COMPASSION FATIGUE
Name: CAPT Beau Cleland
Posting date: 5/12/08
Stationed in: Iraq
Hometown: Florida

I sometimes wonder if I'm getting callous about death and suffering, like some crotchety old veteran in the movies or something. You tell me.

Example 1:

We are searching a neighborhood, and an old woman approaches us with four or five other female family members. They are squatting in this nice house while the owners are gone (dead?), but fear they will be evicted soon. They have no male relatives, no food, and nowhere to go, since their house was blown up by either the US or al Qaeda. She produces some snapshots of a completely demolished house to show us.

I have absolutely no idea what I could possibly do for them, so I vaguely direct them to a US FOB in that part of the city and tell them to ask for the civil affairs people there. I feel slightly sad, but really my predominant emotion is tiredness.

Example 2:

A man with his face wrapped in fresh bandages stumbles up to my humvee while we are cordoning a neighborhood with our Iraqi Army unit. He knocks on the window, so I open it and have my interpreter ask what he wants. He starts wailing and crying that the local police in the area beat him and stole his money, and could I please fix the situation for him.

He's clearly drunk and weaving around, and again I have no idea what I can do for this guy. I make vague promises to let "someone" know -- probably the MPs who babysit the local cops, but I really don't think they can or will do anything about it. He persists in crying and begging, and I get annoyed instead of sympathetic, and motion for the IA soldiers to shoo him away. He almost gets shooed with a rifle butt until some people from his neighborhood take him away -- and slap him around. Tough day for that dude. I just feel a little sick.

Example 3:

I'm covering on radio watch while the rest of the team is out getting a truck fixed. There is lots of contact as we build a wall down a contested street and the enemy tries their best to stop us. Tanks, Bradleys, helicopters, artillery, CAS -- the whole gamut is getting used like crazy as Real War(tm) returns for a period to the streets of Sadr City. So as this stuff goes on, the guy on duty notes significant radio traffic. Here's what I write that day (paraphrased and edited for OPSEC, naturally):

1400: Red 1 reports contact, SAF and RPG. 4 x EKIA (enemy killed-in-action) at grid x. Engaged with main gun and coax.

1418: AWT (air-weapons team) engages RPG team with Hellfire at building 44. 2 x EKIA

1424: Ironclaw 22 reports IED strike. 0 x casualties, 2 x flat tire

And so on. For several hours I make similar notes, then I write this:

1604: Red 3 reports 1 x MAM (military-age male) running in front of tank towards barrier with a black duffel bag. Engaged with coax, 1 x EKIA. Suspected IED in bag.

1610: IA positions on RTE Beer receiving heavy PKC and RPG fire. 2 x WIA. Evaced to hospital.

And here it came....

1627: EOD reports possible IED is cleared. Bag contained cigarettes. Smoking kills.

I just made a joke about a (possibly) innocent civilian being cut down by a tank because he wanted to get some cigarettes and was too dumb or lazy to go around the battle area. Then I laughed at my own joke -- I was by myself, but I enjoyed the irony even with the bitter guilt heaped on top.

I've thought about this a lot in the last couple of days, and I've come to the conclusion that this place has so much suffering, so many problems, that if I internalize them I'm just going to mess myself up mentally and emotionally. Laughing is a necessary defense mechanism against the inevitable bad feelings. I mean, I didn't kill that man. But I would have. I know I would had I been in the same situation as that gunner -- his actions were completely justified. And yet I still felt uneasy.

And so I made a joke, knowing he was probably not a combatant. But I don't think I did it to be callous. I did it to keep myself sane. Don't get me wrong, we help people all the time. Every day there's something done to aid people around here. But there's just more stuff to fix than we could possibly handle and still be able to do our jobs. Everyone has a problem and the US Army is the magic bullet that can solve it for them. So I make myself not care when I can't afford to, or face being overwhelmed.

Posted at 09:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBack (0)

ONE DEEP BREATH
Name: SFC Toby Nunn
Posting date: 5/9/08
Stationed in: Kuwait / Iraq
Hometown: Oakland, CA via Terrace B.C. CANADA
Milblog url: Toby Nunn's Briefing Room

There has always been something weighing very heavy on my heart, from the second I walked off the bus at Camp Roberts in California. I looked at the motley crew of men that were potentially going to be under my charge and wondered who wouldn’t make it. I tried harder than ever before to truly look into the eyes of each soldier, so that if I lost them or if I should perish my memory and what I could have or would have said would be presented in one form or another. The awesome responsibility perhaps held me down sometimes, while at others it helped me soar above and fight harder for them and for what I thought was right by them.

Yesterday, I looked at the sun that fittingly was setting over the chain linked and razor wire fence that separates Iraq and Kuwait. As the sun was lowering itself in the sky I watched the remaining Bad Voodoo members who are still in combat leave enemy territory for the last time. It was like an old Western with the good guys riding off into the sunset. I was proud, and found myself in a moment similar to LTG (ret) Hal Moore on that fateful day in Vietnam; he hit the battlefield first and was the last to leave.

I met up with the guys at the clearing barrels and pulled my charging handle to the rear and watched as “ol' Death” came flying out into my hand. (I paint the top round in all my magazines so that its easy for this not-so-smart Canadian to keep track of my ammo. I also name the top round. I know its weird.) With that I placed “ol' Death” back on top like I have so many other times, but knew in my heart that would be the last time he stood on guard for me. It was over. There was no banner on a carrier deck, but Ranger Ben, Mr 300 (aka the Naughty Soldier), and Bad Voodoo Juan (aka Jose) looked at each other with the contentment of fulfilled promises.

We are not done yet but the biggest hurdle and really the only one I lost sleep over is behind me, and I am running now for the smaller family. So from short breaths to deep breaths we go.

I was sent this by reader David M. and I wanted to share it with you:

Where others see bewildering complexity,
     Leaders see simplicity
     And turn stumbling stones into stepping-stones
Where others perceive uncertainty as threats,
     Leaders see it as fertile grounds for opportunity
     And are willing to take risks.
Where others cringe from change,
     Leaders make friends with it, welcome it,
     Embrace it.
Where others grasp power jealously,
     Leaders share it, mentoring, and inspiring.
Where others are lost in confusion,
Paralyzed by the multitude of options,
     Leaders constantly scan the landscape
     Using interpretive power to
     Comprehend, intervene, solve, and move on.
Where others are exhausted by constant change,
     Leaders are energized

Clockwise from lower left: JP, me, Ranger Nievera, Sgt. Q.

Posted at 02:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

FAMILY
Name: Mike T.
Posting date: 5/7/08
Stationed in: Afghanistan
Milblog url: c/o bouhammer.com

I can remember the faint sound as the door to my house closed behind me. One foot in front of the other I walked down the sidewalk to the truck and felt what seems to be forever ago the breeze upon my face. No sooner did that door close than I was boarding a flight to the unknown, to a combat zone.

