Baghdad blues, p.29
Baghdad Blues, page 29
Except the Will which says: “Hold on!”
She closed the book. “My father loved Kipling. He read this poem to my brothers hoping it would teach them resiliency and the strength to deal with the trials of their lives to come. To face those who put you down or try to stop you from trusting yourself and achieving your goals. But I sat nearby listening. It’s helped me as much as my brothers. Some people are good at recognizing insecurities such as self-blame or guilt in others and they use it as leverage for their own personal gain like your stepmother. I’m not trying to devalue the hurt you suffered at her hands, but your situation is timeless. The Greek philosopher Euripides said that a second wife is often hateful toward the children of the first; a viper was less hateful. My father said that people have two choices in life: they can either be a pillar of confidence and support for others or they can be a parasite that takes advantage of their insecurities. But her cruelty toward you and your father may be a result of being trapped in her own private hell—her fear of losing whatever she thinks she’s owed or entitled to has become her own personal reality and her reactions in defense of it are the only possible ones she can have.”
“Yes, but my father’s passivity and inaction condoned her actions.”
“I’m not making excuses for him, Tom, but if he couldn’t stand up to his wife, there was little chance he would have been able to do it for you. Most of us suffer from various neurosis that prevent us from acknowledging our fundamental goodness—we’re afraid of ourselves, what we were, are now, and possibly what we might become in the future—for good and bad. The discovery of truth begins with insecurity.” An image of Staff Sergeant Calvin lying in a fetal position in the shower flashed through his mind.
“My father wasn’t just insecure he was a coward. For protection he stayed within the eddy of his own weakness, even when the river rose.”
“Did you make that up?” She looked impressed.
He chuckled. “No. I’m parroting Hemingway again.” Shit, maybe Gardiner’s right. Maybe I am acting like a Victrola. “But you’ve got me thinking. With me around, my father wasn’t alone. On some subconscious level he may have even welcomed my stepmother’s actions. Misery loves company, right? This way he had a partner to share his pain.” I guess we had more in common than I thought. “I suppose in some twisted way we actually helped each other survive. When she wasn’t putting him down, she was ignoring me, and vice versa. We split the abuse.” He reflected on the visit with his father. It was too short. But that small moment of time will stay with me forever. Maybe it will even help balance out some of the negative memories of the past. “When his Alzheimer’s gets worse, he probably won’t remember his wife or how she treated us. Hell, it’ll be almost like a fresh start,” he said with a half-smile. “A second chance at our relationship and an opportunity to leave the old one with all its regrets and disappointments behind.”
She gave him a warm compassionate smile. “Yes. Purified by forgetfulness.” She exhaled deeply. “It’s taken some difficult months, Tom, but I think you’re beginning to understand yourself a little better. But be careful. Your hero Ralph Waldo Emerson warned, ‘Do not seek yourself outside yourself.’”
He grinned at her. “Sometimes I think you’re more of a realist than I am, Doctor.”
“Your self-realization is the greatest gift you can give yourself, Tom, those in your life, and in fact the world.”
He chuckled. “I’ll work on helping the world later. Right now, I just need to survive the next few weeks or any self-realization won’t be of much use.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Betrayal
It was Thanksgiving and A-Co was finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. But Sergeant K wouldn’t be eating any turkey. Their return to BIAP after another routine patrol was delayed when a vehicle from 3rd Platoon accidently hit the side of a bridge and they had to sit for over an hour to provide security while the damaged vehicle was removed. Back at Striker he dropped off his vest and gear and walked over to Gunslinger’s trailer to say hello. Her truck had had the day off. Walking up to the door he stopped. Both she and Stoner were engaged in a passionate embrace on the steps, kissing each other deeply. If they’re not in love with each other yet, they soon will be he guessed. He watched for a moment and then walked away smiling to himself. Both were happy and alive. If I believed in God, I would pray they both make it home alive.
Back at the tent he found Schmidt sitting on his cot with his face in his hands.
