Baghdad blues, p.31
Baghdad Blues, page 31
He was silent for a moment. “Thank you, Doctor. I’m not the same man who stepped off that plane 11 months ago.”
“Your boys must be excited about seeing you soon.”
“Yes. I’m not sure what I’m going to do about a job, but unemployment beats waiting to be blown up for a living.”
“Yes, it does.” A look of sadness appeared on her face. “I’m going to miss our conversations, Tom … and your humor.”
“As will I, Doctor. I doubt I’ll find someone quite like you at the VA at home.”
“So, you do plan to follow up with a psychologist at the VA in Savannah, then?”
“I do. But I doubt he or she will come armed with an Edgar Allen Poe bobble head.”
She laughed. “Probably not.” She reached over and tapped the head and he watched Poe’s head gyrate. She took the figure, admiring it lovingly, and handed it to him. “Here, I want you to have it.”
“What? No, I couldn’t.”
“I want you to have a symbol of the protection you’ve created for yourself when you agreed to share your challenges with me.” He took the bobble head in his hands. “And now you have something to remember me by.”
He rose from his seat. “Thank you, Doctor … for everything. And there’s no chance that I won’t remember you.”
“You’re a good man, Tom.”
“That’s what people keep telling me. Maybe it’s time I started to believe it.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hammer and Anvil
The 48th Brigade had suffered more casualties than many regular Army units. It had done its job and made its sacrifices. They were about to start turning their Humvees and other equipment in when A-Co was informed that they would be joining the 3rd I.D. in a major operation. Designated Hammer and Anvil, the 48th would be the anvil—Iraqi neighborhoods and towns southwest of Baghdad would be cordoned off, all roads in and out sealed—the hammer would be the 3rd I.D. who would clear homes of suspected insurgents and locate weapons caches. The operation was to last two to three days and then A-Co would turn in their gear and go home.
“Why am I not surprised?” Sergeant K bitched to Schmidt. “I had a feeling we’d get screwed one last time.”
“I thought you were a ‘glass is half full’ kind of guy?”
“The glass is empty.”
“We expect to take casualties,” First Lieutenant Gardiner said standing in front of the company an hour before departure. He wouldn’t be one of them, Sergeant K knew. He’d be monitoring operations from the safety of the TOC. “Regardless of this unexpected mission, I know you men will perform your duties with the professionalism you have shown the last 11 months. Just a few more days, gentlemen … and we’ll all be home.” Sergeant K found something unsettling in the tone of Gardiner’s voice. Like others in the platoon, he had a feeling that this mission would be different. Lieutenant Gardiner genuinely cared for his men, he realized. He could feel it in the way the man’s voice caught and became gravelly. Shit. He never deserved all the crap I’ve given him. But he dealt with it. I took my frustrations out on him because he was an easy target. He just sucked at showing emotion. The same way I do. As he watched Gardiner exit the tent, Sergeant K found himself following him.
“Lieutenant,” he said from behind him.
The lieutenant turned. “Yes, Sergeant?”
“I, uh … you’re a good man, Lieutenant.” He stood at attention and saluted him.
Gardiner stood ridged and returned his salute. “And so are you, Sergeant.”
“Be safe and be well, sir.”
Gardiner paused. Both regarded each other intently. “And you, Sergeant.”
The anvil encompassed most of southwest Baghdad and the town of Abu Ghraib. Sergeant K’s section drove out with a fourth vehicle, needing every able-bodied soldier. Private Mercer from 3rd platoon was loaned out as a driver for Corporal Ramirez. They left BIAP in the late afternoon and drove to what had once been a beautiful and spacious horse farm belonging to Uday Hussein. Most of the buildings had been destroyed by American bombing and what remained had been stripped of all salable items. The paved road near the farm was like the surface of the moon—craters, some over three meters deep, pocketed the road, evidence of detonated IEDs. Looking out his window, Sergeant K noticed how fresh some were, and he hoped insurgents had expended their supply for the day. Navigating around them for about two klicks they reached an abandoned military building with a roof and most of its walls—their accommodations for the night.
