Still Leaving Iraq

[Note: This was originally written just after I arrived back in the United States from Iraq December 5, 2006. I have added a little at the end, but the bulk of it remains what I wrote in my journal during that long flight almost a year ago. A lot has happened since then, but my mixed emotions remain.]

DJ Mixed Emotions

If I had to provide a soundtrack for the day I left Kuwait, I would quickly be dubbed DJ Mixed Emotions. Never have I experienced such a broad range of emotions in one day; never.

The day was long, with many stops between Camp Virginia and the jet plane taking us home. It provided plenty of time to reflect on our year, and like always, I fell into an abyss of memories and questions.

The day started at 0430 as we boarded a series of buses to take us to Ali al Salem Air Base amid cries of "Keep these curtains shut! The Air Force says there's intel of a sniper in the area!" Shortly thereafter, an Air Force sergeant poked his head in the door to ask who our two designated shooters were. Designated shooters are the two (count 'em; two!) soldiers who have ammunition to fire back at the enemy just in case we are attacked. I couldn't help but think that this is either a combat zone, in which case we all need a basic combat load, or it isn't, and they need to quit placating us with this designated shooter bullshit.

After we made it to Ali al Salem, we had a series of briefings about US customs and how much trouble we would be in if we tried to sneak pornography past them. I chuckled to myself as I was under the impression that we were Americans and, as such, had certain freedoms; I guess not. When we had all been cleared through customs, we sat in a tent waiting on our bus to Kuwait City Airport. I took the opportunity to get some much needed sleep, but I just dreamt about Ali, Ahmed, our interpreters, SSG Kelly's perfume, the new squad, MSG Karnes' crazed demeanor my last day out, the hot chick at the chow hall, the Indian guy who cut my fruit everyday, Major Muhammed at IHP, General Jafir's feast at Traffic, SSG Wyman, my new friends, my future at home, Sarah in Baghdad, and on and on. It was a relief to hear that our bus was coming and my nap was being cut far shorter than I wanted it to be.

The bus ride to Kuwait City Airport was silent for the most part; if anyone was talking I couldn't notice over the deafening questions inside my head. As I looked out the bus window (snipers my ass!) at the relative tranquility of civilian Kuwait (as opposed to cat litter, US military base, Kuwait), I thought of how much different life would have been for Ali and Ahmed if they had had the fortune of being born in Kuwait rather than Iraq. The Kuwaitis all seemed to not have a care in the world, the landscape was pristine and void of the trash that litters Baghdad, and the peace was never shattered by the boom of car bombs. It's just not fair . . . but what is? There are millions of children just like Ali and Ahmed; I just didn't have the fortune of meeting them all. It's amazing how a simple twist of fate like birthplace could have changed those boys so dramatically. I stared off into the vast Kuwaiti desert as I thought about what their lives would have been like had they been born here. They would have been taller and healthier just due to a better and more consistent diet, and they would have had many more opportunities at education. Their families would not live in destitute poverty, and Ahmed would not have died such a violent death. These questions, while they may have speculative answers, really do not solve anything, however, and I don't pretend that they do. It was just idle pondering, I suppose, but they were questions that I could not avoid.

I pictured myself a year prior, sitting in that same type of bus, traveling the same highway, and thinking nothing but "I cannot believe I am in Kuwait." This time, however, my mind was overflowing with thoughts as I admired the Kuwait City skyline. One year ago, this place seemed so incredibly foreign; this day I marveled at how normal it all looked. In some places, I thought I was on I-44 traveling to Oklahoma City. It's amazing what a difference a year can make.

If my initial impression of Kuwait was disbelief, then my initial impression of Iraq was of out and out resignation sprinkled with a tad of indignation. "I cannot believe I am in Kuwait" turned into "Dude, we're in fucking Iraq." I specifically remember uttering that phrase on more than one occasion. It wasn't fear or even disbelief; it was just sudden realization, like I had awakened and realized that this was not, in fact, a dream. Everything seemed so foreign and out there from the comfort of LSA Anaconda, but I felt so much better when I finally started going outside the wire and realized how normal life was, even here. The sheer normalcy of the Iraqis astounded me and I immediately changed my entire outlook on the place. These weren't monsters. They weren't that different. They weren't ingrates; they were just the ones bearing the consequences of our foreign policy. I wish more soldiers got the opportunity to see just how ordinary life is outside the wire; I wish more people were able to see the Iraq war from the their point of view.

