Something smacks into me from behind and knocks me flat on my face. It felt like a sledgehammer. I roll onto my back, expecting to find an attacker.
There’s just the empty courtyard and blue sky above.
Whap! A round slams into the ground inches from my head, kicking dirt into my eyes. Now I know what hit me in the back. A sniper round. Thank Almighty God and ceramic body armor. So where’s the shooter? Probably on a roof.
I start to roll. Whap! The next round smacks into the ground exactly where my head was an instant ago.
I roll into shade. The shots stop. I’m under a veranda. Out of the sun and out of the sights of the sniper.
He has to assume he hasn’t gotten me.
I have to assume he’s coming to finish the job.
BRAD
FOB Choke Point sat on a bluff overlooking a valley that connected two enemy provinces. With us perched there, the insurgents were forced to move men and equipment through the surrounding mountains—a much tougher and slower way to go. To show their displeasure with us for blocking their valley, hardly a day passed that they didn’t lob a dozen rockets in our direction.
Thus, the first thing you learned at the FOB was where the bunkers were. The good news was there were plenty of them, all dug deep and fortified. Day or night, sirens and shouts of “Incoming!” meant diving for the closest bunker.
Those first few weeks, while the new recruits walked around with a constant knot in their stomachs, waiting for the next enemy rocket, I had two knots in mine. Every time someone looked at me funny or smirked, I immediately assumed the worst—that Brad had spread the word about who my grandfather was. But it turned out I was mistaken. Brad never told a soul.
We stayed out of each other’s way. Not that we never saw each other. The FOB wasn’t that big, and everyone ate in the chow hall and hung around the rec center. And, of course, I could always hear when he was drumming. When guys needed to blow off steam, they could pump iron and exercise. They could play basketball. Or they could go beat the hell out of those drums.
* * *
On my “hero tour” here in the States, when interviewers asked me what the Army did to make life in the war zone bearable, I told them how we had real beds with mattresses, not cots. How the diesel generators were strong enough to provide air-conditioning even on days when the temperatures got to 120. How sometimes on Sundays we had steak at dinner and ice cream afterward.
I didn’t tell them about the pills, nor about the night I was in the rec room shooting pool and Brad charged in half-whacked out of his mind and went nose to nose with me. As active-duty soldiers, we weren’t allowed to drink or do any drug the docs hadn’t handed out themselves. But the meds the docs had were potent, and it was obvious to everyone that Brad was totally amped. It wasn’t alcohol or I would have smelled it on his breath. Besides, he was wired, not sloppy. His eyes were wild, his face red, and he was breathing hard and sweating as if he’d just spent an hour hitting the skins.
Only I hadn’t heard any drums that night.
“You touch her while I was gone?” he screamed. The whole rec hall went quiet. I wiped the odd bits of spit off my face and wondered if Brad knew that he was clenching and unclenching his fists. Next, I checked to make sure he wasn’t armed. Then I leaned back, my hand resting on the cue lying on the pool table behind me. Good thing there were plenty of soldiers around because if I had to smack him upside the head, I’d need witnesses to testify that it was self-defense.
“Well?” he demanded. His face couldn’t have been any redder. I couldn’t imagine where this craziness had come from. I’d been at the FOB for a month and, after that first night by the drum set, we’d hardly said a word to each other.
“Staff Sergeant Burrows, no,” I said calmly.
“You sure?”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”
“What if I told you I heard something?”
That threw me for an instant. Then I reminded myself that it was all in his head. “Then somebody lied, Staff Sergeant.”
He glared at me, still sucking air like he’d run the hundred in twelve flat. I stared right back. In the past month, he’d made it pretty clear that he wasn’t going to tell anyone about my vaunted military family. I appreciated that. But I’d also just come through basic training. So it was going to take a little more than one half-mental unarmed NCO to unnerve me.
LORI
We can take it if you want,” Lori says. We’re in the driveway, beside the new Jeep. She has to give me a ride to Franklin High, since, with the cast, I can’t drive myself.
