Listening to Paul’s voice on the machine again, I suddenly felt a powerful urge to throw all caution to the wind, making a promise to myself that the next time I saw him I would just do it, I would just come out and say it, What is going on between us, Paul? What is this? But why wait? I could simply pick up the phone right now and call him and ask him, I thought, and the fact that I couldn’t bring myself to do it made me realize just how cowardly the promise to myself really was. What if something happened to him? How would I live with myself knowing that I’d failed to take the risk and that he’d died in the war not realizing that he was loved by me? The truth was, it was probably too late to call him now, anyway, since he’d likely already boarded a plane and was now on his way to the kingdom where our fate would be determined in the coming months. I wanted to cry but couldn’t; I was too angry. In that moment, everything that I ever loved about the army and about being a soldier seemed to be just one big, tremendous, stupendous lie. What was the point? What would all the glory and all the medals mean if I had no one with whom to share them? Nothing. Nothing at all. For so long I thought we were special, soldiers, and that I was particularly unique, being an officer in the greatest army in the history of the world, but I was quickly learning that I was just like everybody else; I needed to love and to be loved, and there was just no getting around it, no matter how much idealistic furor I used to try to cover it up. For the first time in my life I realized that it was entirely beyond my control. And that something that I couldn’t control, like, say, my height, or the color of my eyes, could be used against me, could be justification enough to end my career in a heartbeat, rendering meaningless all the years of hard work and good intentions I’d put into it, was just plain wrong, un-American, even.
“Fuck the army!” I shouted at the walls of my empty apartment. “Fuck America!” I shouted again. For making me feel as if my life didn’t matter, for making me feel as if my life was worthless. The words rang out in the silence, and it felt so good, but then it stung; it felt as if someone had just thrown a glass of cold water in my face. I felt guilty. I knew right away that I didn’t mean it. But truly, I thought to myself, sitting down now on the edge of my bed, pressing the button to play Paul’s message one more time, could I really live like this for the rest of my professional life, say, another eighteen years? Was that even remotely possible? “Hey, bud,” his voice again . . . and I knew right then that the answer to my question was no; then I lay back and enjoyed the sound of Paul’s voice one last time.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Daddy, I’ll Be Good
The following afternoon we were told that our date of departure would be December 24, Christmas Eve, which meant, of course, that no one would be spending the holidays with family. Those final days before the war were a blur as we completed training and hurriedly closed down the post. There were several other units in front of us in the queue, and we got regular briefings on their progress through the system. We noticed it was rare for a unit to get off at the appointed time. They’d arrive at the airport for the scheduled flight, but then the plane would get diverted or the flight would be canceled for maintenance, so they’d end up having to wait for a day or two. Based on this, we were prepared for a nightmare at the airport.
On the twenty-fourth I went down to board one of the buses that would be taking us to Rhein-Main. The farewell scene was like a funeral, all pretense of dignity and restraint thrown to the wind, as wives and children wailed and soldiers did their best to appear strong, though many broke down and cried along with their families. Little girls clung to their father’s legs, wives clung desperately to their husbands’ necks, holding on for dear life, pouring a lifetime of emotion into those final hugs and kisses. Watching the more emotional couples—the younger, childless soldiers and their women, mostly—it looked to me as if they were actually trying to merge, as if by holding on to each other long enough and hard enough they’d become inseparable, one would disappear into the other, and they’d both go off to war, or they’d both remain in Germany. It was a sobering scene, a hard reminder, just in case anyone still needed one, that what we were about to embark on was serious business indeed. The children were the hardest to look at, because they seemed not quite to understand what was going on. All they knew was that their world had been turned upside down and that Daddy was leaving. I was holding together pretty well myself until I looked over and saw a little boy grasping a soldier’s knee, his small head turned up toward his tall soldier of a father, his face streaked with tears; he said, “Daddy, don’t go. I promise I’ll never be bad again if you stay.”
I burst into tears, watching the young father gently lift his son up into his arms and reassure him that it wasn’t his fault and that he would be back as soon as he could. No, I thought angrily, it isn’t your fault, little boy, the person at fault is a shithead dictator from the Middle East who’s about to get his due.
One of the officer’s wives who had had me over for dinner several times saw my tears and came over to hug me and tell me she’d be thinking of me; then the other wives came over and did the same, hugging and kissing me on the cheek and telling me they’d write and send care packages. Those big-hearted women were really my heroes that day. I wasn’t expecting such an outpouring, and it came as a relief since it allowed me to believe that I wasn’t quite so alone. The bachelor officers, myself included, were a part of the family, too, and we’d be taken care of.
The bus pulled away and I watched through the window as the wives and children waved good-bye to their men, uncertain when, or whether, they would ever see the men again; I couldn’t help thinking of Paul and the possibility that we, too, might never be reunited. All the hurt began to well up in me again, and I felt as though I might be consumed by it. The only thing that brought me back was the thought that everybody around me was experiencing a terrible loss as well, and, in that moment, I made the conscious decision just to let it go. My relationship, or lack thereof, with Paul would be dealt with after the war was over. For now, I had an obligation to be fully engaged as a soldier and a leader, and I had to be focused on the task at hand. It was now about killing the enemy, winning at all costs, and bringing my troops back in one piece. As I looked around at the glum faces on the bus, I knew this war would bind us to one another in a way that families and civilians could never truly understand. For now, these brave men were my family, and I knew that I’d give my life for any one of them.
