Welcome to the Jungle

My first patrol into C for Charlie Companies new sector was with the 3rd ID unit we were replacing. It was night, the streets empty, shops closed up, Night Dogs on the prowl. The wind was blowing from the west, warm and dry like memories of summer. The wind blew through the dark street, plastic bags floating and twisting in the air, balloons of memory in the breeze of time, catching on barbed wire and razor tips of concertina.

I remembered a shop, some kind of business, near our apartment in MT View, called METAPRO.
Our apartment was just a block or two from where Chris worked. I didn't like her walking to work, not because it was a bad neighborhood or because she was a lone woman - she was, is, six one and at the time out weighed me by ten pounds and was, honestly, stronger than I was - but because I didn't feel it was right for her to walk. Not when I could drive her. So if I arrived home from my night security job in Burlingame I would drive her. We would exit the apartment complex, ALICE FM out of The City on the radio, and past METAPRO.
"I wonder what they do there?" I asked one sunny Bay Area morning.
"Something to do with rubber balls. You know those big red rubber balls we used to play wall ball and Dodge Ball with?"
"Really?"
"Yeah, they inflate them and bounce them around the parking lot. There are some young guys and they sometimes lose the balls and they go bouncing into the street and they have to chase 'em."
She was getting into the story and becoming animated, her voice rising. I loved when that happened. I liked watching it, being a part of it, witness to it. It was so different from my normally reserved state. Her eyes would light up, her entire body seeming to come alive. It was one of the things I loved about her, one of the things I still love about her.
"But there is an older guy -"
"Yeah?" I was starting to get into it too. Seeing it in my head.
"Yeah. He's the pro. He never loses a ball. Just shakes his head and laughs at the young guys."

She was quite, somewhere in her own mind for a moment. I can't remember if this was after or before the abortion.
"On mornings when I walk to work they all come out and wave to me..."


Nobody was waving in this section of Iraq. No one was around to wave to us. This was the same AO we had conducted OPERATION DONKEY SHOW in. I wondered if anyone would wave to us here. The US wasn't much liked here. I was going to miss our old sector.
This new area was filled with 'lower income bracket' families. That is to say, they were poor. These were the people that lived in the dump in mud huts. Material for walls was scrounged from construction sites, cinder blocks, mud bricks, lumber. Lots of houses were built out of the surrounding dirt, held up by I don't know what. Mud packed with straw and I assume some kind of wood. The roofs were often domed, plastic sheeting showing around the edges and the ends of round, rough hune logs showing. Like all houses and buildings in Iraq they were surrounded by low walls. Either mud or tin containers that olive oil once came in. Brass colored boxes with 'The Cleopatra Vegetable Oil Company - A Product of Egypt' printed on them. All of them had tapped into the power supply, thin black wires dipping low between logs stood up on end. Most had TV antennas or satellite dishes like giant grey sunflowers in the yards.

I hated riding with another unit. Sitting in the back of the truck, nothing more than a strap hanger, like a beggar looking for a hand out. "Hey, can I get a ride, buddy?"
The crew I was with wasn't very talkative, I think the E-6 I was riding with thought I was throwing off his groove, judging him. I didn't even want to go on this patrol. It wasn't my patrol. I was the old annoying friend that comes over unannounced - the one you really don't like but are to polite to tell that you don't like anymore, that the friendship is over - the one that you make polite and meaningless conversation with, until he leaves.

The area is small but contains eight schools and at least four mosques of the Whabiest branch that come just short of open conflict with us. We were doing a dismounted patrol near one of them, checking buildings under construction for squatters, when we took fire. There are others that will argue the point but I believe we were sighted by people at the mosque and fired upon. One shot. It could have been in the air, I won't trust my memory to fill in the blanks enough. Memory is a notorious trickster and, more often than not fallible, but I have been around fire arms for a number of years and I know what a near shot sounds like. This one was close.

Our small patrol was dark. We had been using white light to check the buildings but after moving out it was all ambient light and starlight amplified by NODs. The patrol passed through a choke point, buildings on the right a wire fence on the left, ducking under low power lines and crunching over trash. There was a single light on, outside a mud hut to the left. From the roof of the building we checked I could see a woman dressed in a black abya moving around the fenced in yard. The smell of livestock heavy in the air. As we worked our way past, the LT, I, at least two other officers and an RTO, I raised my NODs and looked over the yard. I wanted to go into one of the houses, the mud huts, just to see how the people lived, how it was setup inside.
I once read that Virgos are always looking at structures, how they are built, how they join together. I don't know if I took that in subconsciously or if it is a trait of Virgos but I find myself looking at buildings often, trying to puzzle out how they are put together. The woman walked past us and into the light paying no attention to us at all. To her we were not even there, ghosts of the past or future, specters of her imagination that she would rather not take notice of. It's that way here with some people. Some watch us intently, children especially, others ignore us as much as possible.
There were gloves of bright blood splatter from her hands up to her elbows. I guessed she mush have been slaughtering one of the sheep that bleated from inside her yard. In the harsh light of the naked bulb the blood looked fake.

I don't like blood. It makes me remember things I'd rather not remember.

It was a humid October morning at FT Bragg. The air thick with moisture that seemed to gather around the lights along Ardennes in a hazy cloud. My PT shirt was already damp. The Task Force was gathered in the bowl of Towel Stadium for a 6 mile run. 1st Batt 325 AIR and attachments were assuming DRF-1 that day. DRF-1 was ready to go to war. One platoon of Delta Company, my company, was down at Heavy Drop Rig Site in The Cage and loaded with fuel, ammo, and MREs. Locked in and guarded around the clock in case we were called out to jump into an unknown country, on an unknown DZ, in the middle of the night. Lining up in company and battalion formations we stood waiting for the brigade commander to call us to attention and begin the run.
I had been talking to the Chaplin before the shooting started. At first I thought it was blanks. It sounded like blanks. The new brigade commander had come from Ranger Batt and I thought he was testing us. One paratrooper to my left front grabbed his ass and fell down. The man standing next to him turned, looking, when it sounded like he had been punched in the chest. He exhaled and brought both hands up before falling over. That was when I saw the red tracer round streak across the black sky. These were not blanks.
In confusion the entire assembled group dove to the ground in a ripple. Shots boomed across the field, for a moment I had the image of the unseen shooter walking across the dew wet grass calmly dispatching paratroopers laying on the ground with a shotgun. Then we were all up and running, running away from the shooting. I began laughing. Crazy laughter. It was funny but it wasn't, all at the same time. I remembered a passage from the book 'Starship Troopers' where they trained with blank and live rounds. One in every hundred rounds was live.
I eventually linked up with guys from my platoon, relieved that they were ok, reaffirming that I was ok. Behind one on the barracks buildings was a CCP. The wounded laying on the ground and medics working on them.
The human body holds an astonishing amount of blood.
One paratrooper lay on his back in a halo of thick blood, shot in the chest, two medics fighting to save him. Another sat leaning against the wall, the right side of his face gone, a PT shirt stuffed into the hole. The world showed, stopped, moved into jerky frames. I heard a pop in my ears and it felt like the air, cool and wet, flooded into my head. My vision grayed out and narrowed, I was sweating. All I could see was the blood. Dark red in the low light. One officer was killed that day and several paratroopers wounded.