The place that once seemed so foreign and daunting now feels like, if not a second home, at least a second comfort zone. As I left the instability of Baghdad, I thought of one day returning, not as a soldier or a mercenary, but as a journalist, tourist, or friend of Baghdad. I hope so much that in my lifetime I can safely visit that city; perhaps I could drink chi with my old friend, Ali Raheem Rothi, and talk about how our lives had been since our last visit and how we had each changed each other's lives in the same broken English and broken Arabic that sufficed us years earlier.

I know that I have become somewhat changed in the past year, if not vastly. For starters, I have noticed that my voice sounds significantly more country than it ever has before; I don't like that. Perhaps being around cowboys, rednecks, hillbillies, and reluctant-to-admit-it country folk for a year has slowly morphed my own voice, or perhaps I sub-consciously drifted that way to sound like the others in my company. I know that in the States, I make an effort to not sound like a hick, so as to stand out in southwest Oklahoma, but, in Iraq, I may have sub-consciously spoken like the rest in order to stand out in Baghdad, like a show of solidarity? No one will ever know why I sound so different now, but I hope it isn't permanent.

My attitude towards the government, war, and politics have all been affected by this deployment, and I don't know why that surprised me. It would seem natural to have an evolving opinion of policy, leaders, and war after being directly affected by them, but I honestly did not envision such a dramatic shift one year ago. I was naive and I will admit that; I can do that. I am so embarrassed to think of some of the things I had said about so many important issues (like the Iraq war) without having any firsthand knowledge of any of it. Reciting the party line is a stupid thing to do and that is what I see when I think of pre-2006 Justin. I again can admit this and move on; it's not my proudest moment, but I've learned.

No matter what I or anyone else thinks or says about the invasion and occupation of Iraq, however, I will always take solace in the times that Ali and Ahmed would say to me in their very, very limited English "Saddam: Iraq no food! America: Iraq food!" as if they knew that I was struggling with trying to comprehend the vast effects of my nation's war. I know that our war has affected millions of Iraqis in millions of different ways, but I feel good knowing that, at the very least, it put more food into the bellies of Ali, Ahmed, and their siblings. No one will ever be able to take that memory away from me. For as bad as they had it economically during my time in their city, they had it even worse under Saddam. It's hard to fathom since these young boys collected cans to help feed the rest of their family, but the kids don't lie. This opens up other questions about the effects of our pre-war economic sanctions on Iraq, but I will just take comfort in the change that I made in their lives and quit trying to rationalize everything my country does.

With the Kuwait City Airport in my sights and Ali and Ahmed heavy on my mind, I thought of all the petty things I remember people bitching about back home and, more importantly, all the petty things I bitched about back home and I thought of how silly it all sounds. We are so damn lucky to live in America; we won the grand powerball jackpot of humanity, but we still find a way to complain.

I left the bus, walked across the tarmac, and paused to take one last look at the caravan of buses; the useless curtains still "illegally" parted and open; and the drivers from all over the world watching us board a plane for a place they can only dream of living. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and boarded the plane with a heavy heart and a small smile on my face; DJ Mixed Emotions was on his way home.

As we all were pinned to the seat by the force of the jet engines and the plane left the runway in an almost vertical ascent, there was thunderous applause, hooting, hollering, and the demons of 150 soldiers being exorcised, even if only for that moment. As the ovation died down, someone in the rear of the plane bellowed, "Fuck Iraq!" Again there was applause, but I couldn't disagree more. For all the mistakes of its leaders, corruption of its government, near-sightedness of many of its people, and inhospitability of its weather, I will always consider myself a friend of Iraq, and I hope that at least a few Iraqis will do the same.

I spent the next twenty-plus hours with an almost perpetual smile on my face. I didn't speak much; I didn't watch the in-flight movies. I just thought about the ramifications of the last year of my life, read a book, took naps and dreamed about the friends I left behind. Somewhere in Maine, we were given the score of the Oklahoma/Oklahoma State football game and the combination of cheers and jeers of the OU and OSU fans of the Oklahoma Army National Guard finally hammered it home: we were civilians again.

We finally stepped foot on Oklahoma soil about forty eight hours after we first got on that bus in Kuwait, and, at the time, it appeared that it was finally over. After talking to many that exited that plane with me on that cold December day, combined with my own experiences, I know now that was anything but the end.

You see, it was almost a year ago that we landed back in The States, but, for many of us, it will be a long time before we leave Iraq. For many of us the war is over . . . and over and over and over again in our heads.

Thirteen kernels of corn.

[Note: I wrote this from Kuwait on Thanksgiving 2006. I was in Kuwait on my way home from a yearlong tour of Iraq; this is the story of the best Thanksgiving day of my life.]

