A Soldier's Story

“Listen to me,” says LT X as he pulls his duffel bag from the trunk and sets it on the ground at his feet, “I’ll be fine.” He’s a proud man, and a strong man. He’s fighting back tears.

Mrs. X stands holding their son. She's having trouble looking into her husband's eyes. The snow-capped Rocky Mountains stand guard behind her. “I know. I’m just scared,” she says. Their son is only three.

“Don’t be. I love you so much, I’d never take an Iraqi mistress,” says LT X, trying to make her laugh.

She smiles sadly and closes the space between them, hugs him tight. His son puts his head into his chest. He's crying because mom and dad are crying. He doesn't understand.

As he squeezes them back, he stares at the mountains in the distance as if for the first time, and says these words, “I will come back to you honey, I swear to God. I’m ready for this. I need to do this, after what they've done.”

“Don’t get all macho on me right now honey. Just hug me.”

“You know what I mean. They started it. We’re going to finish it.”

The next few minutes go too fast and make it difficult to focus. Goodbye is so hard, especially when there is no guarantee you’ll ever feel those arms around you again, never see those bright eyes. He holds his son and smiles and looks him in the eyes and says, "Take care of mommy, okay. I love you, son." Then he places the boy in his mother's arms, just as he did when she gave birth to him. LT X cut the cord.

Soon Mrs. X and their son are small dots in the distance because LT X’s bus is driving away on the first leg of a very long journey. He’s seeing double through tears.

His is a mixture of pride and sadness. LT X grinds his jaw, and steels himself. He is ready for whatever life brings.

6 MONTHS LATER

All of the pre-deployment training is over. Some of it was very useful, and made him feel a lot more prepared for the realities of the Middle East conflict. Some of it was a waste of time. LT X has traveled a long way and has been on his FOB for less than 24 hours. His body armor is still clean. He’s still living out of a bag. He remembers the smell of his wife’s shampoo, the funny way his son says twuble instead of trouble, and the way the moon looks from the swinging chair on his front porch.

He’s standing outside the chow hall with a toothpick in his mouth. He is talking to the soldier he is here to replace.

“It gets pretty hairy out here,” the other soldier says, smiling inwardly because he’s already done his time, he’s going home, “You can’t get complacent.”

“How often do you guys get hit by mortars?” he asks.

“Oh, don’t even worry about that man. The shit happens, you know, but if you get hit on the FOB then it’s your time. Just be smart and take cover. It doesn’t happen that much.”

This was one of the boldest lies LT X had ever been told.

"Now, outside the wire, that's a different story. This place is deadly, man. You need to really watch your back. About a month ago these dudes were patrolling down by the government center in a Bradley, right, and ...." There were a lot of stories.

That night, there were three rocket attacks on the FOB. One soldier perished.

9 MONTHS LATER

“Listen up. PCCs and PCIs. Now. We’re behind the power curve. SP in 10 Mikes,” LT X says and turns to his sergeant, “Do not get complacent out there, you hear me?”

LT X has put on 10 pounds of muscle, and has become the leader he always knew he could be. He’s received support from his family, his friends, and his church. He’s very proud of the work he’s doing. He has adapted to his new life. He had to, because his survival and that of his men depend upon it.

He’s in the second vehicle of four in the convoy. He can see the gunner on the vehicle behind him as his own driver turns a hard right onto the dusty gravel road that leads to the gate, and into the open spaces of the Al Anbar Province.

He keys the mic on the radio, “Wildcat Base, this is Wildcat one six, radio check, over.”

A voice comes back quickly, “This is Wildcat Base, roger, over.”

LT X has done this a hundred times in the last 10 months, but he never forgets the basics, like his radio checks. “Wildcat one six, roger, out.” He leans over and slaps his driver on the arm, “Two months.” They both smile.

LT X waves as he passes the gate guard. It’s game on, the real deal, driving into the super-unknown. As they leave the FOB and turn onto the Main Supply Route, he sees the world through new eyes. He remembers when his buddy died two miles outside the gate from a sniper attack. He remembers the night the helicopter crashed in a dangerous neighborhood. He remembers all the IED attacks. And he remembers that this is not home. Yet he doesn’t feel like a stranger anymore. He feels like a cartographer, mapping the entire AO in his mind’s eye. This area is white - this road is black - this man is grey.

He knows each rock, each house, each turn in the road as if it were the road that he walked down as a child, where he counted the steps from the bus stop to his front door. The hardest part to keep track of is all the damn trash out here.

The sun is at its zenith and bleeds through the windshield. For some reason he remembers that the distance to the sun is 93 million miles. He ponders that for a moment. He is living in an alternate reality right now, where anything could be a bomb, and anywhere could be the scene of his last memory, his final vision. He concentrates through his sunglasses, keeping in contact with the other vehicles, maintaining command and control. They’ve been lucky so far, he thinks.

No, it’s not luck. They’ve been careful, and they’ve been blessed.

As they drive, he listens to the normal radio transmissions, and almost begins to daydream. He actually shakes his head to stop it. These missions have become second nature, but he can’t let his mind figure that out. He has to treat each mission as if it were the first. It’s like getting the same Christmas gift from 1000 people, and having to make each one believe he’s surprised. Up ahead on the right side of the road LT X notices a trash bag that seems to be covering something. He gives his driver the hand signal to halt, says “Stop here. ”

"Roger that, sir."

The four vehicles stop in unison, staggering themselves on either side of the road, the gunners on full alert. Nothing moves except the bag in the mild wind and some shrubs in the distance. He pulls out his binoculars and takes a closer look. Just a black trash bag, some dirt and rocks - no wires, no trigger man.