Words can only partially describe the feelings that raced through my veins to my heart, to my soul. Everything that I have known and loved was left behind that door, and since then there is an emptiness that can only be filled by going back to it as I left it, even though there will be subtle changes. In my heart I know that can never be. War changes you. I believe it was the famous war correspondent Joe Galloway who said it best: “Those who have seen war will always see it long after it is over." (sic)

If you are to fall on the battlefield you will always be remembered by those whose lives you touched, but it is your family that will forever carry the burden. They are left with the memories of your laughter, smile, and delicate voice that will always echo inside them. They are the unsung heroes of war that often go unnoticed and even forgotten. I have come to terms with the fact that there is a chance that something could go wrong and I may not return, but it is the faces of my loved ones that haunt me. To imagine being without them can rattle the heart and soul of the strongest soldier.

It is not the amount of money or material wealth possessed that dictates the worth of a man’s life, it is his family. Without family there is no point to why we are here. I do not miss such things as going to the mall, driving my car, or even the ability to go food shopping; it is them that I miss. They are the driving force for me to stay alive and to keep those around me the same. We are born by family and we will die by family. It has taken me many years to realize this, but more so than ever I need them now. It is their emails and packages; it is the hand-drawn pictures and words of encouragement. This is what drives me to continue.

A lifetime has passed since I have been able to hug them and tell them that I love them in person. How do we return and explain all that we have said and done here? All of us struggle with what we do to accomplish our missions, but if we do not, then our comrades might pay the price. Regardless if you are facing the enemy or stationed on the Forward Operating Bases, everyone struggles. Distance and time are the true enemies of the soldier.

For those who serve in Afghanistan, better known to some as "The Forgotten War”, we struggle with what we are doing here. Iraq is always served to the public as the true struggle, but for us it is here and now. It is hard to tell our loved ones how things are here, and I am not sure we even know. There is no one in the media, or even most of our key leaders, who praise our accomplishments. But the families of this war are displaced even more so.

I dedicate this to my family, to those who keep the watch while I am gone. This is for the endless pen marks on the calendar, for the Christmas presents that are still wrapped, for the tears left on the phone long after I have hung up, for the empty email boxes, for those who keep going on and look forward to the next sunrise, one step closer to me coming home. You are my heroes. This is for you, my love, who has shown me that this world has so much to offer. Thank you for believing in me during the darkest times. I love you.

“And if I stare too long I might not see you right, so close the door where the heart is out of sight.”
              -- COC

Posted at 02:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBack (0)

A SOUNDTRACK TO WAR
Name: LT G
Posting date: 5/5/08
Stationed in: Iraq
Hometown: Reno, Nevada
Milblog: Kaboom: A Soldier's War Journal

Heat in the triple digits, an old, tired war, and increasing frustrations regarding a largely unseen enemy equals … new music offerings. Compliments of the best educated and most stratified Army in the history of the world, by way of the Suck.

WARNING: EXPLICIT. Reality curses.

                                      Gravediggers Mix Tape, Volume II

SFC Big Country: “Welcome to the Jungle,” by Guns N’ Roses. This song opens up Volume II not just because my platoon sergeant has a gigantic flag as tribute to GnR in our room. Although it helps. So does the truth that the jungle is the ideal analogy for our current operating environment -- with just a slapdash of we’re in the desert, Charlie don’t surf or car-bomb irony.

PFC Das Boot: “Boyz-N-The-Hood,” by Dynamite Hack. The Giant still refuses to cater to our beloved American stereotype that all Germans adore David Hasselhoff. So this seemed like a good alternative in the Hoff’s stead.

(newly promoted) SSG Chico: “I’m Shipping Up to Boston,” by Dropkick Murphys. Pure. Violent. Crashing. Power.

PFC Romeo: “What’s Golden,” by Jurassic 5. A happy-go-lucky rap medley for a happy-go-lucky Puerto Rican charmer.

CPL Spot: “Ohio is for Lovers,” by Hawthorne Heights. Even with family in the Buckeye State, I’ll never really understand Ohioans’ perverse pride for their home state. It’s like loving Texas, without the ridiculousness, or loving New Jersey, minus the general suck factor.

SPC Doc: “Been Around the World,” by Puff Daddy and the Family. Dedicated to our medic’s developing plan to know women across the globe in his post-Iraq global trek with SPC Haitian Sensation and PFC Das Boot. And yes, that verb was used specifically in the biblical sense.

SGT Axel: “The Wicker Man,” by Iron Maiden. Your time will come.

SPC Prime: “Bad Habit,” by the Offspring. The Army’s most perfect, most patient, and most experienced driver must have a breaking point. When it occurs, it’ll probably sound a lot like this song devoted to all things road rage.

LT G: “Lose Yourself,” by Eminem. Self-righteous, skinny white boys know all, and will make sure the world is aware of such. All in spite of being doomed with a clown’s soul.

SGT Cheech: “A Whole New World,” from the Aladdin soundtrack. Hey, five kids hooked on Disney like a fat kid on cake would change your outlook on life too.

PFC Boomhauer: “I Wanna Talk About Me,” by Toby Keith. The noble everyman’s most twisted anthem to every woman far away in distance but close to our hearts. Ever.

SPC Tunnel Rat: “Fuck It,” by Eamon. Dear John does the Gravediggers, Version 2.5. In the worst care package ever, SPC Tunnel Rat received three bags of Jolly Ranchers, eight logs of smokeless tobacco, and a set of divorce papers. Fuck the circumstances. This phenomenon is very real and very cruel, no matter how outraged the neo-feminist contingent gets about the conclusions drawn from such. Could we as humanity at least pretend to be above Out of Sight, Out of Mind?

SPC Haitian Sensation: “Chain Hang Low,” by Jibbs. No, there is no synchronized dance for this song, which is precisely why it was selected. There will be no sequel to “Crank Dat in Iraq.” Epical awesomeness like that should not be ruined by cheap imitations. At least not publicly. (See: Godfather III and the return of Grover Cleveland to the White House.)

SPC Big Ern: “I Want to Know What Love Is,” by Foreigner. Yes, 80's love ballads bellowed in a deep Southern twang straight out of the Hollah’ are hilarious. And off-key. And strangely motivating, especially when dedicated to hetero-lifemates, who in this case, is PFC Van Wilder.

SSG Bulldog: “Numb/Encore,” by Jay-Z and Linkin Park. An eclectic mash-up for an eclectic kind of guy. Just don’t be the dumb bastard that gets in his way. He doesn’t like to bypass things.

PV2 Hot Wheels: “That Smell,” by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Encapsulates that ever-permanent raw sewage cologne that this country is doused in, in classic Southern rock form. On a quasi-related note, I’ve never seen a soldier as content as PV2 Hot Wheels was when searching for weapons of mass destruction in a bull’s pen at an outlying Iraqi farm.

(newly promoted) SPC Cold-Nuts: “Pain,” by Three Days Grace. Just as is the case with any joker, SPC Cold-Nuts channels a lot more than light-hearted humor at his core. As Mother Teresa always said, there isn’t anything wrong with a little masochism. Eh? What’s that you say? She never said that? You sure?

