We Lost

A year fighting over this stupid little scrap of land. Smoked and joked and worked to the bone and alone and miserable and tired and afraid and in pain. Shot at, blown up, narrowly avoiding death and killing. The love of my life leaving me, my best friend dying, lying in the freezing cold and rain pouring through the roof, my laptop broken and my books burned, six weeks pulling guard with a broken hand in a cast, time spent filthy and time spent stumbling through the darkness by night vision and time spent sitting on rocks halfway up the mountains, and time spent looking through binoculars and thermals in search of them, pages and pages of diaries and stories and love and heartbreak and thousands of miles between me and someone that could understand me, in the most pointless dead poor and miserable valley in the world. And for what?

Nothing. We gave it to them.

http://english.aljazeera.net/video/asia/2011/04/2011499027121809.html

War Wounds

From The Electrifying Conclusion, 31 March, 2035 hrs

‘When did you start smoking, Frenchie?’

I want to say that it was after Tabada died. They kept offering me cigarettes, then. ‘End of February.’

‘That’s understanding.’

“Did he know what I meant to say? Sgt Hullet and I were smoking in the dark, under the concrete bunker, out of the rain. The rain that I had prayed for, even though it delayed my friend Bennet’s flight. How selfish of me, I wanted to hear it, see and feel it, smell it on the concrete. Bennet needs to go home. His wife is asking for a divorce, she took all the money he made on this deployment, and he reenlisted for Germany, where he cannot see his kids for 3 years, and he is addicted to pain killers for his back pain, the back that wretched from carrying a machine gun and hundreds of rounds of ammo.

“But his wife, he loved her and he is such a nice guy. He was so happy to have her, thought himself so lucky. That is what breaks my heart, a deeper sympathy than I am familiar. Michelle was worried because she’d seen so many relationships fail. So many tragedies on all of us, wounds of war.

“After nearly a month, I have been reunited with my platoon, moved into their tent with them. I am happy to see Barrientos again, with the rest I am getting along. They will drive our trucks to Shinwar for the next unit, and on the 5th, we are flying to Bagram Air Field.”

Acquaintanceship-2

Sitting on a concrete block on the side of the road, head thankfully buried in a book  that I borrowed from Mische. The sun beats on my neck with my head bent forward, so I pick up to seek some shade. I see MacFarlane sitting against a Hesco barrier; he must have come in on the bird last night. It’s the twenty-seventh, I haven’t seen him for a month. Not Since Tabada died.

I sit down next to him, and the conversation is at first unsteady and halting. He’s brought the guitar. He says that Tabada probably played it more than he did anyway. At first it was a question of selling it or burning it, to get rid of those memories. But he says he’s going to mail it back home, get one of Tabada’s drawings etched on the back. I like that idea more.

An ant crawls on me, carrying something. I pick it up to drop it on the ground, but it sticks to my hand. I shake it off, but it drops what it was carrying on my leg, and I look closer. Curled up, it is the dead body of another ant.

I tell MacFarlane about learning Japanese, and he tells me that he wanted to go ahead with the Japan trip to honor Tabada, but he just didn’t want to go alone. It was the same with me, even though I’m still preparing to go to Japan, I can’t stand the idea of going alone. Tabada was our mutual friend, we were both close to him but not quite close to each other. I want to ask, but not now. We can go, together. I suppose he at least needs to know that it’s an option.

Acquaintanceship

Enjoying a cigarette and an Americano at a table outside Green Beans Coffee, JAF’s coffee shop. It’s past nine o’clock and no sign of the guys from my platoon on the detail. I figured I’d meet them here at our usual spot instead of going to breakfast with them this morning. So as I wait, someone I barely know takes a seat next to me. His name is Frank.

He asks some questions about mutual acquaintances, and we start talking. One of those divulgent people, ready to go on about their life story, and I learn a lot about him quickly. I like people like that. It makes me feel like my father.

I walk over to the other side of the coffee shop to chat with Basset, who is seated with BCG. While we’ve been here at JAF, we’ve taken to giving a lot of the women around here nicknames in three-letter acronyms, always ending in G. She’s Big Clock Girl, because, for some reason, she carries a large wall clock with her everywhere she goes. She has it now, resting her drink on it. I meant to ask, but it slipped my mind.

