrific images I may see. All of the people were women. Their heads were covered, which is why I had mistaken them for a pile of clothes. There were two more hands with the thumbs cut off. I remember thinking that it looked like they had been sawed off. Their arms were riddled with holes from the drill, especially around the elbows. I guess drilling into the joint caused the most amount of pain. I didn't want to see anymore, and started back. My platoon leader came over the net again.


"How many?"
"Four, I think."
"I need to know exact. The IP are on their way."
(IP=Iraqi Police)


This meant I would have to try to count. I walked around the pile, counting as many heads as I could see. I got to five. I also noticed something flesh-toned under the flowing part of one of the robes. Because of how it was positioned, it could not have been a part of one of the visible women. With the barrel of my rifle I lifted the cloth.


He was laying face down on the chest of a woman. His hair was caked in dried blood, and there was a drill wound to the back of his head. I saw his feet and little hands...I guessed maybe 6 or 8 months. He had on a shirt with little soccer balls on it and little jogging pants. Both of his arms were at his sides, palms up. He was dead before whoever was holding him. In the inetrest of my sanity's preservation, I like to try to convince myself that it wasn't his Mother. I exhaled forcefully, and dropped the cloth back over him. I felt like there was an explosion inside of me. Sadness, sickness, fury...My daughter had just been born months before, and I was to see her for the first time very soon.


Innocence remains in men until it is killed. Not the childhood innocence, but the hope that some things just don't exist. The ignorance of a naiveté we afford ourselves as Americans. I felt like a child who believed so earnestly in Santa Claus, only to catch his parents placing toys late on a Christmas Eve night. I knew evil was there. But I lived behind walls, and I could choose to acknowledge it or I could choose "not be so negative". I stared it in the eyes this day, and felt it's breath on my neck. When that happens to a man, some of what is good in him wilts and dies. It can defeat us. It can turn our heads from light forever. To overcome it is like beating a disease. My battle began that day.


"Six" I said into my ICOM, walking back and swallowing the feelings of what I had just seen like a huge gulp of dirty motor oil.


We found 39 bodies that day. I didn't volunteer to investigate any more. We found a man with a gunshot wound to the head tied to a pole that was still convulsing. We found a few that had tried to run and were gunned down. We found more children. The last visceral image I remember from that day was an Iraqi Police truck with all 39 bodies piled in the back pulling away. Rigor mortis had set in for many of them, making it look like a truckload of mannequins with stiff arms and legs protruding out.