“We shoot back lots!”
I sighed and rubbed my temples.
Before I could ask for a damage assessment of the area, the unmistakable tread churning of T-72 tanks rolled in from the west. The Iraqi army had responded to the scene too and, as per their standard operating procedure, busted out their metaphorical sledgehammer. They cleared every house within a three-block radius, filling the streets with irritated families and producing zero insurgents.
Ten minutes later—after the arrival of the IP command—damn near every security element in Saba al-Bor perched itself somewhere along Route Maples. After a rather heated discussion with the IA lieutenant and Sahwa commanders, the IP colonel and I convinced them that the majority of rounds exchanged had been friendly fire. While I was initially open to the possibility of an enemy combatant firing a few rounds at the southern checkpoint, the piles of brass collected at the two checkpoints and the lack of any positive identification persuaded me that failure to adhere to trigger discipline had been the biggest threat during the skirmish. Amazingly, no one had been hurt, despite the number of rounds expended. The IPs consequently returned to their normal patrolling schedule, and I instructed the Sons of Iraq to return to their checkpoints. Then I asked the Iraqi army lieutenant, a chubby man with an immaculately trimmed moustache named Zuhayr, about his plan for the duration of the night.
“I . . . I cannot say in front of my men.” Having worked with Lieutenant Zuhayr before, I knew that choosing between paper and plastic at the grocery store overwhelmed him. Still, though, I expected at least a half-hearted lie on his part. Staff Sergeant Spade (recently promoted) and PFC Smitty turned around from their security positions, as confused as I was by this secret plan of no plan.
“What do you mean, you can’t say? If you have actionable intelligence, action on it. Do you need our help? I doubt clearing every house is going to do anything but piss off the locals. Why don’t we go back to the combat outpost, make some calls to our informants, and—”
Lieutenant Zuhayr turned around and walked away from me. The red clarity seized me, and I exploded in rage.
“HEY!” My voice echoed across the side street we had huddled on, startling everyone. Standing my ground and calling the IA officer back to me with my index finger, I tried to make my lecture as constructive as possible. “If I’m gonna risk the lives of my men by coming here tonight, we’re going to work fucking together or I will fucking skull-drag you back to the unemployment line myself.” I paused, letting Super Mario translate my words while he attempted to match my anger. The IA lieutenant stared dully off to my right.
I hated these petty Arab alpha-male games. Really, I did.
“I know your major insists that we work together, so you better drop the bullshit attitude and realize that smashing things isn’t always the correct course of action.” I then decided to use one of the locals’ favorite analogies. “After all, even the most ferocious tiger needs a tail. Now,” I said, taking a deep breath—“this is your mission, your town, and your country. We are willing to help. Do you need it? Yes or no. Either way, brief me on your plan.”
He looked back at me with his eyes bouncing back and forth. “I . . . I do not know who shot at the checkpoint. Perhaps it was a ghost.”
I felt my anger break, and I relaxed my posture. “That’s cool, man. I don’t know who shot at the checkpoint either. It wasn’t a ghost though.”
I looked at my IA counterpart and tried to relate to him. Men who couldn’t admit that they didn’t know something or refused to admit that they were wrong about something always failed as leaders, be they American or Iraqi. I was no Dick Winters, but I knew enough to understand that people responded to authenticity, and soldiers did not differ in this regard. This poor bastard never stood a chance. He worried too much about people’s opinion of what he was doing rather than just doing it in the first place.
Lieutenant Zuhayr finally said that he’d meet me back at the combat outpost, and we’d plan from there. He left some of his men at the Sahwa checkpoints, beefing up their security temporarily. We exchanged forced pleasantries and a too-hearty handshake. As we walked back to our Strykers, Staff Sergeant Spade and PFC Smitty laughed about their normally goofy lieutenant temporarily turning into the Incredible Hulk.
“You should’ve knocked his ass out,” Staff Sergeant Spade said. “We had your back.”
“You know what you should’ve said, sir?” PFC Smitty offered.