Thirteen kernels of corn.

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. It always seemed so genuine to me, unlike other holidays which most people see solely as an excuse to receive gifts, drink beer, or skip work. Perhaps it was how my parents treated Thanksgiving that made me appreciate it so much. I remember every year my mom would only allow us to have thirteen kernels of corn on our plate because that was the ration the Pilgrims had to sustain themselves with in order to survive that fall and winter. Looking at the thirteen kernels sitting alone on the periphery of my gigantic plate, I gained an appreciation for just how much they struggled, perservered, and, most of all, appreciated what little they did have. Eating the thirteen kernels often left a contemplative emptiness in my belly. Of course, after we finished the original thirteen, we were welcome to eat more, but the point was made, and it has stuck with me since.

In my military career, I have spent Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, at Fort Sill, Oklahoma; Yakima Training Center, Washington; and, now, Camp Virginia, Kuwait. None of those places I would consider my first choice to spend the holiday, any holiday, but, again, it gave me an opportunity to think of how lucky I am. This year is the worst, and, at the same time, the best.

Camp Virginia is nothing more than a series of buildings, surrounded by sand berms and guard towers, in the middle of the Kuwaiti wasteland. There is no cultural consolation prize to being housed here; it's not high on anyone's "to visit" list. It is that vastness and emptiness, however, that give us all a chance to reflect on how lucky we really are.

We just left Baghdad, where mundane, everyday tasks like grocery shopping are life-threatening. No one trusts anyone; everyone is a target. Death and destruction are an unavoidable part of life, and kids like my friend Ali grow up in it.

As I reflect on how lucky I am to have left that place, all I can think about is Ali and the millions of children just like him. I think of how bad they have it . . . and how positively Ali, Hidar, and Ahmed seemed to accept and handle it. They were still thankful for their families, for their friends, and for their lives. They are a true example of perserverence. I am so very grateful that my brother and I never had to grow up in their world.

We had a very well-intentioned but lackluster Thanksgiving meal at the chow hall this afternoon after our commander shared a few words with us. Most importantly, he pointed out that we are all still here, alive and healthy. That was not what I had expected a year ago, and I am grateful that our mission changed to the less dangerous PSD mission. We're here; we're alive.

After lunch and a couple of hours of preparation, we had the inaugural First Platoon versus Third Platoon Flag Football Thanksgiving Challenge. It was eleven on eleven, with a full offensive and defensive line. Talk about grudge match; we're all hurting now. I took a few arms to the throat, hands to the face, elbows to the body, scratches to the arms and face, and a few head to head shots. I was not alone. We made it this far without serious injury, but we tried our damndest to get one before we left.

Third platoon won both games by a substantial margin because they are bastards, but it was a great experience nonetheless. That's okay; we'll get 'em next deployment.

This is certainly a Thanksgiving that I will never forget. It won't be long until I am home, but, today at least, that wasn't what I was thinking about. My friends up north, the ones I met and the ones I haven't yet met were heavy on my mind as I enjoyed a day devoid of helicopters, gunfire, mortars, explosions, or frustrating hours outside the wire. I hope that my friends in uniform up north will come home safe and sound as well, and I hope everyday that real change will happen, so that Ali and others like him will be able to grow up in the same sense of security that I did. They're grand wishes, I know, but if there is anytime to be optimistic, it's today.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone, everywhere. See you soon.

Justin.

Helpless.

Helpless.

I am a firm believer that everything in life is reciprocal; you'll eventually experience the opposite of every feeling you've had thus far. Everything prepares you for something; you just have to be open enough to see it. This isn't to be confused with karma or fate, but it is something that I hold to be true, although I didn't always feel this way.

In September of 2000, George W. Bush was running for president, I was a high school senior, football season had just hit district play, and my friend, Austin Hatcher, was murdered.

Austin was at a party when four males from neighboring high schools showed up. Words were exchanged; fists were thrown. Sometime in the dark, wet, drunken, chaotic night of September 24th, Austin was stabbed in the back multiple times. He died almost instantly.

What sticks with me from that time is how much I hated the three young men that had accompanied the one that murdered my teammate. Nevermind that they didn't actually kill him; they were there, and, thus, were just as guilty in my mind.

Time passed; the hurt faded. I grew older, and, slowly, the anger subsided. It wasn't until a couple, maybe three years later that I begrudgingly forgave the three in my mind. I had met one of the three through a friend; we spoke (though not about Austin) and I looked him in the eyes. I learned that it is a lot harder to hate someone when you have to look him in the eye. I realized that he was not who had killed my friend, and I had to just move one, but I always wondered what he was thinking that night; what he had thought ever since.