The fence made a ninety degree turn to our right, pushing us to the right toward the street. I was in a low area, the officers talking about something when the shot sounded. An echoing pop reflected off the buildings. I had dropped to a knee in the damp sand. Half a second behind me everyone else dropped.
"Was that a shot?" Somebody asked.
"Yeah, it came from over by the mosque." My voice bounced as I ran in a crouch over to a low brick wall facing the mosque.
"I heard a voice yell out just before the shot. Somebody knows we’re here."
Nobody was listening to me. Whatever. Officers, never listen to their NCOs. The RTO slammed into the wall beside me. My rifle was already off SAFE and I was scanning for movements. My heart thumped but I was excited. I wanted to go after whoever shot. This was it. Looking over the ground between us and the mosque, searching for covered and concealed routes. LT Mac moved up to a small concrete building to our front. I wasn't about to let him be up there with out me so I moved up too, avoiding a large puddle, I didn't want my boots to get wet. The crazy things you worry about when getting shot at.
The 3rd ID LT radioed in for our trucks to move up and for nearby Bradley Fighting Vehicles to converge on our area. I could here them accelerating, a jet turbine whine, blocks away.
Edging up to the far side of the building I peeked around the corner.
Nothing. No movement no more shots. Minutes passed.
"Is that a car? What the fuck is that?"
I turned to see a car stopped on the street. I joined another Soldier, officer, EM, or NCO - I don't know and it didn't matter - moved up on the stopped car. I hit it with my rifle mounted laser. The other Soldier went up to the driver side as I circled around to the passenger side.
"Three, no, four women in the back. Two men."
"The driver says they have a pregnant woman. They are taking her to the hospital."
Sure enough, there was a young woman in the back, her belly swelling beneath the abaya she wore.
"Search the men. If they are clean, let 'em go."
With my flashlight I looked over the car, looking of obvious weapons, there were none. I open the passenger side door and a man in a white dish-dash got out. I patted him down quickly and came up with a thick wad or Iraqi denar.
"Hey, LT, this guy's got a big wad of cash on him," I called out.
"For doctor. For doctor." The man said, pointing to the woman in the back, holding his hands out like he had a huge belly like the woman.
"Any US dollars?"
"No. All Haji money. Says it's for the doctor."
"Ok."I gave it back to the man. He smiled.
"Let 'em go. She's about ready to pop." I called out, hoping the dark would mask my voice. It did. The men got back into the car and left.

The rest of the night was spent driving around, stopping at the local government run gas station and meeting the guards. Twists and turns down narrow streets, many of them smelling of sewage and clogged with trash. Night Dogs escorting us or barking form the sides of the road at the edge of our headlights.

Dawn was lighting the sky to the east as we rolled back to camp.

Veterans Day 2007

I open the door to my apartment after working all night and am nearly bowled over by a grey and white blur. George the cat is doing his crazy homeless person act again, making a break for the great out doors and freedom. He bounds out the door, across the wet concrete, through some shrubs, and - claws exteneded - up a tree like a skilled lineman gaffing his way up a telephone pole.
"So, it's going to be that way, huh?"
George blinks once at me from the branches, looks away and meows.
He does every once and awhile, dashes out the door and up the tree, only to realize that he is not nearly as good getting down the trunk as he was getting up. The first few times I helped him down from the tightly woven branches and escorted him back into our apartment. However, it didn’t take me long to tire of his game.
"Well, you got your furry ass up there, you can get your furry ass back down."
Thus the waiting game begins.

Stepping inside the door, I drop my assault pack, grab a beer, and my American flag.
Today is Veteran’s Day.
I post the flag, shove the beer in an ACU cargo pocket, and give the flag a crisp salute before sitting down on the steps, soaking my ass. It rained all night and the everything is wet. Shrugging I crack open the beer and smile.
The can SNAP CRACKS, like a grenade fuse. Back in Iraq Doc and I would warn each other before we opened a can of soda, "Coke can!" That way neither of us would be caught off guard by the sound and avoid and startle response. Ever come fully awake from a dead sleep, heart thumping, pulse pounding, reaching for a weapon or rolling onto the floor, thinking somebody was about to frag your ass only to discover it was your roommate opening a warm can of Dr Pepper? It’s not fun.


Veteran’s Day.
Actually it’s Veterans Day, usually misprinted in advertisements and calenders as Veteran’s Day. It began as Armistice Day or Remembrance Day, both falling on the 11th of November to celebrate the German’s signing of the Armistice ending World War I. Major hostilities ended on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. And to honor those men that served and died in that bloody, mud clogged war. The worlds first modern war. WWI saw the introduction of the machine gun, the airplane, tank, and chemical warfare. In the air there still existed a certain code of conduct, chivalry, if you will. On the ground no quarter was given. It was kill or be killed.
In 1954 President Dwight D. Eisenhower changed the name to Veterans Day to honor all who have served and died in any conflict.


I sit and listen to the rain fall drip off the leaves of the tree George is in. It’s Sunday morning, early and most of the city is still asleep. A light breeze blows a wafting mist through the courtyard, the streetlights look as if they are wrapped in cotton, diffused and warm. The air carries the faint smell of wood smoke.
You didn’t get many mornings like this in Iraq. If it rained the dust turned to clinging mud that stuck to it’s self, clumping on boots, growing heavier and heavier. Violently kicking your foot would launch the heavier chunks into the air and off your foot. The hallways of the barracks would be strune with irregular shaped balls of mud embedded with gravel.


