DEAR MA,
The boys got a good laugh from your email discovery. You can also attach documents and songs. Watch it with the illegal downloads, Ma, or the record company will come after you! Welcome to the Interweb! Things are starting to turn normal around here. It’s hard being the new guy when the other guys in my squad are already working well together. Patrols are going okay except that I am having some difficulty orienting myself. The lack of street signs doesn’t help, and the buildings all look the same. It’s hard for me to lead when I don’t know exactly where I am. If the driver was hit, I’d have to rely on someone else to get us back to base. Part of the problem is that I don’t pay any attention when I’m not in the driver’s seat. We go the same route four or five times and I still don’t remember. Getting lost in Austin on the way to Uncle Nick’s place is one thing. Over here things are a bit different. Every other day a Humvee comes back with a wound. Sometimes it’s just a bullet hole or scorch marks. Other times they come back on a flatbed, still smoking, blown to shit, dripping blood and motor oil. I don’t want to add getting lost to our problems.
DEAR SON,
It probably won’t make you feel any better to know that your orientation problem is genetic. For years I travelled with your father in the car, chatting away, never noticing where I was going or how I got there. It wasn’t until he died that I learned to get around. The easiest way to fix your problem, Son, is to kick that private out of the driver’s seat and do it yourself. That will sharpen your attention, especially considering all that is at stake. If you get lost again, start asking the men as if you’re quizzing them, stressing the critical importance of directional awareness.
DEAR MA,
Thanks for the tip. I think the guys are impressed that I’m driving. To be honest, the worst job is manning the two-forty with your head poking out the top like a gopher waiting to get his head blown off by Farmer Jim. I’ve already seen more than I want to here, and I haven’t even been shot at yet. Sometimes on patrol I start to hunch over in the foetal position, as if that would protect me from an IED. Maybe it’s natural that after seeing this horrible place, some part of me wants to curl up and sneak back into the womb where it’s safe, quiet, and peaceful.
DEAR SON,
My womb is closed for business. Sorry to disappoint you. It’s alright to say that kind of stuff to me, but don’t you EVER say anything like that to the boys. You are a staff sergeant, and the boys need to be reminded of that every day in a hundred different ways. Your father always called it the command mystique. He had it and you better get it, or men will die. They can’t believe that you would make a mistake. It goes beyond trust. They’ve got to genuinely believe that it is impossible for you to make a mistake. Everybody does, of course, but when you do, they have to see something other than a mistake. When you get lost, they see you’re taking a different route. When you get fired on unexpectedly, you haven’t cluelessly stepped into an ambush—you’ve drawn out the enemy. When you call in a fire mission on your own position, you are misleading the enemy to think that your squad has been wiped out. What daring! What sacrifice! What a leader!
DEAR MA,
I don’t know exactly which John Wayne movies you’ve been watching, but the reality of war is a little different from the cheerleader version pumped out by Hollywood. Your tip about driving was good, but I’m in a war now, and tips that might be fine for surviving the Texas summer just aren’t going to apply out here. You’ve got to accept that there are things about our situation here that you just don’t understand. Out of respect for Dad’s experience, I’m going to try the command mystique for a while and see how it goes. I’m not quite sure I can be that Robert Duvall character in Apocalypse Now who stands tall and unflinching while bullets zing past his head. If I can’t manage fearless, I am getting better at never admitting to mistakes, but I’m not sure how well this is going over with the men.
DEAR SON,
I don’t think you’re getting the command mystique. Don’t doubt anymore. Banish it as an option. None of this is to pump up your ego. This is survival. If Private stands there in the heat of it and hesitates for ten seconds in the execution of your order because he has DOUBT about it, those ten seconds could be deadly for someone else. When God tells you to build an ark, you build an ark. When Staff tells you to kick down that fucking door, you kick it down.
DEAR MA,
Did you just use the f-word? Who are you and what have you done with my mother? You are a bigger hardcase than anyone in my company. Last night I got an address wrong and I realized it just as the ram was swinging to break the door down. Instead of telling the guys, Hang on, I got the wrong house, we just piled in there and tossed the place. I led the way since I was pretty sure the occupants weren’t a threat, so I came off looking like a gung-ho commando. You should have seen that family cowering under our lights. They really thought they were about to be executed. How is Jenny doing? I’ve been sending her emails but she hasn’t replied. Could you forward this email to her so she can get my address right?
