In Retrospect

It was February 2003 when I walked into the national guard armory in Duncan, Oklahoma knowing that I was packing my things to go to war. Saddam Hussein had refused to allow weapons inspectors to search for the now infamous weapons of mass destruction and all diplomacy was over.

As per usual in the military, we had been given several days to accomplish about a day's worth of work. I arrived, packed my things, spray painted my stenciled name and rank on my duffel bag, and proceeded to hang out in the section room with my friends. Fighting boredom, Kasey started playing with his knife, trying to throw it like a ninja or some other warrior with a hell of a lot more training than us. After several unsuccessful attempts, the knife broke with the handle flying in one direction and the blade flying in the other. Holding the two pieces in his hands (and still fighting boredom), Kasey decided to fix it. Several plans were proposed by the group before we agreed on.

Kasey held the broom while I sawed off the rounded end about four inches down with the hack saw attachment on my Gerber multitool. I sawed and sawed and sawed on that thing while trying not to cut Kasey's fingers off as we laughed about stupid this project was. Finally, the handle of our new knife was in my hand and the real work was to begin. Again, Kasey held the target while I sawed a notch down the center of the flat edge of the handle. After several more minutes of ferocious, repetitive sawing, the handle was ready and my hacksaw attachment resembled something more like a nail file than anything menacing.

We slid the blade down into the handle; it was a perfect fit. Anyone who has ever been in the military knows that one (or both) of two things are required for every project: 550 cord and 90 MPH tape. We wrapped the handle with one layer of 90 MPH tape and then methodically wrapped the 550 cord around the handle, making sure to cover every piece of tape we could see while trying to give the impression of military precision with every revolution. It was akin to installing a steering wheel cover and painstakingly working to have equal space between every rotation of the cord keeping the cover in place. We finished, burned off the ends of the 550 cord, and marveled at how cool our little project turned out.

Kasey celebrated by stabbing the ancient table sitting in the middle of the crowded room that in all likelihood violated several of the local fire marshal's laws. With a "Ugh!" he struck the blade in a downward motion and right into the tabletop and then yanked back. The blade remained in the table; the handle was firmly held in his hand above his head. Undaunted, we formulated a new plan.

There was a small hole in the bottom of the blade ideal for a screw, but we had not hardware and no way to drill the requisite hole for the screw, so we made something up about retrieving needed equipment and snuck out for a while. Our first stop was Locke Supply. There, we explained what our little project was and what we needed. The man on duty gave us two braces and a nut and bolt. As we pulled out our wallets to pay, the man held up his hand. "You don't have to pay. Go to Iraq, take care of those sons of bitches, and promise me you'll meet me at the VFW for a beer when you get back and we'll call it even." We agreed, shook his hand, and headed to the car in silence.

Next we drove to a hardware store. We asked where the drills and saws were and were directed to the back of the store. There, we explained how we were trying to save a good knife and how we needed just one hole drilled through the middle of the handle. The young man on duty (who couldn't have been any older than me) enthusiastically took the handle and went to work as we walked around the store, checking out an attractive woman who had been giving us smiling glances. When we heard the end of the ungodly sound of drills and saws, we returned to the rear of the store and looked at the work of the young man in the red work apron. This was going to work, we said, as we started putting the pieces together like a puzzle. "How much do we owe you?" I asked the man. "Nothing. Just promise me that when you get back you'll come and tell me how you killed those Iraqis with it and that'll be enough."

"Hell, yeah; thanks man."

We drove back to the armory discussing how great it was that the public supported us. Never did we stop to think of what was actually being said.

Several days later, I drove a large military truck down the main drag in Duncan towards Fort Sill, where we would train before we deployed. The streets were lined with balloons; people holding signs; red, white and blue ribbons; and old men saluting us. I got choked up; I couldn't help it. It wasn't until much later that I started to re-analyze the events of that week in Duncan while the country geared up for war.

At no time during the run-up to war had the president said that the Iraqi people were a threat to the US. To the contrary, he spoke of the moral obligation to free them of Saddam Hussein's oppression. Never had any of our leaders said that Iraqis hated America or Americans, yet, in private, there was very much a feeling of revenge being expressed. We were being hailed as liberators and defenders of freedom in public and agents of violent revenge in private conversation. It was such a telling dichotomy that I for so long failed to recognize. Even on a personal level, I justified this great inconvenience in my life by reminding myself of what a great thing we were doing as defenders of freedom, while also getting excited thinking about killing some ragheads.

Three months at Fort Sill flew by with little to no discussion of just what we or our leaders were doing and what our motivations truly were. With less than a week to go before we were to head off to Iraq, our brigade commander spoke to us in formation and informed us that the war was over and we were going home; thanks for coming.

It wasn't until over two years later that we again were faced with the opposing emotions about going to Iraq, but our mindsets had changed little. This time, however, we weren't quite as lucky and we arrived in Iraq December 20th, 2005 for a first hand trial by fire in the emotional roller coaster of serving out our leaders' orders.

It's now February 2008 as I look back at all the things that should have made me reconsider my feelings about the war, but I am not bitter; I am not angry. I was young, ignorant, and naive. Most of all, I wanted nothing more than to believe I was sacrificing for something so noble and true that I could be proud of it the rest of my life. I've grown a lot since then, and I can't be proud of where I am today without addressing where I started.

As Dewey Binns has said, "What's the point of living if you never learn to grow?"*

*(www.myspace.com/8bitcynics "Time")