He quickly rolled Dunn over onto his stomach in order to assess his wounds. Blood flowed from Dunn’s leg and from under the bottom edge of his flak jacket. He didn’t move, not even a twitch. The corpsman took over immediately, and Blake returned to join the men still firing across the river.
The incoming fire had stopped and the sergeant in charge was waving his hands and shouting, “Cease fire, cease fire!”
Everyone obeyed . . . except Blake.
He stood without cover and fired wildly, fully exposed, walking toward the banks of the Tigris River, emptying magazines and quickly reloading as he walked, screaming at the top of his lungs. A trail of empty magazines lay behind him every third or fourth step until he reached Kyle’s weapon submerged in the mud. The fatal hit.
The eight Marines in the fire team stood quietly as they witnessed a hero entangled in anguish for a fallen brother. Blake stopped and screamed out one last time, spreading his arms wide, his smoking weapon in his left hand and his clenched right fist shaking in defiance. Raindrops turned into white vapor as they struck the hot barrel of his weapon.
“I’m still here, you bastards!”
That was the last drop of rain that fell on the bloody ground for almost a year.
Blake had leaned down and picked up his friend’s weapon. In his last act of defiance, he turned his back on the riverbank and picked up his discarded magazines as he returned to his team.
“You okay?” his sergeant had asked, knowing what the answer would be from the big man but asking anyway.
“Yeah, I’m cool.”
He wasn’t though, and the corpsman knew it because he’d seen the exit wound on PFC Dunn’s body and knew from the way Blake was carrying himself that it had hit Blake as well—somewhere. There was so much blood on Blake, it was hard to tell. They waited for a helicopter to take away Dunn’s body. When it arrived, the corpsman told Blake to get on it too.
“No” was his reply.
The corpsman asked to see his wound.
“It’s okay, Doc. I’m good.”
“Then show me,” he insisted. “Look, if it’s just a scratch, you can walk home with us. Come on, you haven’t even looked yourself. You are probably in shock.”
“I’m not!”
“That’s not your call. It’s mine. Now if you don’t show me, I’m going to tell the sergeant, and he will make you fly out,” the corpsman said with authority.
“Fine.”
Blake removed his body armor and then his shirt, revealing the wounds just beneath his armpit.
“Fuck!” The corpsman said as he pulled out an 8 × 8 field dressing and pressed it hard against the shredded flesh and exposed ribs under Blake’s armpit. “You’re on that helicopter, no more lip.”
A year later, Blake reached under his armpit and placed his hand on the wound, which had required eight staples to close. He had returned to duty the next day and never complained of the injury.
“I’m still here, still here,” Blake mumbled to himself.
When they arrived at the area where the fighting had taken place, they found the battle had faded to a few small arms firefights in the far-off distance. Their platoon commander had arrived to assess the damage and evacuate the wounded.
“Corporal Briggs, are you and Lance Corporal Blake all right?” their lieutenant asked, briefly lifting his head from the radio to look at the two Marines.
“We’re good, sir,” said Briggs.
“Are you two responsible for the carnage in that building?” the lieutenant asked as he held his hand over the mic of the radio. Briggs and Blake nodded. “Highly impressive, outstanding job. The two of you have left quite a meal for the wild dogs of Baghdad to feast upon tonight. You can tell me all about it later, but for now, grab a SAW, get up on the roof of this building, and give us cover while we mop this up. Don’t shoot the two guys on the other roof. I sent two men and an Iraqi up there. They have a radio, so I’ll alert them that you’re going up.”
“Aye, sir,” Briggs replied as he gathered up an additional automatic assault weapon and extra ammo from the truck and headed up the ladder with Blake following close behind. Once on the roof, Briggs took up a position overlooking the street.
“Where do you want me?” Blake asked, also carrying extra ammo.