SSG Boondock: “Three Little Birds,” by Bob Marley. Although he tries very hard to hide it, my junior section sergeant has a closet hippie tucked away deep down in his warrior soul. Well, maybe tucked isn’t the right description. Being held hostage would be more accurate.

PV2 Stove-Top: “Don’t Tread on Me,” by Metallica. The riffs of raw machismo explain this young soldier, who is convinced he missed his calling by not being a part of the initial American incursion into Iraq. I remind him that he was 13 at the time, but I don’t think it has much of an effect.

SPC Flashback: “Road Trippin,’ by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. The horrible tasking monster known as “Headquarters” finally sank its’ claws into this O.G. -- original Gravedigger -- but he remains with us in spirit. The love-taps he facilitated from various Iraqi inanimate objects getting in the way of my Stryker remain as well.

Posted at 11:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)

BAJA 1000
Name: MSGT Ken Mahoy
Posting date: 5/2/08
Stationed in: Afghanistan
Milblog: Third Time's a Charm!

You know it's amazing to me, the efforts that have to be put forth in the name of "supporting the mission." Take for instance something as simple as supplies. We are not a large compound here at HQ ISAF, so to get the "beans and bullets" to our troops we sometimes have to conjure up a convoy to Bagram Airfield, an hour north of here, to get what we need. I just got back from one of those trips, probably my 3rd or 4th. Heck I don’t remember. All I know is I’m exhausted.

You drive, completely cognizant of the fact that you are in IED Central, looking this way and that for anything suspicious. Intel, for instance, tells us to look out for a Toyota Corolla in black, white, red, blue. Heck that is about every car out there! They also say to look for particular trucks, SUVs, and even an Afghan National Army vehicle that was stolen. Ugh! You get the picture. You basically can’t trust any vehicle out there because they are potential VBIEDs.

Then you’ve got to navigate through a city that has no traffic laws, with people crossing the street everywhere, taxis and buses routinely stopping in the middle of the street, and -- I kid you not -- donkey carts in the middle of it all, slowing up everyone and creating dangerous choke points. The key word is avoidance, and we have only one rule to driving here in Afghanistan: "Drive it like you stole it." And try not to hurt anyone in the process. Ha! What that entails is utilizing driving maneuvers that seem to make things worse, not better.

For instance, we don’t stop at most stop signs. We drive way faster than the rest of traffic, weaving in and out of lanes, nearly missing the corner of every vehicle we pass. We slam on the brakes so often it is common to return from the day’s trip with bruised knees. We honk like we own the road; we have to swerve into oncoming one-way traffic to get around a slow vehicle that could make us vulnerable to attack; we’ve played “chicken” with oncoming cars, trucks, buses, and large jingle trucks more times that I can count.

Yes, we’ve been in accidents. On the convoy before this one, a car panicked and pulled out right in front of us. Our lead truck slammed into the back of it, pushing the car in front of my truck and we slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting it. Shortly afterward, a bus pulled out, and again, our lead truck side-swiped it, ripping the mirror off. We're not exactly winning the hearts and minds of the Afghan people here with our highway habits!

Once we make it out of downtown Kabul into the open desert, we drive an average of 80 mph on roads not fit for a fully-suspensioned Baja truck to traverse. We often slide and skid, especially in wet weather like today. We come back with dented rims from the gaping pot-holes, so large they could swallow our light-armored truck whole. And we frequently go completely airborne through many of the hillcrests and dips in the road. (We have the stiff necks, from slamming into the roof, to prove it! )

We drive around in an 8000 lb light armored 4X4 Toyota Land Cruiser, retrofitted with 1-inch-thick windows and 1/4 inch inside armor, so it’s already extremely top-heavy. And when you have the additional weight of 2-5 passengers and their cargo, I liken the feel of driving it to that of steering a boat on water. That’s really what it feels like. You have to anticipate the tire-roll, the heavy lean to one side with the slightest of turns, especially at speed -- and the fact that 8000+ lbs of man and metal does not stop on a dime, no matter how hard you slam on those brakes.

We drive tactically when in a multi-vehicle convoy, and that often means the tail vehicle will provide “block” for the lead vehicles, meaning when we come to a turn, or intersection, he will speed past us to block the oncoming cars. Last trip out, our “block” predicted his move incorrectly and locked up his brakes, skidded right through the intersection, down into a 4-foot drop-off ditch, and then smashed into the side of a mud hut.

The lead vehicle is the most vulnerable. He is the lookout, calling back on the radio all the suspicious activities and sites that he observes as we're traveling. You’re a two-man team in that lead vehicle, one driving as the other calls out cautions in the road, or our intentions -- like passing a slow moving truck. Then each vehicle behind the lead will, in turn, call out “Clear!” as they pass so that we know we’re all still together.

Some may say, “Well, at least you’re not driving a Humvee.” What I would say to them is, “I wish we were!” At least they are wider, don’t practically roll over every time you turn the wheel, are armored better, and have ECMs (ours don’t). And driving in full body armor in our Land Cruisers certainly doesn’t win you any comfort awards. Because we're wearing full body armor, we can’t sit back all the way. We have a 12-pound bullet-proof plate behind us, and then another up front, along with an ammo belt, all playing interference with the steering wheel. We wear our Kevlar helmets, not particularly for the threat outside the vehicle, but because of how often we get banged around inside the vehicle.

Today was one of the worst convoys I’ve been on. It was rainy, muddy, and to boot, I was in charge as the convoy commander today, so everyone’s safety resided on my shoulders. We had so much cargo loaded in the back that all rear view visibility was gone -- not that we had much to begin with. Scotti, Bixby and I had other passengers too -- a couple redeploying and going on R&R, and our Chief first sergeant, the highest ranking enlisted guy in Afghanistan, who had meetings to attend.

The fact that these peoples’ lives rested on my ability to put together precise and sufficiently briefed convoy procedures in the event something should “interrupt” our normal course of action, did not rest easy on my mind. This is not my first convoy. Heck, I've been shot at in past deployments, even ambushed, and this is also not the first time I have had a responsibility like this put on me. But weather conditions made it worse, and this was also the first convoy where we did not accompany another unit, so we were completely on our own today. What if I got everyone lost? What if we hit an IED? What if...???

A couple months ago on our first trek through this desert, I actually thought it was fun. I likened it to competing in the Baja 1000 -- except under duress. But it's not so fun anymore. I don't know, maybe it was turning 40. Maybe I'm getting too old for this. Or maybe I've just been through enough situations like this now that I realize all the wonderful things I have to come home to, and am more cautious than before. Either way, these trips now seem more and more like a game of Russian Roulette, and I worry that eventually our odds will be stacked against us.

Posted at 01:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBack (0)

MURPHY'S LAWS OF COMBAT
Name: 1SG Troy Steward
Posting date: 4/30/08
Stationed in: Afghanistan
Milblog url: bouhammer.com

The following was sent to me a while back from an old army buddy. It is a pretty good list, with both humor and truthfulness it it. Anyone that has served will probably be able to relate to many of these.

