“Briggs?”
The voice was familiar but faint, barely piercing the fog of his delirium. He froze.
Check put his hand on Briggs’s shoulder.
“No!” Briggs hollered as he turned and grabbed Check’s arm. Check countered the swing and spun Briggs on his heels, gently sliding him to the ground in a squat, holding him from behind.
“Aaah! My God, nooo!” Briggs howled.
“It’s okay. Let it go, son. You’re safe. You’re safe,” Check said in a low voice near Briggs’s ear, rocking him slightly. “You’re not there. You’re here. You’re safe. Open your eyes, son. Look up at the stars. Smell the fresh air. You’re here, not there.”
The mantra slowly found its way in, until Briggs came back to the reality of his surroundings: the familiar voice of a comrade, the healing powers of fresh air. He opened his eyes to see the brilliant heavens. His panic started to ease, his breathing calmed.
Check had rescued him once again from the dark, but this time he was fighting a memory that no weapon could defeat.
Briggs looked over at Check with surprise. “What are you doing here, sir?”
“I came to check on you and do a little paperwork. You look good. Out for a little stroll?” He grinned at Briggs.
“Not sure.”
“Come on now, let me take you back to your rack,” Check said as he started to pull Briggs up by his shoulders.
Briggs protested. “No, let me stay out here. I need the air. I’ve . . . I’ve got to stay out here.” Refusing Check’s help, he scooted across the ground a short distance to lean against the wall of the building, looking out into the pitch-dark desert.
Check settled in next to him, staring into the dark. Briggs felt much calmer now, thankfully far away from that place of terror—if not in spirit, at least for the moment in physical form.
“Thank you, sir.” He raised his chin and looked up at the stars, allowing the tears to flow down his cheek.
Check squinted his eyes and said in a gentle voice, “You know, Briggs . . . hell, I know you know, but I gotta say it.”
Briggs waited patiently, watching Check out of the corner of his eye as he struggled to form his words.
“You’re not the first person to go through this, and you need to hear this from someone who knows it’s okay to cry, because it is, damn it. I’ve been in that same dark hell you’re in right now. You gotta remember how you got out of the darkness, because it’s going to happen again. Be ready for it. And each time, you need to leave a trail of breadcrumbs so you can find your way back, and each time you make your way back you will be stronger: physically, mentally, spiritually. I will not tell you that one day all the bad thoughts will go away, just that it gets easier after a while. The memories don’t burn as bad after you’ve fought your way back a few times through the torture of your own recollections.” He paused and turned to look at Briggs. His eyes were filled with the intensity of a warrior.
“All’s I’m saying, Briggs, is that if you let it control you, it will not only destroy your career, but your life. So just fucking fight it, is what I’m tellin’ ya. Fight it now and fight it as hard as you can. Don’t let it take you. Ever.”
Briggs stared at him for a long time, silent. Then he looked at the night sky.
Check sighed. “There, I just saved you at least two years of psychobabble bullshit. That’s about how long it took my psychologist to give me those few words of wisdom, and it didn’t cost you a hundred hours of your life at two hundred fifty bucks an hour.”
Check shifted his position and stared out into the night sky as he continued. “I remember with crystal clarity the exact moment my life was forever changed. October 23, 1983, a beautiful Sunday morning at 0622. My life is still often frozen in that hellish moment. Sundays were supposed to be calm and quiet, you know? Get a little extra rack time and then play some b-ball in the parking lot after a late breakfast.”
He was quiet for some time before he spoke again. He spoke clearly and quietly, confessing his unbearable mistake in gruesome detail to the ears of the night and a young man who desperately needed to hear them. Briggs sensed the gravity and importance of the conversation. This was not a war story, nor was it a man bragging. It was therapeutic. Something he knew he should pay close attention to because he would have to learn how to share his story in order to survive his own nightmare.