It's years later now, and the scene is much different. The humvee is jerking me back and forth and the siren is blaring as we make the turn out of the Al Tahreer Square onto 3rd ID bridge. I'm the rear gunner, and, as I check the traffic ahead, I see cars just reaching the crest of the bridge and quickly pulling to the side . . . The Americans are coming. I start to rotate back to the rear when I see it: our lead vehicle is traveling down the left lane, swerving aggressively. The gunner is pointing his weapons at the cars that have already made every effort to get out of our way. The traffic is practically being pushed into the Tigris River at this point.

Disgusted, I return to my view of the rear of the convoy.

It was hot outside, at least 110 degrees, as I wiped sweat from my brow with one hand while the other tightly held onto my rifle. You could tell it was summer in Baghdad; I could see heat waves emanating from the bridge. "Goddamn, it's hot", I was thinking when something caught my eye. A car door behind us flew open, and a man rocketed out of the vehicle as if spring loaded. He started sprinting towards us with something in his hand, in both hands. I grabbed my rifle tight and stood up. What was he holding? What was he pointing at me? A million questions went through my head in the split second that I first saw the object and the time that I identified it . . . The man was chasing after us with both shoes in hand, showing me the bottom of his soles.

Now, to many people, this may not mean much, but, to an Iraq veteran, this is quite significant. In Iraqi culture, the absolute worst insult you can hurl at someone is showing them the soles of your shoes. It signifies the great disgust that you have for them; they are lower than dirt. That day, to that man, I was lower than dirt. I don't know what exactly he was screaming, but I saw the emotion that washed over him. It had been quite some time since I had seen that amount of anger in one man's face. As we continued to drive on, the man angrily chucked one shoe at our disappearing convoy and wiped what could have been sweat or tears from his eyes, probably both. He then slowed to a stop, dropped his hands to his sides, and stood in the middle of the bridge as the anger subsided. His face now resembled something much less sinister; the man looked disturbingly sad. When I attempt to guage the level of anger and sadness in that man's face, I just think of how hot it was on that day in Baghdad . . . as the man's shoes were in his hands, pointed squarely in my direction. How angry would I have to be to disregard the pain of 120 degree heat underneath the soles of my feet? I hope I never know.

As we entered the Green Zone and continued on our journey "home", I thought about what had just transpired. I had nothing to do with the jackasses in the front of the convoy; I had just thought about how unnecessary the whole thing was when I turned around and saw the messenger on the bridge. What could I have done? I just felt so . . . helpless. Helplessness was a recurring them in Iraq, but this was different. I wasn't angry that I could never seem to locate the enemy that always seemed to locate American soldiers so well. I was helpless in another fashion: I would never be able to make that man understand my own anger with the situation transpiring in front of me. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, too. I didn't ask to be here, and I didn't take pleasure in his pain, but he'd never know that.

Months later, I thought about that day and coincidentally saw a picture of my deceased teammate. Then it hit me: if I felt this helpless and angry about that, how did those three feel when Austin was killed by their friend? Helpless. Years ago, I was the angry Iraqi showing the soles of my shoes to some other helpless soul.

Helpless . . . that's the worst feeling of my life.

"Everyday of my presidency, I think of this war."

Monday, June 05, 2006

"Every day of my presidency, I think of this war."

While eating lunch today at Camp Shield's chow hall, I saw a clip of President Bush sticking his finger in the air and proclaiming, rather defiantly, "Every day of my presidency, I think of this war." Well, I would hope so, Mr. President, since you are the commander in chief and started the damn thing in the first place. That is akin to my company commander saying, "Every day of my command, I think of my company!" Well, no shit; it's your job. Most people have to deal with the messes they make; it's called life. You don't get a pat on the back and applauded for trying to fix the very problem you caused. It's expected. That is what really irks me; it seems that our Executive Branch feels like they should be commended for doing things that they are supposed to do in the first place. I don't expect praise for simply being on time to the motor pool every morning, and our president shouldn't expect praise for thinking about the very military that he heads. He should think about the war everyday, especially when soldiers are being injured and killed everyday of his presidency. It should be his number one issue, and he should not waste time with divisive, petty social issues with such a large outcry for answers in Iraq . . . which leads me to my next complaint.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20060603/ap_on_go_pr_wh/bush

WASHINGTON -
President Bush on Saturday backed a resolution to amend the Constitution to define marriage as a union between a man and a woman even though the idea has little chance of being passed in the Senate.