“What’s that?”
“You should’ve said, ‘Fuck you and your street. We’re going home to America to drink some beers. Handle your own problems.’”
I laughed. We all could’ve used some beers.
After we got back into our vehicles, I briefed the rest of the platoon on what had happened. Then we returned to the combat outpost and made some telephone calls to our JAM and AQI informants. No one knew anything about the incident.
ON MARTYRDOM, SUICIDE, AND PRESS COVERAGE
In late May, word disseminated through 2-14 Cavalry that Lieutenant Colonel Larry would only promote junior officers to developmental positions if they planned to make the army a career. This positional power play was an overt reaction to the long list of junior officers in our squadron getting out of the military once our tour ended, a list that included my name. While I enjoyed the army, valued my service, appreciated the experience, and certainly had nothing against the institution, I’d already decided that I held other ambitions for my life. As I was happy to stay a scout platoon leader, Lieutenant Colonel Larry’s edict originally sounded like good news to me. This reaction didn’t last very long.
The next day, Captain Whiteback called me into his office and informed me that the squadron field-grade officers had decided to move me to the position of executive officer (XO) in another troop. This switch, while technically a promotion to a job of greater authority if not higher rank, would take me off the line and away from my soldiers. Although not pleased with this reality, I grudgingly acknowledged that such was the nature of the position. Further, as no new lieutenants were in country, Captain Whiteback said SFC Big Country would assume platoon-leading duties for the Gravediggers. I became especially aggravated by this, not because my platoon sergeant wasn’t up to the task, but because it showed an egregious lack of planning and foresight on the part of my superiors. Surplus officers crawled around every staff office on Camp Taji, and the thought of a line platoon going short in such an environment lit my already short fuse.
Staff Sergeant Boondock (left) and I join a group of local teenagers and their donkey for a much-deserved break. Though many citizens of Saba al-Bor owned motor vehicles, farm animals being used for manual labor was not an uncommon sight.
I told Captain Whiteback that I’d be the best damn XO I could be—if it came to that—but that I still planned on leaving the army, and thus I would be denying another lieutenant who planned on staying in an important opportunity. I also told him how I felt about this reactionary method to filling officer slots, describing it as “self-important chimpanzees making a square peg go into a round hole, logic be damned.” He said that he understood but also knew I was really only saying those things because I wanted to stay with my platoon. This was true, I admitted, although it didn’t detract from the validity of my other points. I asked if I could speak with the field grades to elucidate my position. Captain Whiteback sighed and agreed, but he warned me that they wouldn’t be as sympathetic as he had been. His words proved both understated and prophetic.
Over the ensuing days, I talked with Major Moe and with Lieutenant Colonel Larry. I explained my points succinctly, then patiently listened to recruiting pitches for re-upping. I thanked them but restated that my future lay elsewhere. Then I patiently listened to speeches about times for questions and times for shutting up and executing and how this moment fell into the latter category. I nodded and said I understood their point but respectfully disagreed as it applied to my current station, and I kept my thoughts about the fatalistic s
ubordination of a professional officer to myself. Major Moe left it at that. Lieutenant Colonel Larry did not. In Captain Whiteback’s office at the combat outpost, he first told me that he wouldn’t move me or anyone else leaving the army to the XO position. He also informed me, in the vintage nasal whine that served as his ass-chewing voice, “You’re not going to stay a platoon leader either. The next bullshit tasking that comes down the pipeline has your fucking name on it.”
Rage quickly replaced Rip-It juice as the primary sustenance of life in my body, but I bit my tongue, said “Yes, sir,” and waited to be dismissed from the office. Then I went to my computer and banged out a short piece about the experience in an attempt to calm down. It didn’t help very much. I posted it to my blog that night, without sleeping on the matter and without consulting Captain Whiteback, as per the army’s published blogging policy, which stated pieces needed to be vetted by the writer’s chain of command. I simply didn’t care anymore. I was tired, I was angry, and I had just been threatened for doing nothing more than telling the truth about my plans and wanting to stay with my men. I felt constrained by institutional middle management more interested in career progression than leading soldiers and who wanted yes-men in their ranks more than they did independent thinkers. Perhaps irrationally, I believed that a small act of defiance, like posting an unvetted blog piece, would help me regain control of the situation. I also still believed in truth. Looking back on it, it was really all I had anymore.