Taking a sip of beer I notice a worm in a puddle, strugglng to get out, to keep from drowning, lengthening and compressing, searching for air.
"Shit."
I get up and pick the worm out of the puddle and place it on the wet earth near the edge of the grass so it can dig back in. Looking around I see another one and repeat the action. Soon I’m rescuing more and more of them.
"What are you looking at?" I ask George as he cooly watches me from his perch,"Shouldn’t you be thinking about how your going to get dow..." CRUNCH.
"FUCK!" I look at the concrete and lift my boot. A crushed snail, shattered shell and splattered guts.
"GodDAMN IT!"
Rage and guilt flow through me. I hate stepping on snails. I hate the fact that I’ve killed the little buggers on accident. There you are, a snail, pulling yourself along, your home on your back, and some big clumsy human comes along and steps on you.
"Fuck..." I look at the smashed thing and feel sad, tears come to my eyes and my throat tightens. Sitting back on the step I take a long pull off he can and consider all this. What I’m feeling.


Doc and I were in our room when Doc Spanky came in to get some advice from Doc about treating wounded. Doc Spanky was a replacement medic, filling in until Doc was able to go back out on patrol again after receiving a serious case of whiplash from and IED, the same one that killed Sara.
We called him Spanky since he was caught by his roommate masturbating, twice. Now, masturbating is no big deal in the Infantry, everyone does it, everyone knows everyone else does it. It’s part of life, like breathing or eating, but to be caught... Not once, but twice, meant that you were some kind of pervert.
I was on my laptop as Doc and Spanky were talking about administering morphine to wounded Soldiers.
"Well, what about Iraqis? Do you give it to them?" Spanky asked.
Before Doc could answer I interjected,"Fuck ‘em. Animals don’t feel pain the way we do."
"Yeah, fuck ‘em." Echoed Doc.
Spanky got up and left convinced, I’m sure, that this room was full of crazy men.


How do I go from that day, that comment, that vain of thought and feeling to this day, upset by stepping on a snail? Sometimes I wonder about my mental state, the kind of person I am, what I’ve become. What Iraq did to me, or maybe, what it show was really inside of me, just waiting in the shadows. The hardness, the unthinking animal rage in me, the complete lack of a soul and mercy. I can’t imagine my Grandfather, a man I deeply respect and wish to be like, ever saying,"Fuck ‘em. Animals don’t feel pain the way we do."

That’s when it all crashes in on me and I begin to cry. At first it’s a kind of growling screech in my chest, an ache like what I imagine a heart attack to be like, soon it’s climbing my throat, jaw tense, aching, trying to stay clenched, the eyes stinging like that first bite of CS gas when you remove your mask.

SLIDE SHOW: D in the body bag, the old man who’s arm I blew off, Rocket Man looking at me as he died, pleading for comfort, Captain Hill burning to death, wounded Iraqis and children, body parts, road ways slick with blood, shattered windshields and the cabs of trucks spray painted with warm blood, columns of greasy black smoke where a vehicle once was.

And I’m sobbing, hard wracking sobs, bone shaking.
I don’t know how long it goes on before I feel warm fur brush against my hand and jerk awake. George the cat walks in a tight circle in front of me and leaps into my lap and I hug him to my chest, feeling his warmth. He’s purring up a storm.
"I ahhh... I guess you got down ok, huh, buddy." He licks my nose and flicks his tail. He looks at me with cool yellow eyes and blinks before rubbing against my neck.
"Let’s go inside, huh, pal?"

Pandoras Box

The bar tenders were two twenty something girls, one pale and fashion model thin, black sleeveless T shirt, her dark hair bound in two short pig tails, and heavy framed horn rimmed glasses on her face. Each time she crouched down her thong showed out of her low rise jeans.
The other girl had a fuller body and a pretty face. She spent most of her time at the oppsite end of the bar, chatting with a group of Emo guys and gals, kids dressed dark colors, drawn prison camp faces, loose stringy bangs hanging down in theirs eyes and two hundred dollar retro Converse on their feet.
In the back, near the bathrooms, were two pool tables were surrounded with players, the crack of the balls colliding sounding like high powered rifle rounds over the music.



Black rose and radio fire;
It's so contagiousJust something changing my mind;
I'm gonna take what's evil


The bouncer at the door checked the Ids of a couple coming in the door, the boy carried a skate board under his are, the girl fresh faced, skin smooth. A mix group of males and females at a table along the wall waved at them.


Your cover melting inside,
With wide eyes you tremble
Kissing over and over again
Your God knows he's faithful...


The juke box was gone, the one where I would select Eagles songs to play, but that was ten years ago when I went to college here, the Academy of Art College in San Francisco. Back then the bar catered to a much older crowd. The shelves along the wall were lined with books and the stone fire place always had a fire, winter or summer. The low ceiling over the bar was papered with yellowing graphite drawings of bar patrons, the top edges ragged where they had been torn out of a sketch book. Back then the seat where I was sitting had a brass plaque nailed to the bar that said CAPTAIN’S CHAIR in front of it. The plaque, like the juke box and drawings were gone, a lighter elongated oval showed on the wooden edge of the bar the only sign of the plaque.

I was here this Friday night in San Francisco, on orders, to attend a re enlistment sales pitch the next day for the California Army National Guard. My ETS was coming up the next month and I had a lot to think about that night. With fourteen years in already I felt it would be foolish to throw away all those years without getting something out of it, even a measly retirement when I turned 65, assuming I lived that long. On the other hand was a growing disgust for the Cal Guard, and festering hate for the political correct corporation that the U.S. Army has be come.


I try
To digest my pride
But passions grip, I fear
But its not clear...


Iraq had shown me what happens when you put a bunch of career minded business majors in charge of an organization that is supposed to fight and win wars. Combine that with constantly bickering politicians more concerned with reelection than in winning a war for the survival of our very way of life and a public that is more intrested in American Idol and wrapping problems up in thirty minutes, with commercials, than seeing this war through to the end, a war that will last for years, decades - if we are lucky. This war is not just Iraq or Afghanistan, we are not fighting an enemy that has a home nation or a uniform. We are fighting an idea, or a group of ideas, that knows no bounds, that does not recognize national boarders, it doesn’t care about color or which party you vote for, all the enemy wants to do is enslave you to ideas born in the 7th century, or kill you.
But, then again I was drunk, thinking about the past, and waiting for the thin bar girl to crouch down so I could see her thong again. What a wonderful place to consider your future. I ordered another beer and considered the long road that led me here and where I was going.

I could re-up, well, I needed to re-up. My full time job is with the Guard, it’s how I make my living and a pretty good living at that. I have finally reached a place in my life where I don’t live paycheck to paycheck, I can afford things, buy an X Box 360 for myself at Christmas, make car payments, pay rent and still have money left over. I have a savings account that is considerable. The problem was my feelings toward the Guard and the Army in general. Iraq left me jaded in more ways than one. It shredded, if not outright destroyed most of my ideals that I had grown up with, made me question most of, all of, the things I held dear to me.
I signed up for the Army, I loved the Army. I believed in President Regan’s "shining city upon the hill", I became an Infantrymen, saluted the flag with pride, tears in my eyes when I heard The National Anthem, mouthing the lines


Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,
O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.