He tells his driver to move a little to the east, to get a better angle on the bag. After a few more maneuvers like this, LT X is satisfied that the bag is not an IED. Too flat. Empty. He’s just getting paranoid, because he’s been here for ten months, and his replacements will be showing up in three weeks. He calls and reports the reason for stopping back to higher, and lets them know that he is moving on.

He gets back on the convoy freq and says “Charlie Mike.” They all know what he means, and they roll forward, like a train on a rail. Perfect intervals between vehicles, not too slow, but not too fast. He breathes normally, and makes a conscious effort not to daydream - to stay totally focused.

They approach the bag at about 65 miles per hour. He advises the lead vehicle to give it a wide berth. The lead vehicle is past it now. He looks at the bag through the bulletproof window in his door. He watches it blur past him, and become one with the color of the desert.

The world turns orange and black. It’s as if he is inside of a vacuum and time slows down and everything is chaos – a scream of surprise – someone swearing – the primal adrenaline of the brain's flee or fight mechanism sending stimuli to his neurons - an explosion – an echo – a silent prayer. His legs are smashed up into the dashboard of the HMMWV, and the vehicle comes six inches up off the ground. The horizon looks like God just gave it a good shake as it moves right, then left, then right again as if on a pendulum. He cannot hear. His body is fully flexed, bracing from the blast. Something is wrong, but in the last five seconds he hasn’t been able to decide what it is. Someone is yelling again. Time contracts, and then slows. He cannot hear anything. It happened so fast, like a car crash on a blind corner. No warning.

Suddenly he can hear himself breathing again and he sees blood. He cut his finger somehow. Understanding enters him once again. Reality breathes. “Drive through it. Drive through it. Damn it!.” He had made the wrong call. Please dear God let us be okay. His knees hurt but he ignores it and looks in the rearview mirror as he keys the radio, “Vehicles one, three and four, report.”

They all report back as okay. No injuries sustained.

He’s scanning the road ahead again. Nothing. “Go another half click then stop the convoy.”

“Roger Sir,” his driver says in a shaky voice.

The symbol for infinity could uncoil, the earth and sky could be created, and every Native American story he’s ever heard could be told twice in the time it seems to take to drive that half click.

Finally his vehicle rolls to a stop on the steaming asphalt out here in the middle of nowhere. He’s only halfway to his destination. His door won’t open, and he notices that it is blown in a little bit. He takes off his seatbelt and climbs over and out of the driver’s door. The gunners maintain their positions, but the other men hurry up to his location.

“Is everyone all right?” He’s yelling. He knows he doesn’t need to yell, but his ears have that muffled sound they get after a loud rock concert. He had earplugs in, but still his ears ring. Mouths open to answer him, but he’s walking around putting his hands on their shoulders and looking in their eyes. Two nanoseconds pass, so he yells again, “Is everyone al right? Any injuries?”

“I think we’re okay, sir,” says another soldier. He looks at that man and tells him to go assess the gunners, quick. He stops for a moment, “Listen up. We were damn lucky. Everybody drink water and get ready to Charlie Mike.”

He tells his driver to check their own vehicle for damages, “I just want to know if it’ll make it the rest of the way right now. Can we make it, or do we need a tow? Find out, fast.”

He leans into the HMMWV and grabs the mic, “Base, this is one six, over.”

“Go ahead one six”

“This is one six. My vehicle just hit an IED. No injuries sustained. Currently assessing damages, over.”

“Roger, one six. Confirm there are no injuries.”

“Well, I cut my finger. Does that count?” His dark humor is coming back to him now, that subconscious quality in the warrior's mind that lets him joke in the face of adversity.

His driver comes running over. “Sir, the engine didn’t get hit, but your side of the vehicle is pretty damaged from shrapnel. Need a new paint job.”

They joke, but even as the do, all the gunners are ready, all the drivers are back in their seats, and anticipating his next order. They are antsy to get out of the open.

LT X takes a moment to scan the damage himself -not very long, but a moment nonetheless. The window he had been looking out of is crushed, but still in place. The bulletproof glass held. The side of his vehicle is pocked where the flying shrapnel hit it. One of his antennas is broken in two. His legs are sore. He’s sure he’ll have some bruises. His finger is cut, but its nothing a Band-aid won’t fix. He walks to the front of the HMMWV and checks the horizon in all directions. No movement. They are safe.

He leans on the hood and breathes out. He thinks of his wife and kids back home, sleeping in their beds. He looks up. The sun hangs stapled to the canvas sky like an art deco lamp, spilling light down on them, creating shadows that deceive because they are not cool. He walks over to the driver’s door, climbs across into his seat, and says “ OK, let’s go.”

He mentally shakes it off, and stares intently at the road through his sunglasses. The convoy makes it to their position unscathed. They are piece and parcel of the larger effort, and the roads they keep secure, the battle space they control, are part of them. They do their part, and keep on smiling.

That night he lays on his cot under the stars. He has a Spider-Man band-aid on his finger that his son sent him, and he keeps in his bag. His men make fun of him. He takes their jabbing with a grin. He stares at the sky and tries to get inspiration there, but a river of cliches wash over his mind. Lame poetry seems to flirt with him, fear creeps in from the desert darkness, doubt stands on the Big Dipper and sneers. But then, just before he dozes off - Hope returns, skipping across the constellations of his memory, trolling the sea of stars for a lost rainbow.

LT X grinds his jaw, and steels himself. He is ready for whatever life brings.

"You can't say civilization don't advance... in every war they kill you in a new way."
                                                                                         Will Rogers

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