"Ages of experience have taught us that the commitment of a husband and a wife to love and to serve one another promotes the welfare of children and the stability of society," Bush said in his Saturday radio address. "Marriage cannot be cut off from its cultural, religious and natural roots without weakening this good influence on society."

Now, my problem with this is two fold. On one hand, I just totally, completely, 100% disagree with a ban (Consititutional or not) on gay marriage. The absolute weakest argument (yet the most prominent) I have heard in support of a ban states that gay marriage undermines the sanctity of marriage. First, let's look at the definitions of 'undermine' and 'sanctity':
Undermine: To weaken, injure, or impair, often by degrees or imperceptibly
Sanctity: The quality or condition of being considered sacred; inviolability.

So, we are to believe that, by allowing gays and lesbians to get married, marriage will cease to be considered a sacred, loving, everlasting commitment of two loving adults. While I know that there are many on the 700 Club-watching Right who will look down upon marriages of gays as unholy, I just can't see how anyone would consider their own marriage undermined by gay marriage. I have said it before, and I will say it again: If anyone's marriage other than your own, whether it be homosexual or heterosexual, affects your views on your own marriage, then something is wrong with the sanctity of your marriage, not theirs. Apparently, the high divorce rate, millions of philandering spouses, swingers clubs, and domestic abuse that exists in the United States doesn't undermine the sanctity of marriage, why would two caring adults who happen to be gay do so? Spare me the Bible thumping answers, please; the Bible says the ultimate sin is blasphemy, not homosexuality. It also says that all sin is equal, so that means the heterosexual adulterer is no better than the faithful homosexual. If you are right, and gays truly are going to Hell, why make it a Hell on Earth for them? Let them have their fun, and then you can taunt them in the afterlife you intolerant assholes.

The second problem I have with this is the sheer timing of it. A viewer said it best when he emailed CNN this gem regarding "Is this the right time for the President to back a ban on gay marriage?"

Michael in Superior, Wisconsin: "Of course now is the time for President Bush to back the ban on gay marriages. Iraq is secure, so are our borders, the government is prepared for hurricane season, no rogue nations are trying to develop nuclear weapons, gas prices are stable, personal income far outpaces inflation, and we're enjoying a time of peace and prosperity. Obviously, there's nothing else he needs to concentrate on right now."

No one could have summed it up better. Sarcasm aside, the man brings up many issues that should be at the top of the agenda for the 2006 Senate before anyone even discusses the big, bad lesbian couple down the street. With all these issues unresolved, and the 2006 mid-term elections coming up in November, sadly, I can only look at this as a patently obvious attempt to rally the radical Right's social conservative base in a last ditch bid to avoid losing both houses of Congress. What is truly sad is that it just may work. WWIII could be just around the corner and for many simpleton conservatives the top two issues will still be gay marriage and abortion. I have never been more cynical about our government than I am right now. Sir Winston Churchill was so right when he said, "The best argument against democracy is a five minute conversation with the average voter."

I love it when people who are not in Iraq, have never been to Iraq, will never be in Iraq and are not and will never be in the military tell me what Iraq is like. How presumptuous can you get? A man on a message board informed me that Iraq really isn't in that bad of shape, the streets aren't nearly as dangerous as the big, bad media makes them out to be, and the media and Democrats are in a joint conspiracy to make myself and the rest of the military look bad because they're chicken shits and liars. Really? That must be why all these brave journalists are riding around the most dangerous streets in Baghdad while he sits at his computer 6,000 miles away tell me he has everything figured out. The argument that "the media is only reporting the negative news" is bullshit. The media reports what happens: car bombs, kidnappings, torture, assassinations, corruption, murders, IEDs, etc, etc, etc. We hear the intel report every morning and I can tell you that not everything gets reported. I have personally seen children caught in crossfire on their way to school, the aftermaths of car bombs, chaos is in the streets as Iraqi security personnel are gunned down, IED explosions, etc, etc, etc. Members of the Iraqi Highway Patrol HQ station have been kidnapped, tortured with holes drilled in their heads, and dumped in public places on more than one occasion. That is just one squad at one station. It happens a lot. Where does guy get off telling me what it's really like here? Do they think the media makes this stuff up? I suppose the media could report that I spent about two hours today playing with our little friend Ali and his two buddies, Achmed and Hidar, but is that really a story? We've given school supplies to children here, but is that really saying anything about the security of this country? It takes a lot of balls to tell a soldier that travels through Baghdad five days a week what Iraq is really like, but never underestimate the hubris of a goose-stepping, party line voting, robot.

