Carrying

by Theodore Weesner

  February 1991

  The air war has brought the administration plenty of gains, with few pains… The U.S.-led forces will probably subdue Iraq in due course. But the costs incurred in doing so will be enormous. U.S. casualties could mount into the tens of thousands, with Iraqi casualties ten times that.

  –Editorial, Boston Sunday Globe, February 1991

  The squadron executive officer comes on to remind us yet again to halt at 70 Easting, calling attention to our orders to go only so far, whereupon the captain calls an audible that is heard by all: “Tell Squadron we’re sorry. Tell them we remain in heavy contact…have the enemy on the run. Say we’re advancing to 73 Easting and will stop sooner if the enemy surrenders.”

  The Claw grinds on with increasingly aggressive force, identifying targets at which to fire and taking them out. I’m unaware, pitched above my seat, that within the racket have been my shouts, reports, calls for one kind of ammo or another. It’s then, switching to the 7.62, that I fire machine gun spurts at half a dozen armed Iraqi soldiers exiting an APC. I cut them down like ducks in a row at sixty meters. Silhouettes on a screen, reduced to bloody laundry on the desert floor. It’s only then that Sergeant Noordwink notes, “I think they may have been trying to surrender.”

  Our overall firing continues until the enemy has been thinned to stragglers trying to surrender, which Iraqi soldiers are gathered and herded by MPOs. The captain calls a cease fire, and it’s time at last to shift ammo, clear our areas, and settle back into our positions.

  Following orders, we grind to a halt, standing aside to let 1st Infantry roll through as planned. In the process, as we learn, the Iraqi 18th Brigade has been hammered into a bloody defeat in what will come to be known as the Battle of 73 Easting. Our reply was successful to the extent that computer models of the engagement will soon be used as teaching tools at West Point and Fort Polk. An underlying lesson is the speed and boldness with which we seized the initiative and had our way. (My private lesson has to do with the machine gun fire I used to cut down the dozen Iraqi soldiers Sergeant Noordwink believed were trying to surrender. Going down in an instant, the gunfire will grow within–one man’s head was blown away by spurts from the 7.62–as if from a seed and will spread indefinitely down into my existence.)

  As we halt, leaving enemy killed/routed/captured behind, there lingers adrenalin and a confused aftertaste of having blasted a dozen human beings into oblivion. Doubt is flaring. The dozen soldiers are dead. Did they have to die? Was it necessary to kill them?

  Get over it, I tell myself, hoping I will, hoping the blood/death/maiming I wreaked will fade with other actions I’ve been trained to perform in the abstract. Any soldier would have done the same, I assure myself. If the tables had been turned, the Iraqis would have done to us what we did to them. Let it go. War is hell. Let them blame Saddam for invading a neutral country and refusing to withdraw when he was offered so many chances to do so.

  As darkness falls and the skies clear, our Apaches join the chase at last and by 2200 hours all of 1st Infantry Division has passed through. The lieutenant, Noordwink, Sherman…we look back to the 73 Easting swath that lies smoking with incinerated vehicles and bodies, the stench of burning rubber and ammo cooking off, a distinct odor of what has to be smoldering flesh and human hair. War produces the worst smells ever known, and we move along to find, if we can, plains of cleaner air under the moving skies.

  We also attempt to decompress at two hundred and three hundred meters, seeking relief from the exaltation of our one-sided victory. Outside The Claw there are some fist bumps with soldiers from other M1A1s in our Troop, remarks that it’s “Miller Time,” that it was “textbook,” that “the NFL just met a junior high squad and took it to school.”

  I receive repeated congratulations for “taking out three T-72s in under ten seconds,” and hear from the lieutenant that he’s putting me in for a Bronze Star as well as promotion to E-5. To me, as to all–as much as we exhale and smile–there has been no acquiring of a bloodthirsty taste for war but only an awakened desire to be elsewhere in time and place, to be in Germany, Europe, at home in the States, anywhere but here breathing in the aroma of burning hair and flesh. To be normal again. To be guilt-free (despite lessons learned) while listening to music, drinking beer, smiling as if nothing much had happened.