Were my actions recklessly immature? Yes, I figured out later that they were, but only after I returned home and regained some safety and perspective. I had neither of those comforts at the time. These actions were also undeniably genuine. And after six soul-draining months in Iraq, authenticity meant far more to me at the time than maturity did.
The original blog piece, titled “The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide Is Press Coverage,” significantly changed the course of the remainder of my deployment and, for at least a day or two, caused quite a ripple around the army. It follows in italics. It is, and was, a rambling collection of my thoughts during this process juxtaposed with the various conversations I’d had with Captain Whiteback and the field-grade officers about the potential promotion to XO. The title came from a line in a Chuck Palahniuk novel, and it was also the name of a popular song by the rock band Panic! At the Disco.
I’d brushed aside the informal inquiries for months now. No, not me. Not interested. Keep me on the line. I want nothing to do with a lateral promotion to XO that involves becoming a logistical whipping boy and terminal scapegoat for all things NOTGOODENOUGH. I’ve been out here in the wilds too long, dealing with matters of life and death, to go back to Little America for PowerPoint pissing matches. Not me. I’m that too-skinny, crazy-eyed mustang who drives a hippie van with a McGovern bumper sticker and keeps his hair long and actually read the counterinsurgency manual rather than pretending he did, even quoting it during meetings and out in sector in this era of recentralized warfare, remember? You aren’t gonna break me, no matter how enticing the fires of the FOB are.
Semper Gumby. Always flexible.
I guess they forgot, and instead focused on matters of competency. Cue outright offer.
Cue Lieutenant G “thanks but no thanks” response.
Cue illogical backlash from Higher, acting like a spurned teenage blonde whose dreamboat crush tells her point-blank that he prefers brunettes.
Cue finding myself on the literal and metaphorical carpet of multiple field grades, sometimes explaining, sometimes listening.
Mostly listening.
Yes, sir. I’m getting out. No, I’m sure. Definitely sure. Surer than sure. What am I going to do? Don’t tell him Option A; he’ll scoff at Option A. He believes dreams are only for children. Option B will suffice. Well, sir, I’m going to go back to school, somewhere on the East Coast. Haven’t decided if I’ll focus on the Spanish Civil War or Irish history yet, though. I think I’d be a pretty good wacky professor. I already like to ramble, and I look good in banana-yellow clip-on ties. Sir.
No, sir. I’m not saying that at all. I would absolutely bust my ass as an XO and perform the job to the best of my ability. I’m just saying I’d be screwing a peer of mine, who is staying in and could use this professional development, benefiting both him and the big army in the long run. Uncle Sam agrees with me.
No, sir, I don’t think I’m selling myself short. Recognizing one’s own weaknesses isn’t a weakness in and of itself. Crushing balls is only my thing with people who aren’t wearing an American uniform.
If I throw enough clutter in the way, something will stick.
This is the army, son. Your opinion doesn’t matter.
Roger. Acknowledged. I’d figure I’d proffer it, just in case.
You need to start thinking big picture, Lieutenant. That’s what officers do.
I roll out of the wire everyday to bask in a Third-World cesspool craving my attention for nothing more than the most basic human need—hope. Is there a bigger picture than that, or just different vantage points from safer distances?
Yes, sir, I will remember to think things out more rationally next time. (Pause long enough to make the point that this was already a well-thought out decision.) Of course. Sir.
No, sir, this isn’t just because I want to stay with my platoon. (Maintain eye contact so he doesn’t think you’re lying, for the love of God, maintain eye contact!) I won’t lie though, sir—it was a factor. Just not my motivation.