DEAR SON,
I’m sorry if my tone sounds odd. Now that you’re deployed, I feel as though I’m channelling your father. There were many things he could have taught you if he had known you were going to join the Army, but he never thought you would take this path. Not that it matters at this point, but he would not have approved. Yes, I know I said he would be proud to see you serve. Is it possible to think both of those thoughts? I think so. Your father was a complicated man. As far as dear Jenny is concerned, she may just need some time to sort out her own thoughts. This has been a huge adjustment for her.
DEAR MA,
As a squad we are functioning well. Now, if we could only get others to work with us. We have come to rely more and more on close-air support to keep our sector under control. When we get pinned down somewhere, it seems to take the Apaches forever to get to our positions. Sometimes half an hour. I have no way of confirming this, but it seems that the Brits always get theirs first.
DEAR SON,
You are getting Apaches and so are the Brits. Everybody gets an Apache, which is a fine machine, but I’m guessing you’re pretty vague when you call for support. Next time, be specific. Ask for an A-10 Thunderbolt. Some people call it the Hog. It’s a hot little piece of screaming hell with a 30-mil cannon just like the Apache. It’s no problem for Hogs to come in low, because they have redundant hydraulics and 900 pounds of armour shielding the pilot and the avionics. They can make it home missing a rudder, an engine, and half the wing. I know you army types love your Apache, but it only gets off 625 rounds per minute. The Hog puts out 3900 rounds per minute. That’s 65 a second! And it only takes six rounds to kill a tank. How do you think Muj is going to make out in his minivan?
DEAR MA,
Where are you getting all this stuff?
DEAR SON,
Don’t you remember that your father flew A-10s in the Gulf War?
DEAR MA,
Today sucked. The guys are tired of being here and so am I. When they start cutting corners and being lax in their duties I have a hard time coming down on them, given the futility of our mission here. Pranks seem to cheer them up so I kind of look the other way. They need some kind of outlet from the stress. We were patrolling a semi-rural district, nothing much going on. There was another squad ahead of us and it was turning out to be an NSF mission (no shots fired). Private Marshall decides to have a little fun, so when we come alongside Muj and his flock of sheep, Marshall drops a flash grenade and scares the living shit out of this guy. We were all having a bit of a chuckle over this when the Humvees in front stop. We were thinking maybe it was go time but no, nothing like that. The other staff sergeant got everybody out, and we’re all trying to figure out what the hell this is about. Staff Sergeant Wilson wants to know who threw a flash grenade into Muj’s flock of sheep. Well, I wasn’t about to give up Private Marshall for a harmless prank, so we all just looked at the ground. Wilson went right off, giving my squad
a lecture on the moral degradation that’s been creeping into this army like a cancer. He scolded my troops, scolded me, lectured on and on about massacres in Vietnam and the breakdown of military discipline. I felt like a schoolboy sent to the principal’s office, and a tiny part of me was hoping a Muj sniper would take out Wilson. It wouldn’t be hard to pick out the commanding officer. He was the one shouting and waving his arms in the air and spitting into the faces of shamed soldiers. It was a long, quiet ride back to base. I couldn’t even look at the men.
DEAR SON,
Please promise me you’ll never let anything like that happen again. You never let someone of the same rank chew you out. You should have stood up to him face-to-face and shouted whatever. It doesn’t even matter what you say. That idiot put you down because he sensed he could, just like your men play pranks because they sense they can. You’re my boy and I love you, but if you expect to make it through your Mideast vacation, you’re going to have to check between your legs to see if you got any. You’ve gotta stand up and be a man. And by the way, what is Wilson’s first name?