I shake my head. Don’t want to risk dinging the Jeep when it may be on its way back to the dealership soon.
Lori gives me a look. “Isn’t this the car you’ve always dreamed of?”
“Yup.”
“So?”
When I shrug, she narrows her eyes. “There’s something you’re not telling me, Jake.”
I haven’t had an opportunity to tell her what I’m thinking about doing. But it looks like the time has come. “We’ll take your car. I’ll tell you on the way.”
MR. WASHINGTON
What’s it like over there?”
It’s the question I’ve been dreading. I am seated in front of the JROTC class. Mr. Washington is standing by the door, in uniform, military erect, at parade rest. The kids in the class sit up straight, wearing their uniforms. There is no class in school with better posture. A year ago I was one of these kids.
It’s one thing when the interviewers ask what it’s like over there. I can give them the standard replies. It’s tough, but we’re making progress. I’m proud that we’re one of the countries that is standing up to the threat.
But in this class are the kids who may go over there next. I’m only a year older than some of them, but they look so young. I scan these bright, interested faces. Some with zits. Some haven’t even started shaving. Which of you will still be alive a year from now? Which of you will still have all four limbs?
Which of you will have been shipped home in a flag- covered coffin?
Mr. Washington is watching me, waiting for my reply to the question. Mr. Washington, who once took me aside and said confidently that my future in the military “was boundless.” That someday I could be a major general just like my famous grandfather.
I’ll bet almost every kid in this class plans to enlist just like I did. Why? Because someone has to stop the radical extremists who want to kill everyone who disagrees with their totally warped worldview. I haven’t seen the numbers of troops each country has sent to the conflict, but it’s called a “US-led coalition.” I have a sneaking suspicion that means that most of the troops over there are Americans. As has been the case so often in history, once again it’s mostly left to the US to do the dirty work. And how do we do that? With a military force made up of innocent kids who don’t have a clue what they’re getting themselves into.
But it has to be this way, doesn’t it? Because if these kids really knew what they were signing up for, they wouldn’t enlist. And if they don’t enlist, then we don’t have an army. And if we don’t have an army, the bad guys win.
The class is waiting. Come on, Jake, what’s it like over there?
We lived every minute at FOB Choke Point knowing it might be our last. All you had to do was be in the wrong place at the wrong time when a Chinese- or Russian-made rocket smashed in. You just had to hope you’d be one of the lucky ones. Like Magnet, who got his nickname because wherever he went, he seemed to attract incoming. One time he was in the crapper and a dud mortar round blew through the roof and crashed into the toilet across from him. Shattered the thing into a thousand pieces.
After that, if you passed the crapper and saw a line of guys outside holding their nuts like they were going to piss themselves any second, you knew Magnet was inside. No one dared go in when he was there.
Every time we left the FOB, we knew it might be the last time. We all had good luck charms. Some soldiers smoked, some joked
, some dipped and spat, and some got on their knees and prayed. By the time we’d been there three months, more than a few guys were taking pills for sleeplessness, loose bowels, and anxiety.
The pills for pain, depression, and night terrors would come later.
We were trained for asymmetric warfare. Around the FOB they called it a 360-degree 3-D war. Not like the old wars with front lines, and you knew that the enemy was on the other side of that line. Not even like what I’d heard about Nam, with its jungle warfare. This war is like being inside a sphere of terror. You go into a town and insurgents can shoot at you from anywhere and everywhere. From doorways and windows and rooftops. Mortar rounds fall from above; IEDs blow up from below. Because there is no front line, there is no clear direction toward safety.
At my first Sunday service at FOB Choke Point, the chaplain asked us if we were prepared to die. He said if we weren’t, we had better get prepared fast. Not a day passed that you didn’t imagine how it might happen. The rocket blast. The sniper bullet. The IED. The mortar round. The RPG. The shot in the head that’s instant lights-out. The shot in the groin that slowly bleeds out. The supersonic shrapnel that rips off a leg, an arm, a head. The thirty pound artillery shell that leaves nothing but pink mist.