  In our mud-bellies, converting into a defensive formation, the lieutenant settles us down by saying “only a battle lost is more melancholy than a battle won.”

  Our devoted lieutenant. The big brother and teacher he has become. I experience affection for him and appreciation for the leadership he’s brought to bear, the functioning and creativity, the team skill he’s had our crew acquire as its own. He’s been the best, I think, which I am able (having taken him for granted) to admit to myself at last, along with an urge to tell him so.

  “Lieutenant,” I get out all at once. “Not to brown-nose, sir, but you’ve done a great job with our crew. Hats off to you.”

  “Murphy, shut it up,” he replies, getting a good laugh while I sense him loving my compliment, and me in turn for the way I’ve come to respect him as a big brother and TC who has been present and taught us so much.

  At long last we have time to relax and doctor some MREs with Tabasco sauce. Rumbles of war trail into the night like thunder, while I twist not inside but under my sleeping bag in the gunner’s seat…ready to spring up and into action. In nightmarish fashion, I commence sleeping into an unwinding that I know will require weeks (months?) to get through and leave behind. (How many Iraqi soldiers died at the hands of my superior equipment and acquired skills? Twelve? Maybe only eight or ten? I’ll get over it…won’t I?)

  A day later, mail catches up. For the hints of civilization it delivers, it could not be more welcome or soothing at this time. How long ago did I last write to Lotte Lengemann and expose my immaturity by more or less proposing? I’m different already from who I was at the time, while in my heart I want her again (more than ever) for the humanity she can add to my rattled life. She makes me feel strong and weak as I imagine her female embrace, eager nearly beyond reason to be in her presence once more. She’ll help me to come to terms with what I’ve done, won’t she? Or is it the lieutenant, or Dee, to whom I need to turn for some understanding and perspective?

  Overall cease fire rumors begin the very next day and become rampant. 2nd Cav is credited with not just stinging the enemy but delivering a gut-wrenching blow. Our tip-of-the-spear ground assault (and air assault) has been so devastating (triggering 1st and 3rd Marines in the east, XVIII Airborne in the west, VII Corps and British 1st Armored in the middle) that Saddam and the Iraqis are already facing either surrender or annihilation.

  Death everywhere. A reality of war.

  The colonel notes over the net: “The Iraqis were unprepared for well-trained American soldiers. The Republican Guard was a spirited adversary that completely underestimated our training and skill,” he adds. The courage and aggressiveness of U.S. forces prevailed. 2nd Cav shattered in mere minutes the defensive line of the Elite Tawakalna Division. In less than an hour we destroyed 159 tanks, 250 fighting vehicles, other tracked and wheeled vehicles… while inflicting thousands of casualties. I’m sorry to have to report that in the end 2nd Cav suffered seven dead and ten wounded. The loss of any soldier is painful to each of us, while our losses, thankfully, were few, in light of our successes. No need to feel guilty. Simply know that we did our job extremely well…that the outcome could have been even more devastating.”

  The colonel has spoken in a calm fatherly tone, his directness over the net getting everyone’s attention. For all it’s a moment unlike any other we will ever know. My affection for the colonel is similar to what I’ve come to feel for the lieutenant. Each has been hands-on, straightforward, smart, and mature. Supportive and wise. Professional… despite being ineffective against the guilt some of us are feeling over having slaughtered enemy soldiers who may have been trying to surrender.

  S
upport and supply units continue churning past in the wake of the heavy divisions that passed in pursuit of the Iraqi divisions on the run. At our 2nd Cav encampment, hearing for a time more massive rumbling on the horizon, we learn that we have two days to rest, to refuel and rearm, to enjoy free time during which to sleep, pull guard, and, off duty, to speak with friends or hunker in and write to loved ones. To reflect…if meaning to do so or not.

  I hang with acquaintances from my platoon, smile and talk as usual, while what I did with my equipment, with my training and skill, remains as a wire into my skull reminding me of what I would rather forget. Death and maiming with the 7.62. Had the tables been turned, they’d have done worse to us, I’m sure. All the same, the Iraqi conscripts and even the Iraqi soldiers I saw (and killed) are reminding me now of ordinary shopkeepers and janitors I passed often (and spoke to) on the streets of Southie.