Early evening set in, their small patrol of four Humvees deep in enemy territory. Sergeant K tried to sleep but he kept thinking about Gunslinger’s doubts. The dream he had about her popped in his head—her cold, lifeless face staring up at him. Jesus, stop already, he told himself. It’s only a couple of days. Clouds drifted slowly past the moon creating an illusionary sense of peace and tranquility. The sounds of intermittent gunfire and explosions in the distance punctuated the stillness. He climbed up onto the hood of the Humvee and laid back against the windshield. Pulling a cigar from his pocket, he looked up at the stars. During Bible camp he often did the same, momentarily escaping the camp and his life. He’d studied much of the Bible and now he was here living its history—and learning its lessons. He found himself thinking about a passage he had often wondered about—Genesis 22. I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as the sand on the seashore. Your descendants will take possession of the cities of their enemies, and through your offspring all nations on earth will be blessed, because you have obeyed me.
When the sun began to rise, they quickly mounted up. With fear and trepidation, they continued down a different road than the one they’d come in on and quickly encountered more IED craters, reminding Sergeant K of the threat that lay before them. Hours later they were ordered to set up another checkpoint, this one south of Abu Ghraib. It was their third. Nearing their destination, Sergeant K played it safe by driving through a 3rd I.D. TCP guarded by two Bradleys. Snaking around concertina wire, they were close to exiting when an explosion behind them shook the ground violently, rattling their brains. Private First Class Gibson slammed on the brakes and Sergeant K flew into the windshield.
“What the hell?” Gibson screamed.
Sergeant K collected himself. Not again! “Start a nine line,” he said, handing the mike to Gibson and jumped out. The blast came from the rear—Gunslinger’s truck. This can’t be happening. Not now, not when we’re so close. He feared her Humvee would be a shattered hulk, like those from 2nd platoon. He pictured her body in pieces, scattered over the ground. Reaching the truck, he stopped. It looked fine, no obvious damage. He looked at the turret. It was empty. Schmidt and Swank were dazed, but okay. But no Gunslinger. She must have been blown out of the turret by the blast! And then he noticed a body lying on its back—Elizabeth. Running to her side, he kneeled. Oh God, don’t be like Thornton. Please. Please. Please.
“Elizabeth,” he said frantically. “Oh, God. No. Don’t be dead.” He touched her cheek. It felt soft and warm. He squeezed her arms and legs. And then her eyes opened. Looking up at him she grinned.
“If you keep groping me like that, I’m going to punch you in the face.”
***
Gunslinger suffered only a few bruised ribs. Schmidt and Private First Class Swank were still rattled but were fine physically. Bombs can do strange things to the human body, Sergeant K thought. When and where they’re detonated can mean the difference between life and death. She’d been lucky. The blast had jettisoned her out of the turret but without the concussion that killed Thornton. She refused to be sent to BIAP because of her injuries. They needed every soldier for this operation.
“I’m fine,” she told Sergeant First Class James. “I can do my job.”
Sergeant K suspected that James gave in because she’d been excluded from the operation in Yusiphyia. She was tough, damn tough. And would have fought him hard.
Roth and Johnson walked up. Each had one of Corporal Ramirez’s arms around their shoulders. “Jesus, Ramirez,” Sergeant K said with a smile. “We nearly had three people killed but they’re staying on and you’re heading back.” Ramirez had slipped off Gunslinger’s damaged truck while removing the M240 machine gun and had sprained his left ankle. “The ice cream bar on Liberty has added so much weight to your fat ass your balance is screwed up. That’s probably why you fell off the damn truck.”
“Fuck you,” Ramirez replied.
Schmidt grinned. “Yeah. I thought you were a Mexi-can, not a Mexi-can’t,” he said, laughing.
“Fuck you, too.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Sergeant K said consoling him. “You’ll probably be almost alone back at the tents. We won’t be back for at least another day. Your job is done. Thank you for your service. You can eat all the dessert you can get past the Ice Cream Nazi.”