With a tight throat and my chest swelling. For years, even now, my Class A uniform is the best set of clothes I had and when I wore it I felt like I was part of something so much bigger than I was. I belonged to something that mattered. I earned my Jump Wings, sweated and worried and prayed until I earned my Expert Infantrymen’s Badge when I was with the 82nd Airborne Division. We, the United States Army, was the best military the world has seen since the Roman Legions made the know world tremble with the sound of their iron shod sandals. When September 11 2001 came I waited to be called, I wanted to fight, to strike back, defend the country that I was born in, that I loved. Then we invaded Iraq, for good or bad, still... I was a Soldier. It was my job, my duty, to fight the enemies of my country. To fight and win.

In Iraq I was confronted with monthly, if not weekly, shifting Rules of Engagement. A bag of mixed signals that confused the Soldiers fighting the war... Let’s start again. A mixed bag of signals that pissed the Soldiers off and kept us pissed off all the time because we kept getting all these mixed messages. Somebody wanted us to fight, but couldn’t tell us exactly whom to fight. We were told to kill but not who to kill. The ROE permitted us to kill the Enemy over here, but not over there, tomorrow, but not today, or only after 8PM on even number Mondays. They wanted us to sacrifice ourselves on the Alter of Freedom but couldn’t exactly tell us why.
Instead we all received a box with a little card on it that said,"All My Love, Pandora." Inside the box was filled with sticky red liquid, the stench of blood and shit, cordite wafting from weapons and IED craters, screams of the wounded, body parts - here a head, there an arm - bodies with sickening holes in them, pain, fear, hate, rage, blood and oil splattered HUMMVEEs, children with chunks of heated metal in their bodies waiting to be MEDEVACed , dark dreams and sweaty sheets, and the blackness that could over take a soul, pure Evil, and the realization that you could indeed begin to love the war and become a monster that only lived to hurt and kill.
Some package.

No returns.

No refunds.

No re gifting.

All sales final.


What have we got... I wondered. I watched the bar patrons, by now drunker than I should have been. I imagined a draft, every high school grad coming off the stage with a diploma and a smile, greeted by reps of all the branches of the military. Over here, son, you’ve just joined the Marines. You there, yes, YOU! Your now in the United States Army! Come on over this way, young lady, your going to be in the Air Force! The US Navy needs you, my man! Get a diploma and a one way ticket to Iraq, motherfucker. See you in a year if you survive.


"Hi, how are you?"
I looked to my right, as a body dropped into the seat next to me. A woman. Short dark hair, skirt and bare legs.
"...Huh, Ok... I guess..."
"I’m Laura", she extended her hand, slim, with well manicured nails,"and your...?"
The question hung in the air. What should I do? As policy I never talked to anyone at bars, espically women. I mostly read whatever book I had and minded my own business, kept to myself. I had been reading the book in front of me most of the evening, until my thoughts swept me up. Now I was face with this chick, dark eyes and nice lips. Christ.
"I’m Mike."
We shook hands and she began to talk. Laura worked for a credit card company in advertising and had been born in San Francisco even though she didn’t like the cold and wet of the Bay Area. I let her do most of the talking until she ran down and asked me what I did for a living. And here is where it got difficult.
I had already determined from the conversation that she was a Liberal, against the war, and didn’t like the President. What do I tell her? I guessed she might figure out that I was either in the military or a cop, the two things people usually guess when they see me and try to figure out what I do.
"Well...I, huh, I work for the government." I told her, signaling for another beer, "And whatever she’s having, too."
Two rules broken. I don’t talk to people in bars and I certainly do not buy women drinks.
"Really, you work for the government! What do you do?" She scooted her chair up closer to me and smiled.
I peeled the sweaty label off the bottle as I considered my answer,"I’m in the Army, actually."
I studied the bottle, denuded of it’s label, as I waited for her response. I expected the scraping of chair legs on the wooden floor and the clicking of her heals has she walked away. Instead she gripped my arm and sounded excited.
"Really?! That’s cool! What are you doing here?"
I told her about the re enlistment seminar and my dilemma, stay in or get out. We talked about the pros and cons. I could go back to Iraq. I could get out and find another job. I could stay in and find a different MOS, besides Infantry.
Near closing time she pulled a pen from her purse and grabbed my right hand in hers and bagan to write on my arm,"This is so you can remember in the morning."
When Laura was done I looked at my arm.
‘DON’T DO IT.’ She had written in bold block letters. "Don’t re enlist", she told me looking into my eyes. "You don’t want to go back there. I know."
She knew... I knew too, I didn’t want to go back.
But I did too.
I miss the war.
I miss Iraq.
I still love the Army deep inside.
And despite it all, in the dark of the night, even when I wake up in tangled a sweaty sheets, screaming up from some un nameable nightmare, gasping for air, I still believe.
Maybe it’s all I have to hold on to.

I walked her out to the street. "So, do you want to walk me home?"
I looked away. This had never happened to me before.
"It’s just a few blocks from here and your hotel."
Shit.
"Ok, sure."
We walked a block up and to the west. The fog had rolled in, blanketing the city. I remembered these kind of nights from school when I would climb up the fire escape out side the dorms on Sutter St to the roof six stories up and breath in the wet air and watch the city below. Sitting on the edge of the building, my legs dangling into the empty air below, drinking beer and smoking a cigar.
"It’s cold out tonight." Laura pressed against me, wrapping her arm in mine. I tried to ignore her breast pressed up against me. "I hate the cold."
"Yet you live in this city, huh? You know what Mark Twain said a bout summers in San Francisco, right?"
"No, what?"
"That the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco."
I reviewed the quote in my head, make sure I had it right, when Laura pulled up short in front of an apartment building. She broke away and unlocked the door, holding it open for me. I followed, up three flights of stairs to her door, all the time expecting to be dismissed at any moment.
At her door she let me in and showed me around. The small cramped living room in comparison to the spacious dining room.
"And here is my bedroom. It’s kind of small but I like it."
My mouth had gone dry and my heart thumped in my chest. I wasn’t really sure what was going on here, what she had in mind. Thoughts flitted in my head but I chalked it up to much beer and to much time alone.
Before I knew it she was on me, mauling me, kissing me as if her life depended on it.
Pandoras box opened again, pulling me in, yawing wide, the sent of Death and Life in my nose.

The next day I changed my MOS and extended for another year.