1. If the enemy is in range, so are you.
2. Incoming fire has the right of way.
3. Don't look conspicuous, it draws fire.
4. There is always a way, and it usually doesn't work.
5. The problem with the easy way out is that it has already been mined.
6. Try to look unimportant, they may be low on ammo.
7. Professionals are predictable; it's the amateurs that are dangerous.
8. The enemy invariably attacks on two occasions:
9. When you're ready for them.
10. When you're not ready for them.
11. Teamwork is essential; it gives them someone else to shoot at.
12. If you can't remember, then the claymore IS pointed at you.
13. The enemy diversion you have been ignoring will be the main attack.
14. A "sucking chest wound" is nature's way of telling you to slow down.
15. If your attack is going well, then it's an ambush.
16. Never draw fire, it irritates everyone around you.
17. Anything you do can get you shot, including nothing.
18. If you build yourself a bunker that's tough for the enemy to get into quickly, then you won't be able to get out of it quickly either.
19. Never share a foxhole with anyone braver than yourself.
20. If you're short of everything but the enemy, you're in a combat zone.
21. When you've secured the area, don't forget to tell the enemy.
22. Never forget that your weapon is made by the lowest bidder.
23. Friendly fire isn't.
24. If the sergeant can see you, so can the enemy.
25. Never stand when you can sit, never sit when you can lie down, never stay awake when you can sleep.
26. The most dangerous thing in the world is a second lieutenant with a map and a compass.
27. There is no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole.
28. A grenade with a seven second fuse will always burn down in four seconds.
29. Remember, a retreating enemy is probably just falling back and regrouping.
30. If at first you don't succeed, call in an air-strike.
31. Exceptions prove the rule, and destroy the battle plan.
32. Everything always works in your HQ, everything always fails in the colonel's HQ.
33. The enemy never watches until you make a mistake.
34. One enemy soldier is never enough, but two is entirely too many.
35. A clean (and dry) set of BDUs is a magnet for mud and rain.
36. Whenever you have plenty of ammo, you never miss. Whenever you are low on ammo, you can't hit the broad side of a barn.
37. The more a weapon costs, the farther you will have to send it away to be repaired.
38. Field experience is something you don't get until just after you need it.
39. Interchangeable parts aren't.
40. No matter which way you have to march, its always uphill.
41. If enough data is collected, a board of inquiry can prove ANYTHING.
42. For every action, there is an equal and opposite criticism (in boot camp).
43. The one item you need is always in short supply.
44. The worse the weather, the more you are required to be out in it.
45. The complexity of a weapon is inversely proportional to the IQ of the weapon's operator.
46. Airstrikes always overshoot the target, artillery always falls short.
47. When reviewing the radio frequencies that you just wrote down, the most important ones are always illegible.
48. Those who hesitate under fire usually do not end up KIA or WIA.
49. The tough part about being an officer is that the troops don't know what they want, but they know for certain what they DON'T want.
50. To steal information from a person is called plagiarism. To steal information from the enemy is called gathering intelligence.
51. The weapon that usually jams when you need it the most is the M60.
52. The perfect officer for the job will transfer in the day after that billet is filled by someone else.
53. When you have sufficient supplies and ammo, the enemy takes two weeks to attack. When you are low on supplies and ammo the enemy decides to attack that night.
54. The newest and least experienced soldier will usually win the Congressional Medal Of Honor.
55. A Purple Heart just goes to prove that were you smart enough to think of a plan, stupid enough to try it, and lucky enough to survive.
56. Murphy was a grunt

Posted at 10:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBack (0)

HAMID  MEETS THE GANG

Name: CAPT Doug Traversa

Posting date: 4/28/08

Returned from: Afghanistan

Milblog url: Afghanistan Without A Clue

 

All of my previous Hamid postings have been about discussions just the two of us had. Towards the end of our tour, my hut mates would join us in our little chats. By this time Hamid was becoming a bit of a celebrity. A couple of the other interpreters would read my blog and tell Hamid he was famous. My roomies, Doug, Mike, and Drew, were also starting to contribute to AWAC (my blog), so we were all one big happy blogging family.

One day Drew and Mike joined us for lunch. Poor Hamid. His brains hurts enough when I talk to him; imagine the migraine he must have had after talking to the three of us. I don’t remember how we got on the topic, but we ended up discussing freedom of religion.

“People in Afghanistan don’t need the freedom to switch religions; no one would leave Islam,” Hamid assured us.

“Well, how would you know?” I countered. “Right now it’s like having a gun held to your head. Remain Muslim or die. Your government forces everyone to remain Muslim. Leaving the faith is never a realistic possibility for anyone, unless they flee the country.”

“But no one would ever leave Islam. It is the perfect religion.” Hamid was very confident on this point.

“Hamid, you’ve never even read the Qur’an. Don’t tell me it’s the perfect religion.”

Mike joined in: “I find it amazing that so many people here have not read their most holy book. I’m not talking about people who can’t read, I’m talking about those who know how, but never bother.”

I piled on. “Why haven’t you read it? It’s the most important book in your life, and you’ve never read it.”

Hamid didn’t hesitate. “I don’t need to. My mullah tells me what is in the Qur’an.”

[Yes, I know, we’ve had this discussion before. Please bear with us.]

Mike (did I mention he is a lawyer?) pounced: “So you are basing your entire set of beliefs on what one man tells you? Why would you do that? What if he’s wrong?”

“If he is wrong,” replied Hamid, “Someone can say something in the mosque.”

I had to jump on this one. “Hamid, has anyone ever stood up and said that the mullah was wrong about anything?”

He paused, then shook his head. “No. But they could if he was wrong.”

“Hamid,” I disagreed, “No one is going to contradict the mullah. They are probably afraid, or think he knows better than they do. That’s why no one ever disagrees with him. But let me ask you something else. Do you think it would be a good idea to change the law in Afghanistan to allow people to change their religion?”

Hamid seemed puzzled. “No one would do that. Islam is the perfect religion.”

“That doesn’t matter. Would you change the law if you could?”

“No,” he said simply.

“Why not? What are you afraid of?” I demanded.

“We don’t want people to go to hell.”

Mike joined in: “In our country, you are free to worship as you please. The government doesn’t tell you what to believe or how to worship. I could make up a new religion today if I wanted to, and they wouldn’t stop me.”

“Yes,” I added. “I could worship that chair if I wanted to.”

Hamid gave us one of his exasperated looks. “But the government must stop you from doing that. It is crazy.”

“No,” insisted Mike, “In America, the government is forbidden to interfere in your worship, even if it seems crazy. We believe in the marketplace of ideas. If you want to convince someone that your religion is true, you must do it by words, not by force. If you had that freedom over here, people might not stay Muslim.”

“No, no one would leave Islam.” Hamid was firm on that point.

Drew finally joined in: “How do you know? Let me illustrate. Suppose you went to get ice cream, and every day all they had was vanilla. Then one day they also had chocolate chip, but the guy serving it refused to give it to you. How do you know if you would like it unless you were allowed to try it? Here, the people aren’t even allowed to try another religion, so how do you know what they’d do?”