Corporal Ramirez contemplated this. And then a look of acceptance and understanding crossed his face as he envisioned a day filled with no responsibilities other than devouring ice cream. “Okay,” he said. “But you guys be safe.” He was helped to an engineer company’s recovery vehicle with a huge smile. It didn’t last long.
Private First Class Swank, just promoted to Specialist, and Manning joined him. Both would be returning to BIAP to retrieve a new vehicle and return with it. If an NCO couldn’t be found to T.C. a vehicle back Sergeant First Class James figured Swank could manage.
Ten minutes later a call came. “Roth, Johnson, go bring Ramirez back,” James ordered. The TOC asked if Ramirez could function with his ankle wrapped—they needed everybody they could find—even ones with minor injuries.
Corporal Ramirez limped up to them looking deflated. He could have overplayed his injury, but he didn’t. “Welcome back,” Sergeant K said smiling. “We almost missed you. You gonna make it?”
“As long as I have one good foot to put on the pedal, I’m okay. Just don’t ask me to get out of the truck and run around.” He would be a driver, with less chance of him having to get out of the truck if necessary.
“That’s good, Ramirez,” Sergeant K said, smiling. “We don’t want you getting out of the truck anyway. If you get shot, there’s no way we’ll have enough guys to pick your fat ass up.”
Ramirez turned on him. “Screw you. And what if you get shot and need my help? I’ll just sit in the truck and laugh at you. You didn’t think about that, did you?”
Sergeant K contemplated this for a moment and frowned, saying nothing.
Hours later, Specialist Swank and Manning returned in a new Humvee driven by a member of the same engineer unit. A Staff Sergeant from Battalion was with them. He would assume responsibility for Ramirez’s truck while Private Mercer would sit in the back and drive if needed.
Everyone dispersed, but Sergeant K called Ramirez over. “Look, man. This guy’s only the T.C. because he’s a Staff Sergeant and the problem with your foot. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still in charge. You know what you’re doing, and he doesn’t. Look out for him, okay?”
Ramirez was shocked by the compliment. “Roger that.”
Sergeant K joined Schmidt at his truck who was reading a journal, an old and well-worn one.
“What are you reading?” he asked, intrigued.
He set the journal down. “Nothing. Just … well, I brought one of my grandfather’s journals with his poetry back with me from leave.”
“Are they good?”
“Yes …. Yes, they are.”
“You seem pretty affected by them.”
“Yeah. I read them years ago but reading them again after everything that’s happened here in Iraq has changed how I see things.”
“How so?”
“My grandfather felt guilty about how easily the German people fell into the Nazi trap. There were those that criticized Hitler in the early years, but most weren’t brave enough to speak their mind.” Sergeant K thought about the professor’s guilt over his own inaction in the face of the growing sectarian violence in Iraq. “For my grandfather, poetry was a healing process.”
“Like the poem you wrote?”
“Yeah. Maybe. My grandfather’s views about the war aren’t that much different from some who now see our invasion of Iraq as a mistake. I know I said that I supported it but since I’ve been re-reading his poems, I’m not so sure our invasion was a good thing.”
“Well, man,” Sergeant K said, deeply moved. “All we can do now is finish our part. For better or for worse. When you get home, you’ll have a lifetime to debate whether the war—and our role in it—was a good thing or not.”
***
Sitting at their OP along Route Tampa later that evening Sergeant K knew there was no chance of them simply riding out the night chilling in their vehicles. He wasn’t wrong.
“Sergeant K! We gotta go!” James said, running up excitedly. “A patrol from 3rd I.D. got hit a few klicks from the center of Abu Ghraib and they need us to help with security.”
“Shit,” he said looking at Schmidt. “Here we go.”
“Hey, we survived Route Irish. We’ll be fine,” he said with a smile and a renewed sense of confidence, something Sergeant K was quickly losing. Falling in behind Sergeant First Class James with Schmidt next, and Corporal Ramirez bringing up the rear, they moved out as fast as they could with the lights on. Driving two klicks north on Tampa the Blue Force Tracker directed them to turn right off onto a dirt road. A few minutes later a soldier with a flashlight stopped them. Schmidt and Ramirez would stay where they were to cover the road while James and Sergeant K would secure the opposite side of the road beyond where the Humvee had been struck.