“I was in Lebanon, the 24th Marine Amphibious Unit and its Battalion Landing Team 1/8, when the barracks were bombed and so many great men, my friends, were killed.”
Check’s eyes glazed over as he continued talking. “I was in charge of a small recon squad on its way back from checking out the hillsides around the airport. Hezbollah and their snipers were using the positions above the Marine barracks to take pop shots at us and occasionally lob a mortar or two in our direction.”
Briggs sat quietly as Check talked.
“They were extremely tough to catch. They would squeeze off a couple of rifle rounds, or use a small mortar, then hide their weapons and fade away into the countryside or the town. We knew that if a reconnaissance squad could stay above the enemy in the hills and be quiet long enough without being noticed by one of the locals, the squad could envelop them.”
Check’s jaw clenched. “The squad was returning from patrol, weaving its way between houses and stone walls on the way down the hill when we noticed a large yellow Mercedes truck meandering along. One of my men tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘This doesn’t look right, sir.’ We stopped and watched the driver for a few seconds.”
Briggs knew from recent experience that those few seconds would tick away in Check’s head for the rest of his days.
“The rules of engagement were simple. We could not even put a round in the chamber unless we were being shot at. Here was a man who’d met all the criteria of a bad guy. He had a long, black beard, was in a large truck all by himself, and was driving with no apparent sense of direction on a day that was not a usual delivery day. Normally the drivers who came to the base to deliver supplies had at least two guys in the truck.”
Check’s eyes were black holes of pain as he looked at Briggs. “The only thing I did right was to close in on the guy from the hillside to get a better look. Whether we spooked the driver or just arrived at the exact moment the driver decided to attack, I’ll never know. No matter. The man drove two big loops around the parking lot in front of the barracks, then slammed on the gas, heading straight for the gate.”
Check told Briggs that he went with the rules of engagement instead of instinct. The politics of warfare kept running through his head. The man wasn’t shooting at him and had no weapon, so he should do nothing. But the Marine in him wanted to shoot the bastard and shoot like hell! His mind raced through several scenarios at once. Should he give the order to fire on the truck and stop it? What if he was wrong? What if it was just a truck delivering supplies? If he started shooting without cause, they were all screwed.
Check’s voice was low as he continued. “Scanning the ranks of my men now running to my side with their weapons at the ready, I heard the sobering sound of brass slamming into the chamber of M-16s and M-60s. I quickly returned my attention to the speeding truck, now only a hundred yards from the gate to the Marine barracks compound. It was hard to tell with all the dust if the truck was slowing for the sentry.
“Instinctively, I knew the Mercedes was not going to slow down. I knew it in my gut. Still, I argued with myself, not wanting to be trigger-happy, not wanting to make everything worse, if that was even possible. I kept watching, thinking, ‘He’s going to stop, he’s going to stop.’
“He didn’t stop. And I had waited too long.”
Check went quiet.
Briggs found himself trying to catch his breath. He had no idea what to say. He forced himself to take in a breath, to blink his eyes and relax his hands, which seemed to be clenched to the point of pain. He was waiting for the story to come to a climax, to come to an end. Every Marine knew the
story of the barracks bombing, but only the Marines who were there knew the true horror of it. And with each word from Check, Briggs was being pulled into the reality of that horrible day in Marine history.
“Those frail second thoughts shattered before my eyes. I was helpless to change the course of events as they would unfold. The confirmation of my worst expectations came from behind me. My platoon sergeant spoke out in a loud, clear voice. ‘Damn, Lieutenant, that truck is going to ram the gate!’ I flung my M-16 onto my shoulder and cleared the safety, as did all the Marines in the vicinity. Follow the leader. I lowered my weapon and called out to my men to do the same. I realized that the main-gate guards and the barracks were in the line of fire and would most likely be hit by the devastating amount of firepower my men would lay down in order to stop the truck. Instead, the men in the sentry towers would have to be responsible for stopping the truck with their M-60s.