“Do you even study what other religions believe?” asked Mike. “Are you even allowed to read a Bible?”

“Our mullah tells us about other religions,” replied Hamid.

“Yes, and you say he claims that the Bible spoke about the coming of the Qur’an and Mohammad. Yet I can tell you the Bible says no such thing,” I pointed out.

“So you are saying the mullah is lying?”

“He is probably mistaken, or ill-informed, but I have read the Bible several times. I assure you, it doesn’t speak about Islam. If it did, don’t you think more Christians would become Muslims?”

“But the Qur’an came after the Bible; it must be better, it is that last book from God,” protested Hamid.

“Oh, there are many books that came after the Qur’an that some religions claim are from God. The Book of Mormon came later. Are you going to become a Mormon?”

We talked some more, and I wish I'd had a tape recorder, because it was a good discussion. Mike got up to leave and said, “Hamid, we aren’t being mean. We are trying to get you to think. If you believe the Qur’an is God’s word, then you need to read it so you know what it says, not what one man tells you it says.”

This is good advice for everyone, regardless of our personal beliefs. People are very good at leading us astray, whether intentionally or not. Although we were encouraging Hamid to critically examine his beliefs, it brings into sharper contrast the blessings of our country, where we are truly free to do just that. Imagine what it would be like to live in a country where the people do not have freedom to choose their faith (or choose to have none). I don’t have to imagine it; I’ve been there. It’s a scary place.

Posted at 10:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBack (0)

iWAR
Name: LT G
Posting date: 4/25/08
Stationed in: Iraq
Hometown: Reno, Nevada
Milblog: Kaboom: A Soldier's War Journal                 

Rumble young man, rumble.

Make it more true than true is. As muddled as war appears on paper, it still has to make some sort of sense to survive the transformation into language. That is why I write. It makes more sense here than it does out there. If I ever make sense of it all, there won’t be a reason for these words anymore. I’ll finally fade into that proud sand castle defying the sea for the sake of defiance. Alone, under the red hot moon. Doomed to fail, blessed to try. That’s all I’ve really ever wanted out of life. To be left alone, to fight impossible on my own terms.

The act of creation. Jimmy Rabbit on a bus. Pogues in a Port-a-John. Emily Dickinson locked away in an attic. God at a pub, liquored up in a dark corner, doodling on a napkin. Like pulling fangs off of a rabid baboon with pliers, as explainable as the board game Wall Street Land to a people who do not comprehend the concept of excess. Diversify those bonds, mistah.

We all have our methods. Mine has always been somehow sitting still long enough to retch up a pile of brain vomit, followed by meticulously rigid editing and re-editing ingrained by journalistic tendencies by way of poking said brain vomit with a sanity stick. Don’t analyze that too deeply. There was nothing phallic about that statement.

WhoWhatWhenWhereWhyandWhyagainandWhyoverandover. Save the Chief Wahoo greeting for the mathematicians and meterosexual drag queens. Invert that pyramid. It takes time to organize random musings into something worth sharing and even more time to make it readable. I used to write at night, beer in hand, and edit in the morning, water in hand. Cue General Order No. 1. Now I write mad and edit sad, whenever I can.

iWar. Fitting, in that succinct, catchy pop culture kind of way. Perfect for this Era of Irony. No LOL-erskates for the whYkids, but they’ll get over it. iWar. It’s not my phrase, though I appreciate it and am happy to Oscar Wilde it. I got it from an article about blogging in the Iraq War that quoted me. Bask in the shameless self-promotion. To be fair, I don’t think it was the reporter’s phrase either. It begins with "i", so Apple Computers probably has a patent on it. Just like iPod, iTunes, and iRack.

I War. Subject. Verb. Where’s the object? We’re still looking for it, five years later. How’s that for iRony?

I get it. My suffering and soul-searching is not as deep or as angst-worthy as your suffering and soul-searching was. Were you in Fallujah, LT? How about Somalia? Now that was some fucked up shit. My war was SO much more trying than your war. Spare me the juvenile sensitivities; internalizing anything makes you soft. We didn’t have time for that bullshit in Desert Storm. How tough can it be? You have internet access, for Mohammed’s sake. And a mattress.

Fair enough. Counterinsurgencies are not nearly as cool or memorable as the apocalyptic offensives that spawn their existence in the first place. Following that logic though, we all owe the survivors of Antietam our first-born sons and a free rub-and-tug at the local Asian massage parlor.

But wait! They had a pen and a pad to write letters home! Some of them even owned socks. They aren’t nearly as legit as Alexander the Great’s epical Macedonian Marauders. They literally did nothing but kill things 25/8, which clearly elevates them beyond mere soldier status. Their rules of engagement were simply two words. Rape. Pillage. The “and” came later, inadvertently fucking everything up, leading to the point where the world’s lone superpower can’t make juice boxes out of the fruit of their enemy’s skulls anymore. Not directly, at least. Now we just hire them to squeeze their own juice while we provide the fruit and the pre-shaped cardboard and the plastic straw.

ShootMoveAndCommunicateBOOMBOOM.

Scouts Out.

ShootMoveAndCommunicateBOOMBOOM.

Scouts Out.

ShootMoveAndCommunicateBOOMBOOM.

Scouts Out.

As the keyboard Marines of the blogosphere reminded me during the rules of engagement saga, this is war!!! How e-tuff. Thanks for the advice, it’s kind of hard to forget that when you live it and sleep it and breathe it on a daily basis. I play real-world Frogger with IEDs every time we roll out of the wire, Mesopotamian sand rests at the bottom of my lungs like spare change in a swimming pool, the Gravediggers are awaiting CABs for actioning into combat and whistling bullets without hesitation, and I’m still removing bits of Boss Johnson flesh grunge from my memory with a spatula -- and the computer screen dares to lecture about what war is? Typing to kill and repeating asinine banalities found on World War II-era posters are clearly more profound and well-intentioned than ten pages of literary greatness devoted to five seconds of black-bursting clairvoyance written by someone who was actually fucking there. No thanks for the exclamation mark abuse.

Sigh.

To hell with it though, as skewed and as wrong as those individuals may be, at least they are interested. That’s about as rare nowadays as finding a polar bear that thinks global warming is a communist conspiracy.

Give the cute baby seals a hammer and sickle, and put them to work. For the Motherland, of course.

Chew Tobacco

Chew Tobacco

Chew Tobacco

Spit

If You Ain’t Cav

You Ain’t Shit.

I know people care about the iWar. But not enough, given the circumstances. Not even close. Agree or disagree with the war, I don’t care -- just give a fuck. Be able to find Basra on a map, know that the Tigris isn’t some sort of unholy crossbreed found at the San Diego Zoo, try to figure out the difference between a Sunni and a Shi’a even if it conplexes and perfuses your mind beyond repair.