True to form, we spent the next two days at the airport terminal camping out waiting for our plane. The gloom had dissipated somewhat once we’d gotten away from the post. There were a few officers’ meetings, and we kept busy playing cards—endless rounds of spades, mostly—and a lot of guys just napped while the air force people rushed around us, grappling with the constantly changing situation.
Around six P.M. on the second day our plane was finally ready. Unfortunately it was a C-41, not one of the many civilian planes that the government had commandeered to make up for SAC’s (Strategic Air Command) shortfall, and it was cramped and uncomfortable. The engines were very loud, and the constant odor of plane fuel made us all cranky and groggy. We spent the trip in silence, pretty much, since it was hard to hear over the roar of the engines, plus I believe everyone welcomed the chance to be alone with his thoughts before any real action began. A lot of guys just slept, something soldiers often do when away from the garrison since they can never be quite sure when the next opportunity for sleep might present itself.
Six hours later, we landed at an airfield somewhere in Saudi Arabia. Our descent had been quite bumpy, so when the plane finally came to a halt there was a slight groan of relief and then everyone began to move around and stretch stiff arms and legs. The load masters lowered the back ramp of the plane, and we began to file out in an orderly manner. At the base of the ramp there was an air force sergeant speaking to us through a bullhorn. He seemed to be repeating something that he had said many times before, and this repetitive, singsong quality was com
forting, though parts of his message weren’t comforting at all.
“Welcome to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia! On behalf of the Air Command, I hope you had a wonderful flight and will fly with us again.” There was a kind of grumbling laughter among the troops at his lame attempt at a joke. “Place all duffel bags on the pallets that are available to the left of the ramp; they will link up with you when you arrive at your inprocessing center. Once you have accomplished this, you will be taken to the buses that will get you to where your unit will stay. The threatcon is alpha, and there have been drive-by shootings over the last several weeks. Stay alert and report anything that is unusual. Thanks, and have a nice night.”
We were all pretty beat after the frustrating days spent at Rhein-Main trying to get out of Germany and then the long, uncomfortable flight. Everyone was eager just to get to a cot and a pillow and then collapse. It was a beautiful night: clear, warm, the stars shining bright above us. The NCOs began the process of getting everyone in order and accounting for all the weapons. This becomes a major obsession for the chain of command on any deployment. The last thing you want is for one of your troops to leave a weapon somewhere, because everything stops until it’s found.
We boarded the ancient white school buses they had waiting for us there. I tried to get comfortable, thinking I’d sleep a little, but as we pulled out it was immediately clear that that wasn’t going to be possible. The bus seemed to lack shocks of any kind, and the seats had no springs. So I simply sat and stared out the window into the foreign darkness, lost in my fatigue, feeling a little bit lonely, and longing for the comfort of my apartment in Cleeberg, all the war whoop having been drained out of me by the long flight.
The world outside my window seemed forbidding and joyless. The lights of the old school bus revealed a terribly bleak landscape made up of nothing but a series of plain concrete buildings, one after another, with no decoration or style whatsoever. “Bare necessities” was the expression that went through my head as I squinted into the dark, expecting, for some reason, to see rabid attack dogs rushing out from behind every new building we passed. I’d thought, considering all the oil money, that we’d come across towns and villages that evoked the mythical richness of The Arabian Nights—fanciful minarets and colorful, lavishly intricate, inlaid tile work with bits of the Koran artfully represented. As flashy as the Arabs were abroad, I thought the kingdom would be replete with the magnificence that only unlimited money can make possible. Instead, we’d been dropped into what looked like the most despairing of slums. We were, in fact, on our way to what was called Cement City, home of a cement plant near Dhahran that was providing space for American operations here.
When we arrived inside the actual compound, a kind of tent city built on sand and cement dust, a sense of relief overtook me upon seeing the familiar sight of U.S. troops manning a heavily guarded post. After a few perfunctory checks, we were waived through and taken to our bivouac area, where we got off the ancient buses and were allowed to go directly to our tents, pick a cot, and crash, letting our weary minds and bodies finally give in to the merciful oblivion of a well-earned sleep.
In the morning, daylight revealed just how bleak the place really was. Long, straight rows of olive-drab tents covered in sand and cement dust and bleaching fast under the merciless Saudi sun served as the interim home for a few thousand soldiers waiting to be linked up with their equipment. A virtual hive of nonstop activity, Cement City was the last piece of civilization one saw before moving to the deep desert staging areas. Our stay lasted several weeks, the days bleeding one into the other with little distinction. It was hard duty that often left us bored and frustrated. We had no idea when our equipment would arrive, so we worked on individual skills and did our best to keep from going stir-crazy, practically an impossible task considering the environment—nothing but sand and cement dust, a scraggly palm tree here and there, the occasional camel ambling by in search of food. In an effort to brighten things up and bring some Christmas cheer to the drab tent city, a group of guys had constructed a Christmas tree out of empty water bottles filled with sand and stacked up in the shape of a tree and covered with green canvas, garlanded with toilet paper and decorated sparsely with the tops of water bottles. When the first vehicles from our battalion began to arrive, it actually felt a little like Christmas morning as we rushed out in anticipation, thrilled finally to have something important to take care of.