They skirted the blast site. The Humvee had been obliterated. Only the remains of an axel, a tire, and various pieces of shredded metal covered the road. No bodies that he could see. They’ve probably been vaporized or scattered by the blast. Jesus. I’m reliving another apocalypse. His eyes fell on the remains of a Kevlar vest and then what looked like part of a helmet. I am become Death, the shatterer of worlds….
James set his vehicle in the middle of the dirt road, blocking any oncoming vehicle that might come their way. Sergeant K moved his truck to a smaller dirt road that veered off to the left securing the perimeter. Standing next to his truck he looked out at the agricultural field. It’s easy to become desensitized to the horrors of war—to become Staff Sergeant Stone—and accept traumatic events such as this as ordinary and mundane. The four men killed would become another statistic like those from 2nd Platoon. He lost track of time as EOD inspected the area. The lights from the surrounding vehicles illuminated the macabre scene before him.
He lit a cigar and looked up. It was a strange night, not a star in the sky. A pale moon hovered eerily above. Just a respite. The moment my eyes fall back on the nightmare before me everything will change. He thought of the Tibetan teacher and the article he’d read at the dentist’s office. He’d talked about Indian Charnel Grounds, places where unclaimed corpses were left to decompose and be eaten by vultures and other animals. Wandering ascetics and yogis would sit amongst them to develop meditative insight to help them prepare for death. “Approach what you find repulsive and go to the places that scare you,” he’d advised. “Only by confronting death in its most gruesome and painful forms can one accept the impermanency of life.” Sergeant K dropped his eyes. Soldiers were moving about, many with trash bags picking up what was left of their friends. I’m in my own charnel ground … again. The dogs will come with the rising sun like vultures to a feast.
“How you doing Sergeant K?” Sergeant First Class James asked bringing him back to the present moment. “I figured we were done with this shit.”
“Yeah. So did I.”
“At least it wasn’t our guys this time. I know that sounds bad, but ….”
“It’s not. It’s the truth. And the truth always hurts.”
“Right. The word is that Hammer and Anvil might end tomorrow afternoon or evening.”
“That’s great, but it still sounds like an eternity.”
James returned to his truck. Time passed and just as Sergeant K’s confidence was returning an explosion rocked the night.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “What the hell was that?”
“That can’t be good,” Gibson said.
“Fuck! Here we go!”
The area erupted in chaos, soldiers scurrying around and yelling. Complete pandemonium.
“Sergeant K!” he heard James shout. “One of the EOD guys stepped on a secondary IED that blew off half his foot. He’s stable, but he lost a lot of blood. They called for a medivac, but all the birds are tasked elsewhere so they want us to drive him to the medical facility at Abu Grahib prison. They’re putting him in Ramirez’s truck. We’ll head out in the same order we came in.”
“Roger that,” he said, shaking his head.
With white lights on they headed back the way they came, with the quickest route cutting through the center of Abu Ghraib. The dirt road soon became paved as they approached the town’s center, dark and quiet. Slowing down they came to a juncture. On the left was a mosque with dozens of neon green light bulbs hanging from wires attached to the roof that were connected to the fence surrounding the building. They look like Christmas lights. How festive, he thought as they turned left following James’ truck. But a presentiment of doubt and fear suddenly overwhelmed him.
The lights from the mosque and those of James’ Humvee illuminated the narrow road in front. On the left were a few small buildings, while on the right the road dropped off into an agricultural field. With a sudden sense of foreboding, he watched the shapes of the buildings pass by. To the right he looked beyond the field at the homes—all dark and silent—not a single lightbulb at the door. He turned his attention back to the Humvee a short distance ahead. As he did, a bright red flash pierced the darkness. A thunderous explosion from an IED tore the right front off of James’ truck, its forward momentum sent it sliding two hundred meters before coming to a stop in the middle of the road.