Mische comes by, an FO from Charlie company like me, who got exiled here  long time ago by our boss. He knows BCG, and her friend joins her too. I ask Mische about his wife, and we talk about books, and I almost slap my forehead- this is the guy that borrowed Purgatorio from me! I haven’t been able to find a good book to read, but I’m sure he has something worth reading. So he takes me back to his room to grab something.

My guys don’t come, and I end up on a different detail with the ones that are here, like Basset, who is a pretty good guy. I’m glad I met him. Made a slightly different choice in the morning, and ended up with a fresh change from the routine.

Pathway of Memory

From The Electrifying Conclusion, 19 March, 2328 hrs, Jalalabad Air Field, Afghanistan.

Step outside for a cigarette. The wind that brings clouds and takes them. Smoke standing on the back steps. High full moon through the loft dust. On the towers and the buildings a light a bit yellow, from the moon shiroi, and flashing green to pass. Lights in darkness. The Chinook that first borne me away from here. Seat by the gunner, wind strong like now that beats the tent alive, like wings struggling to fly, and as we flew, looking down at the base at night, the cluster of lights in darkness.

The ships at sea, just clusters of light in darkness. To vault over the gunwale, lose myself in that great expanse. The separateness of them, of the little things that live and grow in the desert that she loves. Close my eyes, and the nicotine makes me feel cold, water in the sea cold, the wind rocks me in waves.

The Limbo You’ve Always Wanted

From The Electrifying Conclusion, 18 March 1104 hrs

Jalalabad Air Field, Afghanistan. Have been here 14 days. They removed my cast on the ninth. Said nothing of breaking my hand to my parents. Called them last night, Mom said I should keep a journal. Malibu Rum. Spend a lot of time on Japanese. My only active endeavor. Everyone that comes here temporarily on their way home, that is in our Battalion, we all stay in a large tent right next to the runway. It is very often very loud, as now.

Very bright and warm here, having trouble thinking straight. Indecisive. Hard enough the future, but even just what to do right now. I get very sad to see that Michelle can be so happy without me. I guess that’s selfish. hate loud noises and engines. Worried about Japan. What will I do. Will I be disappointed. Feels good to have my hand back.

I still have to fight this feeling of meaninglessness. I cannot compete against 7 Billion multiplied by the ages of man. Nothing that any of us does really matters. Lost in the crowd. No one wants to listen to stories. It’s hard to keep a whole life to yourself. What is there for us, then? We are free in the anonymity of history. God, it feels good to write with a pen again.

Cigarettes don’t last long enough. But they give me a dizzy feeling. Took 2 Flexoral and 2 Benadryl last night to no effect. Stayed up till 0100 reading about the history of Kanji. Can I even make my own life into what I want it to be? While we are here, I am not often alone. I have people to eat with. To chat with, but no one to talk to. I am afraid of going back. I do not want to be alone. I don’t want to eat alone.

Watashi wa kekkon tomodachi ga irimasu.

Throwing in the Towel

“Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?”

T.S. Eliot

I keep digging at myself, trying to get a reaction. Sitting on the bench seat of a Chinook helicopter, pack in hand, leaving COP Michigan forever. But there’s no reaction. The woman you loved left you for another man. Your best friend is dead. Your hand is broken and in a cast. You’re leaving your home of a year never to return. But there’s nothing, no catharsis, only a disaffected awareness of the situation.

The war ended for me when he died. They took me off guard, and with a broken hand I couldn’t go on mission either, so I just sat around. I didn’t even know what to do with my time, it felt weird to spend it watching TV or playing video games. I kept learning Japanese. Still unsure if I’m going to go without him, but, as T.H. White says, “The best thing for being sad is to learn something.” But I wasn’t that sad, just confused. I couldn’t think about the future, couldn’t make up my mind about anything.

Though I started smoking, I didn’t have my own cigarettes. There was no place to buy them, but after that people offered them to me all the time. I was sitting outside smoking while some of the other soldiers were talking about the protests in nearby Nangalam. They couldn’t understand why the people would protest the shutting down of a military base.