Dreams

The three of us had moved up the pine and scrub covered hill, dried leaves and pine boughs under our boots, the smell of the forest strong in our noises, to the edge of a trench line. This section looked unguarded and open.
Just below the ridge line, the military crest, was a machine gun nest firing down on the rest of the battalion, an MG-42. Keo, lugging the BAR that was nearly has tall as he was had called the type correct just by the sound.
Always trust Keo and his hearing. I had learned that months ago.
We three were all that was left of our squad. SSG Atkins, the squad leader, Keo, BAR gunner, PFC Arnold Duplantier, and myself. Everyone else was dead, torn apart by Teller mines on the approach, indirect 88 fire, or the evil ripping of MG-42 cross fire. Thank God the Krauts didn’t have any armor today.
"Lets go!" SSG Atkins shouted, shoving me into the open trench. I was just beginning to right myself when D crashed into me from above, "Sorry, Sgt D!"
It was just like him to say that in combat, apologizing for landing on someone while under fire.
"No problem, D." I smiled at him, at his young face. He had a wife and child back home. Keo and SSG A followed.
Atkins wiped the sweat off his face, mixing it with the loose dirt until it turned into mud.
"Look, we have to get that fuck’n MG taken out! No one is near it but us!"
"I got it sergeant! I’ll take point."
Atkins looked at Duplantier, hard, searching his face. "You sure, Arnold?"
"Yeah, I got a feeling about this," he shot a look up the trench line, "We’ll make it with me in the lead. Sgt DeVore can cover me from behind."
Atkins glanced at me,"Ok, it’s all yours."
D began duck walking up the trench, already intent on the mission when I stopped him and traded his M-1 with my Thompson. "Here, you might need this. If you need extra mags I’ll pass ‘em up to you."
"Thanks, Sgt D." He grinned at me and moved forward.

The three of us moved slowly, scraping the dirt walls of the trench, D covering the 12 with my Thompson, me with his M-1 cocked to the left front, SSG A watching over our heads and Keo watching the 6. Overhead German 88s crossed the sky with US 105s, the air ripped and torn by shells. Small arms fire and men yelling commands, sometimes screaming in pain in fear, echoed among the tall pine trees. All the noise seemed reflected down at us, at the war mad Earth from the overcast sky above.

D stopped us at the first turn in the trench, a right turn, and peeked around the corner.
"Fuck! Fuck! Grenade!"
It thumped into the far wall and landed on the freshly turned earth, smoking and sputtering, curls of wispy grey smoke trailing from it wooden handle. My eyes locked on it while D fired a quick burst from the Thompson.
Well, that’s it. All done here. I thought as the brim of my helmet crashed down on the bridge of my nose, eyes filling with tears from the impact, wet dirt filled my mouth and nostrils.
SSG Atkins lunged forward, pushing me to the ground, picked up the smoking grenade and side armed it back up the trench where it exploded with a glassy sound.
GO! GodDAMNIT!"
I pushed around D, still spitting dirt from my mouth, half able to see, Atkins on my left, shoulder to shoulder in the trench.

Two Fallshrmjagers lay in the center of the blast area, the scent of cordite and explosives strong. Both badly wounded, one with both legs gone, the other missing and arm. SSG A and I both fired, his carbine popping several times, my borrowed M-1 bucking against my shoulder, aiming at the man with his arm gone until the clip pinged out of the chamber.
"D, another clip! I’m out!"
I shoved it in and slammed the charging handle forward, chambering a fresh round. Looking back I saw both Keo and D. SSG A reloaded as well. Atkins and I had always been the better killers in the squad, ready to clean up the messes that the men either didn’t want to or couldn’t. As if being a killer was a good thing. Maybe it meant that Keo and D were better human beings than we were, more caring.

"Everyone OK?"
We all gave our status.
"Right, move out. We still have an MG to take out!"

At the last turn Atkins stopped us. D and I switched out weapons. Around the last corner was the MG-42, it crew intent on the onrushing Americans. Burst after burst tore into the Infantrymen coming up the slope, ripping shrubs and tree trucks into shreds. Fire from the American side was slowing as men died. Somewhere a 30 cal machine gun started up. I watched a incoming rounds tore at the front on the log bunker, the rounds thunking into the thick wood. The MG-42 AG directed his gunner to the 30 cal by patting his helmet. Three long bursts, like cloth being torn, and the American gun was out of action.

"Jesus Christ!" D looked at me. "We have to get the that bastard!"
SSG Atkins set Keo up over looking the gun emplacement, his BAR freshly loaded. D, SSG A, and I would throw grenades then rush in after Keo had sprayed down the area, to take care of any survivors.
The three of us pulled the pins on our grenades and looked into each others eyes, "Ready?! Throw!"

Three glassy sounding explosions followed,"Keo! FIRE!"
Keo dumped a full twenty round mag into the pit as the three of us rushed in firing. The Germans never knew what hit them. All were dead within seconds.
Coughing from the smoke I sat down hard against the splintered log all, pushing my helmet up and wiping sweat from my eyes. When I looked up D was there, smiling that smile at me. The one that told me it would all be ok.

I don't know if I believe in the power of dreams or not, if the dead talk to you through them, mostly I think that when you are dead you are just dead, but maybe... Maybe when you are dead you do back to the place you loved, to the place where your loved ones are. Maybe you watch out for them and talk to them sometimes.
I don't know.
But lastnight I had this dream as you have just read. I know that my good friend, my friend that I miss was there and we shared something and I take comfort from the dream. We are still comrads in arms, still lookinf out for each other, somehow, someway.

Getting Away with Murder

(This started out a a concept post, I wondered what it would be like to try and ad some excitement to a post with the words from a song that often filled my head on patrol. I didn't know if readers would get it or not, but I think it turned out rather well. I wrote this hours after the event, as I did with most of my original posts in This is your War, trying to keep the events and feelings fresh, so they would be as real and immidate for the reader as they were for me.)





Somewhere beyond happiness and sadness
I need to calculate what creates my own madness
And I'm addicted to your punishment
And you’re the master, and I am waiting for disaster


The section met for the Patrol Brief in the upstairs conference room, dusty thread bare indoor/outdoor carpet, dented and scratched battleship gray filing cabinets labeled for the forms they contain. In the middle of the room are two long and narrow laminated press board tables, the kind you would see in the 'conference room' of a small construction business. The tables sit like and island in the center of the room, pushed together the tops permanently coated in a thin layer of dust. Streaks from fingers prints an entire hand print and the rings from coffee cups and Red Bull cans mar the surface, evidence for the existence of ghosts.
Arrayed around the tables are a ecliptic collection of chairs and stools. The wall, painted a flat chalky white like sheet rock. Smudges of dirt from sweaty uniforms and ragged tears pit the walls. Plywood boards with dirty memos pined to them, a large satellite of the sector tacked to another wall.
Taped to the inside of the door is the cover 2003 Time magazine that named the person of the American Soldier. Hand written in black ink on the lead Soldiers' body armor is the word 'Girl' in case some one had any doubts as to the sex of the Soldier, like I did the first time I saw the cover. After the brief I went back to my room to gather my gear and weapons.