  It’s Saddam’s fault, however it’s cut, and I can’t help seeing that we’ve been pawns, each of us, in a foolish political dispute over oil and land. In the end, we’ll all be disposed of, cremated, forgotten along with thousands of civilians. To what end? Could no one resolve Saddam’s crimes without the death and destruction we were compelled to unleash upon them? The waste and infinite loss we unleashed upon ourselves?

  I go looking for Dee, to hang with someone with whom I know I can speak freely and feel at ease. I have no luck finding him, however, within the sprawling 2nd Cav encampment. The regiment’s squadrons cover a couple hundred acres, and a Humvee would help in a true search if one were available. The alternative is to walk here and there, make inquiries, and to return in time to pull my guard shifts. The earth is made up of a thickness of sand and gravel that slips and slides and is not easy to navigate in combat boots. All the while, the wire remains in place with electrical currents of fear and regret within my guilty chest. If the Iraqi soldiers had surfaced with their hands clearly in the air, showing white rags rather than assault rifles, I don’t think I would have taken them out. Why had they not learned how to surrender? Did no one tell them to have a white handkerchief at the ready?

  Nor am I finding solace in being the gunner who ‘took out three T72s in under ten seconds,’ as I’ve been identified several times by the lieutenant. I’ll get my Bronze Star and promotion to sergeant, while the kills with which I’ve been credited grow more troublesome in my mind than reassuring. Maybe later I’ll recall the actions with pride, but for the present I don’t like thinking about them. Other soldiers have scored in similar ways, while the soldiers whose status is lasting, to me, are those who died or were maimed, who will need to live as handicapped individuals for the rest of their shortened lives.

  The TC in our troop, the soldier who died not from enemy fire but on rising in his hatch as the ammo in a T-72 he had hit exploded at twenty meters and blasted him to death, remains troubling, even frightening. Nor am I moved within when soldiers call “Miller Time!” although I smile in awareness of our immediate mission being over.

  Unwanted images keep visiting my mind. Incinerated bodies. Jerking limbs. (The dozen soldiers I cut down with spurts of machine-gun fire, the disappearing head.) Maybe they weren’t bad guys, I think. Given two added seconds, maybe they would have done the math and surrendered…would be writing now from holding pens to tell their families they had survived, indicating that the Americans had given them water and food and were not as cruel as they’d been led to expect. In which case, we’d all be free, I cannot help thinking.

  A one-hundred-hour war. Soon after the captain mounts his command vehicle to move throughout our zone to announce the cease fire face to face. He calls out: “We get back to Bindlach, y’all be getting free beer from me personally! For a job well done! I couldn’t be more proud, more impressed by any warriors than I am of you! There are professionals, and there are professionals! You’ve shown yourselves to be the real deal, and we’ll have a blast when we get home! In underestimating the American soldier, the Elite Iraqi Republican Guard made a mistake they won’t ever forget!”

  We clap, hoot, and glance about, pleased to know that hostilities are over for us and that we’ll soon be lining up for a return to Germany.

  The captain has more. “Listen up!” he calls. “It’ll be a while before we’ll be pulling out, so let’s be realistic about what lies ahead. We’ll be first out…on having been first in…but there’s work to be done before we lift off! Understand that 2nd Cav will do its share and will do it right! Toujours pret!”

  Collective free-flowing groans from the ranks. Remarks all around that this is the army. They give you something then they take it back. What difference does it make being first out if it means waiting forever? Instant rumors have it that we won’t be flying home before the end of May, three months off.

  It’s an ideal time, all the same, to write to Lotte. An unpressured time, free at least of some of my warfare anxieties. I have something clear to tell her…words I’ve been weighing in and around our M1A1 in the remote desert. My question to myself: What to say in terms of love and friendship, conviction and commitment? Of the future?

  Something more careful than what I said before. Maybe a clear suggestion that we start fresh? That she accept my proposal that we identify ourselves as girlfriend and boyfriend? That we slow down enough to catch our breath and understand what we’re doing. That she understand that I’ve already changed, within, from who I was only a few months ago.