“You get your ass away from me, you nutcase. I don’t know what’s up your ass, but you’re going to get me––and anyone around you––killed. If you want to die, do everyone a favor and jump off a building higher than this one.” Briggs stopped short and tried to calm himself. He was angry and getting loud. He needed to stay in control.
Briggs tried again. “What is it with you? Why in the hell do you take such chances? Are you after another Silver Star or something? Or maybe you’re trying for the big one, the Medal of Honor? Well, you’re not going to get it here. First chance I get, your ass is going to be someone else’s problem. You are out of my platoon as soon as we get back to the Zone.”
He paused, his breathing heavy. He could feel the redness in his face, his heart pounding from the sheer frustration of a Marine so wayward and reckless in the face of all this hell. “Well, what is it?” he said a little louder than he wanted to. “What is it with you, man?” He looked away. “No, you know what? I don’t want to know. Just stay away from me.”
Blake laughed wickedly. “Hey, I know all about you, Briggs. They call you Ripper, and that’s one hell of a rep. You didn’t get that nickname by playing it safe and hiding behind walls. I heard you killed three dudes with a Ka-Bar when you ran out of ammo. Carved ’em up like sushi.”
Briggs had been squatting near the two-and-a-half-foot block wall that encompassed the top of the building, but he jumped to his feet behind the safety of the wall and shoved the Marine. Blake staggered backward and, off balance, dropped the ammo can he was carrying. Briggs snarled, “Shut your mouth, asshole. You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“Don’t try me, Briggs,” Blake snapped.
“Or you’ll do what? Kick my ass? I think you need your ass kicked. I don’t trust you, Blake, and that means I don’t want you around me or my men, because you’re going to die.” Briggs carefully emphasized each word. “That means when you go down dead or wounded, a good man or two will have to get your sorry ass out of whatever mess you created. That’s not going to happen, not while I’m in charge. Drag your ass over to the wall facing the street, set up, and stay put.” He was spitting the words now, anger boiling over.
Just as Briggs finished chewing Blake’s ass, two more men came up the stairs to set up on the roof. Briggs sent them over to the far side to watch the back wall and informed them of the rope escape tactic the enemy was using. He returned to Blake, who was staring over the edge of the wall.
Briggs bit his lip, calmer now, and kicked himself for letting his temper get the best of him. He wanted to talk to Blake about his behavior, see if there was anything he could do. Blake could be a valuable asset to his platoon; however, his cavalier and reckless actions had to be stymied. Briggs sat down next to Blake with his back to the wall.
“Blake, I need to start over,” he said in a softer tone. “We need to talk, not engage each other.” As Briggs started to speak, this time slower and with compassion in a genuine effort to counsel him, he noticed that Blake’s eyes were brimming with tears.
Whether it was something he said, the way he said it, or Blake’s need to finally get the demons out of his head, Briggs didn’t know, but Blake started to talk, calmly and with profound sadness, tormented with the kind of pain that could tear down the biggest and strongest of men. The anguish embedded in the fibers of his being could not be exorcised away. With the sounds of war around them, he let loose the weight of his soul to Briggs.
“You know, Corporal, I have been in the Corps four years—all four tangled up in one combat situation after another. None of them, as bad as they were, can compare to the one I am fighting in my head. I dropped out of college and joined the Marines to die, man, no
t to fight for my country or avenge 9/11. I joined for my own selfish reasons.
“I have always been selfish. Because I am big and strong and from a rich family, I have been treated with incredible favor, and I have sucked it up by the barrelful. I have never given back, not ever. I expected favors whenever I strutted down the halls at school and looked down my nose at the inferior masses who got in my way. Coaches loved me because I could play sports and win games. Mothers loved me because I smiled and said, ‘Yes, ma’am, I will have your daughter back by ten o’clock,’ when in fact all I wanted to do was bang premium ass and move on to the next conquest. When I got to Texas A&M, it was the same game, just higher stakes: more girls, more perks, more, more, and more.