All we could do was tell ourselves it wouldn’t be us. It would be someone else. But soldiers got shot or “blowed up” all the time. Some were horribly wounded. Some died. And why wouldn’t it be one of us? Can there be good luck without bad luck?
And then it was one of us: Morpiss.
And then it was more of us.
Until there was hardly anyone left.
The sound of Mr. Washington clearing his throat brings me back to the classroom. Back to these straight-backed, pink-cheeked, eager kids who can’t wait to enter whatever noble fantasy they have of what war is.
So what’s it like?
Here’s what I can’t say: You won’t be over there long before you’ll realize that war isn’t what you imagined it would be. Before you’ll wish to God that you’d never come. Before you’ll lie in bed at night so scared and trembling and sick with fear that you’ll be a hair’s width from bawling loudly for your mommy.
Maybe you’ll be one of the ones who does break down. Or snaps. Or goes Section 8.
Why? Because you’re going to see horrible things. The vehicle filled with your buddies is going to blow up right before your eyes. Men in flames are going to try to run, but they won’t get far before a triggerman or the fire snuffs them. You will see blood spurting from stumps where legs or arms or heads were an instant before. You will see children die. That’s something else the Army “forgets” to prepare you for during basic. They show you how to shoot at targets. They show you how to throw grenades at pretend mortar positions. They don’t show you what the body of a mangled, bloody child looks like.
Some of you are going to wish to God that you never took this JROTC class instead of gym.
“It’s . . . it’s hard,” I hear myself say. “It’s war. It can be really scary. But someone has to do it.”
I glance over at Mr. Washington, who nods approvingly. When I was a student here, that approving nod from my instructor was what I yearned for. Before becoming a JROTC instructor, Mr. Washington had been the commander of a five-ton gun truck in Iraq, armed front and back with .50 caliber machine guns. His job was to escort convoys.
He told us that he’d encountered plenty of small arms and sniper fire. It sounded so cool. Protecting convoys. Actually exchanging fire with the enemy.
It wasn’t until I got over there that I learned how limited my JROTC instructor’s experience had actually been. The convoys he’d guarded had stayed on roads far from insurgent-infested villages. And he’d been protected inside a heavily armored vehicle. Whatever fire he’d exchanged with the enemy had been from a distance. Far enough that I doubt he could ever say for certain that he’d had a confirmed kill.
In the JROTC classroom, the questions keep coming. I tread a fine line with my answers. I don’t want to bad-mouth the military, but I also can’t leave here thinking that I’ve been encouraging. Anyone who feels encouraged and enlists after graduation could be dead in six months.
I can’t have their blood on my hands. I’ve already got enough to last a lifetime.
Relief floods through me when the bell finally rings. One more obligation satisfied. One less albatross around my neck. One step closer to salvation.
The kids file out of the classroom. Some thank me for speaking to them. Some just look awestruck. They stare at my cast and the scar on my chin. Some try to sneak a peek at my disfigured hand.
Then it’s just Mr. Washington and me. My stomach clenches for an instant with that old impulse to please. Then I remind myself of where I’ve been for the past six months. I’m the one who’s experienced war up close and personal. I’m the supposed hero.
“Sorry you had a tough time, Jake.” Mr. Washington puts a hand on my shoulder. “We’re all proud of you.”
I serve up a grim smile, and at the same time fight off the sudden jolt of anger that wants to tell him precisely where he can go. I have to clench my fists and take a deep breath. Mr. Washington is just one small step up from all those strangers who thank me for my service without having any idea what that means. People who have good intentions, but can’t comprehend that in so many cases “service” means that if you’re not dead, you’re physically and psychologically crippled for life. It means you will never, ever be the same. At least Mr. Washington fought, even if it was in a limited way. But I doubt he’s known anyone who’s been through what Romeo Squad experienced.
Why? Because if he really knew what I’ve been through, he wouldn’t be teaching JROTC. He’d be telling kids to stay as far away from the military as possible.