I feel irrational, so confrontational
To tell the truth I am getting away with murder
It is impossible to never tell the truth
But the reality is I'm getting away with murder


Mac, my current gunner had fired a warning shot from his SAW at a blue van that broke into our convoy, between our truck and the last one. He fired one round from the automatic weapon into the vans right front fender. Karr passed the info up to the LT as we merged into traffic on Downfall, the early morning sun bright in our faces.

Getting away, getting away, getting away

The road was empty for a 100 meters in front of our trucks the traffic pushed away from us, giving us space and safety like a pressure wave.
This time of the morning the roads are lined with Iraqis on there way to work or school or where ever. They wait in small and large groups or singly for the vans that serve as public transportation here or friends or coworkers to pick them up.
Karr, Stew and me were talking about our insurgent game idea, trying to sell it to a video game company.
I feel comfortable with them. Karr the Oakland cop, and Stew a correctional officer for the state of California, both used to paying attention to their environment and watching for clues that will tell them what an individual or group of people plan on doing, especially if they have it in mind to cause death or damage.
We talk over the thrumming engine and scan the city, vehicles, and people without losing focus of our task. Like talking to your wife while still watching your favorite TV show.
Mac is young but he has learned fast, especially being a gunner, the one Soldier with the best over all view of theworld outside the confines of the HUMMVEE.

A group of Iraqis, mostly males, stood clustered together waving and gesturing at our trucks and the base of an over pass.
"What the fuck is this?" Karr muttered as the LT's truck passed into shadow a bar of shadow cast by the arch and back into the light, drifting to the right side of the road to stop. I followed.

"Hey, Mac! See if you can see into that hole!" Karr called up to the gunner as I slowed the truck down and edged over closer to the side of the road.
The AIF had placed IEDs in the same hole before. They like to do that.
"I can't see anything." Mac called down as we stopped.

The Iraqis were closing on our truck. Karr and Stew dismounted while I put the truck in PARK and popped my door.
SSG Coopers truck was just pulling under the overpass with his crew, including Doc, dismounting or already out.
I turned to look back at the other truck, I already had the feeling we shouldn't be stopping here. Something was wrong when word got passed up of an IED under the over pass.
Coopers people and vechile were right next to it.

"Let's GO! Get in!" I shouted back at Karr and Stew. I couldn't see them behind the bulk of the HUMMVEE. Mac was shouting back as well. Shooting a glance forward I saw the LT's truck pulling away.

Damn.

We need to go!

A wash of fear, cold as ice, spread from the center of my chest outward. Looking back I couldn't believe Cooper and his people were still outside their truck, almost milling around like they had all the time in the world.
The LT was giving orders over the truck mounted SINGARs - something about Cooper setting up a blocking position on the other side of the over pass and for me to follow the lead truck.
It was all distant, I heard the radio and logged the info in my head but it really didn't seem all that important. Foremost was getting the hell away before a black ball of smoke engulfed us all.

After what seemed like hours Stew and Karr piled into the truck, with it already in gear I floored the accelerator before the two Soldiers had even closed the doors. We thumped over the dirt median that separated the east west lanes through a gap torn in the guard rails. Cooper's people were loading up as we roared under the over pass and away form the danger.

I drink my drink and I don't even want to
I think my thoughts when I don't even need to
I never look back cause I don't even want to
And I don’t need to, because I'm getting away with murder

I parked the HUMMVEE cross ways, taking up as much as the three lanes as possible. Karr crossed over the guard rails and median into the east bound lane. Once Stew and I were on line we started moving forward, pushing the traffic back away from us.
About 100 meters down on the right was a larger break in the guard rails. Iraqi drivers were already turning around and seeking alternate routes, the vehicles often accompanied by shouts and the honking of horns.
Iraqis love to honk their horns. It drives me nuts. I hate it.

When I was a kid it was my job to open the gate to our driveway. My Aunt kept her horses on our property sometimes. Every time I would get out of the car or truck and my Dad was driving I would tense up waiting, knowing it was coming but knowing I couldn't stop it or help myself from jumping when he honked the horn . It happened all the time and I hated it. It always frightened me and I would start. Looking back I could see my Dad laughing in the cab which made me angry. Fear followed immediately by anger, good training for Iraq.

We set cones out at the end of the gap in the guard rail nearest us. We gave the Iraqis plenty of room to maneuver, the gap must be 20 to 30 meters wide. Instead they continued to make tight turns, hugging their side of the break like a feral cat that finds it's self against a wall and you between it and freedom. We stood in open, letting the driver see us, if they don't see anyone they will creep up - seeing just how far they can push us, how much they can get away with - even with cones out and a HUMMVEE parked in the middle of the road.

Every Arab male thinks his task is the most important, that he should be allowed to pass or he should be first in line. That cultural aspect is exactly what leads to warning shots and innocent - meaning stupid - drivers being shot and killed by US Soldiers. It always makes me laugh, and also angry, when people at Home throw out suggestions on how we should place check point and road blocks, like we are CAL TRANS paving a stretch of HWY 80.
All I can say is we do the best we can but that is never enough for the Iraqis, the media, Higher, and ignorant civilians that sharp shoot our actions from their living rooms and dens.
We could have miles of neon signs, hand out flyers 48hrs in advance - both of which would fail since many of the poor people cannot read, oh, I forgot the 9 year old kids that drive cars here - have orange cones, lights and sirens, and a clown with a dancing monkey in a little maroon vest and Fez and drivers would still run through it all, get shot at and say," But I didn't see you."
Nothing we do is ever good enough.
How about this,the rag heads - yeah, I just called 'em rag heads (notify the ACLU!) - adapt to the Soldiers that have been in their country for over two years. There is a novel concept. Pay attention to the guy with the guns.
It's just like Gilbert said one day," See, you get rid of Saddam and these people get all nimbly-bimbly."

SGTs Paris and Roscoe closed in and glassed the device with binos after Roscoe attempt at having an Iraqi take a picture of the IED with a digital camera failed. The Iraqi took the picture; he walked right up to the IED and snapped away but the quality was poor. Who needs Civil Affairs when you have Roscoe?
The two NCOs confirmed that it was in fact an IED and unassed the AO.