I wish I could issue some loud, righteous proclamation here about the repercussions of such continued resounding American apathy, but who are we kidding? The warrior caste is simply too small nowadays, and too proud. There will be no reckoning for all of this. We’ll fight the fights not because we necessarily want to, but because no one else will. We were bred to protect. Even if we’re protecting nothing more than an isolationistic yawn prefacing the continental slumber history demands occur after protracted warfare.

I used to dream of a life without consequences. Like that defiant sand castle though, it has been swallowed up by a crashing surf of memories, washed away, lost in the swirl of bleeding blue.

iWar. Mine, not yours. This war. My War. Our War. We War. I War.

You peace. Out.

Here’s a secret, though. I’ll let you in on it, if you promise not to tell the chickenhawks or Jody or the Spooks. Sand castles can be rebuilt. The surf can destroy the castles, but not the sand itself. No one and no thing can destroy the sand but myself. And that won’t happen anymore. I will rebuild my sand castle, someday, somewhere else, somewhere where I think the surf can’t find me. In a lagoon where peace is stillness and stillness is peace. Alone, under the red hot moon. Fighting to fight, finding a noble cause in an ignoble world. And tucked away in the deepest dungeon of the castle, where no one will be allowed to go, not even me, will be a piece of scrap paper with the address to this blog site written in smudged ink on it. My link to this iWar, where I finally stumbled into an adventure that I couldn’t sleep off. The last link to a life with consequences.

Rumble young man, rumble.

Posted at 06:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBack (0)

HERE
Name: The Usual Suspect
Posting date: 4/23/08
Stationed in: Iraq
Milblog: The Purgatorium

The same familiar dry and dead landscape flies past me as I stand in one of the hatches, on the same repetitive mission, and in that moment it is like I never left Iraq on leave. Nothing has changed; same faces, same buildings -- some destroyed, some just in pitiful condition.

We stop and the ramp drops. I step out and scan windows and rooftops and nooks and crannies and everything in between as we all link up and enter a building. My travel buddy and I take up positions in the stair well, not having much to talk about.

The sun shining through a small window dimly lighting up the stair well adds to the recurring surreal feeling I sometimes get. Once again, I can't believe that I am here.

I light a cigarette and my train of thought begins to flow. I start thinking about all the events that led up to this singular moment, working backwards. For five minutes I backtrack, blowing my mind with each significant event. At any one of these points, a different decision would have changed everything. I follow it all the way back to the first real decision of my life.

The places I put myself, the people I surrounded myself with and the events that shaped me. Meeting one person caused a series of events and introductions which led to new insights, opinions, disasters. My head begins to spin a little. Anything could have re-directed this train.

A different MOS. A different branch. No military at all. College, or no college. Associating with different people, choosing to live in a different town: any small detail would have resulted in a completely different life for me.

The scary thing is that I don't want the ability to change anything.

Reality takes a hit of ether and a tiny part of me wonders if this is really happening, all of this. Or is it just one long vivid dream?

Later, as we drive down the streets again, I wave at a kid and he extends all fingers except the thumb and the ring finger, commonly referred to as "The Shocker".

I guess this is real.

There I am, that's me. Almost seeing myself from the third person, drifting through the most illogical experience of my life. Yeah right there, that's me again, teaching kids the universal hand signal for "rock on". Now I'm holding the flag at a friend's re-enlistment ceremony.

My feet are kicking up gravel and I'm on my way to get some chow. How the hell did I get here again?

I'm explaining that yes, ratemyboobies.com is in fact a viable excuse for being late to work.

I'm watching director's cut episodes of Beavis and Butthead in a third world country. What the fuck am I doing?

Most of the time, I don't think any of us really think about the reality of actually being here. We keep ourselves sidetracked when we're off duty. If you thought about it too much it just might drive you insane. And then you utter that subtle mantra:

"Holy shit... I'm in Iraq..."

Posted at 01:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBack (0)

VERBOSITY, VIOLENCE AND CHAOS
Name: 1SG Troy Steward
Posting date: 4/21/08
Returned from: Afghanistan
Milblog: bouhammer.com

I was browsing one of my favorite milblogs the other day -- Matt Burden's Blackfive -- and came across this video, sent in by SSG Ryan Creel, that I think does a good job of highlighting and demonstrating the verbosity, violence and chaos that exists in a typical firefight. Granted this is a two-dimensional view of a 360-degree moment, and it is absent the chest-pounding booms, smells, and fear that the guys are experiencing, but it gives the viewer a little appreciation of what 10% of the time in combat is like. Typically the other 90% is boredom.

Posted at 11:32 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBack (0)

THE ROYAL THRONE
Name: MSGT Ken Mahoy
Posting date: 4/18/08
Stationed in: Afghanistan
Milblog: Third Time's A Charm!

I recently headed back to my old stomping grounds -- Iraq. Specifically, Baghdad. I was to meet up with another ASOC*, which resides at the old palace that I used to call home in Southwest Baghdad. Returning to the very place that we occupied five years ago was quite an experience.

I was with one of the first units in Baghdad, during what they now call the "major combat phase" of the war. We took over the airport, lived there for a few weeks, then moved into a nearby palace. We were the first new occupants of the building that the Army gave the Air Force as a way of saying, "Thanks for the close air support!" There are a thousand stories about that experience that I can't go into here. Suffice it to say, it was quite a time.

When we landed on the tarmac in Baghdad I stepped off the back ramp of the C-130 and looked across the runway to see Baghdad International Airport. There it was, glowing, with power, and lights -- looking back at me as if it were a living, breathing creature, not the once-bombed-out shelter I remember. I am here to tell you, it was emotional. I didn't expect it.

Once we arrived at the palace, we pulled out our sleeping bags and snoozed for a few hours up on the fourth floor. I awoke the next morning restless, anxious to walk around and see what they had done with the place in five years' time, so I got dressed and walked outside. The first thing I had to check was to see if the old outhouse that Scotti and I had built was still there. This outhouse was like none other. It was built using one of the gold chairs from Saddam's palace as the "stool", retrofitted with a toilet seat and lid. There was stained woodwork fitted in and around the marble steps that led to the gold chair, and gold trim taken from the frame of a now-destroyed oil painting of Saddam.

For Scotti and me, this outhouse ended up being our legacy. People came from all over to use it, until, after several months, power and plumbing was finally restored to the bombed out palace compound. Even years later, I've run into folks who talked of that outhouse, not knowing we were the ones who built it. Heck, the bathroom in my own house was even inspired by it, and is decorated in an outhouse theme. A picture of Scotti and me standing in front of our outhouse resides on a shelf on the wall! 

I walked out the door that was backdropped on the edge of the lake, and there it was. The Royal Throne, as we referred to it, was still there. It was well worn, however, and showed how hard the last five years had been on it -- not too different from me, really. I felt like I had found an old friend, as funny, or sickening, as that may sound.

The door we made was now off and laying on the ground, half buried in the dirt. The inside was covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs, while the outside that once shimmered with a bright white coat of paint was chipped and peeling. The once shiny, stained and laquered wood trim inside was now drying, faded, and exposed to the elements. The round mirror, the gold and glass shelf and the toilet paper dispensers were missing. But in all honesty, it still was in really good shape. A cleaning and paint job would've restored it to its former luster.