Without thinking, I said, “They want us in this valley because we bring aid. They fight us in order to keep us here.” They all looked at me. It’s all a scam, and we’re the ones getting scammed. All their impotent attack strategies make sense now. They only wanted to keep us around, keep us fighting them, so that we help out the villages, and create jobs for them on our bases. They knew that if they only stopped fighting, we’d leave.

One of them looked heartbroken. Another, a dissenter, said that he’d told everyone how smart I am. I told them, “I’ve been keeping that to myself because it’s a bit demoralizing. But….I guess it doesn’t matter anymore”

I went back on the guard schedule shortly before I left. They had to send me on a detail to FOB Fenty/Jalalabad Air Field to manage the outgoing equipment. It was their only chance to send me somewhere I could get x-rays after getting the cast taken off. But it meant missing Tabada’s memorial service.

Never seeing his face makes it feel like he’s not really dead. It’s easier that way.

They Call Them Heroes

Two days ago, my best friend died.

That afternoon I was on guard in the tower until 1700. Towards the end of my shift I was studying the Japanese characters of the Hiragana alphabet that I had copied down into my notebook, The Electrifying Conclusion. I got off guard and ate dinner; I was playing Super Mario Bros 3 when someone came in. He said that Bushmaster came in the gate with casualties, he saw Tabada slumped over, he thought he was dead.

I walked outside and they told me not to go anywhere near the truck. I looked through a gap in the T-wall barriers and saw a scorch mark on the door. I crossed the HLZ and passed their medic, a very young kid. He looked so shaken, I wasn’t sure if I should ask, but I did. He mumbled something and kept walking. So I went to the aid station. My squad leader told me not to go in. He was standing outside wearing blue latex gloves. I asked him what happened. He wouldn’t tell me. He said they’ll put out that information later. I walked away.

Crossing the HLZ again my team leader approached me with Tabada’s team leader in Bravo (Bushmaster) company. He told me what happened. There was plenty of time to get the details later. An RPG hit square in the middle of the door of his truck and killed him. One of the dismounted soldiers responded with a hand-held LAW missile from a nearby ditch. He said he knew he had to tell me because he knew we were close.

After that my team leader, CPL Wilder, followed me around. We ended up behind our old wooden buildings, and he offered me a cigarette, and I smoked it. I hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t thought much, didn’t know what to think. Then I thought of my Dad.

I had always mentioned Tabada to my parents over the phone, we had met in training and became friends at our unit. So they knew him already when he and Baggenstoss came home with me for Thanksgiving the year before last. The whole family met him, and he and my Dad became friends in their own right. Sometimes Tabada would relay messages from my Dad to me after they’d been IMing.

“I want to call my Dad.” Not just because I hurt, but because it was his friend too. When a soldier gets severely hurt or injured we go on communications blackout, so that rumor doesn’t reach the family before a Chaplain does. Wilder took me to see our squad leader to see if an exception can be made. But he said no.

The light began to fail, as we were waiting for the helicopter that will escort him out of here. They will only come here after dark because of the danger, but soldiers crowd around the HLZ, awaiting their chance to salute him. They don’t call them K.I.A. over the net. They call them Heroes. When the Platoon Sergeant of his platoon comes asking for those to carry him to the bird, I step forward, but say nothing- I didn’t think they would let me, since I’m not in his platoon. But someone calls out my name for me, and they pick me. Wilder follows me to the aid station.

It was a long wait. My squad leader asked why I was waiting outside. “We’re here to carry him.”

“Hey, dude, his platoon’s going to carry him.”

“They picked me.”

We were told there was a change of plans, that all the higher-ups were going to carry him, but my squad leader, not knowing that, called me inside. While I waited, they asked if I wanted to carry him, and I said yes. But I told them I had to be on the right side of the stretcher. I showed them my other hand in the cast.

He was covered by an American flag. I didn’t see him. I knew I didn’t want to. Night fell thick, and the helicopter came. His Platoon Sergeant and I switched on our dim red headlamps. The wind from the rotors blew dirt in our faces. We approached the open doors of the empty Blackhawk and loaded the stretcher.  What I remember is that dim light showing the flag draped over that boy in the bay of the Blackhawk, and the nothing of night all around it. As I backed away, under the roar of the spinning blades, I said out loud, because no one could hear,

“I love you, man. Goodbye.”