We shake hands, and he thanks me for coming in. That sudden bolt of anger has left me feeling shaky and light-headed. These blasts of seething resentment are easily triggered, and I’m not always prepared for them. Out in the hall, the second bell has rung and the kids are in class. I’m alone. Just walls of blue lockers and wooden classroom doors. The squish of my crutches’ rubber tips on the floor. The swish of my left foot sliding across the tiles.
The anger over what happened to me and my squad. The burden of having to live up to everyone else’s idea of what it is to be a hero. It’s draining and wearying. This hallway isn’t the only thing that feels empty.
BRANDI
How are you?” asks Brandi, the reporter for the Franklin Frontier, the high school’s online newspaper. We’re in a small glassed-in room in the high school library. “I mean, after five operations?”
“I’m . . . okay.” The question catches me off-guard. I’ve given dozens of interviews in the past few weeks, but not many of the interviewers knew how many surgeries I underwent at Landstuhl. Brandi’s done her homework.
She looks different. No baggy athletic T and cutoffs today. She’s wearing tight jeans and a designer T-shirt that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Her long dark hair now falls in ringlets past her shoulders. Makeup enhances those penetrating hazel eyes. After nearly a year in which I’ve had very little contact with any female not wearing desert boots and body armor . . . Let’s just say that, in Brandi’s presence, my thoughts keep wanting to veer into inappropriate territory.
“You seemed to hesitate,” she says.
I rap my knuckles against the cast. “Still recovering.”
“What do you really think of the war?” she asks in the way of people who don’t think much of it.
Nearly every interviewer has been respectful and sympathetic. This morning, at the local Franklin TV station, the interviewer fawned over me. Then again, Franklin is a military town. The Army base is the largest employer. When it comes to all things armed services, the local residents are gung-ho.
It’s sort of ironic that I had to wait until a high school interview to be given a hard time. “No beating around the bush, huh?” I joke.
She
smiles thinly. “Want me to lob a softball? How does it feel to be a hero, Jake? Are you happy to be home again? Did you miss home cooking?”
Her tone is almost caustic.
“You against us being over there?” I ask.
She sits back and lets out a sigh. “No, not entirely. I just . . . Honestly, Jake, does it feel like we’re making any progress?”
Interesting. Half the “professional” TV interviewers were content to ask what it felt like to be a hero? (I’m still not sure.) Was I scared? (Hell, yes.) Did I ever think I was going to die? (Constantly, and with good reason.)
But that’s the thing. Ever since the ambush, I’ve had too much time to think. Lying in hospital beds. Flying around in everything from big C-130 transports to tiny four-seat prop planes. Sitting in the backs of cars. All I did was think. Are we making progress? If progress is sacrificing young American lives over there so that people don’t die here, then maybe we are. And since I am a member of the military, part of me feels obligated to give the answer that’s expected. But another, more private part asks, what about Brad, and Morpiss, and Skitballs? What about all these young men and women who enlisted with valor in their eyes and duty and honor in their hearts (not to mention big enlistment bonuses in their pockets)? Now dead or forever maimed. Who’s asking them if they think it was worth it?
What good is an enlistment bonus if you’re not around to spend it?
The longer Brandi waits for my answer, the higher her carefully tweezed eyebrows rise.
“Guess I’m hesitating again, huh?” I ask.
Her eyes dart to the recording app on her phone.
“Yes, I do think we’re making progress against the enemy.” There it is—the official answer, the one I’m expected to make. When are you going to make the statement you’re not expected to make?
Our eyes meet. I suspect that Brandi’s penetrating gaze is asking . . . no, saying, that she has a hunch that the answer I’ve given is not what I really think. Just like Lori sensed this morning before she drove me here. I realize I’m being reckless. Brandi’s hardly the first pretty and smart interviewer I’ve faced. Whatever it is about her that almost got me to drop my guard, I have to be more careful.
Price of Duty Page 3