Me and Scotti, May 2003, standing in front of our newly completed Royal Throne.


Me, March 2008, standing in front of a now well-worn Royal Throne.



The inside is still mostly complete, though dusty and weathered.

Then I remembered: After completing the build Scott and I had signed the inside framework just above the door. Was it still there? A quick look inside, up over my head, revealed that the inscription, penned with my Sharpie marker, was still legible: "Designed & built by MSgt Ken Mahoy & TSgt Scott Stadler (signatures) May 2003, OIF." Wow... That just brought it all home. The only problem was, Scotti was not here with me to experience it. I had fought hard to get him to go on the trip with me -- because I really did need his satellite expertise on my project -- but after three attempts the commander would not budge. I brought SSgt Chris Lambert with me instead -- and he did a great job, mind you -- but for obvious sentimental reasons I really wanted Scotti to come along. I was more upset than I can say that he wasn't allowed to go. Scotti was too. 'Nuff said.

The next few days there in Baghdad were busy, but just before I flew out I borrowed a vehicle from the ASOC and Chris and I went for a drive around the palace compound. With each direction I looked, at least a dozen memories popped back into my head. It was fun for me to be able to take Chris and point to a particular area and tell the story of what happened "right there", or to walk past another area and remember the fun things that Scotti and I did when it was all so fresh and so new. No ten-foot-tall concrete barriers blocking the beautiful view of the lake or the other palace buildings. No fences. No sandbags stacked up in front of all the windows. No trees cut down for security reasons. It was beautiful! And it had all been ours for a short spell.

Looking back exactly five years later, and after all that has transpired -- there at the palace in Iraq, and even in my own life -- I can get nostalgic. But only for a spell, then I have to quickly divert my attention back to the now, and all the things that are going on today, and all that I have to accomplish before I get out of the sandbox yet again. But for those few short days, it was hard not to remember back to that time that was so breathtaking, so exhilarating, and terrifying, yet somehow fun, all at once.

Before I left, I decided that I'd bring a momento back for Scotti, so Chris and I removed the brass door handle and I packed it in my backpack. I sat with Scotti alone a few nights ago and showed him the pictures and video I took of the palace, and then, at the very end, I pulled out the door handle. We shared a good laugh over it and recalled all the great memories. We even kidded about how we could scheme to get the entire outhouse shipped back to our unit in Peoria. It has had a life of its own, and we often joke that our outhouse is "the story the refuses to die" because of how many times it's come back to us with yet another chapter. But this time around, sadly, I know I'm leaving it behind for good.

*ASOC: Air Support Operations Center

Posted at 01:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

THIS IS WAR
Name: Eric Coulson
Posting date: 4/16/08
Stationed in: Iraq
Milblog: Badgers Forward

If you read milblogs then you know your single best source of what is happening in Iraq is the people who have been there; the Soldiers, Sailors, Marines and Airmen that have been slugging it out on the ground for the last five years. The milblog was the first outlet that allowed those serving here access to the world at large to tell their story.

Soon after people started returning home books by the warriors started appearing. One of the best was what I called "the Ultimate Embed" -- Sean Michael Flynn's chronicle of The Fighting 69th, an infantry battalion with the New York Army National Guard as it went from Ground Zero to the streets of Baghdad.

Now Soldiers bring their story to the big screen with This is War: Memories of Iraq. The film follows the 2-162 Infantry Battalion from the 41st Infantry Brigade of the Oregon Army National Guard, from mobilization, to six months of training at Fort Hood, Texas and then a year in Iraq. In theater 2-162 drove north from Kuwait, having drawn equipment there. They took their first casualty before they arrived at Taji, the unit's first posting. The battalion spent weeks in Najaf dealing with Sadr and then assisted in the second Battle of Fallujah. The footage in This is War was all shot by the Soldiers of the 2-162. It is amazing; touching, cynical, inspiring, sad, violent -- it is real. And it lets you see life in Iraq from the point of view of the Soldier.*

If you see one movie this year, make it this one.

I would encourage everyone to purchase the DVD -- you can get it here from Lucky Forward Films or here from Amazon.

*The 2-162 Infantry was also the subject of the book The Devil's Sandbox.

Posted at 12:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

COLORS
Name: Mike T.
Posting date: 4/15/08
Stationed in: Afghanistan
Milblog: c/o bouhammer.com

A long time ago I learned one of the most valuable lessons that the Army had to offer. A Squad Leader took me aside and told me no matter what went wrong, or how hard things got, “Keep the colors close to you at all cost." I looked at him and wondered what exactly he was talking about. He then explained: “Brother, there are going to be times when you have to do things you never thought imaginable, things that would make any man scared for his own life and those of his fellow soldiers. But when it all seems lost and you're about to lose your mind, that’s when the colors become your lifeline.” The colors he spoke of were memories, smells, dreams, music, conversations -- those things that bring you out of the hell you are in and allow you to focus on what is truly important.

I have taken this as the single most important lesson in my life, and carried it with me and followed it wherever I have been. I am now a leader of men, a teammate, and a friend. Every day here I try to find my colors, and at times it seems almost too difficult. I will find a place to isolate myself, to concentrate on a specific color that brings me back to a somewhat normal level. I miss the ocean, the gentle breeze from the shore pines near my house, the cat and dog chasing each other, the perfume of my lovely girlfriend. The songs she and I used to sing out loud and dance to together, or the long drives to nowhere. I miss her smile and touch, how they brought peace to my soul. How a splash of Johnny Walker and red wine aromas filled our kitchen on a beautiful summer evening.

These colors are extensions of our mind, body, and soul. Without them what is the point? Why continue to fight? All people have colors, the things in our lives that bring us back from the breaking point. My colors represent all that I have done in my life, all the happiness and sadness. They are my living legend that I share with all those around me. But when it is time to take stock in what we have done here in Afghanistan I am afraid there will not be a specific color for this place. A friend of mine in Iraq emailed me the other day and told me that I need to be careful, and that everyone over there believes we are the true soldiers of the GWOT. I did not know how to respond to that. He is the same guy who told me about the colors.

Find your colors in times of need, reach back to the world and life you left. Close your eyes and search hard. Your colors are there.

Posted at 02:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBack (0)

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT
Name: LT G.
Posting date: 4/14/08
Stationed in: Iraq
Hometown: Reno, Nevada
Milblog: Kaboom: A Soldier's War Journal

Hour 18 of a 24-hour mission. Well, two missions really. We had spent the day pulling outer security for General Petraeus himself, while he strolled down Anu al-Verona with no helmet and basic body armor, surrounded by a camo entourage and media parade Patton’s ghost would respect, to buy some falafels. I didn’t get to meet the Big Man, but I did get a photo of the aforementioned circus from about 100 meters away, with all three rings in action. Trust me, I didn’t want to be any closer. No matter how many gorgeous aides there were in his posse who would have been dutifully unimpressed with a too-cocky, too-skinny scout platoon leader who can’t get rid of the black bags entrenched underneath his eyes, had drunk 10 bottles of water in the past eight hours to fight off sunstroke, and hadn’t showered in two weeks.