This leads me to something I have wanted to do for a while, not that it really matters in the grand scheme of things, but because it will make me feel better.

A Public Apology to Senator John Kerry.

Mr. Kerry, I want to express my sorrow for not only how I voted in 2004, but how I and half the country vilified your character, questioned your war service, dismissed your ideas, and called names instead of truly considering your reasons for voting the way you did. I say this not only because I am in Iraq. I believe that I would have been here whether you were elected or not, but I see how terrible decision making has put us behind the eight ball on so many fronts and would appreciate a fresh start with a fresh approach and fresh ideas from a fresh administration. I know that as a man who witnessed terrors much worse than anything I've seen in Iraq, you would be hesitant to dismiss the wishes of senior Generals. You know what war is like for the soldier and that perspective surely would have influenced your decision making moreso than the current administration.

Your domestic policies would have more closely resembled my preferences. You would not waste time pandering to a social group with far too much political capital as it is by backing a hate-filled Constitutional ban on gay marriage that precludes law-abiding gay citizens from pursuing life, liberty, and happiness. Your plan for universal health insurance would have at least opened up some much needed dialogue on the state of our medical care. The US spends more money as a percentage of our Gross Domestic Product on health care than any other country in the world [Source: The Economist], yet we are the only one in the top ten who does not offer health care to all of our citizens. Something is definitely broken and you had the balls to say it. A band-aid won't do; we need major surgery. Our country's policy on stem cell research would not be formed by malcontents like Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson if you were in office. You wouldn't sidestep questions about Iraq by creating controversy over abortion or the above mentioned gay marriage. You wouldn't ask to make tax cuts permanent even as you continued to allow the largest deficit in our nation's history grow ever larger. I'm sure you may have vetoed a spending bill by now, something the current administration has not done in six years. So, I am here to tell you that I regret my vote, but, more importantly, I regret how I portrayed you in my many discussions about the election in 2004. I was wrong. Perhaps, you wouldn't have been perfect, but you wouldn't have to be to outperform our current commander in chief.

Sincerely,
Justin C. Cliburn

The Radio.

When I was in Mrs. Riner's junior English class at MacArthur high school, we were required to read a short story titled "The Enormous Radio." The premise was simple. A couple in the 1930s were given a special radio that allowed them to hear all their neighbors' conversations. At first they were elated, but, ultimately, they were haunted by the miracle of their ability. They could hear all the horrors of society that usually go unnoticed or are covered up and sterilized . . . and they couldn't turn it off. They couldn't change the channel. It took seven years, but I eventually went back to that story in my head and felt their horror.

August 24th, 2006 was a routine day for my squad in Baghdad. We had gone to Traffic Headquarters and I had gotten to visit with Ali. Business taken care of, we started to make the familiar trek back to Camp Liberty. It was a hot day, over 120 degrees, and I stood up just a little higher than usual with my sleeves unbuttoned to let the air circulate inside my body armor and clothing. It had been a good day.

Back on Route Irish, we were on the home stretch when the call came out over the radio:

"Eagle Dustoff, Eagle Dustoff, this is Red Knight 7* over"
"This is Eagle Dustoff, over"
"Eagle Dustoff, I need MEDEVAC; my gunner has been shot by a sniper."

The voice went on to recite the nine line MEDEVAC report and I marveled at how cool, calm, and collected he sounded. My squad leader plotted the grid coordinates and found that this had occurred only a couple blocks away from one of our two main destinations on Market Road.

"Cliburn, go ahead and get down; someone might be aiming at your melon right now", CPT Ray said. Sergeant Bruesch concurred and I sat down, listening intently to the radio transmissions that I couldn't turn off even if I wanted to.

Five minutes in, the voice on the radio was losing his cool.

"Have they left yet?! He's losing a lot of blood; we need that chopper now!"

In the background, you could hear other soldiers yelling, screaming, trying to find anyway to save their friend's life. At one point, I swear I heard the man gurgle.

Ten minutes in, the voice on the radio was furious.

"Where's that fucking chopper!? We're losing him! He's not fucking breathing! Where the fuck are you!?"

Every minute to minute and a half the voice was back on the radio demanding to know what the hold up was. Every minute to minute and a half the other voice on the radio, a young woman's voice, tried to reassure him that the chopper was on the way from Taji. She was beginning to tire herself; I could hear it in her voice. She was just as frustrated as he was.