I walked to the back of the crowd and saluted while it took off. I turned off my headlamp, but in the dark I recognized Wilder’s tall form approach me. By then it was quiet.

“I was studying Japanese in the guard tower today. We were going to spend a month in Japan on our post-deployment leave.”

The Firing Squad

We got our flight date- about a month and a half out. It’s almost over. I told myself that I had until the end of the deployment to figure this out, to see if anything could happen. I got much further than I thought I would but still failed. I promised myself that after this year I would give her up. I went digging through a journal, read an entry from right before all this started.

From “Read Me,” 22 August, 2010, 2201hrs

To begin with what is foremost in my mind right now, I am afraid. And I am worried, and I will not cease being either until we have completed the mission that looms before us.

In the cardio room of the gym, SSG Owens mustered our entire squad, first to witness Bennett being punished for disrespect, then to inform us of a dismounted patrol to raid Omar. Omar is a very hostile village inside the Korengal valley. Our platoon, at least in the time that I have been here, has yet to enter it. I do not even know what it looks like. Bravo’s third platoon, however, sustained two casualties there. We will be raiding the houses, the most aggressive and dangerous action we can take. SSG Owens said, “There will be casualties.”

I was on the firing squad today, for the memorial of PVT High and PFC Chisolm, from Delta company. They died in an IED blast synchronized with an attack on our platoon. High was 21 years old, Chisolm was 24. We practiced yesterday and all day today, and during the ceremony we stood at parade rest for a very long time. They played the bagpipes, faintly. After committing their names, we turned half-right and raised our rifles, flipped the safety to semi, one click, one synchronized movement. Aim! We lifted the rifles to our shoulders. Fire! The blanks crackled off as one explosion. Ready! We charged the next round. Fire! Ready! We charged again. Fire! Then we move to front and Present Arms, holding the weapon out in front, vertically, while taps is played by a trumpeter that came in by helicopter only an hour before, along with the command all the way up to General Townsend, and the other Delta platoons. Then we go to order arms and return to parade rest. LTC Ryan shakes our hands, and then we pay our respects.

When SSG Owens told us about the Omar raid, I knew I should call my parents just before. I would tell them that I love them, and that is nothing new. What could I say that would ease the pain of burying a son? I thought of saying that I have enjoyed my life so far. But in truth, I have not. For whatever reason, I have spent most of it miserable, shut off, and alone. Happiness was something I always projected off into the future, something that I hoped would come to me. And now I am alone and I am afraid, and I have no one’s hand to hold, and no one to confess my love to.

Should it be me, then? Would that be fair? Everyone else free to lead lives that would content them, with passion, with romance. How many times have I contemplated vaulting over the gunwale to lose myself in the dark expanse? Would it be fair, then, for me to live?

There is some reason I want to live. There is something that always kept my feet planted on the deck. Something that makes me fear the mission, makes me want to over-prepare and triple-check everything, that will keep my head on a swivel and my finger on the trigger. There is something I want to live for. I just don’t know what, yet.

Green Patch

Within a day of breaking my hand, I was hitching a ride with PSD to FOB Wright. Far enough that we rarely go, the sides of the valley should fall away as the river flows, but down there it cuts deeper and the tall cliffs drop straight into it from the road. Riding with the Battalion Commander meant a long stop at the Asadabad Afghan Police headquarters for whatever official business he conducts there, so I had some time to roam around. I left my kit-my helmet and body armor-  in the back of the truck. My hand was splinted and taped, and looked sloppy. I found a little snack room with a fridge and grabbed a non-alcoholic Beck’s. I needed a beer so damn bad, though. When I walked out the back door, I was shocked.

It was a garden, a huge garden, there were tall trees and a pavilion, and trellises and arches for ivy to climb. And there were towers tiled in a pale blue, and stone benches. Sure, maybe it wouldn’t have passed for much in the States, but it was the most vivid thing I’d seen for five months.

It made me realize how bad it is where I was, where I am now. Sparse and dreary, poor and battered, cruel, awful, stupid and dead. The worst place on earth. I never saw that before, because when I had her to talk to, everything seemed so unbearably beautiful. I was seeing it through the eyes of love.