“Dude. What’s up?” he asked, concerned. “You look like somebody shit in your Cheerios.” His face was pale. “You okay, man?”
He sighed heavily. “Brianna’s pregnant.”
“What? How? I mean, I know how, but ….” He sat down next to him. “Damn.”
“Yep.”
“Wow.”
“Yep.”
“Condoms are only 98% effective and I guess I’m part of the 2%.”
“That sounds like my luck. Is she sure?”
“Yeah, she’s sure.”
“So, you’re going to be a Dad.”
“Uh … well … I guess.”
“Cool. I get to be an uncle and play around with a baby Schmidt. I guess this means you’ll have to grow up. Buy a bigger house. Sell your Firebird. A good mini-van is the way to go.” Schmidt’s face turned even whiter. “And you could get one with a TV in it so baby Schmidt can watch Triumph of the Will on the way to Chuck E. Cheese or Disneyworld.” Sergeant K slapped him on the shoulder. Schmidt looked like he might faint. “She’ll probably let you keep the dog. Maybe. But hey, it’ll be a brave new world. At least you can look to my failures for support.”
“Like getting married?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you meant it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Okay, maybe just a little.”
“I think I should talk to someone else about this other than you.”
“See, man. You’re smarter than you look. And you really don’t look that smart.”
Schmidt had had all the life counseling he could take. “I’m going to talk to Gunslinger about this,” he said. “But right now, I’ll just focus on making it home alive.”
“Now you’re talking, Dad.”
***
The following week passed blissfully without incident, but the closer A-Co came to leaving their fear and anxiety grew.
“How’s your daughter?” Sergeant K asked Gunslinger while they were loading their gear into the Humvees.
“She’s great. My mom said she’s almost potty trained. God, I miss her so much. Just a couple more weeks and I’ll have her in my arms.”
“James says we’re only going out a few more times and then we turn the sector over to the 101st Airborne.”
She looked away and suddenly seemed distant. “What is it?” he asked, concerned.
“What? Nothing. I just had a funny feeling that’s all, like I might not see my daughter again.”
“Come on, Elizabeth,” he said putting his hand on her shoulder. “Every soldier that’s been in this situation has had the same worries. Everything will be fine. Trust me.”
She smiled weakly. “I’m sure you’re right.”
He tried to put her doubts out of his head on their way to Nana’s. He wanted to spend as much time with Walker and the professor as he could. The boy came out to greet him as usual, but this time he had an unusually big smile and grin. He stared at the now well-worn Chuck Norris shirt. The kid probably wears that thing day and night. “Sergeant K, my father has something for you.”
The professor was sitting on the couch reading a book. Milton’s Paradise Lost. He rose to his feet and shook Sergeant K’s hand warmly, motioning for him to sit.
“Tea?”
“Of course.” The professor’s wife quickly brought them both a cup.
“Your son said you have something for me?”
“Yes.” He motioned for Walker to bring him a package. “A farewell gift.”
“I’m not leaving for another week, sir.”
“Yes, I know. But just in case I don’t see you again, my son and I want you to have something to remember us by.”
He handed him a package wrapped in simple brown paper. He began opening it trying not to rip it. Inside was a leather-bound book—a collection of poetry written in English—In Spite of the Tribe: A Collection of Love Poems. Then he looked at the name below. The book had been written by the professor himself. He opened the cover. On the first page he’d written a dedication:
To Sergeant Kirkland,
Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.
—Al-Rumi
Choked up and teary eyed, he stared at the words. “Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say.”
“You have been a good friend to me, and my family and we are going to miss you.”
“I … I … I’m going to miss you too,” he stammered as he looked up at the boy, who seemed close to tears as well. Stoically, both held them back. “Being able to come here and see your son and visit with you have been the best memories of my time here. I owe you both a lot.”
“Don’t forget us,” the professor said, “I know we will never forget you.”