“Despite every indication to the contrary, I found myself thinking again, ‘What if we’re wrong?’
“Then someone shouted, ‘Sir, are we going to shoot or what? Sir!’
“It was too late. The truck crashed through the gate and into the courtyard of the main barracks. The vehicle made a nosedive into the main lobby next to the entranceway and stopped. For just an instant, there was nothing—no sound, no movement, and no explosion. Everything was suspended in a giant held breath of what the fuck? And then time shifted once again.”
Check shifted from side to side, the sand and gravel grinding beneath his boots and hips. He was digging into the dirt, as if he were preparing to share the true horror of his memories and preparing himself for the onslaught of emotions that piggybacked themselves to the experience. Briggs knew Check was about to unleash the real truth of his pain. They both paused to take in one last breath before Check shed light on his true demon.
“I could see the bright-white flash of the explosion as it radiated from the center of the Mercedes truck and fanned out in an incredible spectrum of red, yellow, orange, and black. So much black. Everything slowed or seemed to just not move at all. I felt like I was watching it happen an instant at a time, as if someone were clicking a remote. Stop. Play. Stop. Play. There was no time, there was no sound. I was transfixed on every slight movement. I could not move. The entire building lifted off the ground and seemed to hover in the air for a fraction of time. Smoke bellowed out of its belly as it rose from its foundation.
“Still, I did not move. I just stood there, a little under two hundred yards away, watching, mesmerized by the blast, knowing that in an instant it would be in my face, burning and pelting my body with flying debris and shrapnel. A fitting reward.
“I just stood there, cursed, feeling the massive weight of the deaths of my fellow Marines bearing down on my soul.”
“Damn,” Briggs said.
“Damn is just about right,” Check said, his face skyward, a catch in his voice. He paused for a long time before he continued. “My platoon sergeant tackled me from behind, knocking me to the ground. He covered me with his own body. Against my own will to survive, I did, by the hand of another.”
Check groaned as he pulled himself to his feet. Briggs did the same and leaned against the bulkhead.
“Those of us in the front of the formation were covered with dust, dirt, and fist-sized pieces of rock and brick. I jumped to my feet and ran to the barracks. I didn’t even turn to see if my own men were okay. I couldn’t bear the thought of what I might see. I just ran as fast as I could. When I reached the fireball that was once the truck, the roar of fire wasn’t as deafening and the dust had settled just enough for me to make out the building. I looked up and saw several bodies sandwiched between collapsed concrete floors. Some were still moving. I had to act, to do something, to save the wounded, to try to make up for what I had caused.”
Briggs started to say something, but Check held up his hand.
“Oh, there’s more, son,” he said. “I took a step to my left and bumped into something. When I looked down, I saw the torso of a Marine, cut in half just above the waist, lying face up with his eyes and mouth wide open, having seen a different level to the horror that I had shamefully witnessed, that I had caused. The blood oozed bright red and his skin was pink, and I found myself frozen again, overcome with the reality of what had happened and the overwhelming task before me of digging out the bodies of all my friends. I watched as the mouth of the Marine at my feet slowly closed and his eyes rolled back. The next instant, a small secondary explosion went off, no more than fifty feet to my left.”
Check reached over to rub his left arm, which was scarred and burned and void of hair. The rippled, discolored tissue rose from his arm like wrinkled pink paper. The only place on his arm below the elbow that was not burned was the patch of skin that had been under the watch he’d worn that day.
“When I came to, I was onboard a ship. Most of the explosion hit my flak jacket and upper thighs. If I hadn’t been looking down at the dead Marine at my feet, I would have gotten a face peel that would have made me look like ground hamburger, and I would definitely be blind.
“The last image in my head, boy, was the dead Marine’s face and the thought that it was my fault, that I could have prevented it. This guilt was compounded by the fact that I wasn’t able to help rescue those who were suffering under the collapsed walls of the barracks.”