DEAR MA,
I don’t know why it would matter to you, but Wilson’s first name is Peter. Our squad splattered some Muj today, so I’m less concerned about that power-tripping ass puppet. Rolling past some houses on a narrow street, we heard the tink-tink of rifle rounds hitting the hillbilly armour on our Humvee. It seemed to be coming from a tree line three hundred yards out. Kevin let off short bursts from the two-forty in the gaps between the houses, but it was hard because we were still moving. No one could confirm any kills or even see the little bastards. We pulled over behind some houses when it got a little heavier and I called for a Hog, just like you said. We had one overhead in minutes, shredding everything near the tree line, even the trees. He made another pass to let loose a Hellfire missile and on his last one we could hear the snap, crackle, pop of a cluster bomb, icing on the cake I guess. He did a flyby on his way out, twenty feet over the rooftops as all the guys were cheering, all big Hog fans now.
DEAR SON,
I’m glad things are working out for you. I wish they would cover some of the success stories on the news but as usual, it’s all doom and gloom. The main thing I worry about is your relationship with your men. On LiveLeak I saw a soldier tempt a child with candy in one hand, then scare him with a grenade in the other. It’s not an isolated incident. I don’t care about the kid. That soldier is under someone’s command, and that someone is not keeping his troops in line. Wilson was way out of line scolding you like that, but he did have a point. It’s a slippery slope. A soldier who naps on watch for five minutes tonight will try for ten tomorrow. You don’t have to be liked, son. You should be feared and respected, like God.
DEAR MA,
Fear and respect. They’ve got plenty of the first one. And if they’re lacking the second, I don’t think I can take all the blame. They may not respect me very much but that’s standard, all the way up the chain of command. Some of these guys believe in the mission. Others count the days (or hours in McMillen’s case) till they can go home. No matter where they stand, no one doubts that what we’re doing now isn’t working. We go up and down the main streets as fast as we can, asserting ourselves as a presence but not sticking around long enough to get blown up. We don’t stand our ground. We do these flyby inspections and if we aren’t all killed by an IED or a kid throwing thermal grenades, we call the area “secure.” The good news is that Wilson got transferred to a little hot spot known as Sadr City. Better him than me. Sometimes good things happen if you just wait it out.
DEAR SON,
I know you feel frustrated and restricted by the current arrangement, but a leader takes initiative. Do you think your lieutenant really gives a damn if you go a little bit off mission? He’s got a hundred other things to worry about. When you go out on patrol you’ve got a start time, a finish time, and a map of the route. Throw away the map. You guys are getting hammered on major routes. I know it’s easier to speed along on a nice paved surface with lights overhead, but they’re waiting for you along those routes. Muj knows he’s safe if he keeps to the back roads and alleys. He’ll fill his shorts when he sees you sitting there in his backyard. Pull into a clearing, shut the lights off and wait. Use your night vision to check what’s going on. One of those houses is going to have a lot of traffic in and out. How about kicking down the door of a house filled with bad guys? Muj can be a sneaky bastard, so why not try that for a while? I’m sending you a friend from a private-security firm. This guy isn’t bound by military law and he’s exempt from persecution by the Iraqi government. Can you see the possibilities? In the meantime, I’ve attached a diagram showing how to rig a Javelin missile to a trip wire. That will liven up the party. And remember, your job isn’t being right. Your job is being effective. Congratulations soldier, you’ve retaken the element of surprise!
DEAR MA,
Any word from Jenny? I miss her terribly. You can tell her that I’m doing well out here. I think she would be proud. The lieutenant, even the lieutenant colonel, is very impressed with the new intel and arrests we are making, even though we are often way off our assigned route. No one seems to care about that as long as we get results. I feel like a leader and I think the men are picking up on that, but the growing pride in our unit is undermined by some asshole rotorhead in a Black Hawk who comes around to dust us every morning. First time it was funny, ha ha, good one, you got us. Yes, we have a sense of humour. But he does it every day now, and I mean every day. It’s humiliating. Obviously there’s nothing I can do about it, but I get the feeling the guys expect me to. How can I protect the guys from Muj if I can’t protect them from one of our own?