After the General left, the Gravediggers charlie miked straight into an escort mission for an engineer unit tasked to fill potholes. A straightforward enough concept -- surround the engineers in a Stryker diamond, and destroy any and all terrorists hordes that pour over the Anu al-Fulda Gap in the meantime. Translation: Rotate gunners and institute a much-needed and well-deserved rest plan for the platoon. Also, it gave us a chance to bring the three new Gravediggers -- SPC Tunnel Rat, PVT Stove-Top, and PVT Hot Wheels -- up to speed on the mechanics of our Strykers. Sounded like a great plan at the time.

Then the war got in the way. Again.

Forty-five minutes after we established our outer cordon security positions -- right at the aforementioned hour 18 -- SSG Boondock’s words boomeranged across the net, hiding the thrill in his voice as much as a teenage boy does while issuing instructions before a panty raid.

“Gravedigger 1, this is Gravedigger 3 … We got some real shady mother fuckers low crawling onto the road, down from the canal. It looks like two of ‘em.”

I bolted straight up in the back of my Stryker, and started studying my map. The 3 vehicle was on the complete other side of the diamond from my vehicle, oriented due south, overwatching a well-traveled north-south thoroughfare.

“Keep watching him,” I said, stating the obvious while conflicting thoughts of violent chaos and escalation of force procedures pumped through my mind like a million competing race car pistons.

Are they sure they’re seeing two guys low crawling? It’s night. They still haven’t done anything wrong yet. Technically. Not yet. Are they sure? Why are they low-crawling? Did I leave my rules of engagement card in the laundry? Are they sure? I need to stay calm; that’s what Lieutenants do in the movies in situations like this, they stay calm and make good decisions or they freak the fuck out and fuck everything up.

Why are they low-crawling? Why can’t we just shoot, again? It’s not just night, it’s midnight. He said they were shady. Are they sure? Can they be sure with night-vision? Can they ever be sure with night-vision? Just don’t be the guy who yells CHARGE and you’ll be alright. I need to ask if there’s another heat signature other than the bodies. That’s what I need to ask. Are they fucking sure?

“Heat signatures?” I finally sputtered out, hoping my question would be accepted as proper radio brevity, and not typical LT G brain vomit.

Five seconds that felt like a standard Pentagon deployment passed before SSG Boondock replied. “Roger! Roger! It looks like there’s a box and my gunner reports they have set it down 250 meters from our position.”

Cue brain retching.

Light ‘em up. A quick burst or two of 50-caliber rounds should suffice. I’ve never tasted bloodlust before, not the lethal brew anyhow, but it seeped into my soul this night. As I’ve written before, I didn’t come here to kill, and never felt the impulse or desire to truly end a man’s life. But here it was, arriving as quickly as the crawling terrorists had. Kill or be killed. Never has this war been so clear, so pure, so obvious, so clean. And yet …

The platoon leader in me knew we couldn’t shoot yet, and tugged at my brain like a giant anchor holding in place a battleship on full throttle. Escalation of force. Fuck. Rules of engagement. Double fuck. They haven’t technically dug anything yet, thus, haven’t begin emplacing anything.

SGT Axel was ready, certainly, zeroing in on the two human silhouettes with a long-barreled machine gun of raw destruction, but the Iraq War has become so PC, so cluttered, so trigger-shy five years into the war, that any round fired -- no matter how justified or understandable at the time of the incident -- yields paperwork inquiries and scrutiny more fitting of a Senate Judiciary Committee report. Staff monkeys have found new purpose in this combat zone as Monday morning quarterbacks, conducting investigations with omnipotent spotlights to cut through the fog of war days after the storm passed.

I’m not claiming that such retrospective studies are not healthy for a military unit, nor am I arguing that precision and restraint should not be fundamentals ingrained in every soldier fighting an insurgency. Part of what makes an American soldier an American soldier is that he fights with rules that sometimes hinder him, in an attempt to keep sight of the ideals and principles which led him to fight in the first place. That’s all gravy. I am stating, however, that the fact that these thoughts clouded my mind in a decisive moment of combat -- and not just my mind, as it would turn out -- proves that we are officially no longer on the offensive here. To repeat a new mantra of some of my NCOs, “Uncle Sam has gone soft.”

I didn’t want to spend the next decade at Fort Leavenworth cutting stone, and certainly didn’t want any of my men to do that, either. Maybe that’s what would have happened if I had ordered them to shoot then.

Maybe not. Anything now is just surmising, reflecting back with the benefit of hindsight on decisions made in mere seconds during a black tempest of confusion. We employed proper rules of engagement, just like we’re taught to by the Army lawyers hired to teach us how to avoid jail-time and war crimes and sensationalized scandals reported by a clueless, leaching mass media to an equally clueless public addicted to shock and awe. For every Abu-Ghraib there are hundreds of stories like this; unreported acts of trepidation brought on by the castigation of our combat operations in the name of nation building.

I kicked out my Bravo section’s dismounts, one team led by SFC Big Country (whose 4 vehicle was closest to the 3), the other by SSG Boondock, with the hope of being able to detain our targets. They were standing by behind the cover of our vehicles for the time being. I told SGT Axel, the 3 vehicle’s gunner, to beam the targets with a bright naked eye laser, to let them know we were watching. Then I told him, “If they begin to run, open fire and engage the targets.” There. I had satiated the gods of what if, and found an avenue for my soldiers to still do their job.

“Roger, will comply!” SGT Axel responded.

I had given the order to kill. Haughty enough to condemn two individuals to The End because they had been stupid enough to be fucking seen in a war of shadows. Somewhere in the time-space continuum, the boy who cried after my first fistfight -- not because I was hurt, but because I thought I had done something to upset the instigator and still didn't understand the concept of bullying -- hung himself with a calendar rope.

At least he succeeded. That’s something at least.

“X-Ray, this is Gravedigger 1.” It had been a few minutes since I had sent up a situation report to Troop; an instrumental part of any Lieutenant’s job is to serve as a connection between the front line and whatever is behind us. Remembering such at this precise moment would turn out to be my only lasting regret from this whole ordeal.

“We have a possible IED-emplacement happening time now, at our location. Grid to follow. (Grid follows.) We’re employing ROE, and will engage with fire if they run and detainment is no longer a viable option.”

“Negative Gravedigger 1, you will not engage!” It was CPT Whiteback now on the other end of the radio call. What the hell was he still doing up? “Attempt to detain the individuals. Do not open fire unless the individuals attempt to directly engage you.”

I could hear the frustration oozing out of CPT Whiteback’s voice like pus coming out of a popped zit; I’m sure he wanted us to kill these two as much as we did. He has no love lost for insurgents. And as he reminds us at least twice a day, he had been in Sadr City in 2004, and knew what it was like to be pulling triggers all day, every day. So this newfound act of hesitation wasn’t a result of inexperience or nerves. Th