“I won’t,” he said, “how could I?” With tears about to flow, he knew he had to leave. Unable to maintain his composure, he stood up and said, “Well, I should probably go check on my guys. But I’m sure I’ll see both of you again soon.”
Shaking his hand warmly, he turned to Walker. The boy gave him a hug, one full of warmth and love. Separating, he looked into his eyes. Placing his hand on the boy’s cheek he said, “Be safe, Walker. Your family and your country need you to be strong. It’ll be up to you to help change the future.” Fearing he would never see the boy or the professor again, he turned and headed for the door. Before he could exit, a voice stopped him.
“One never reaches home, Sergeant. But where paths of kindness and friendship intersect the whole world looks like home … at least for a time.” Without turning, he stepped outside into the blinding sun.
***
Over the next two days Sergeant K was unable to visit Walker and the professor, but the memory of that day and the book of poetry he’d given him was ever present. He’d put off reading it, seeing it as a sign of finality. As much as he wanted to return to his kids the thought of not seeing Walker and the professor again affected him deeply. He hoped that he’d still get another chance, but he began to have a sinking feeling that final farewell might not happen. He tried to push such negative thoughts from his mind as he sat in his Humvee. It was late evening, and they were close to re-entering BIAP when they were ordered to link up with 3rd Platoon. They were to help with security involving a family in Abu Ghraib, roughly 30 kilometers west of Baghdad’s center.
“Really?” Sergeant K complained over the radio. “We’re 10 minutes from Striker. Our patrol is done.”
“They’re shorthanded and those are your orders, Sergeant,” the anonymous voice from the TOC instructed.
He sighed. “Roger that.”
“You’re going to have to put your stomach on hold, Schmidt. We have to make an excursion to Abu Ghraib.”
“What? Why?”
“There’s a local family being threatened by anti-American elements. We’re to link up with Sergeant First Class Hardin from 3rd Platoon and he’ll speak with them about it.”
Hardin had received a Red Cross message that morning informing him that his mother was sick. Her condition wasn’t yet life threatening, but since they were so close to going home, Captain Rodgers told him he could fly out that evening. But when he heard about the family in Abu Ghraib, Hardin insisted on leading the patrol. His men referred to him as Sergeant Slaughter. If the 48th Brigade’s mission had been to invade Nazi Germany killing everyone in their path his name would have been apropos, but here they were fighting an insurgency and their situation was a bit more nuanced. But none of that meant much to Hardin. Sergeant K’s first impression of him followed a formation at the armory when they’d learned they were deploying to Iraq. “When I get over there, I’m going to do some crazy shit,” Hardin had boasted. Sergeant K didn’t know him at the time, but he disliked him immediately.
“We’ve been here before,” Hardin told them when they arrived. “The family’s friendly. My guys will pull security outside while you and Schmidt come in with me to help clear the house.”
“I thought you said they’re friendly?” Sergeant K asked with suspicion, “and you’re just going there to speak with them? Why would we need to clear the house?”
“Uh, right. Of course. But just in case, you never know, right?”
“Right.” The moon shone on Hardin’s face. He didn’t like the look he saw. It was the same one he’d seen months ago back at the armory—“when I get over there I’m going to do some crazy shit.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Schmidt,” he said when he told him Hardin’s plan.
“Relax, man, he said they’re pro-American.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said as they joined Hardin by his Humvee.
“You guys ready?” he asked with a grin. Sergeant K dropped his night vision monocle over his left eye and the world became a greenish haze. An enormous orange moon glowed brilliantly above them. He sighed. It’s a calm night. Yeah, the moon’s a little eerie but everything’s going to be fine. Work on your positivity for a change. Nobody likes a negative guy, especially women.