“My joy was in pissing on people and seeing how much humiliation I could inflict on anyone uglier, dumber, weaker, or less fortunate than me. I have been despised by most of the people in my life, and I didn’t give a shit. I was a walking god, just one pathetic step away from narcissism, maybe not even a full step. I didn’t do shit in college but play ball. I was catered to in every way. Hell, all the players were. We expected it. My life was disgusting and self-serving, and I just didn’t give a shit. But that all changed one night, July 4, 1999.” Blake’s eyes were pools of agony as he looked at Briggs.
“I was on my way to the third party of the night with two of my buddies. We were all wasted drunk. My friend Peter was driving, Bart was in the passenger seat, and I was in the back. Peter said he had to pee, and he jerked the wheel hard in an attempt to turn on to a dirt road. The car spun. It skidded, crashed. Hello, tree. Peter was thrown from the driver’s seat and into the dirt. I slammed into the left side of the back seat and broke my shoulder, but Bart took the brunt of the impact.” Blake stopped and gulped, visibly shaking. “Bart smashed into the dashboard and the top of the windshield before he careened out the top of the convertible. His chest was ripped open. We could see his lungs and veins. His chest was sucking air through his exposed ribs and he was wheezing. And then, in a very weak voice he asked, ‘What happened?’
“I just froze. To this day, I have never seen so much blood. To this very day.
“I turned around and saw Peter standing behind me, just as pale and shaking as I probably was. He kept saying, ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ and I told him to shut the fuck up. Bart was somehow able to tell us to get the cell phone from his pocket. Shit, he even tried to take it out himself. He was torn to freaking pieces, man! I got the phone in my hand, feeling the pain in my shoulder for the first time, but I didn’t care. When I started to dial 911, Peter took the phone out of my hand. At that very same moment, Bart started to convulse, spitting up blood. He was a goner, man. We knew it. I looked up at Peter, who just stood there holding the phone, and at that moment, I knew. I knew he was going to save his own ass, even if it cost Bart his.
“I sat there on the ground, holding Bart as the life faded from his body. Peter kept asking if he was dead yet. I . . . I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. It was as if I was outside of my body watching, not a part of it at all. I didn’t want to be a part of it. Then, without a word, Peter dragged Bart’s lifeless body from my arms and settled him in the driver’s seat of the car. There was no conversation; we understood what the deal would be. Our friend would take the blame. I was overcome with complete disgust at Peter, but mostly at myself and the worthless, self-serving pile of shit I had become. I was disturbed and disgusted by how far down I had stooped in my young life.”
Tears poured down Blake’s face.
“So, man, this was the kind of despicable human being I had become. I hated myself from that moment on and have never stopped and never will until my life is over.” With that, he fell back on his haunches, his shoulders hanging heavily.
Briggs positioned himself so that he could look Blake in the eyes. He waited until the Marine lifted his head.
“Blake, coming here to die is not the answer. Your place is back home with those you have hurt. You can find some comfort there, if you try.”
Blake sniffed and wiped his nose with his shirt. “Peter found comfort at the end of a shotgun barrel one month after Bart was buried. The only thing that kept me from doing the same was seeing what it did to Peter’s mother. She was crushed and never set foot outside her house. I didn’t want my mother to do the same. On top of it all, Peter not only left his family, but his girlfriend was knocked up, so he left her and his child too. She blamed herself for Peter’s suicide, thinking that it was her fault because she wouldn’t abort the baby.”
Blake stared off into sights unseen by Briggs. Then in a clear and focused voice, he said, “Shit, I can’t even catch a bullet or a decent piece of shrapnel. All my purple hearts are for scratches and broken bones. It’s as if my payback for my horrendous sins will never end, never give me peace. You have no idea what it is like to hate yourself and not be able to put a bullet in your head. Man, for being the most dangerous place on earth, Iraq just isn’t holding up its end of the bargain.”
Blake wiped a final slew of tears from his face and chin as he stared down at the street.