All the while, there I sat. Sitting in the gunners hatch, listening to life's little horrors with no way to turn the channel. No one in the truck was speaking. The music was on, but no one heard it. There was just an eerie silence. All I heard was the radio transmissions; I watched as the landscape passed me by in slow motion. I didn't hear wind noise or car horns or gunfire or my own thoughts. I was only accompanied by the silence of the world passing me by, interrupted only by the screams of the voice on the radio.

At this point, I was as frustrated as I had been all year. Where the fuck was that goddamn chopper and why was it taking so long?! What if it were me? Would I be waiting that long? Would this pathetic exchange be included in the newscast if the guy dies?

I was angry, upset, frustrated, and anticipating the next transmission in this macabre play by play account. Forget about TNT, HBO, and Law and Order: THIS was drama. This was heart wrenching. Seconds seemed like hours; minutes seemed like days.

Finally, after several more non-productive transmissions where Eagle Dustoff attempted to reassure the voice, after twenty minutes and a few more frantic, screaming transmissions by the voice, the man's voice was calm again.

"Eagle Dustoff, cancel the chopper. He's dead."

. . . and that was that. The voice had gone from being the model for the consummate soldier (cool, calm, collected, professional) to more human screams and frantic pleading for help and, finally, to solemn resignation. Now, the voice was quiet.

"Eagle Dustoff: requesting recovery team. We can't drive this vehicle back; we need someone to come get the vehicle and body. Over."

"Do you have casualty's information?"

"Yes. SGT King, over."

I sat in that gunners sling in a fit of rage that I couldn't let out. I had to be a soldier; I had to keep my cool. We all did. I was so angry, I still am, about being an unwilling voyeur, forced to listen to the gruesome play by play of another soldier's life and death.

We had been told that the insurgency was in its last throes, that they were just a bunch of dead enders. No, not this day. Today, SGT King was in his last throes, and I was there to listen to the whole damn thing, whether I liked it or not. A soldier's death isn't anything like the movies. There was no patriotic music; there was no feeling of purpose. It's just . . . death. I wasn't there physically; I didn't see him, but I was there.

Any sane person would have wanted to turn the channel. No one wants to hear the screams of a man losing his friend, but I couldn't turn it off. We were required to monitor that channel. Either way, it didn't take long to become emotionally invested in it; was he going to make it? I needed to know, damnit. I hung on every word until I got the final, sobering news.

My truck was the only one in the convoy monitoring that net. When we got back to base, no else had heard it, and SSG Bruesch, CPT Ray, and I didn't discuss it. I don't think we ever did.

A few days later, I felt like I had to find out more about this soldier. I felt like I had lost a friend, yet I didn't know anything but his name and rank. Looking back on it, I should have just let it go, but I didn't. Using the miracle of the Internet, I found out all I needed to know about the young man, and to this day I don't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

SGT Jeremy E. King was 23 years old. He was from Idaho, where he played high school football. He had joined the army to get out of Idaho and see the world. He was one year younger than I was, and he was dead. He sounded like any of a number of teammates I played high school football with. What irked me the most was how sanitized the news account of his death was:

A Fort Hood soldier from Idaho has died in Iraq of injuries sustained when troops came under fire during combat, the Department of Defense said Friday.

That's it? That sounds almost peaceful, maybe even heroic. I can attest that the whole thing was anything but peaceful, anything but heroic. Who am I though?

I've replayed that scene in my head more times than I'd ever want since that day. I don't believe in fate or karma or any type of pre-destined event, but I often wonder what made that sniper hole up on North Market Road instead of South Market Road, where I often found myself. If it had been me, would SGT King have found himself in my shoes, reluctantly following the play by play of my ultimate death?

I was fortunate enough in my time there to never have to call in MEDEVAC. I didn't bury any of my comrades, but I will always remember what it was like listening to the miracle of modern communications, the radio, and for the first time in my life being terrified, much like the couple in the story over eighty long years ago.

This August 24th, remember Jeremy King: Rest in Peace, SGT King. http://iraq.pigstye.net/article.php/KingJeremyE

The world is more evil than it ever has been . . . or is it?

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Fuzzy Math and the Definition of Murder

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Fuzzy Math and the Definition of Murder

Author's Note: I had already typed this up once and was very happy with the resulting piece, but, just as I was about to copy it in case I somehow lost it, my browser froze and I did lose it. So, forgive me if this isn't all it could be, but I quite upset at the moment and just want to get this done.

There are some things in life that can be argued at length, but, at their core, remain very much non-debatable. I believe that murder is one of these such topics. Murder is murder.

According to the always convenient Dictionary.com, murder is defined as follows:
1. Law. the killing of another human being under conditions specifically covered in law.
2. to kill or slaughter inhumanly or barbarously.