“Damn,” said Briggs again.
Check nodded and pursed his lips. “Hmm, maybe damned is more like it. I was sent home to heal for thirty days and then to base operations stateside for over a year, stuck behind a desk with that explosion going off in my head every three minutes. When I closed my eyes, that Marine’s face would reappear. I knew I needed help. I couldn’t stay awake at work because I couldn’t sleep at home. The nights were the worst. Insomnia doesn’t even cover it. It’s an exhausting abyss, boy. I wore out my mattress tossing and turning, flipping and flopping, with no light, no rest.” He wiped away the tears from his eyes.
Briggs nodded, silent, somber. My time is coming for much of the same.
Check continued, “I am not one for drugs, so sleeping pills were out of the question, and drinking just turned me into a crying drunk, so I started seeing a psychologist.” His eyes glistened with tears.
“They sent me home to hell, not to heal. My girlfriend of two years left me, and I lost any chance at a command and questioned every decision I ever made. The next thing I would lose would be my mind—this I knew. The one thing I am certain of is that if I’d been conscious after the explosion and heard the screams of the men trapped and dying in that barracks—well, that would more than likely have pushed me over the edge.”
Check paused and turned to Briggs. “So fight it, Briggs, and if you can’t do it alone, get help. But not through the Corps—that’d be a career killer. It is a secret you have to share with someone you trust, or it will consume you. Do you have anyone you trust, Briggs?”
Briggs shrugged, sniffed. He looked up at the starlit sky. The question hung there, unanswered. “This is a pitiful conversation, two grown men hashing over their tragedies.”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong there, my friend. When we get a chance, and under better circumstances, I will break out some of my good scotch. I have a few bottles of sixteen-year-old Lagavulin stashed away; I’m saving it for better times.” Check chuckled low, a half smile on his lips. “You know, the one good thing that came out of that god-awful experience was getting a taste for fine scotch whiskey.” Check placed a hand on Briggs’s shoulder and lifted his face to the stars. “Thank God for the Scots.”
“You said I was wrong,” Briggs said. “What was I wrong about?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Not sure, really.”
Check threw his arm around Briggs’s shoulders as they walked back toward the door to the hospital. “We’re not hashing out our tragedies, my friend. We are healing wounds.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
October 2005
After hi
s first combat, subsequent injury, and first kill, Briggs spent twenty-one days in the hospital for his recovery. He was promoted to corporal while he was there. The promotion ceremony was quick and sterile, just like the hospital. The lingering aroma of rubbing alcohol and cleaning fluids added to his depression. Not one of his friends was there to shake his hand and congratulate him, but that was a good thing as well. It meant that no one else was hurt. He gladly would’ve traded the extra stripe to be back with his platoon in combat.
The physical therapy was the toughest part, but that went by rapidly as Briggs recovered from his wounds. After just a few months, he was able to fly home for his allotted ten days, basking in the sun, hoping he would not run into Anita—and at the same time, hoping he would.
His return to Iraq in October 2005 brought a sense of solidarity and fulfillment. The guilt he had felt about leaving his platoon to fight without him diminished the second his boots hit the ground. He rejoined his battalion and platoon with a renewed sense of purpose. He settled into the new accommodations and immediately performed a headcount of everyone there, relieved to see all his friends present and accounted for.
His new digs were a twelve-by-twenty rat hole in an old hotel that his platoon commander—while setting up their regimental office—had appropriated for their purposes. The building was one of several that had been abandoned during the war in Baghdad. It was over three stories tall with a single window per room—no closet, no AC, no carpet, but lots of dust, which constantly blew in, out, and up every time anything moved. There were no screens on the windows to prevent the invasion of flies, nor did most of the windows close, and if they did, it wasn’t enough to keep out the stench from beyond the building’s outer walls. Depending on each Marine’s time spent in the armpit of Baghdad, the odors were either barely tolerable or par for the course.
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