He’s staring down a hole of constant agony—no comfort, no hope, Briggs thought, realizing his own face was damp with tears. He quickly wiped them away.
Blake spoke again. “Eventually, my dad figured it all out. We didn’t think about the logistics, how it would eventually come to light. Peter was already gone by then. It was just me. I can still see the despair in my dad’s eyes when he told me he knew the truth—that I’d committed a vile crime against my friend, his family, and his memory.
“You know, he told me every day of my selfish life that he loved me and was proud of me. He showed me in every way that he supported me and would never let me down. He once told me that being a good son was all he ever expected of me and that all the touchdowns and good grades in the world meant nothing—all he wanted was a good and decent son who loved him equally in return.
“But I wasn’t, and I didn’t. All I ever cared about was status and what color BMW I would get each year. I never recognized the love my father had for me . . . not until that day, when I watched his demeanor turn cold and any feeling he had for me flushed from his eyes. I felt thrown away like a discarded coat. That’s when I joined the Corps, hoping to die here in this cesspool of hate and despair, where I belong . . . and hopefully not hurt anyone again. But now I get it. I fully understand what my punishment is: to live.”
Later that night at the barracks, Blake got up in the quiet of dark to go outside where the heads were set up. On his way, he saw his bunkmate curled up in the far corner of the hall with his blanket, pillow, and weapon, sleeping soundly on the cool concrete floor.
Must have driven him out of the room again by screaming in my sleep, Blake thought apologetically.
Instead of hitting the head, he returned to his rack and dug into the bottom of his C-bag. He gently withdrew a tattered, green, Marine-issue logbook. Stained with sweat and dried blood, it was his confessional, the link between what had happened and his personal mission of suicide by war. The tattered pages chronicled his day-to-day life in alarming detail. Truths told one story at a time, like pennies for his sins. Maybe someday, someone would read it and would understand and forgive him.
On the upper left-hand corner of the book was a deep indentation from a bullet impact. The journal had kept the bullet from penetrating Blake’s chest two years earlier in a firefight inside Fallujah. A ball round had struck it and stopped, then fell down between his shirt and skin, causing a nasty burn on his stomach. Small fragments of paper would flake off from the journal each time he opened it. That ball round should have been the end of him.
Still, here I am, Blake thought wryly.
He made his way outside into the night, the sky filled with countless stars. The beauty of the night sky defied the ugly face of hatred that he felt for himself. He marveled at that contrast. Life was so cheap, it seemed, taken quickly from so many. He sat down against the wall of the barracks a
nd began to write. The night was so bright with ambient light that he didn’t need his flashlight to see the pages.
He began his entry as he had done so many times before.
Dear Dad . . .
He waded into the day’s events in alarming detail. He confessed to all the outrageous chances he had taken with total disregard for his own safety. How he had taken the lives of others in order to save his friends, about the dead Marines he helped drag out of firing zones, and how sorry he was about his life in general.
When his daily confession was complete, he closed the book and took out a standard Marine Corps letterhead. He wrote a short message to his family, just a few lines that always ended the same: “Love you all and will see you soon.” These words were what he sent home every two weeks or so, not the pages of truth from the journal, which would be mailed to his dad after Blake’s death. It already had an address and instructions written inside the cover for whoever got stuck with the sorry task of informing his family of his demise.
It was 2300—too early for breakfast, too late for dinner. Maybe I can get some sleep out here, Blake thought. He leaned his head back and took in the stunning array of stars gazing back at him. He discovered a rare moment of comfort in the dark desert sky.
As he marveled at the sky, he noticed a light was on in one of the small buildings in the compound. He decided to check it out and headed over to find Briggs at a table covered by several crumpled pages of stationary. Blake felt a moment of discomfort recalling how he had spilled his guts to Briggs about his useless life and vile sins, but he quickly dismissed the thoughts and stepped into the invisible armor he had built around his emotions.
Shadows at War Page 7