C for Charlie was notified and EOD was informed.
"Well," Karr said, reaching into the open window of the still running HUMMVEE and flicking the ignition switch to the OFF position,"We’re gonna be here for a while. Might as well turn this off."

At Karr's suggestion we set up two rolls of concertina wire, one in the west bound lain and one in the east one. I eyed the fronts of the cars and trucks as I jogged backward, shaking the coils of wire loose from each other, trying to see through the dirt and grim streaked windshields bright with the intense sun.
People were just starting to get upset at the cordon, I could see hands waving out windows, faces craning to see past the vehicles in front of them, some men children and women had exited their cars and stood in the lanes created by the lines of vehicle bodies. A steady stream were negotiating the turn in the median. I wondered if there was a VBIED out there, working its way forward or coming down one of the side streets.
The highway is elevated above the frontage road, a sloping wall of packed dun colored dirt. A VBIED could get close to us, not into out perimeter but close enough to do damage,maybe kill.

I feel irrational, so confrontational
To tell the truth I am getting away with murder
It is impossible to never tell the truth
But the reality is I'm getting away with murder

Stew and I covered each other on the way back to the truck. After a few cars poked their noses out from a frontage street behind us I decided to move the HUMMVEE to cover that approach.

Meanwhile Iraqis on foot continued to test our resolve. I watched several, mostly males, look at the wire, look at us, and continue toward the cordon. True we did not have enough wire or cones to block the frontage road off; even if we did they would have tried to pass by us on the side walk. Iraqi men do not like being told they cannot walk where they want to. Fortunately for us they are easily persuaded to find an alternate route. Others would see and hear us waving others off and still continue, as if they had special pass, they would be allowed through.
Surely the Americans will see I am on an important errand and cannot be concerned with security!
Think again. The threat of one of them being the trigger man for the IED or having more explosives strapped to his scrawny frame is to high. Then what happens if the IED goes off and blows Mr. Important away? We are the ones that will suffer for his death.

An hour had passed, the sun climbing higher in the sky and more traffic backing up. Between watching the side street I scanned the roof tops and lines of Iraqi vehicles with Karr’s M-14, watching for anything unusual in a country that is unusual.
First a white sedan took my notice. With us behind the bulk of the HUMMVEE for cover it was like we were not even there. Cars began to slowly roll towards us. The white car had crept up the shoulder, blinkers flashing - the Iraqis always turn on their blinkers when they seeus, unless the blinkers don't work or they don't have any - once it reached the front of the line it stopped. Or at least I thought it had. Every time I looked away it crept just a bit closer. Finally I layed the long rifle over the hood of the HUMMVEE and center my sights on the windshield.

"Two male passengers, front seat. Western dress," I yelled out to my guys.
"I can't see any movement in the back. Mac!"
"Yeah!"
"If that car rushes us and hits the wire, it's on. No. Fuck that. If it rushes us it's on period. Burn the barrel out on that 240. Everybody else, dump your mags into it."

I got a chorus of "Rogers".

Through the scope I watched the two men watch me."Come on, motherfucker, do something."
A wave of adrenaline flashed through me. It felt warm and pleasant, like an old friend. My vision tightened and cleared.
I imagined sending one of the 7.62mm M118 long range rounds through the windshield and watching it frost over.

When I was a young Paratrooper I would sneak beer bottles out of bars and strip clubs and wing them into the windshields of parked cars just because I liked the sound the glass made when it broke - and because it was kind of crazy. My buddies finally took to patting me down before allowing me outside.
I wondered if that's what the bullet striking the glass would sound like, if I could hear it over the report of the rifle. I moved the cross hairs over the driver’s chest and centered them there. With little flicks of my eye I could keep the cross hairs steady and still watch his face. I could see him getting increasingly agitated and I smiled. I steadied my breathing, finding the rhythm, blocking out the heat and radio and the weight of my gear, the pain in my lower back until only the driver and I remained in the world locked together through the scope. He began to shift and twist, taking hard drags on his cigarette.
"Little nervous are we?" I talked to him. "You see me watching you, huh?"

It's funny, every time I put my sights on somebody I never have the classic thought of
'Wow, this is a person and I'm ready to kill them.' I worry about making the shot. Hitting he target on my first round because that's all they are to me at that time, a target, just like any range. I must have fired a million blanks at people over the years, pulled the trigger over and over again on live humans, other US Soldiers, sometimes people I knew and I've never thought about it, never hesitated. It's only afterward that I think about it and that is not ever often. Here it's become like pointing the remote at the TV to change the channel.

Getting away, getting away, getting away
Getting away, getting away, getting away
Getting away, getting away, getting away

The driver flicked his smoke out the window and reached of the gear shift," Here we go!" I shouted.
Safeties clicked off. Slowly the car rolled forward and began to turn to our right. I tracked it until it was all the way through the gap in the median.
Minutes later there was a long burst of automatic weapons fire. It was close but difficult to pin point. All of us dropped to a knee and brought our weapons up. Stew, who hand moved next to me, ducked behind the open driver door of the HUMMVEE. I spun around and dropped, facing the direction that it sounded like the shots came from. Karr was already down and pointing his rifle in the same direction.

"Where did that come from? Anybody hit?" I yelled, scanning windows and roof tops. Nobody was hit, no whizzes or snaps, no splatters of bullets hitting the asphalt. On the other end of the cordon, Cooper's people were taking incoming rounds as well. Doc felt the concussion and saw a round strike in the dirt near him, lifting a puff of dust.

"It came from down the street! The building on the end!" Stew pointed down the side street we had been covering to a two storied home.
"There was a dude on the roof; I saw the muzzle flash and he ducked out of site."
I moved behind the door and propped the M-14 up between the door and the body of the truck. A quick scan of the street reviled Iraqis slowly coming back out on the street after taking cover. I shifted to the roof top. It was empty.
Karr passed up the report to the LT. As I continued to watch the roof.

There was a low structure near the center and palm trees covered the right side. EOD arrived and met with the LT. I watched the roof still, waiting. I wanted the shooter to comeback and try again. It was 250 to 300 meters, an easy shot with the M-14.
We are all sick of seeing no results form our actions. Nothing tangible has come of our time and effort, a stand up fight would be welcome; at least it would be something a release instead of this constant sniping and explosions.
I feel sorry for the guy we finally get our hands on.

EOD had dismounted their robot. It rolled on its rubber treads towards the overpass, its arms and camera mounted on a periscope bouncing and wobbling reminding me of the scene in 'Star Wars' where Luke's Uncle buys C-3P0 and R2-D2 from the Jawwas. The flute theme for the Ewoks started in my head as I watched the robot. Wrong music but what the hell.
I turned my attention back to the roof.