“Ready,” Sergeant K said, still feeling uncomfortable about the whole thing. Joined by three of Hardin’s men, the six of them walked quietly a few hundred meters down a short winding dirt path covered by some small trees. He raised his night vision device. It wasn’t necessary, the moon’s glow illuminated the path before him. After another hundred meters Hardin stopped and Sergeant K could see a house a short distance away. It was a ubiquitous beige colored two storied building, nothing unusual except that the second floor was still under construction. Light shown from a room at the bottom level, and he could hear the sounds of a television and people laughing. Hardin walked up to Sergeant K and said quietly, “You and Schmidt come with me. We’re going inside.” He ordered his men to pull security behind the building. Walking up to the front door, he expected Hardin to knock. Instead, he raised his right leg and kicked the door in with a loud crash, barging in with force.
Sergeant K and Schmidt followed instinctively with weapons raised. Inside was a small foyer, a kitchen to the right, and a large living room to the left. Sergeant K swept the area with his weapon while Schmidt moved to clear the kitchen. Suddenly, he heard two shots fired in quick succession from the living room. What the hell? They’re supposed to be friendly! He entered the living room. Two men lay in the middle of the room on their stomachs. His eyes were drawn to the TV. The family had been watching an Arabic comedy show when they burst in. “Flex cuff those two,” Hardin ordered. Schmidt came in and they both bound their wrists. A young woman holding a young child stood in a corner shaking with shock and fear. The child was crying loudly, and she bounced it in her arms trying to calm it down. He’d taken his eyes away from Hardin for only a second, but out of the corner of his eye he was sure he’d seen him pull something out of his vest and drop it next to a third man who was slumped against the wall next to the couch—a thick pool of dark blood was growing around him.
Hardin smiled at them. “He was going for that gun,” he said, “I had to shoot him.”
Sergeant K stared up at him. “I thought you said they were pro-American?”
With a smirk, he said, “So did I. I guess we were wrong. We can’t trust any of these fucking Hajjis, right?”
Standing up, Sergeant K said, “Right,” with a tone of disgust.
“Help me move the guy I shot away from the wall.” With a disturbing smile, he added, “Maybe he’s still alive.”
The man was shirtless. One bullet had hit him in the side, another in the leg just below the waist severing an artery. He’d bled out in seconds.
Sergeant K looked closely at the gun lying next to the dead Iraqi. He’d seen it before. And then he looked closer at the dead man’s face. It was familiar. He’d seen him before as well. And then it dawned on him. Oh, God, no ….
The man lying in a pool of his own blood was Walker’s brother, Rashid.
It happened quick, but Sergeant K was sure the gun Sergeant First Class Hardin dropped was the same one he’d seen him playing with during their sweep through Nana’s compound—a rare Iraqi made pistol he’d heard him say. He stared at Hardin. He was smiling, a disconcerting smile. He looked too excited and even pleased with the shooting.
“He was going for that gun. I had no choice but to shoot him,” he repeated. It was clear he wanted Sergeant K’s affirmation. When he didn’t get it, Hardin stared at him with suspicion. His smile faded, replaced with a look of concern. And then it changed, becoming dark and threatening. “You guys are good with what happened … right?”
“Sure,” Sergeant K said. He wanted to flee from the room and avoid Rashid’s wife Fatima, but their eyes locked. The child was still crying. Jana—Gift of God. The look on Fatima’s face turned from one of shock and terror—to one of confusion—as she recognized him. A wave of guilt and shame overwhelmed him. I have to get out of here, now! At that moment Hardin’s guys entered. Seeing an escape, he took his eyes off Fatima and practically ran out of the living room with Schmidt following close behind.
Later that evening they sat alone near the Porta johns smoking cigars. Schmidt looked around to ensure no one was within earshot. “Roth was in the mess hall this morning. He said Hardin was bragging about wanting to get a kill before going home, that it would be embarrassing to hang out with his buddies and drink beer and not have a story to tell about killing an Iraqi.”
Sergeant K’s frustration and rage grew, accompanied by a stabbing pain in his chest. “It’s pretty suspicious that he wanted to go to Abu Ghraib when he could have been on a plane home,” he said. “I knew there was something wrong with that guy.”