  With a cease fire in place, dirt trails between vehicles begin to grow defined. During the pause–granted to perform maintenance–I go ranging among the mud-bellies dotting the acreage looking once more for Dee. I’d like to see how he’s doing in his longing for Magda…in his trust of me. Mainly I’d like to have someone with whom to talk as a friend, a buddy to whom anything can be said and just about everything oddly understood in a desert world.

  As before, I have no luck finding him, though I’m able to identify his Bradley…from which an African American soldier I recognize as his roommate from garrison greets me with the warmth of a friend. “Hey man, whatchoo doin?” he wants to know. “Take out any Iraqis? Dee… he’s on patrol…he tell you this? He’s on patrol, shoots off an Iraqi’s head when he pulls out a pistol. He tell you?”

  “Is that what he did? Jesus, me, too, though I haven’t seen him. Had to be wild, shooting somebody like that. Was for me.”

  “Dee be a cool thug. Say he’s cool. Say everybody unloading heavy stuff on the enemy.”

  “He tell you about the prisoners we took?” I ask, trying to look past the dozen Iraqis I mowed down, wanting to move on from death and disappearing heads.

  “Heard about that. Dee say these guys think you gonna blow ’em away. Weeping and beggin’. Kissin’ yo boots!”

  “Was unreal. There was the war, right at our feet! Listen, let Dee know I’m looking for him, will you? Nothing important,” I add as I go on, surprised, I think, that Dee would have been open with this African American soldier while having been so closed with me.

  Days later, flat-bedding again on twenty-eight-wheel low-boys, we roll on in the direction of Kuwait, to provide humanitarian services to Shiite Muslims, as we’re told by the captain. Thereupon we’ll stand in reserve, awaiting orders to return to Germany and our prior roles in Europe.

  In the new encampment mail catches up by helicopter, and there is a letter from Lotte. Her words will be in response, I believe, to my invitation that we be girlfriend and boyfriend… which proposal has me feeling frightened once more with obligation. Being a gunner in a tank is one thing. Being partner to a girl is another. Maybe, as I’ve never had one, she’s never had one, either. Maybe she’s just as frightened…in a way that will allow each of us to smile and to not be too serious.

  Opening her letter, I can tell at once that she’s pleased and willing, even thrilled to have received my proposal. Her excitement is there at once in her words:

  Does this mean that my dream of washing your ‘doity’ socks is going to come true? I hope so, m
y dear Jimmy. I hope that on returning to Bindlach you will not be changing your mind. You won’t, will you? As for having a celebration with your friends, there is nothing I would enjoy more. It’s the definition of love, you know, to open your heart to things to which a loved one has opened his heart. As you are opening yours to me, let me assure you with all certainty that I am opening mine to you.

  Dirty socks? She’s speaking, it seems, of being a wife…while I remain a nineteen-year-old who hardly knows what he’s getting himself into! A girlfriend! I made a proposal. She’s saying yes. Now it’s so! I’m a boyfriend who has a girlfriend with whom to walk out together, just like that!

  On a whiff of air I don’t think I could be happier, or more excited and comforted. To have someone with whom to eat out, to go to movies, to have and to hold, to walk with in the park and on dark streets in Bindlach. To think about and telephone. To protect from danger, if need be. To learn smart things from, and to look up to.

  What I won’t be mentioning is anything of what I did with the 7.62 and the Iraqis who may or may not have been trying to surrender. Or of Dee blowing away another Iraqi head with a spurt from his M-16. I might tell her such things in time, if I choose, because that is what it is to have a girlfriend. Maybe I will tell her… when the time is right. Isn’t a girlfriend a person with whom to share your deepest fears and darkest secrets?

  I write back at once, to say how pleased I am that we’re a couple! I also say that I would like to take her shopping, for a necklace, or a friendship ring, whatever she would like, by which to mark this time in our lives. As for the love part, I don’t know about that, I tease. Maybe we can celebrate love by eating at a stand-up counter in the Bahnhof…if it isn’t too expensive. (I don’t know why I’m trying to tease her and be silly, or if I’m being amusing at all. Love letter things remain new to me… while the brutal deaths with which I was involved seem to be hovering more than ever like shadows over my shoulder.)