SHIT!
There he was!

The man was dressed in a blue and white striped shirt, thick back hair on his head. I warned the others and watched him as he moved around the roof. He didn't have anything in his hands and kept his arms at his side. He milled around, seeming to pause every now and again and look down the length of the street toward us. I eased the safety off with a click. I could already feel the shot. I wanted the shot. I felt like a starving man with a steak dinner place before him, mouth watering. I was locked behind the scope my figure hovering above the trigger. Come on, come on... I ached for it, yearned for the guy to bring up a weapon. He ducked into the shed on the roof. I waited, blocking out the rest of the world again concentrating on the shot.
The bullet knows where it is to supposed to go. It knows what it has to do; all I have to do is release it. The bullet will do the rest. My Zen of shooting.

Somewhere beyond happiness and sadness
I need to calculate what creates my own madness
And I'm addicted to your punishments
And I'm your master, and I am craving this disaster

The guy emerged, straightening up; the wall along the roof obscured everything from his mid chest down. I put the cross hairs on his breast bone. He looked down and his arms began to raise and come clear of the wall. He held something in his clasp hands, the motion to fast for me to identify what it was, reaching above his head, arms in an A framing his head. There was a white flash from his hands, a fluttering, and a white pigeon took flight, hanging in the air until it's wings caught the wind and it climbed up ward.

I feel irrational, so confrontational
To tell the truth I am getting away with murder
It is impossible to never tell the truth
But the reality is I'm getting away with murder

I exhaled and let the rifle dip, loosening my grip and snapping the safety back on
."The guy has pigeons. He has fucking birds on his roof, that's what he's doing up there."
"But I saw a muzzle flash and he ducked." Stew was next to me.
"Man, I'm not doubting you, Stew. You know me better than that. I have no doubt that you saw what you say you saw. But the guy has birds up there and I can't just shoot him."As much as I would like to, I thought.

Getting away, getting away, getting away

EOD pulled its little robot back and declared that what we had was in fact and IED.
Thanks, we knew that already.
They were going to blow the IED in place. Between, watching the roof and The Bird Man of Baghdad, we shooed Iraqis back into their homes and away from the street making explosion sounds and gestures with our hands. Most of them got the idea.
Karr was across the lane, next to the median, yelling at some kid in red shirt with really bad hair. The kid stood there, ignoring Karr and looking directly at him.
I rounded, frustrated and still fused with adrenaline.
"YOU!"I strode over toward the guard rail,"Yeah, Dumbass!" The kid looked at me.
"Get the FUCK out of here before you get fucking killed! Go on beat it! RUN motherfucker!" The kid turned and fled down the street.
"You're welcome for saving your miserable like you little bastard." My shouts followed him down the street.
"These people, man, all in a damn hurry to die."

The LT called over the net, ten minutes before the detonation. We speculated on whether or not the IED would blow the overpass up.
"Man, that would be cool. I gotta get my camera." Karr rummaged around in his gear as 3rd PLT cleared the overpass of cars and people.
At thirty seconds we got down behind the truck, those with cameras got them ready. I sat in the rear seat and watched through the window. At ten seconds a horn sounded and the charge went off with thump that traveled through the earth before the sound reached us.
A black cloud, and orange yellow flash at the center, erupted beneath the arch.
Ten minutes later we were packing up the wire and cones, getting ready to call it a day. I paused while loading the wire on the hood of the truck thinking about how close we had come, again. It shook me for a moment, fear clawing at me senses. I wondered how much more luck I had in my tank.

I feel irrational, so confrontational
To tell the truth I am getting away with murder
It is impossible to never tell the truth
But the reality is I'm getting away with murder

To Late

Try, if you can to describe a loved one in his last hours of life. The light of Life in his eyes. The last moments that you saw him animated, sun filled hallway, the the tile gleaming under his booted feet. A man, a boy, a Soldier you have know for years. You know his wife, his daughter-remembering the day she was born and the happy look in his eyes - you know the trouble he has been through, with his wife with his father. Not knowing what to tell him, this young man with a family, since you don’t have any of those things but this Soldier looks up to you as a Leader, looking for help.

Like a son you have tried to help him, mentor him, sat for hours with him in a tower in Kuwait and listened to him, his worries and fears, his hopes and dreams. This boy was… This boy, this man… was all the mistakes you could have prevented as a youth. He was the Hope you once had. He could do It with the right advice, the right words. You loved him but you didn’t know it at the time, oh, maybe you did, but it wasn’t real… It wasn’t Real. Death could never touch us here. Not here, not standing in front of the 1SGT as his squad leader, defending your best Soldier, as he admitted why he spent a weekend in jail. “But get him away from the civlians, Top, and the man shines…”

He comes overe to your apartment and talks about his life, his wife, his daughter, his love, the light of his life. You drink beer with him as he folds laundry and never calls you by your first name because,”It wouldn’t be respectful, you know? I can’t call you Mike, Sgt D.” You cry infront of him, tell him that there is a great hole in your soul that needs to be filled but can’t be. You need Hope but it’s not there. He tells you to hold on that he loves you in the words that men cannot say to each other.

A year and half later, he is dead, his heart shattered by a sniper and you don’t know it yet, hoping it’s some IA or IP, but you have already heard the name over the radio. Duplaintier. Thinking you will see him back at Falcone so you can give him shit about being shot, but he’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

You will never see him laugh again, never sit with this little girl again and try to draw Spiderman for her again as the leadership of the squad tries to figure out the new hand and arm signals for LOA and SALT reports.

The last time you see him is in a black bodybag, intabation tube in his mouth, eyes glassed over, skin waxy, like a dead fish in the market. Touch his hair,cut short to the scalp like your own, expecting him to sit up and tell you it will all be ok, it was all a joke. He is still alive.
But the skin is cold, lifeless. and you think of that morning, the last time you saw him alive and wish you would have stopped, for one second, and asked him how how he was doing, how his Leave was.

Only now it’s to late.

Lost

I had four Goddamn pages written, four fucking pages, and I just lost it all. All of it, thanks to my internet connection. Two hours of writing. I'm sorry.

I'm working on the day D was killed, I'm trying but it's diffcult. I can't seem to remeber things the right way. I keep 'interviewing' the people that were there but it's hard. Everything seems so confused and mixed up. There are blanks in my memory that I find hard to get over. What I want to do is go from the time the mission started to when I finally fell asleep that night at BIAP, try to give you a full feeling for the events of that day, in my own weak words. And I just lost it all.

I'm sorry, D.