DEAR SON,
It is the first instinct of a mother to protect her son from everything that is awful in this world. Maybe that is my problem. I never stopped doing that. If you look at it objectively, you’ll realize that the question is not why bad things happen to good people. The question is why soft, unprepared, tender people survive as long as they do in this world. What I’m trying to say is that Jenny was having sex with your brother six months before you were even deployed. It’s taken everything I have to keep quiet about this, because it’s none of my business, but it didn’t look like you were going to figure it out on your own. I hope to Christ you are better at reading oncoming traffic at a roadblock than you are at reading women. I’ve tried to help you, Son, but maybe that’s not what you need. Maybe you need to try to walk across the desert with four litres of water. Maybe you need to run single-handed into an al Qaeda nest and shoot ’em up face-to-face. I know what I would do about your dusting problem, but I think I’ll sit this one out and see what you come up with on your own.
DEAR MA,
Hearing about Jenny made me crazy mad. I have channelled all that anger into getting back at Flyboy, but you probably knew that would happen. He came in at the same time, the same approach, the same angle, with fatal predictability. Half my squad was positioned near the trucks, the other half well forward of the dusting zone. We had a dummy from the gym that we wrapped in a bedsheet for the robe, a tea towel for the head scarf. We were going to arm Dummy Muj with an AT4 but one of the guys decided an RPG would be more authentic. I don’t know where he got it, but Muj looked pretty ominous with the RPG pointed skyward, sunglasses the final touch. Our secret weapon was covered with camo nets until the Black Hawk had passed over. Flyboy banked deep to dust us as usual but just as he did, we started chucking up flash grenades to scare the crap out of him, to make him think he was drawing fire, and to draw attention to Muj. You should have seen Flyboy go evasive, banking steep to get out of there, the rotors just clearing one of the tents. Ten minutes later, Flyboy comes charging up and wants to know who’s in command. I stride up to him, and we’re chest-to-chest, face-to-face. He says, Not funny. That was not funny. And I say, Neither is digging sand out of my shorts. He goes off when I don’t apologize but I keep putting it back on him, louder, angrier, spouting anyth
ing, everything. I was like a snarling dog ready to rip his throat out and he could see it. My men could see it. I don’t even know what I said, but I matched his volume until he turned away. What else could he do? Call me on a prank when he pulled one every morning? Command mystique was coming off me. Command mystique made him turn and walk away. I saw it reflected back at me by the dusted faces of my men, at that moment, in that place, winning.
DEAR SON,
You’re making good progress, and now it’s important to capitalize on your momentum. People will start to see you differently and you should build on that. They’ll start to like you, but more importantly, they will want to be liked by you. Use this social leverage to bond your group and encourage loyalty. You’ll begin to see even better results when your group starts to gel as a unit. Rotorhead had it coming, for sure, but don’t forget who the real enemy is. You never know when you might need a good pilot. Maybe one day you’ll be waiting for extraction and he’ll decide your LZ is just a little too hot. Maybe you’ll spend the night pinned down and scared shitless. It doesn’t hurt to cultivate friendships where you can; otherwise, expect payback to get the better of professionalism every time.
DEAR MA,
We’re getting good results in the field, and the right people are taking notice. Last night we bagged Watban Ibrahim Al-Tikriti at one of the houses we have been watching. We passed on the shock and awe and snuck into his place like a bunch of thieves, real sneaky like. The best part? The front door wasn’t even locked. He is the five of spades in the Most Wanted deck and that’s a big deal. Apparently Uday shot him in the leg seven times and blew his nuts off. We cornered our fierce killer with his pants down in the john and it would have been a good time to verify the rumour, but he was reading a six-month-old Atlantic Monthly and I got distracted by that. Seems like every single one of these Hajis wants to go out in a red-hot gun battle, so at least we deprived him of that. Since our big win, people bring me stuff. A lieutenant colonel came by to give me the old tip of the hat. My chief warrant officer just shook his hand, smiled and pretended like he knew what was going on. People want to do things for me now. Everyone wants to be part of what we’ve started. If there’s anything we can do, they say. We’re not too concerned about rank anymore; we just want to get things done. We spend a lot less time shooting at bushes and more time doing police work. It ain’t soldiering but we’re getting results. Everybody is coming together on this except a few Billy Bulletstops who just don’t get it. I’m starting to get impatient with these see-nothing morons.
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