A few days after the equipment began to arrive, while a bunch of us were in the dining facility for dinner, I got quite a surprise. We always tried to arrive early for meals in order to avoid the huge lines that would form later on. The place had just opened, so we waltzed right in, got our food, and sat down. The food was the same tasteless crap we had been eating and would be eating for the foreseeable future, but mealtimes were about camaraderie, not cuisine. I was halfway through my chicken cacciatore when I looked over at the sign-in desk and saw, much to my astonishment, Paul standing there with several officers from his unit. My whole world just lit up. All the olive drab vanished in that instant, and Cement City suddenly seemed like the most beautiful place on earth. I tried not to look too excited, although inside I was fairly bursting, while I quickly wolfed down the rest of my meal in order to break free from my friends. Finished, I pushed my tray away and stood up.
“Hey, where the hell are you going?” Duncan said to me in his heavy Brooklyn accent, looking at me quizzically. “Whaddya gotta date or somethin’?”
“Nah, he’s just lookin’ for a place ta jerk off, right dick beater,” said Dave, the crooked scar on his face twisting into a smirk.
“Yeah whatever, assholes, I got business to take care of. I’ll see you guys later.” The irony of Dave’s remark was that, from the first moment I’d met Paul that night in Kyalami’s, merely being in his presence, merely seeing him from across the room, was enough to get me excited. There were times when I didn’t even see him, I just sensed him (maybe his scent preceded him), before he emerged from a room, say, where I was waiting for him, and I’d get so hard it was nearly painful. My desire for Paul was a certainty that astounded me at times. And there were times when it was the only thing I was certain about.
“Seriously, where are you going?” Roger asked.
“See that lieutenant over there?” I said, thinking fast. “I know him. He’s in one of the support battalions, and I want to see if I can get stuff from him.” By stuff I meant anything, really. It is a longstanding tradition in the army that you have to be able to scrounge supplies and equipment outside the normal channels, and for that you need contacts.
My legs suddenly felt a little rubbery as I walked over to the table where he and his friends had sat down. My heart was racing, and I had to keep myself from breaking into a run to get over there sooner. Remain calm, I told myself, anything else will look weird. I adjusted my pants casually, worried that the tent city starting to rise in my crotch area would be apparent to everyone in the dining hall. Paul was covered in a thick layer of dust and had a rag tied around his neck, something we all did to keep the sand out of our faces. He’d probably been out driving around. I came up behind him and put my hand on his shoulder. He jumped a little, and, before I could say anything, he’d turned around and stood up to greet me. I worried that he was going to hug me the way he always did, though in a way I hoped for it, too, despite how strange it might have looked, but he knew the score and so opted for an exuberant handshake instead, while clasping my shoulder with his other hand as tightly as possible, as if the clasp contained all the emotion he wasn’t allowed to express: the secret, miniature hug of a lover.
“Hey, buddy, howya been?” he said, beaming, still holding on to my hand and shoulder. “Did ya get my call? I tried to hook up with you before I left, but it got overwhelming. Come on, sit down a minute . . . oh yeah, let me introduce you.”
After the introductions were out of the way, I sat down in the space they made for me at the table. For the next few minutes Paul and I d
isappeared into the bubble of our own private world. He did most of the talking, filling me in on just about everything that had happened to him since we’d last seen each other. I was happy simply to listen to him talk. Truth was, I was hardly paying attention to the actual words coming out of his mouth, I was so thrilled just to be in his presence again, to look at his face again. I smiled and nodded occasionally, feeling so complete in the moment—I didn’t need to speak. I felt such relief! All the stress and strain of the last several weeks melted away in an instant, and I worried that the moment would end too soon, before I’d had time to savor it properly, before I’d had time to get the image of his face and body fixed in my memory so firmly that it would last a very long time, a lifetime, if need be.
After he finished, he stood up and motioned for me to follow him, and we left the dining hall together. A Hummer was waiting outside. Apparently he’d come back to Cement City to check on some equipment that had arrived late and would be in the rear for only a couple of hours. He stood talking to me with one foot resting up in the passenger’s side, holding on to the windshield frame since the Hummer had no tarp for cover. The driver was sitting on the other side, waiting, so our conversation was a lot less animated than it normally might’ve been. Not only did we have to conceal our excitement (at least I knew I had to conceal mine, at that point), but we also had to behave like officers, so there were certain limitations.
We finished our conversation, and he extended his hand to me; I shook it firmly. He didn’t squeeze me on the shoulder. There was no hint that he’d even considered hugging me good-bye, which couldn’t have happened anyway, considering the circumstances. No, it was just a formal, soldierly handshake, executed in a bit of a hurry, and then he was gone, speeding off toward the gate and back out to his unit in the desert.
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