I only mention this because it appears that the Department of Defense seems to be a little hazy on the subject of what constitutes murder and violence. Last week, while speaking to me online, my aunt mentioned that she was glad to see the news reporting that violence and murders in Baghdad were down by 50%. This caught me be surprise as I hear the intel report every morning and was under the impression that violence in our area of operation was, if not up, certainly not cut in half. I wondered how I could feel so out of the loop when I work here and had not seen any of this progress. It is a very unsettling feeling, and I thought about it to myself for the past week wondering if perhaps I was wrong, but the reality of the intel briefings and the gun shots and explosions I heard outside the wire told me otherwise. It all made sense to me today when I read this report by the Associated Press:

September 12, 2006BAGHDAD - The American military did not count people killed by bombs, mortars, rockets or other mass attacks - including suicide bombings - when it reported a dramatic drop in the number of murders in the Baghdad area last month, the U.S. command said yesterday.The decision to include only victims of drive-by shootings and those killed by torture and execution, usually at the hands of death squads, allowed U.S. officials to argue that a security crackdown that began in the capital Aug. 7 had more than halved the city's murder rate.But the types of slayings, including suicide bombings, that the United States excluded from the category of "murder" were not made explicit at the time. That led to confusion after Iraqi Health Ministry figures showed that 1,536 people died violently in and around Baghdad in August, nearly the same number as in July.
The figures raise serious questions about the success of the security operation launched by the U.S.-led coalition. When they released the murder rate figures, U.S. officials and their Iraqi counterparts were eager to show progress in restoring security in Baghdad at a time when Iraq appeared on the verge of civil war.
At the end of last month, the top U.S. military spokesman in Iraq, Maj. Gen. William B. Caldwell, said violence had dropped significantly because of the operation. He did not, however, make the key distinction that the rate he was referring to excluded a significant part of the daily violence in and around the capital.
Yesterday, for example, at least 24 of the 29 people slain in the capital were killed in bombings.

What is happening here is patently obvious. After all the optimism they exuded about their plan to "take back Baghdad" and after extending the Alaska based 172nd Stryker Brigade's tour by up to four months to operate it, it would be a PR nightmare to admit that, one month into the operation, there was no measurable success. So, what did they do? They created a "new math" but didn't apply it retroactively all the way back to the previous month. In essence, they lied. Whether it is a lie of omission or a lie of commission, a lie is a lie, and murder is murder. I certainly believe that killing someone by bomb, mortar, or rocket fits the second definition of murder I cited, as it is without a doubt an inhumane and barbaric way to kill someone. Timothy McVeigh bombed the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City and was charged and convicted of 168 counts of murder; so why is something murder in one country and not murder in another? It is simple, when a conclusion of no murder makes the government look better, or merely not as bad, however you wish to perceive it.

What really concerns me is that they may have gotten away with this had some authorities in Baghdad not called their bluff. Someone thought they had found an ingenius way to get around that pesky "is it working" question by redefining murder without first consulting Merriam-Webster, Dictionary.com, or of most importance, the American people. I am not a general, and I don't have a better plan. I have strategic ideas, but not many tactical ones and I trust that our generals' years of experience are more of an asset in this fight than are mine. I have plenty of ideas, observations, and concerns with what I have seen in this occupation, but I understand that the opinion of an E-4 is not generally sought. I do, however, expect certain things from my leaders, and one of those is truth. I understand that there are some things concerning OPSEC that cannot be discussed or discussed truthfully, but something like the number of murders in a single month appears to be something that our leaders should be truthful about. I'm not asking for much here.

I have said before in this very blog that I have never been more cynical about our government than I am right now. I was not always like this, but the events of the past eighteen months have made me question everything that comes out of the government's mouth. What genuinely upsets me, though, is that there are still people who not only accept everything the administration says as Gospel, but also attack anyone who questions the war as someone with their head in the sand. To those who look at this article and do not ask serious questions (like, "What else are they lying about?"), I emphatically point my finger at them as the true ostriches.

For an administration that is constantly deflecting claims that it brought us to war based on lies, it would appear to be beneficial to be transparent and honest in assessments regarding this war. Each new accusation of lying only strengthens the case of past lies being perpetrated on the American public. In counterinsurgency warfare, the biggest challenge and the biggest prize is winning the confidence of the population, the people. How can we do that here when we don't have the confidence and trust of the population at home? The DOD's fuzzy math has done much to erode the confidence I have in our leaders, and I imagine I am not alone. Does this anger anyone else?