Nice work, liar.
Another reason? Well, sir, two of my best friends in the world are Lieutenant Virginia Slim and Lieutenant Demolition. [Note: Both of their platoons fell under the operational control of the other troop at this point in the deployment.] If I were to become their XO, I would be extremely uncomfortable with possibly having to order them and their men to their deaths. As their peer, I should be right there next to them. Hell, I probably would insist on it.
Yes, I know that was a good point. Don’t say that out loud. Don’t say that out loud. Phew. That was a close one. I almost out-louded rather than in-loaded.
Yes, sir, I have full confidence in my platoon to be able to succeed without me. SFC Big Country would be more than capable of performing the job of a platoon leader. But he’s an NCO. He shouldn’t have to deal with lieutenant bullshit. That’s my bullshit to deal with. I’m the soldier’s buffer. (Cough. From you. Cough.) If a butterbar [new lieutenant] were here, I’d understand. That’s the natural order of things. But since an opening occurred without a backlog, I really strongly really definitely really definitively believe that it should go to a lieutenant who wants it. Hell, there are some of them out there who NEED it. Aren’t I being a team player here?
The ballad of a thin man walking a thin rope. Moonwalking a thinly veiled rejection of his superiors’ life decisions. Wondering why they are taking it personally. People are different. They want different things out of existence. Let’s not act like I’m a ring of Saturn stating the case that Pluto’s planet status should be reconfirmed.
Don’t fall on your sword, Lieutenant. No one likes a martyr.
Can’t help it, I’m Irish. And. Yes. They do.
Fine, I’m not going to make you do it. (Even though I spent three days trying to do so.) But you are now on my shit list, and I want to fuck you over for daring to defy and defying to dare. A bullshit tasking will eventually come down the pipeline, and I got a rubber stamp with your name on it. And, yes, I know your performance has been outstanding, and we have consistently rated you above your peers, at the top echelon. Doesn’t matter now.
You’re right. It doesn’t. Doesn’t matter at all. Even if I’ve only haggled a few more months with the Gravediggers, it was worth it; I came here to fight a war, not to build a resume. My men need me. And. I need them. It would have been worth it for a few more days.
Victory.
Mustangs don’t blink.
You know where we learned how not to?
It wa
sn’t behind a desk.
Every day of free roaming makes it worth it.
I initially gave no second thought to posting the piece. I had a vague understanding that my blog had become relatively popular in certain e-circles, but I still didn’t fully appreciate the power of the Internet. Two days later, I left for leave and for Europe, where I gallivanted across the continent with Lieutenant Demolition, my girlfriend, and her roommate on a much-needed break. By the time I returned to Iraq and to the Suck eighteen days later, the details of “The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide Is Press Coverage” were a distant memory. Well, for me, at least. Not so much for the rest of the squadron.
Captain Whiteback later explained to me the series of events that led to that posting’s gaining a readership following on Camp Taji. Arnon Grunberg, a writer who’d been embedded in Saba al-Bor for three days the month before with one of our troop’s other platoons, linked to my blog on his blog site. I spoke with Grunberg briefly during his time in Saba al-Bor, mainly about the organizational structure of the army, but a bit about my blog site as well. When he wrote an article about the state of the Iraq War for the online political magazine Salon, a link to his blog site was included in the byline, which in turn contained a positive blurb about my site and me. Unbeknownst to me, Salon published Grunberg’s article only a couple days after I posted “The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide Is Press Coverage.” According to Captain Whiteback, Lieutenant Colonel Larry read the article, subsequently referring to Grunberg’s blog and then to mine. Even though I had registered my blog with my unit prior to the deployment, and Captain Whiteback had mentioned the website to the field-grade officers on multiple occasions in a positive fashion, only with Grunberg’s mention did my writings become worthy of interest to my chain of command. And in a twist of fate far too poetic to be coincidence, the first piece they read centered on their attempted professional bullying of me in the past week.
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